Into the Devil's Underground

by Stacy Green

  “Where did the junkie meet him?” Nathan slipped his sunglasses on and opened the door for Agent Ronson.

  “On Bonanza near one of the local in-and-out motels,” Ronson said. “We’re on our way to interview the manager and employees now, but it’s a long shot. That place is prostitution central. Nobody keeps track of who’s hanging around.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Only the junkie’s. Christ, it’s hot out here.” Ronson fanned herself with the file she was carrying. “This guy is good, Nathan. He hasn’t even left us a crumb.”

  He might as well bring up the theory that had been taking shape since yesterday. “So, the Dante quote he mentioned to Emilie?”

  Ronson shaded her eyes and looked up at him. “Yeah?”

  “It’s from Inferno Canto III, verses 1-21, when Dante is about to be taken into the gates of hell.”

  “I’m familiar with it,” Ronson. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Nathan admitted. “But I think Creepy is torn over Emilie. Like some part of him knows his obsession with her is wrong and he’ll end up in whatever form of hell there is, but he can’t stop himself. I think that’s why he chose the tunnels.”

  “They’re symbolic and strategic?”

  “Exactly.” Relief surged through Nathan. Maybe he wasn’t reaching after all. “It’s not a stretch to take the name devil’s underground and apply it to Dante. Maybe he feels like using the tunnels is something he has to do.”

  “He’s got to travel the path through hell to get to his own twisted form of paradise.” Ronson finally looked something other than tired. She rocked on her heels, nodding her head quickly. “He’s methodical and educated, and the symbolism of the tunnels stinks of routine and prior experience. Well done, Madigan.”

  Except they still needed something to narrow down the suspect pool, and Nathan wasn’t sure his theory would be any help with that. “So what now?”

  “Madigan.” Avery bore down on them, his face an ugly shade of red. “What the hell are you doing?” He turned his anger on Ronson. “Why are you discussing the case with him? He’s not a detective.”

  “Neither are you, Dalton,” Nathan countered. “You’re just the guy who kisses department ass while someone else works the case.”

  Avery closed the distance between them. “Someone needs to take you down a notch or two, Madigan.”

  “I’m just telling the truth. Not my fault you can’t handle it.” Nathan drew to his full height, crossing his arms to flex his muscles. Several inches shorter with arms that flapped when he walked and a soft middle, Avery looked like a desk jockey.

  “Come on, Dalton,” Nathan taunted, his voice deceptively soft. “Do you really want me to embarrass you in front of Agent Ronson?”

  Avery flinched. A fat bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and settled into one of the pockmarks on his chin. He stepped back and mopped his face with a white handkerchief. “Typical, Madigan, using brute force instead of intellectual prowess.”

  “Intellectual prowess? You wanna compare IQs now, Dalton? I’ll save you some time; mine’s higher.”

  “And you say I’m arrogant.”

  “You brought it up. I’m just being honest. Your problem is you care more about yourself than about your cases.”

  “Enough.” Ronson shoved her hand in Nathan’s face. “You guys can continue your pissing match another time.”

  “I just want to know what you’re doing for Emilie,” Nathan said. “And if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Why do you care?” Avery sneered. “Interested in the damsel-in-distress, Madigan? She is pretty easy on the eyes.”

  “You’re a pig.”

  “Just calling it like I see it.” Avery wiped the sweat from his upper lip.

  “You don’t see shit.” Nathan turned to Ronson, resisting the urge to knock out Avery’s teeth. “What are you doing to keep her safe?”

  “Everything we can. We’ve urged her to be careful, and we’re following up on every lead. I’m going to spend some time on your theory, see what I can dig up. We’ll see if anyone on our list has a literature or theological background. Maybe we’ll get lucky. We just have to keep digging and hope the partner makes a mistake.”

  “Can we go?” Avery asked. “It’s miserable out here. The motel manager leaves at three.”

  Nathan put on his sunglasses and headed for his car. “Have a nice day, Dalton.”

  * * * *

  NATHAN WOKE UP face first on the couch to a dark apartment and a growling stomach. He stumbled into the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets. A can of tuna, a cereal box, and a jar of garbanzo beans.

  He should have gone to the grocery store last night instead of spending hours on research. He settled for stale Cocoa Puffs, but the milk had expired three days ago. Dry cereal it is.

  The light in the fish tank was still out. If he didn’t get it replaced soon, he’d be flushing the Barbs down the toilet. He checked his voicemail. Aunt Kay had left a message inviting him for dinner later in the week. “Your dad and I want to see you soon,” she said. “We miss you.”

