by Stacy Green
She studied him, unsure of his intentions. He smiled and stuck his clammy hands in his pockets, forcing his attention back on the painting.
“Yes,” she finally answered. “It’s very special to me.”
“Why?”
Sadness drifted across her face, but her lips twisted into a wistful smile. “This painting is how my grandparents met.”
“Really?”
“Paris had an exhibition of Renoir’s work. This painting turned out to be a great pick-up line. Mémé was flattered he thought she looked like the Girl.”
He gazed between the woman and Renoir’s famous Girl. “I assume you’ve inherited your grandmother’s lovely auburn hair?”
A brief ripple, followed by curious eyes. But that was all. She didn’t remember him. “Yes, but all Mémé shared with the Girl was her hair.” She smiled. “Grandpa just didn’t know how else to approach her.”
He stepped closer. She smelled like sweet jasmine. How could he resist?
“Fascinating. How long have they been married?”
“Until his death in 1978.”
“Is your Mémé—”
“She died five years later.”
Triumph waltzed through him. “I’m sorry. But they have a beautiful story, don’t they? We often take life’s simple moments for granted.”
She nodded and went back to the painting. He did the same, sipping champagne. How much did she remember? How much had she been told? “I can tell you appreciate the importance of our histories.”
“The past is an important part of life,” she said, still gazing at the painting with a look of passionate reverence, the way a nun bows before the statue of Christ. “It can affect us forever. A split-second decision can change everything.”
In that moment, he realized she knew his kind of pain. They were far more connected than he’d dreamed. Perhaps they could be more than adversaries.
But he’d left those ways behind seven years ago, buried along with the evidence. He couldn’t risk everything again.
He couldn’t walk away, either.
* * * *
CRAWFISH CRUNCHED UNDERNEATH his boots as he sprinted through the standing water. His footsteps reverberated off the concrete walls. Moving through the tunnels was like being wrapped in a smothering blanket. Only the smell was worse: trash, feces, and rotting water blended together to resemble the odor of a corpse.
Filth of every kind flourished in the tunnels, including human scum. For every decent man just trying to survive, there were others who would sooner cut a person’s throat than look at him in the eye. Crackheads, meth dealers, rapists, murderers—all sought refuge in the storm drains.
His lungs burned, but he couldn’t stop running. Not yet. He was still too close to the scene. Some intrepid cop looking for glory might be on his tail. The safe haven he created for Emilie and himself was off limits as well. Too much work had gone into creating their new life to risk leading the authorities right to the location.
The only option was to keep moving until he reached an open-air channel far enough away from the bank. The police were too wary of the tunnels to go very far inside. They would focus their search on the entrances closest to the bank.
Fury pushed him onward. So much effort had gone into creating the perfect rendezvous, only to be ruined by foolish pride.
He’d been sure she was ready for their new life together. Didn’t she understand they were meant to be? They’d been connected from the start, and she carried the evidence with her. Wore it like a talisman.
Damn her. Months of waiting, of searching for the right hiding spot. Cleaning out the old bootlegging tunnel—all that effort wasted.
The open-air channel loomed ahead now, and he finally slowed. His rubbery legs carried him into the overgrown weeds. He gulped the reasonably fresh air. Traffic moved above, but there were no sounds of a search or of panicked cops.
After hiding his things, he cautiously crawled out of the abyss and made his way onto the sidewalk. Despite the change, the stink of the underground clung to his clothes and skin. People gave him a wide berth.
He was hungry, tired, and disappointed. They were supposed to be together by now. Once again, circumstance had ripped happiness away from him, and he needed to regroup. The endeavor he had spent months researching and planning down to the last detail was now washed away with the rest of the trash in the drains.
He would have to think of something else, and soon.
6
NATHAN PEERED THROUGH the chain link fence. He didn’t know how he was going to climb with his arm wrapped up and burning. “Is that it?”
“I didn’t even know this culvert was here.” Chris started to climb. “I drive over it every day too.”
“That’s why they call them box culverts,” Johnson said from the other side of the fence. “You don’t see them unless you’re walking inside.”
Several blocks north of the raucous Fremont Street Experience was an entrance to the storm drain system.
Nathan gritted his teeth and started to shimmy up the fence, putting as much weight onto his good arm as possible. “Why couldn’t we just cut this thing down?” The fence wobbled as Nathan jumped down.
“Because no one in Metro wants to deal with the city officials over it,” Johnson said. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” Nathan shined his light toward the culvert. Bathed in shadows, it stood silent and empty. A chill of foreboding washed over him. “Talk about spook central.”
“Watch yourselves.” Johnson led the way as the three men entered the culvert, weapons ready. “Anything could be lurking.”
Standing water covered the toes of Nathan’s boots. The air was thick with mildew. “Drain’s over there.” He shined his tactical light on the flood map. “To the right.”
The temperature dropped as they entered the large drain. Darkness engulfed them.
Chris’s whistle cut through the eerie stillness. “Wow. It’s a hell of a lot cooler in here. Place smells like feet, but I’ll take what I can get.”
Nathan shined his light on the walls. Colorful graffiti decorated the concrete. “Someone’s a talented artist.”
