Into the Dark

by Green, Stacy

  “I told him noon.”

  “Should we wait?” Avery looked around with nervous eyes.

  Before Ronson could answer, heavy footsteps splashed in the stream behind them. Nathan reached for his weapon.

  “Just me.” Burrell held up his hands. “Was working the casinos, lost track of time. You ready?”

  “Lead the way.” Ronson turned on her flashlight.

  She stayed behind Burrell while Nathan fell into step next to her. He shined the Mag-Lite into the deep as they followed Burrell into the east tunnel.

  Darkness swallowed the group. Nathan heard Avery hiss behind him. Pussy. Shining his light on the walls, Nathan saw the drain was similar to the tunnel near Fremont Street, decorated with graffiti, trash, and cockroaches. The smell, while not as pungent as the previous tunnel he’d been in, was still foul.

  “This stink is atrocious.” Avery’s voice was muffled, most likely from his hand. “How do you stand it?”

  “You get used to it,” Burrell said. “Better than being unsheltered in the heat.”

  “Just keep moving,” Ronson said.

  “How far in are the camps?” Nathan asked. “The night SWAT searched, we only went a few hundred feet.”

  “Depends on the tunnel,” Burrell said. “This one’s a busy place.”

  The path curved left. A small pinpoint of light glowed in the darkness. Nathan’s chest tightened. He adjusted the Glock on his belt. It was impossible to know who was waiting for them.

  “Who’s there?” a female voice called.

  A woman? Of course he knew women lived down here, but hearing a woman’s voice call out of the dark was jarring.

  “Angel, it’s me, Rod.”

  “Who’s that with you?”

  “They’re cool.”

  “Cops.”

  “They ain’t here for petty shit. Lookin’ for a bad dude.”

  The flicker of light grew stronger as the group approached. A bright flash made Nathan see red spots. Tucked in a small nook sat the woman named Angel. In the dense blackness, the camping light she’d turned on seemed as powerful as floodlights on a football field. A small cot was propped up on cement blocks, and a large box sat on another block, presumably full of Angel’s possessions. Next to her sat a large bucket of water and a can of what appeared to be beef stew, a tarnished fork stuck in its center. In the corner was another bucket, a roll of toilet paper beside it.

  “This is Agent Ronson from the FBI,” Burrell said.

  “The FBI?” Angel stood up from the black crate she’d been sitting on. Nathan could see a baggie of something underneath it—drugs. Barely five foot, Angel wore dingy clothes, and her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. Track marks and meth burns marked the woman’s skin. Guessing her age was impossible.

  Angel glared at Burrell. “What the fuck you doin’ bringing the FBI down here? Trying to get killed?”

  “We’re not trying to interfere,” Ronson said. “I don’t care what you’re doing down here. We’re just looking for information.”

  Angel flashed her light on Nathan and Avery. “And you brought a sexy cop and a mortician to help?”

  Nathan choked back a laugh. “Nathan Madigan, Las Vegas SWAT.”

  “And Detective Avery.” Avery emphasized his rank and took a step toward Angel. “I’m not as forgiving as Agent Ronson. If I find a reason to haul you in, I will.”

  “Fuck you.” Angel reached into her pocket, searching for God knows what.

  “Angel.” Once again, Nathan had to negotiate, thanks to Avery’s fat mouth. “Agent Ronson is in charge. She’ll stick to her word. We need your help. Please.”

  “Come on, girl,” Rod said. “It’s cool.”

  “You’re lucky you’re easy on the eyes.” Angel looked at Nathan. Her hand retreated from her pants pocket. “I’ll listen to just look at you for a while.”

  Avery snickered.

  “And you better shut up.” Angel pointed a finger at Avery. “I might change my mind.”

  “Fair enough.” Ronson reached into her rucksack for the composite sketch of the Taker. Thanks to Emilie’s memory of the museum encounter, the sketch now had a complete face. “We’re looking for this man. He doesn’t live in the tunnels, but he may frequent them. He tries to blend in, but there’s something off about him. He’s got clean fingernails, newer clothes.”

