Into the Dark

by Green, Stacy

  Nathan searched the agent’s face. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because it’s her only hope.”

  * * * *

  “Are you thirsty?”

  Cotton lined Emilie’s mouth. “Yes, please.”

  A hand cupped the back of her head and caressed her hair. Emilie didn’t allow herself to react. She had to make him trust her.

  A plastic straw tapped against her mouth. She parted her lips and eagerly drank. Water halfway down her throat, a terrifying thought struck: what if he’d drugged the water? Or poisoned it?

  She choked.

  “Ma chère.” He stroked her hair. “Easy. You’ll make yourself sick.”

  Should she drink? She needed the water for strength. He had any number of other options if he wanted to harm her. She had to take the risk.

  “Sorry. Can I please try again?”

  “Of course.”

  This time, she drank until the Taker removed the straw. “We must make it last.”

  Water dripped from her chin. She licked her lips, not wanting to spare a drop. “Thank you.”

  “Parkwa.” The word rolled off his tongue.

  “I don’t speak Creole, but I assume that meant, ‘you’re welcome.’”

  “Wi—yes. You recognize my language?”

  “It’s quite beautiful. Much different than French.”

  “Parlez vous francais?”

  “Oui.”

  “Your Mémé taught you?”

  “Yes.”

  “An exceptional woman.”

  They had a five-minute conversation about Mémé. The Taker knew nothing of Mémé’s spirit, her sacrifice. Emilie swallowed her anger and pressed on.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Julian.”

  A beautiful name for a blackened soul, Emilie thought. “I like it. What’s your last name?”

  “I’ll keep that to myself, chère.”

  Bastard. “Of course. So where are you from, originally?” She played dumb. “Not much of a Creole population in Nevada.”

  A moment of silence, and then, “Why do you ask?”

  “You already know so much about me.” Emilie chose her words carefully. “Will you please tell me more about you?”

  “Why?”

  She stretched her legs. How big was her prison? Did she have room to fight? Her feet touched nothing. She didn’t dare try to move her bound hands from her lap.

  “Isn’t that what you want? For me to know you?”

  “Hmm.” The silence hung between them as Emilie waited.

  “New Orleans,” the Taker finally drawled.

  “Beautiful city.”

  “It is quite wonderful—the most European of all American cities. I miss it.”

  “Why did you leave? Were you affected by Katrina?”

  A quiet shuffling rippled through the darkness. He’d shifted closer. His leg now touched her upper arm. He sat cross-legged. If she moved fast enough, she could slam her fists into his crotch. And then what? Her ankles were still tied–running was pointless.

  “Fortunately, no. An opportunity arose I couldn’t resist.”

  She knew he was lying. He’d fled because he’d murdered Marie Adrieux.

  “Must have been hard to leave the place you grew up.”

  “Life is a series of hard choices. Something you understand, I’m sure.”

  Her defense mechanism flared. She bit her lip against it. This was not the time to say something stupid. “I do.”

  “Why did you leave home, Miss Emilie?”

  He was baiting her, trying to get her to talk about her mother. He wanted her to thank him.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I gathered your mother did something terrible. Although I’m not sure what could be worse than lying to you about your paternity.”

  Emilie ground her teeth, and then caught herself. “Claire lied to me my entire life about my father—at least the man I thought was my father.” Her bitterness was real. Emilie didn’t know if she would ever be able to forgive her mother.

  “How did you discover the truth?”

  “When I was eighteen, I received a letter from Mémé. She’d written it before she died and left instructions for it to be delivered. She told me everything.”

  “Why didn’t she share the truth with you before she passed?”

  “I was too young.”

  “And she didn’t want your last memories of her to be filled with anger.”

  A jolt rushed through her. Emilie had never thought of Mémé’s actions that way. She remembered her grandmother with love and adoration and understood her choice. If Mémé had told the truth when Emilie was just a child, her reaction would have been different. Instead, Emilie had been given the gift of understanding.

  “You’re right, Julian. I was devastated she was dying, but my last memories of her are wonderful.”

  “As they should be, chère. Your Mémé was a wise woman.”

  Emilie’s blindfold soaked up her tears. As much as she missed Mémé, she had no desire to join her any time soon. She wanted to live, to have a life with Nathan.

  She gritted her teeth and resolved to stop crying. If she stuck with the plan, she’d have a chance.

  Chapter Forty

  “Coffee.” Chris handed Nathan a steaming cup of black goo. “Loaded with cream and sugar to cover the taste.”

  “Thanks.” Nathan took the styrofoam cup but didn’t drink. He’d been relegated to the conference room while the search team gathered for a briefing. “I should be going out there instead of sitting on my ass.”

  “Ugh.” Chris scrunched his nose as he drank. “We need a Starbucks. Or even someone in charge of making a fresh pot once a day. Christ.”

  “I could help the search. I’ve been in the tunnels.”

  “So have they.” Chris nodded toward the group of patrol officers in the squad room. “A lot more than you. Some even have contacts with knowledge of the tunnels.”

  “I’ve got Snake.”

  “I told them where to look for him.”

  Nathan finally brought the cup to his lips. “Why am I drinking this if it tastes so bad?”

