Into the Dark

by Green, Stacy

  Sickness built in her gut. Emilie forced herself to face the dark kitchen. “Hello?”

  Stupid. As if Creepy Guy would answer her.

  As if he could even get inside her apartment.

  But he got inside the bank.

  Otis meandered out of the kitchen carrying his frayed, toy mouse. The cat stared at her with unblinking eyes.

  “God, Otis. You scared me to death.” Emilie turned on the standing lamp in the corner and headed for her master bath. Cold sweat broke out across her upper lip as darkness engulfed her. She slammed the light switch on.

  Otis promptly jumped on the edge of the large garden tub, prancing across like a fat acrobat.

  “Time to assess the damage.” She stared at the oval mirror in horror. Her already fair skin looked sickly, making the bruises stand out. A large, purple contusion covered her left cheek, and a smaller discoloration adorned her temple. She touched the spot with trembling fingers. The man had hit her with the gun. Another inch to the right and she could have ended up blind.

  Her gaze traveled to her exposed left shoulder. It too was bruised, courtesy of the concrete floor. Two of her fingernails were broken, and her knee was skinned.

  Otis hopped onto the porcelain sink and appraised her.

  “You didn’t tell me I looked this bad.”

  The cat blinked his large green eyes.

  “Well, it could have been worse. At least I’m here to feed you, right?”

  She left the light on and padded across her bedroom’s plush carpet. Emilie had gone to great lengths to make the space as relaxing as possible. The walls were a calming green, and underneath the bay window was a cozy chair covered in a rich, brown fabric. Next to it sat an accent table with a cherry veneer finish and a bottom shelf¬—perfect for a few books.

  Emilie climbed into her queen-sized bed, her thoughts overwhelmed by her present trauma and miseries of the past. Even after all the efforts she’d made to put the past behind her, hearing Evan’s name was still like pouring acid on an open wound. She had wasted years of her life on that selfish, manipulative jackass. Catching him in their bed with a barely-legal brunette had been the clincher.

  Emilie reached for the faded picture on her nightstand, cradling it to her chest. It was one of the few treasures she possessed from childhood. “I wish you were here, Mémé. You would make it all better.”

  Chapter Eight

  Emilie expected the squad room of Las Vegas Metro’s downtown command to be dank and grimy, full of grouchy cops talking to foul-mouthed criminals. Instead, the bland room was well organized and clean, with a wall of windows providing plenty of natural light. A hum of conversation hung in the air along with the sounds of hunt-and-peck typing, fax machines, and ringing phones.

  A baby-faced officer led her to an office on the far side of the room. “Agent Ronson and Detective Avery are working in here.”

  Emilie knew at once the space belonged to Avery. Several certificates and awards hung on the wall behind his desk, all arranged so that when Avery sat in his enormous leather chair, the accolades were just above his head.

  Agent Ronson greeted her at the door. “How are you?”

  “Okay,” Emilie lied. She took off her sunhat and sat down.

  “Did you get any rest?” Dark circles rimmed Agent Ronson’s eyes. She clutched a cup of coffee.

  “I think I got more than you did.”

  “Well, some of us have a hard time leaving the job when a case is fresh.” She glanced at Avery reclining God-like in his ridiculous seat. “And some of us can sleep like babies no matter the circumstances.”

  Avery tossed his styrofoam coffee cup into a steel wastebasket. Hadn’t he heard of recycling?

  “Agent Ronson never stops. That’s why she’s got one of the best records in the Las Vegas field office.” He looked admirably at Ronson and adjusted his gaudy red tie. “I’m honored to work with her.”

  Ronson ignored him. “Emilie, have you remembered anything else?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Ronson said. “Working with the sketch artist may help you remember more.”

  “I didn’t see the man’s face, just his eyes.”

  “We need something to distribute among area commands on the off chance he’s committed other crimes,” Avery said. “It’s a long shot, but we have to do everything possible.”