  “Nice shoes,” Burrell piped up. “I’d forgotten about them. Expensive, like Doc Martens or something. I remember thinking those might get him killed.”

  “Have you seen or heard of anyone like that?” Ronson asked.

  “What’s in it for me?” Angel crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Angel, this man tried to kidnap a woman from WestOne Bank,” Nathan said. “His plan was to drag her down here. He’s disappeared, and her life is in danger. She needs your help.”

  “How you know he ain’t left Vegas?” Angel sat back down on the crate and picked up a pack of Camels and a cracked lighter off the floor. “Why would he stick around with you searchin’ for him?”

  Ronson nudged Nathan with her flashlight. He took another step forward. “Because he sent the victim—her name is Emilie Davis—a newspaper clipping about the attempted kidnapping. He wanted her to know he was still out there. He’s been watching her for a long time, planning on kidnapping her. Obsessions like that don’t disappear because the cops are on your tail.”

  “She got kids?”

  “No. She’s alone. That might be why he chose her.”

  “What about the rest of her family? Can’t she go stay with them?”

  Avery made an impatient noise. Ronson shushed him.

  “She’s not speaking with her family,” Nathan answered. “Hasn’t seen them in years.”

  Angel took a long drag off her cigarette and blew the smoke in Avery’s direction. “My family shit on me too. That’s why I’m out here. No one wants me or my habit.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nathan said honestly. “No one deserves to be treated that way.”

  Another drag. “You ever seen someone die?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not talking about a murder victim or whatever. Someone you love.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  Damnit. He didn’t want to talk about Jimmy, not with Avery listening and waiting to pounce. “My uncle. He was stabbed when I was fourteen. Died in my arms.”

  “You have anything to do with it?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “You got that look in your eyes. More than pain. Guilt.”

  Nathan looked away. He stared at the graffiti on a nearby wall. Someone had painted a woman with her arms stretched toward a cloudy sky, an agonized expression on her face. “He was there because of me.” The pain cut as deep as ever. He swallowed hard.

  Angel tossed her cigarette into the nearby stream of dirty water. “My brother got killed ’cause of me. I couldn’t pay up my drug debt.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She stared at him for a minute, as if debating. “I’ve seen this guy a few times. Further east, toward Fremont Street. Never talked to him. He kept to himself. Always watching everyone.”

  “Did you see him in a certain area?” Ronson asked.

  “Nah. He just came and went. And it’s been a while.”

  “He with anyone?” Burrell said.

  “Snake. And Cracky Joe. Sometimes Petey. But I haven’t seen Petey around for a while.”

  “Same guys as before,” Ronson said. “Do you know where we can find Snake or Cracky Joe?”

  Angel shrugged. “Cracky could be anywhere, looking to score. Snake, he’s a loner mostly. I heard he’s got a camp over by the Tropicana but that was a couple of months ago. May have moved.”

  “Thank you, Angel.” Nathan extended his hand.

  She took it. “You gotta find a way to let go of that guilt in your eyes before it eats you up inside.” Angel shifted on the hard crate, stretching her legs. “Take it from me; i
t’s no way to live.”

  “So do you,” Nathan answered.

  Angel laughed bitterly. “I’ve got my own way of dealing. But you’re a good boy. Don’t let the past mind-fuck you the rest of your life.”

  As the group headed farther into the drain, Nathan glanced back at Angel for one last time. She’d switched off the camp light. All he could see was the glowing end of her pipe as she lit up.

  Burrell led the small group into many camps, but Snake appeared to have vanished. No one had seen him in at least two weeks. The location Angel mentioned had been taken over by a new resident.

  Burrell agreed to sit with a sketch artist so a composite of Snake could be distributed.

  “Maybe he got a job, went legit.” Nathan dumped his gear into the trunk of his Camry. His clothes again stank of the drains, and his boots were covered in grime.

  “Nah,” Burrell said. “Snake’s been down here a long time, likes it. He’s not the type to get a boss. He’s either in jail or dead.”

  Nathan exchanged a look with Ronson. Snake was a liability to the Taker. Had he simply been eliminated?