The darkness thickened with each step. The odor grew increasingly foul.
“Jesus, I can taste the stench in my mouth.” Chris gagged and spit into the dirty water.
Nathan didn’t respond. He was too busy fighting the pain in his arm and trying to keep the contents of his stomach down. How did the people who lived in the tunnels stand the smell and the constant dangers? The drains provided relief from the sweltering desert heat and free housing, but they were death traps. Large portions ran directly underneath the city streets, and inhabitants risked carbon monoxide poisoning and the frequent threat of flooding. Nathan grew up poorer than many in North Las Vegas, but he couldn’t imagine having no other alternative than to live minute by minute.
“We shouldn’t run into any camps,” Johnson said. “They’re deeper in. One of the biggest is right under the Strip.”
“You know we aren’t going to find shit,” Chris choked out. “It’s too dark. Guy planned this for months. He knows his way around. Nate, you need to get that arm stitched up.”
“It’s clean and bandaged,” Nathan said. “It’ll hold.”
Silence fell over the men as they moved farther into the stinking drain. Something hard crunched underneath Nathan’s boots. He nervously shined his light into the black water. Crawfish swam around his feet, probably on their way to the Las Vegas Wash. A mushy white glob looking suspiciously like used toilet paper floated by, and he focused his light away from the stream. Better not to know what I’m stepping on.
A loud splash ahead brought all three to a halt.
“You hear that?” Johnson asked.
“Sounds big.” Chris stepped in front of Johnson and raised his Glock.
“Las Vegas SWAT,” Johnson shouted. “Identify yourself.”
Nothing.
“Maybe it was an animal,” N
athan said.
“That’s even worse than a junkie,” Chris said. “With my luck, Cujo’s man-eating cousin will show up and give me rabies.”
“They have shots for that now.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
A second loud splash was followed by the distinct sound of footsteps sloshing through the water.
“That’s no dog.” Chris sprinted after the runner with Nathan and Johnson closely following. The beams of their lights flashed haphazardly against the walls making the tunnel even more ominous.
A strange brightness glowed several yards ahead of them. Their quarry came into view. He was too short and stocky to be their man, but he could have information.
Chris tackled him just as the group emerged into the moonlight.
“Get off me. I ain’t done nothing wrong!”
“Settle down, then.” Chris yanked the man to his feet. “We just want to talk to you.”
Nathan inhaled the semi-fresh air and looked around. They stood in an open-air channel, with tall, raggedy weeds and swarms of bugs. “Why’d you run?”
“Don’t like cops.”
“We’re not here to arrest you.” Johnson flashed his badge. “Las Vegas SWAT in pursuit of a fugitive. He tried to rob WestOne Bank this afternoon and nearly kidnapped a woman. You seen anyone suspicious tonight?”
“Just me around here.”
Nathan offered him a bottle of water. “What’s your name?”
“Blaze.” He chugged the water and pointed to his bright red hair.
“You noticed anyone out of the ordinary down here?” Nathan asked.
“You’re kidding right, kid?” Blaze snorted. “No one down here is ordinary.”
“Yeah, but you all know each other, right?
“So?”
“So has there been anyone around you didn’t know?” Nathan asked. “You heard any stories about a guy sneaking around here, up to no good?”
“People come and go all the time. Lot of ‘em are up to something. I don’t make it my business to find out what.”
“Keep your eye out, will you?” Johnson asked. “You see anyone new, anyone running scared, call it in.”
“One more thing,” Nathan said. “You know anything about the devil’s underground?”
“You’re in it,” Blaze said. “Least, that’s what some people call the tunnels.”
“Why?” Chris asked.
“It kind of fits, don’t it? I don’t know who started it, but somewhere underneath the Bellagio is a mural with hell’s gates and hopeless souls. Devil’s underground is painted on top of it. Guess the name stuck. Got a bunch of writing with it, but I don’t remember what it is.” Blaze tossed the empty plastic bottle into the water. “Thanks for the drink.” He disappeared back into the tunnel.
Devil’s underground. It did make sense. After all, Vegas was known as Sin City, full of glitz and glamour and secrets. Below the bright lights stretched a frightening type of purgatory.
“Look around.” Johnson waved his light across the channel. “On the off chance the perp came through here, maybe he left something.”
The search of the drains continued past four a.m. but turned up empty. Nathan wasn’t surprised. The partner was too smart.
“I’m burning these clothes.” Nathan tossed the Kevlar vest into the truck.
“God, yes.” Chris kicked a vest out of the way and sat down. “Then taking a shower in bleach.”
“Time for you to get to UMC and get that arm taken care of,” Johnson ordered.
Nathan hated hospitals. Their sterile walls contained too much pain and sorrow, and the unhappiness caused a surge of memories he’d rather bury. Still, he couldn’t put off his injury any longer. Last thing he needed was muscle damage.
“A patrol officer told me once he’d heard rumors of a troll in the tunnels.” Chris glanced back over his shoulder as they climbed into the SWAT truck. “After being inside that fifth circle of hell, wouldn’t surprise me.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I hope they put that woman under some kind of protective custody.” Chris unloaded his Glock and shoved the clip into the pocket of his fatigues.