  “Did the search teams find anything?”

  “No.” Avery played with a crystal paperweight. “We did manage to locate his point of entry into the tunnels from the refurbished sewer pipe, but he was gone by then.”

  “You couldn’t follow his trail?” Emilie asked.

  “What trail?” Avery snorted. “The two inches of standing water washed away any footprints, and police aren’t exactly equipped to go trolling in the tunnels. We don’t know the system very well. We focused the search on the culverts and washes—the drainage ditches—in hopes of catching him or finding a witness.”

  “And you found nothing?” Emilie couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice.

  “I promise we’re exhausting every resource to find this man,” Ronson said. “The sketch is the first step. I’ll go get Officer Mallory.” She left, and Emilie was stuck alone with Avery.

  He hefted the crystal paperweight off his desk and rolled it around in his hand like a squish-ball. “Let’s talk about past acquaintances. Is there anyone you can think of that made you feel uncomfortable? A customer that acted inappropriately? A date you refused?” The detective’s gaze slipped to Emilie’s bare calves. “A man you may have shunned at some point?”

  “No.” She stood up and walked to the window. “There’s no one like that.”

  “You weren’t seeing anyone? What about the bank president? Lisa Craig said you two are close.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What’s your relationship with Jeremy Vance?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “That’s not what Ms. Craig thinks.”

  “She’s a vindictive bitch.”

  “So you’re not having an affair with your boss?”

  Emilie couldn’t believe the detective’s brazenness. She snapped her head back and forth, unable to speak.

  Avery set the paperweight back down and folded his hands in his lap. “We need to know about your relationships.”

  “Jeremy’s a good friend. So is his wife, Sarah. I’m not sleeping with her, either.”

  “We can’t help you if you don’t cooperate. Acting like a smart-ass isn’t going to get you anywhere. Is this part of your psychosis?”

  “What are you talking about?” Emilie ground her teeth in an effort not to shout.

  “We got a warrant to pull your financial and medical records yesterday. Protocol since you were in charge of the bank–you could have been an accomplice. You had a stay in a psych ward shortly after your divorce. Care to elaborate?”

  “I spent three days in a psychiatric ward, self-admitted.” Emilie felt violated. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She loosened her clenched fists. “And no, I don’t. It’s none of your business and irrelevant to the case.”

  “On the contrary, it’s very relevant. You were in a psych ward exposed to individuals with serious disorders. Any one of them could be a suspect. And of course, we have to consider your mental health now. Are you currently seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “No.” Emilie barely got the words past her pinched lips. “But you already know that since you’ve no doubt scoured my charts. And I wasn’t in the part of the facility where they were treating the most serious patients. I was depressed, not psychotic.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You were there. We’ll be tracking down as many people as we can, but you need to think about the people you came in contact with there.”

  “Easy. The staff. A therapist and I talked about my divorce. That’s it.”

  “I’ll need the therapist’s name. You didn’t fraternize with any other patients?” Avery tapped his index finge
r on the desk, his raised eyebrows matching the smug slant of his mouth.

  “No.” Emilie fumed. “Why are you treating me like I'm suspected of some wrongdoing?”

  “Just doing my job. I don’t think you’re telling me everything. You sure none of your cohabitants in the psych ward could have come looking for you? Maybe you got close to someone, they misunderstood. Nothing to be embarrassed about, but you need to come clean so I can find this man.”

  “I have been honest. And Agent Ronson had better be good, because I don’t think you’ll find him at all.” Emilie imagined choking Avery with his designer tie. He glared back at her, nostrils wide enough to jam a large black olive in.

  “Everything okay?” Ronson stood in the doorway.

  “Perfect,” Avery said. “Emilie was just answering a few more questions.”

  Emilie’s skin was hot with anger. “Detective Avery is a pompous ass.” She brushed by Ronson and stomped out of the office. “Where’s the sketch artist?”

  Agent Ronson led her past a row of closed doors. “What did Avery say to you?”