  Sure. Nathan knew she meant well, but he didn’t think his father missed him. It was easier when Nathan wasn’t around. His dad didn’t have to pretend he didn’t care about the past and that everything was fine between the two of them. Some things can’t be fixed.

  Kelsi wanted him to confront his father and lay all their feelings out on the table, but it wouldn’t make a difference. His father loved him but couldn’t forgive him. And Nathan couldn’t blame him for that.

  He dropped into his worn desk chair and flicked on the light. Post-it notes and index cards littered the desk. He knocked over a pile of dog-eared books on FBI profiling.

  Still on the front page of Hunter’s Happenings, the blog post Emilie had received was easy enough to find. The gossip blogger also envisioned herself an amateur detective. The piece focused on the sensational tie-ins to Las Vegas history and the blogger’s own conspiracy theories. Although the Hunter briefly mentioned Emilie’s “vacation” at University Medical Center’s psych ward after her divorce, her short paragraphs on Emilie centered on Emilie’s estranged family. The blogger hadn’t bothered to interview Emilie to get her side.

  Nathan wondered why Emilie had gone to the psych ward. Had the loss of her marriage broken her that badly? He doubted that. She had spoken scathingly of her ex-husband, and there was no indication of any feelings except disgust.

  He turned back to the computer. There had to be something in the post that stood out to Creepy, something he wanted to share with Emilie.

  Nathan focused on the blogger’s approach. She was fascinated with the dramatics of the escape and envisioned a scenario in which Creepy spent weeks making the tunnel safe again, risking his own life to bring his plan to fruition.

  Passageway to Hell Discovered Beneath WestOne Bank By Rachel Hunter

  “It was probably dark when the masked man began his quest. From the handmade hatch in the sewer pipe, he likely slithered through the narrow tunnel until he reached the hidden room. He knew the danger he was in: the plywood ceiling was rotten as were the redwood logs that held the ceiling in place. Surely one of his first decisions would have been to make the room safe. Eventually he moved through the larger tunnel, passing the empty barrels until he came to the wooden door leading into the basement of WestOne Bank. There his plan may have come to fruition: the perfect opportunity to escape with the woman he coveted.

  And what about that woman? Although attractive, nothing about Emilie Davis stands out.

  She is a quiet, single woman just living her life. Clearly, she has demons to fight, given her stay in a psych ward. Was Subterranean Stalker drawn to that weakness? Did her pain call out to him, or is his obsession with Davis more deeply rooted? Perhaps he is a scorned suitor from the past, a man Davis has completely forgotten. Whatever the case, the stalker’s extraordinary efforts indicate a connection to Davis.”<
br />
  But why take the risk of leaving her a note, even if he had the junkie deliver it?

  The answer jumped off the screen and knocked the breath out of his body. She’s met him before. And he wants her to know.

  14

  EMILIE’S VISION BLURRED as the words of Faulkner’s classic, As I Lay Dying, ran together. She didn’t want to sleep. Her mind would venture into places she didn’t want to face.

  She forced her eyes open and darkness greeted her. What had happened to the lights? She clutched the old book. Pain radiated through her fingers. She blinked once, twice. Heart slamming against her chest, body frozen in place, she prayed the lights would reappear. Breathe. Don’t let the bubbling panic seize control.

  Something soft and furry brushed against her arm. Otis. Emilie scooped him up. She needed some sort of normalcy to help her think straight. He purred and snuggled his furry head under her chin.

  Okay. She took deep, calming breaths. Think. Where’s the flashlight?

  She needed to get up, find a candle, a match—something. But her muscles were hardwired to the fear that had taken over her brain. Rational thought wasn’t possible.

  Otis squirmed; she was squishing him. He leapt out of Emilie’s arms the moment her grip eased and landed with a thud on the floor. Her vision had finally adjusted to the near-complete lack of light. She reached for the nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and fumbled around for some source of light.

  There was none.

  She had to get up. Her legs shook as she rose to her feet, knees banging together. The blackness was disorienting, the hallway far too reminiscent of the chasm underneath the bank.

  With shaking, outstretched hands, she felt her way toward the living room. Her fingers hit the doorframe first and saved her from crashing into the wall. She crept forward. The living room was like a black pit. The blinds were shut to keep out the hot sun.

  “Damn it.” Emilie’s knees slammed against furniture. She flew forward over the overstuffed arm of the couch. Her face bounced off a cushion.