The heavy weight of blame kept Nathan silent. He’d suspected the partner had a separate agenda. He should have moved more quickly, should have stopped Emilie and the partner before they hit the stairs.
The advice his sister had been giving him for years played in his mind. “You can’t take on the world just because you feel guilty about the past.”
Still, he should have figured out the partner’s intentions sooner. If he had, Emilie would be sleeping peacefully tonight instead of looking over her shoulder in constant fear.
* * * *
THE ROOM WAS like every other hospital room she’d been in: white, sterile, and freezing. Emilie sat on the standard-issue bed trying not to touch the cold plastic sides while the flash of the police photographer’s camera attempted to blind her. He’d taken so many pictures she’d lost count—pictures of the bruises on her face and shoulder, the scrapes on her arm and knee—even her broken fingernails.
“Do you have enough yet? Surely a hundred and nine will suffice.”
The photographer ceased his repetitive clicking and cocked his head. “You’ve been counting?”
“Never mind.”
“We just have a few more questions,” said FBI Agent Sia Ronson. Emilie already liked her better than Avery. Her classic gray suit was nice but not flashy, her voice calm and reassuring. Avery had bristled when the agent entered, but she’d smoothly convinced him he needed to deal with the press while she interviewed Emilie.
“Tell me about the lilies and poem.” Ronson sat in a chair next to the bed, her expression neutral, but keen awareness in her dark eyes.
“Casablanca lilies mean celebration.” The words lodged in Emilie’s throat. She swallowed hard. “He said they were a perfect flower for today’s occasion. That today was just the beginning.”
“Do those specific lilies mean anything to you?”
“Definitely not celebration. They were on my grandmother’s casket—her favorite flower. So I don’t like to have them around.”
Ronson’s sympathetic smile seemed sincere. “I understand. For me it’s roses. My dad. He used to bring them home once a week. He said their smell made the house seem like spring.”
Heat lit up Emilie’s cheeks the way it always did during any high emotion. “At least I’m not the only one.”
“Not at all,” Ronson said. “What about the Blake poem? Was it special to you?”
“It’s one of my favorites, but no one knows that. I’ve never told anyone.”
Curiosity flickered across Ronson’s face. Emilie waited for her to ask why the poetry was such a secret. Instead, Ronson made a note and said, “Can you remember anything else?”
There was nothing she could forget. “After the hostage was picked, the partner said not to worry, that he’d take care of me.”
“What else did the partner say?”
Emilie told Ronson about Creepy’s strange ramblings. His voice echoed in her head as her exhausted body began to shake. She wrapped her arms around her chest.
Ronson handed her the thin hospital blanket draped over the end of the bed. “Did the partner ever mention anything about the tunnels? Something that may not have specifically related to the bank but to the storm system in general?”
“No, just what I already told you about the devil’s underground. I never dreamed he meant the storm drains.” Her skull felt like vice grips trapped it. “When can I get out of here?”
“Soon. Can you give us a better physical description? In comparison to my coloring—was he lighter or darker?”
Emilie looked at the agent’s mocha-colored skin. It was smooth and glowing, with very little makeup except a dab of color on her lips. “Lighter.”
“How much lighter?”
She tried to envision the brief glimpses of skin, but every image brought a flash of
his haunting, watchful eyes. “I don’t know. Quite a bit.”
“Is there anything else you can remember?” Ronson asked.
“Did Detective Avery tell you about the partner’s…err…excitement?”
“Yes.” Ronson tapped her pencil against her cheek. “I don’t know if the reaction came from direct physical contact with you or because he thought the two of you were about to make a great escape. But clearly there’s a sexual component to his fascination with you.”
Ronson didn’t need to say more. Emilie knew what would have happened had Creepy Guy managed to succeed with his nefarious plan. She imagined being forced down into the filth of the tunnels and his hands all over her. He would have no doubt continued his strange commentary, as genteel as ever while he violated her. And then what? Death? Another go?
“Anything else?”
She tried to quell the shaking. It only got worse. “He was just…different.”
“How so?” Ronson leaned back in the chair and closed her notebook. “Tell me whatever impression you can think of.”
“He was polite, almost formal. He even called me Miss Emilie. Joe was constantly agitated, but the partner never got upset, except…”
“Except what?”
“I asked Joe if I could go to the bathroom. I just wanted to get away from the other guy for a few minutes. Creepy offered to take me. I knew I couldn’t let him get me alone, so I said no.”
“What did he say?” Ronson asked.
“Nothing. He didn’t have to. His eyes said enough. He was furious.”
Ronson nodded her head, as if she’d expected the answer. “When did this happen?”
“Not long before SWAT came in.”
“Other than the flowers today, have you had any other weird things happen?” Ronson asked. “Other strange gifts or notes? Weird calls?”
“No.” The only people who called her were her boss, Jeremy, or sometimes his wife. An employee calling in sick. That was it. Nothing special in her life.
“You hadn’t noticed anyone following you or the same person turning up wherever you went?”
“No.”