  “Avery,” Ronson said. “Take Burrell back to the station and get him started with the sketch artist. I’ll ride with Madigan.”

  Avery grunted. His sneakers were caked with dirt, his clothes spattered with mud and other organic material. “Thank God I took a Metro car. I’d never get this smell out of my leather seats.”

  Nathan rolled his eyes and slammed the Camry’s door. Ronson had already started the car and cranked up the air conditioning. He inhaled a deep breath of the clean air. “That smell will stick with you for a long time. Burns itself into your memory.”

  “That’s not the worst I’ve smelled.” Ronson grimaced.

  “Body?”

  “In a tanning bed. Died inside and baked for two days before anyone found her.”

  “Murder?”

  “Looked like it at first, but turned out she had a heart attack. That was the worst smell I’ve ever encountered. Her insides were pure goo.”

  Nathan looked wistfully at his glove compartment where a bag of chips waited for him. “So much for a snack.”

  “Sorry. Guess you get immune to it after a while.”

  “You couldn’t be immune to what we saw today. Those people shouldn’t have to live that way.” Nathan had thought seeing innocent lives lost would be the worst experiences of his career He was wrong. Seeing the living existing in the filth and sadness of the tunnels was far more painful.

  “No, they shouldn’t.” Ronson pulled out her phone and began typing in a note in the memo pad. “But some are there by choice, whether it’s from drugs or simply not wanting to be a part of proper society like Snake.”

  “It’s more than that,” Nathan argued. “Like Angel. She’s doing drugs to numb the pain. She fell through the cracks in a screwed up system.”

  “She really got to you, huh?”

  Nathan switched on the radio. Tense moments had followed after leaving Angel, and Nathan waited for Avery to start in. But either the stench or some tiny sense of compassion had kept him quiet. Nathan was grateful. He didn’t want to talk about Jimmy any more.

  “I heard about your uncle,” Ronson said.

  Nathan looked sharply at her. “Johnson tell you?”

  “No. I’m an FBI agent. I do have my ways.”

  Of course. She had access to his records. “Good. Then I don’t have to tell you the details.”

  “You were just a kid.”

  “I’ve had this conversation before, Agent.” His tone was deliberately curt.

  Ronson dumped her phone into her bag and reclined her seat. Her sunglasses covered her eyes, but Nathan could sense her stare.

  “I don’t mean to pry. But I saw the pain on your face when Angel talked about guilt. She’s right. You need to let that go, Madigan.”

  Let it go. How was Nathan supposed to do that when he saw guilt every time he looked in the mirror? When remorse ate away at his insides every time his father wouldn’t look him in the eyes?

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Nothing in life is easy.”

  Nathan pulled into a vacant spot in downtown command’s back lot. “What do you think about Snake? Is he sitting in jail, or did the Taker snuff him out?”

  Ronson acknowledged the change of subject with a wry smile and a nod of her head. “I’m not sure the Taker is a murderer. He was in disguise in the tunnels and has enough confidence to think no one can I.D. him. My gut tells me Snake’s sitting in county lockup.”

  “He’s your best chance, so I hope to God you’re right.”

  “Me too.”

  Her phone beeped with a message. Nathan waited in silence while she listened. He couldn’t stop thinking about Angel.

  “Well, I didn’t expect that.” Ronson stuffed her phone back in the bag.

  “What?”

  “Emilie Davis called. She wants your sister to hypnotize her.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Emilie sat down on the taupe-colored couch. She crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. Her back was uncomfortably straight.

  “Relax.” The woman sitting across from her looked nothing like the uptight psychologist she’d talked to in the psych ward at University Medical Center years ago. Kelsi Madigan-Bennett’s shoulder-length black hair was streaked with dark red highlights. She wore denim capris with slightly raggedy cuffs and colorful bracelets adorned her arms. The physical resemblance between her and Nathan was clear, right down to the blue eyes. Their noses had the same delicate slope, and each had full lips and a dimple on their right cheek.

  “I’m relaxed.”