  “’Cause you’ve been up at least eighteen hours. You need a pick-up.”

  Nathan ignored the coffee’s stale taste. Emilie was the only thing on his mind. What had the Taker done to her? The Louisiana woman hadn’t been sexually assaulted, but criminals evolve. The Taker felt justified in killing Claire. Raping Emilie didn’t seem like much of a leap.

  Emilie knew Nathan would never give up. He prayed she managed to stay alive long enough for him to find her.

  “Search team’s heading out,” Chris said. “And here comes Avery. He looks like a nerd with afterglow, so he must have some information.”

  Nathan met Avery at the door. “Anything?”

  “Techs got the info from Vance’s computer.”

  One of the department’s computer geeks had taken center-stage in Avery’s office.

  “Did you find the letter?” Nathan asked.

  “No,” the tech shook her head. “But we’ve got some notes. Entries Vance made over the last few weeks while he was investigating your perp.”

  “How is it that a middle-aged bank manager with a gambling problem can tail a dude like the Taker?” Chris asked.

  “Vance is used to sneaking around,” Avery said. “He’s lived a double life for a long time.”

  “But the Taker already knew that,” Chris said.

  “He may have known Vance was following him.” Ronson stood behind the tech, peering at the computer through her reading glasses. “And didn’t consider him a threat because of the information he held over Vance. The Taker probably thought Jeremy Vance was weak enough to keep under his thumb.”

  “Vance never actually followed him,” the tech said. “After the attempted kidnapping, he met with the Taker three times. Each entry is dated. First time was two days after the job. Vance confronted him about Davis, and th
e Taker threatened to expose Vance to the police and pin the entire thing on him.”

  “Did Vance say where they met?” Avery rubbed his temples.

  “18b.”

  “The downtown arts district?” Nathan asked. The area was known for an eclectic mix of galleries, shops, and antiques. ‘18b’ represented the original area consisting of eighteen city blocks. The district had grown over the years, but the name had stuck.

  “Every meeting took place there.”

  “Specific location?” Ronson asked.

  The tech shrugged. “They’d meet on Commerce and walk. Never more than ten minutes at a time.”

  “Were the meetings prearranged?”

  “The Taker provided Vance with a prepaid cellphone. Vance had to return it at their last meeting. He figured he was next on the Taker’s list.”

  “So he writes Emilie the letter,” Chris said.

  “What else do the notes say?” Ronson asked.

  “Vance paid a lot of attention. He noticed the Taker knew the arts district well. He even spent time during one meeting studying one of the store’s window displays.”

  “Why?” Nathan said.

  “Vance wasn’t sure, but the Taker took his time. Vance couldn’t understand everything he said because he slipped into Creole.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch even knew that.” Nathan ran his hands through his hair. “He better stay in that coma for his own good.”

  “When did this happen?” Ronson tapped the corner of Avery’s desk.

  “Their last meeting. Vance had planned to follow him but chickened out at the last second.”

  “So how does he have any idea who the Taker is?” Nathan paced the room. Vance’s information was turning out to be a bust.

  “Because instead of going to the casinos, he started touring the arts district,” the tech said. “Vance was smart enough to believe he’d find the Taker there.”

  “And?” Ronson pressed.

  “He saw him twice, both times in high-end antique shops. Vance had the balls to get close and overheard the Taker negotiating purchases. Both times, he out-talked the sellers, countering everything they said with knowledge about the piece.”

  “So he’s a rich bastard with a love of old shit,” Chris said. “Didn’t we know that already?”

  “You haven’t heard the best part.”

  “Get to it,” Nathan snapped.

  The tech raised an eyebrow. “The morning Vance attempted suicide, he was distraught over the bank teller’s murder. He had no idea she was in with the Taker. He went to 18b, determined to confront him. Spent hours looking but didn’t find him.”

  “So what? The Taker was probably spying on Emilie.”

  “Vance did see one thing of interest: the very same piece of art he’d witnessed the Taker haggling over was for sale in another antique shop on Charleston Street. Front was designed to look like a plantation, and the window display was decorated with white jasmine.”

  “The name?” Nathan crushed the now empty styrofoam cup. The Taker was from Louisiana. He’d buried his first victim in an area loaded with historical Creole plantations. The antique store’s theme was no coincidence.

  “Bougere’s Fine Antiques.”

  * * * *

  “Can I please sit up? This floor is getting painful.” Lumps of cement dug into her back.

  “Of course,” the Taker said. Emilie couldn’t think of him as Julian. The name was too refined for a man who’d murdered at least three people.

  He took her by the shoulders, his grip firm, yet gentle. She swallowed back the nausea from his touch.

  Her head spun when she was upright. How long had she been trapped? The darkness had robbed her sense of time. It could have been an hour or six.

  She’d been so stupid. Sneaking out ensured no one knew she was missing. Had the Taker been watching the entire time? He must have been. Hiding in plain sight like always.

  Nathan would know. He’d get the text and put two and two together. He would find her.

  Emilie remained still as the Taker’s hands slid down her arms. He sat in front of her, his knee grazing her thigh; close enough for Emilie to catch the scent of coffee on his breath.