  “He accused me of deliberately holding back information. I’ve got no reason to do that.”

  “I’ll talk to him about it.”

  “Don’t bother. Just find the bastard who tried to kidnap me.”

  The young sketch artist waited in a conference room. Emilie sat down across from her. Ronson took the seat to Emilie’s left.

  “I can’t tell you much,” Emilie said. “All I saw were Creepy’s eyes.”

  “That’s fine.” The artist brushed her wavy, brown hair out of her face and slipped on a pair of glasses. “What did his eyes look like?”

  “His brows were kind of thick, but feminine. They had a nice arch. Dark eyes, but they had another color in the light. Green, maybe. I couldn’t see his nose. His skin had some color to it, but I couldn’t tell his ethnicity.”

  She looked at the half-finished sketch. “No, his eyes were more oval-shaped, and his eyelids were a bit darker than the rest of his skin. No, no, that makes him look lazy-eyed. He was the opposite. His eyes were wide and alert at all times. He saw everything.”

  The artist erased and began again, leaning over her work with intense concentration. “Like this?”

  Gooseflesh erupted on Emilie’s arms. Creepy’s strange eyes stared back at her from the white sketch paper. “Yes, that’s good.”

  “Get copies out immediately,” Ronson said.

  The sketch artist nodded and hurried out of the room.

  “We’re bringing in all current and former bank employees today,” Ronson said. “Anyone who worked in the new building and could have possible knowledge of the door.”

  “I doubt any of them knew. Jeremy and I didn’t even know about it.”

  “Last night you immediately thought of Lisa Craig.” Avery snapped as he entered the conference room. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at Emilie. “You listed all the issues you’ve had with her and explained why she’s a viable suspect. Have you changed your mind? You realize that wastes our time, right?”

  “I said you should start with her.” Emilie wanted to punch Avery in the neck. “I also told you I didn’t know if she was capable of such a thing.”

  “And you sound even less sure this morning.”

  “Well you see, Detective Avery, there’s this thing called shock. It happens when people have had a traumatic experience. I have to admit that while Lisa is a grade-A, first-class bitch, I’m not sure she would do such a thing. Make sense?”

  “That’s great. Now we start from scratch—again.”

  “Lisa is still a viable suspect.” Ronson stared fiercely at Avery. “I can finish with Ms. Davis. Would you make sure the sketch artist gets the composite distributed? We need it out there now.” Her tone left no room for argument.

  Avery hesitated and then nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Ronson watched him leave. Her jaw was clenched, her mouth pressed into a straight line.

  Emilie was grateful to see the agent’s anger. At least she had someone on her side. “Thanks for getting rid of him. Now what?”

  “We’re also looking at people who worked at the Wildwood Hotel and would have knowledge of the bank foundation,” Ronson said. “But those interviews are going to take time. You’re sure you won’t stay with a friend?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Ronson walked to the door and shut it. “Have you seen this morning’s edition of The Sun?”

  “No.”

  The agent pulled a copy of the newspaper from her leather bag. “You should probably read it now.”

  “Why?”

  “The reporter interviewed your parents and ex-husband.”

  Her stomach dropped faster than a roller coaster and then jammed her throat. No. Not Evan, and definitely not Claire. Claire, who would revel in Emilie’s failures. She coughed and nearly threw up the bagel she’d forced down an hour ago. “Excuse me?”

  Passageway to Hell Discovered Beneath WestOne Bank

  Emilie skimmed through the details of the hostage situation and the man’s attempt to take her. She didn’t need to relive the night in print.

  Her eyes stopped on two words. “The Taker? The reporter named him the Taker?”

  “It’s ridiculous. Nothing but sensationalizing a terrible crime to sell papers.”

  But the name fit. Better than Creepy Guy. Emilie read further. The female reporter was in awe of the Taker’s scheme. Paragraphs of the article were devoted to his brilliance.