  Kelsi laughed. Her eyes wrinkled around the edges like Nathan’s when she smiled. “You look like you’re ready to bolt. This won’t hurt, I promise.”

  “I know that.”

  “Is there something you’re afraid of?” Kelsi leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. “Besides your stalker?”

  “That’s pretty much it.” Emilie looked around the small office. It was cozy, painted in calming neutral shades with family pictures scattered throughout. Several of a blond man and a tow-headed little boy sat on Kelsi’s desk.

  “I don’t believe that.” Kelsi tapped her foot, her silver toe-ring shining in the morning sun.

  “Can we just get this over with? I’ve got a pile of work waiting for me.”

  “Agent Ronson’s not here yet. She needs to observe.”

  Emilie shifted in her seat. Her stomach growled. She’d been too nervous to eat this morning. This was a colossal mistake. Kelsi would dig into her mind and snag something Emilie didn’t want to talk about.

  “This won’t work if you’re agitated.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Emilie, I’m just trying to help you.” Kelsi was as pushy as her brother.

  “I know.” She stared back at the woman, trying to make her expression as benign as possible. Kelsi smiled and raised her eyebrow. Emilie could tell the therapist wasn’t buying her act.

  A knock on the door saved her.

  “Come in,” Kelsi called.

  Agent Ronson hurried through the door. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic.” She sat in the chair next to the couch. “You ready?”

  “Yep.” Emilie looked at Kelsi. “Go ahead.”

  “Why don’t you lie down?” Kelsi suggested. “The more comfortable you are the better.”

  Emilie stretched out and made sure her dress hadn’t hiked up her thighs. She didn’t want to give the other women a panty show.

  “Take a deep breath. As you let it out, close your eyes. Feel yourself relaxing.”

  Emilie glanced at Ronson, who nodded. She took a deep breath and exhaled, closing her eyes. She prayed Kelsi didn’t get her talking about Claire. She’d left that in the past a long time ago.

  “Become aware of your legs.” Kelsi’s voice softened. “Now let them grow more and more comfortable, loose and relaxed.”

  E
milie tried to do as she was told. Her left leg gave an involuntary jerk.

  “Relax,” Kelsi said. “Let your arms become loose and limp, comfortable. Deep breaths.”

  Inhale, exhale. Relax. She couldn’t. Every muscle in her body felt tight.

  “Emilie, you’ve got to let go. You can’t be hypnotized if you don’t trust me.”

  Why should she trust Kelsi? She didn’t know her. But Nathan did. He wanted to help.

  “Unclench your fingers,” Kelsi said. “Let your arms fall to your sides. Breathe deeply.”

  Emilie became aware of the ticking of the wall clock as Kelsi spoke. She started counting the seconds as she tried to follow instructions. The same words over and over…deep breaths, relax, let the tension go…how many minutes had passed?

  A pleasant feeling washed over her. She knew she was awake but sleep felt near. Her mind was active. She could still hear the clock, the sounds of the traffic outside, the sound of Ronson shifting in her chair.

  “Emilie, can you hear me?” Kelsi’s tone matched the peaceful state Emilie was in.

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to go back to the art gallery when you first met the man calling himself Jim. Can you do that?”

  The Bellagio’s large gallery rose in her mind. The light was modulated, the room full, as admirers moved from exhibit to exhibit.

  “What are you doing?” Kelsi asked.

  “Looking at Girl with a Straw Hat. It’s even more beautiful than I expected.” Mémé’s face had glowed every time she spoke of the painting. Then her expression would sag and sadness crept into her eyes. She missed Grand-père.

  “I wish Mémé were here.”

  “Why?”

  “She loved me. Claire didn’t. My mother hated me.”

  A low voice muttered something. Ronson, Emilie thought.

  “Look around the room. Do you see the Taker—the man who called himself Jim?”

  “The room’s pretty full.”

  “Just look.”

  “He’s beside me now. Out of nowhere.”

  “Tell me about him. What does he smell like? Is he wearing cologne?”

  “Yes. Musky. Nice. He’s asking me about the painting. I don’t want to answer, but I can’t help it.”