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “Light would be wonderful.”

  “I suppose it’s only fair. I’ve seen you countless times. You probably don’t remember what I look like.”

  “Tall,” Emilie said. “You had a beard. Nice eyes.”

  The sudden flash of yellow light caught her by surprise. She blinked, willing her eyes to adjust.

  A face gradually came into focus. It was long and lean with prominent cheekbones. A broad chin jutted out a bit too far, thick eyebrows, and lips that bore the hint of a smile.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  “You shaved.”

  The Taker broke into a wide smile. “You remembered.”

  “I told you.”

  The small camp light cast just enough light to form a small circle around them. It wasn’t enough for her to gauge the size of her prison.

  “What if they find us?” Emilie kept her voice even. “They know bringing me into the tunnels was your plan all along, Julian.”

  “My name sounds much more appealing coming from your lips,” he said.

  She attempted to smile. “It’s a lovely name.”

  “As is yours. Chosen by your French grandmother, no doubt.”

  “Yes.”

  “You miss her terribly.”

  “Every day.”

  He touched her knee. His hands were large and thin. “And Claire? Do you miss her as well?”

  Anger flashed through Emilie. Her lips twitched with the need to lash out.

  “I see,” the Taker murmured. “You’re not ready yet.”

  He dropped his hand and shifted, his shoulders straight and back stiff. “To answer your question, we won’t be found.”

  “The tunnels aren’t infinite. They’ll eventually come this way.”

  “That’s debatable. Two hundred miles is a lot of area to cover, especially when cops fear the drains. Still, I didn’t want to take the risk.”

  Her stomach knotted. “What do you mean?”

  “A new hideaway had to be procured.”

  Emilie reached her bound hands in front of her and felt around under the blanket. She hadn’t been on cement, but clumps of dirt and rocks. She wasn’t in the tunnels. She twisted and touched the wall behind her. It was earth. She was in a hole.

  The Taker watched her. What did he want to see? Did he get off on her fear? She wouldn’t give into the panic.

  “Clever,” she said. “We don’t have to worry about being interrupted.”

  “It’s funny how things work out.” His shoulders relaxed, his hands rested against the ground. “After you chose not to go with me at the bank, I was devastated. So much time had gone into creating the perfect home in the tunnels. I couldn’t imagine a better location for our new start.” He glanced around. “Until I thought of this. It was right in front of me the entire time.”

  Emilie forced a smile. “Some might call that fate.”

  His eyes swept over her. “Fate it is.”

  * * * *

  “Bougere’s Antiques is owned by Josephine Bougere.” Ronson tossed a file onto the conference table. “Augustin Bougere bought the property seven years ago.”

  “Where does Josephine come in?” Nathan rubbed his eyes.

  “A couple of weeks after the loan closed, Bougere transferred ownership over to his wife Josephine Bougere. Their residence is listed as the apartment above the store.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “She’s dead. Employee we talked to said she died from breast cancer a year after the store opened. He identified our sketch of the Taker as Mr. Bougere. He never saw the mysterious Josephine. Her funeral was a private affair.”

  “She never existed,” Chris said.

  “She did on paper. Both
Josephine and Augustin Bougere were born in Lafayette, Louisiana in 1970 and ’71. Both applied for social security cards in 2000, long before the Cane River murder.”

  “Aren’t you assigned a social security number at birth?” Chris asked. “My sister’s baby was given one before she came home from the hospital.”

  “That wasn’t always the case forty years ago,” Ronson said. “A lot of people didn’t have them until they applied for a job.”

  “So what took Bougere so many years to get his?” Nathan asked.

  “This was pre 9/11,” Ronson said. “Government was a lot more lax back then.”

  “Is there a marriage certificate?” Nathan asked.

  “Yep. And birth certificates for both. Josephine’s maiden name was Labot. Probably forged and fake names, but the Louisiana field office is searching the Cane River area.” She handed Nathan her phone. “Look at the place.”

  He squinted at the small screen. Bougere’s storefront was white, with faux Corinthian columns on each side and an arched entrance. A small balcony jutted out from the apartment above, decorated with flower boxes.

  “Go to the next picture.”

  Ronson had zoomed in on the flower boxes. A green, viney plant with delicate white flowers filled the containers.

  “Jasmine?” Nathan asked.

  “Yep. He’s got a planter near the entrance, too.”

  “You think that means anything?” Chris took the phone and examined the picture.

  “His first known victim, Marie Adrieux, was sent white jasmine. Could be a reminder of home. Or tied to whatever his trigger is.”

  “What else did the employee say?” A glimmer of hope ignited in Nathan. They were circling the Taker’s true identity.

  “Nothing but praise for Augustin Bougere. It’s just the two of them. Employee works full time, Bougere’s in and out. He spends a lot of time searching for new acquisitions. Travels some.

  “Says Bougere knows more about antiques than anyone he’s ever met. Doesn’t know much about his past, only that he’s supposedly got a degree in art history and worked for fifteen years in one of the South’s best antique stores, first as an apprentice and then buyer. Never told the employee the name of the store—all in the name of privacy, of course.”