  The paper rustled in Emilie’s shaky grip. The reporter had spoken to her mother.

  The victim is the daughter of Claire and Sam Davis, an upper-middle-class family from Portland, Oregon. She and her husband haven’t had a relationship with their daughter since Emilie Davis ran away sixteen years ago with her now ex-husband, Evan Randall.

  “He was her high school guidance counselor,” Claire Davis said.

  “For six months during her senior year, she snuck around behind our backs with him. Of course we eventually found out, and the news was mortifying. I immediately put my foot down, but Emilie couldn’t handle that. She always was a difficult child. One morning, she just ran off with him.”

  Red spots clouded Emilie’s vision. Just ran off with him? Was that how Claire remembered it? Had she forgotten the reason Emilie had decided to leave? Or pushed the incident to the back of her mind just as she had her daughter?

  Speaking by phone in California, Evan Randall stated that he hasn’t communicated with his ex-wife since the divorce. “I can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt Emilie,” Randall said. “She’s a kind person. A little needy but very caring. I hope they find the person that did this soon. Emilie doesn’t deserve this.”

  Hypocritical, lying bastard. Leave it to Evan to play the charming ex-husband card before Emilie could taint his reputation.

  When asked about his relationship with a high-school-aged Davis, Randall said that while Davis had been at the age of legal consent, in retrospect his marriage with her was a “foolish decision.”

  Emilie’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She stood and stuck the paper in her bag. “Thank you for showing this to me. I’ve got to go.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Please. Just find this man.”

  “Remember the safety precautions,” Agent Ronson urged as Emilie moved toward the door. “Your building has a good security system, and you have designated parking behind the bank. There will also be a patrol in your neighborhood, but you need to stay in touch with us and make sure you carry mace or pepper spray. Be aware of your surroundings at all times.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Call me if you remember more details.”

  “I will.” She rushed out of the office. Her face flamed with embarrassment and rage. Evan had been her guidance counselor, but the relationship wasn’t scandalous—not the way Claire made it out to be.

  High school had been miserable for Emilie. Claire�
��s constant put-downs crushed her daughter’s self-esteem, and Emilie had withdrawn into her mind.

  Evan started working at the high school her sophomore year. He sought her out. He’d noticed her solitude and was concerned. It wasn’t until January of her senior year that he’d confessed his attraction. At first, Emilie was unsure of her own feelings, but as Evan insisted, he was the only one she could talk to. That must be love.

  When Claire found out, she refused to believe her daughter was still a virgin, calling Emilie a slut and an embarrassment. A whore. But Emilie had denied Evan’s physical advances.

  She stumbled into the ladies room and leaned against the counter. It wasn’t my fault. Emilie repeated the words the therapist had drilled into her head. Claire drove me to Evan, and he manipulated me. She never gave me the foundation to love myself. Tears dripped onto the countertop. It wasn’t my fault.

  She stared in the mirror and watched the tears fall. So many shed over Claire and Evan. But Emilie had locked that old pain away a long time ago. She would not allow it to resurface.

  She snatched a tissue out of the dispenser and hastily cleaned her face. Claire is a vindictive shrew. This was her chance to lash out at you for disrupting her perfect life. Don’t let her win.

  Emilie examined the ugly bruise on her cheek. Her pale skin was more flushed than usual. What was it the Taker had said about her skin? And something about children and how precious they were? About how important it was children were protected?

  Her lungs constricted. Her breath came in quick, painful gasps. The Taker had said she should know what he meant about the sin of mistreating children, as though he knew her secret—the truth she hadn’t spoken of since leaving Portland.

  How did he know? How deep into her life had he dug?

  Her vision began to blur. Disoriented, she felt along the textured wall until she reached the metal door handle.

  Dark shapes loomed in the hallway. Emilie cowered against the door. One of the shapes approached. It reached for her and called her name. The words were muffled by the roaring sound in her ears. Her chest ached with fear, her lungs tight.