  A sudden bang from the kitchen paralyzed her.

  “Otis?” Her voice sounded meek in the heavy darkness. “Is that you?”

  Shuffling, and then a faint meow.

  “I know you were on the counter, sneak. Make yourself useful and find the flashlight.”

  She pushed herself off the couch and began the slow process of moving forward once more. The junk drawer had matches, and she’d left a candle on the kitchen counter.

  The flashback came without warning.

  * * * *

  “ARE YOU AFRAID of the dark, beautiful Emilie?” Creepy whispered as he leaned close to her, sniffing her hair once again. Night had fallen. The only light in the bank came from the streetlights.

  “Miss Emilie?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know the technical name for fear of the dark is nyctophobia? I don’t mean the normal, fleeting fear we all experience when the lights go out. I’m talking about the irrational anxiety we experience when it’s dark. Some people have panic attacks from it.”

  Emilie didn’t respond. He continued in his creepy, breathy whisper. “Studies show the phobia is more common in childhood. Adults who suffer from it haven’t faced the problem and probably had a bad experience with the dark in the past.”

  He shifted closer. The overly sweet scent of his cologne invaded her nostrils. “I don’t understand the fear myself. Darkness is our friend. It hides our imperfections and protects us from the realities of daylight. We can be anything we want in the dark. And sometimes we have no choice but to stay in the dark, grateful for the shelter.”

  “Oh, God.” Moisture streamed down her face. Creepy had stayed so close, his breath against her skin and his fingers brushing against her arms more times than she could count.

  “Darkness is our friend.”

  The tunnels were dark. He wanted to drag her down there, stash her away in some filthy corner with no light and stale air. Locked away from everyone, forever.

  * * * *

  HER LUNGS CONSTRICTED as panic overwhelmed her. Her comfortable living room suddenly appeared sinister. The blowing wind outside sent a strange sort of murmur throughout the condo—a breathless, restrained whisper.

  Emilie whirled in the darkness, squinting at the black lumps spread throughout the room. Her furniture, or was Creepy here? Had he somehow cut the lights to the building?

  Claustrophobia attacked. Creepy closed in. His warm breath swept over her neck, and his saccharine scent crept into her nose. He had surrounded her again. She was trapped.

  No. She whipped her head around searching in vain for some sign of his presence. He couldn’t be there, could he? Her tired, tormented brain was just playing a cruel trick on her. Please, just leave me alone.

  She tried again to make it to the kitchen. She needed a weapon, something to strike with. If her attacker was there, he wasn’t going to take her out of her own home.

  Her shaking hands smacked against the granite bar extending from the kitchen. She slid forward, nearly losing her balance again. Cold metal touched her fingertips.

  Her phone.

  Light.

  Emilie barely registered it was only 10:30 p.m. as she held the phone high over her head and panned it around. There was no one in sight, but he could be hiding in the corner, watching and laughing.

  She slammed her thumb down on the ‘call’ icon and scrolled through her contacts.

  The perky voice of a happy five-year-old little girl answered the call.

  “Get. Your. Daddy.” Each word felt like Emilie’s last.

  “Hello?”

  “Jeremy. Need help.”

  “Emilie.” Jeremy’s frantic voice came through the speaker. “Where are you?”

  “Home. No lights.” A heavy thud sounded in the living room. Terror stalled her heart. She twisted around, her phone high in the air. Jeremy shouted her name. Panic seized her. Her breath came in short, painful rasps. Numbness consumed her entire body. Darkness stretched in front of her, a long tunnel with no end in sight.

  Emilie flailed blindly. Her foot came down on something squishy. Otis’s screech filled the house, and the angry cat shot between her legs. Emilie stumbled and lost her footing.

  She plummeted backwards, dropping the phone. White-hot pain rushed over Emilie as her head connected with a hard, pointed surface.

  Her body slammed against the tile floor. Then the pain was gone. Emilie floated in a black abyss, surrounded by silence. A face appeared: a man with olive-colored skin and several days’ beard growth. He had a strong brow, prominent cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips. He smiled down at her.

  His eyes. Dark. Beautiful. Terrifying.

  “Remember, Miss Emilie,” Creepy whispered. “Remember me.”

  And then her mind slipped away.

  15

  A SHRILL RING jerked Nathan awake. He fumbled for the phone lying somewhere on his old wooden nightstand.

  “I just came off a twelve-hour shift. This better be important.”

  “It is.”

  “God, Chris. You should be sleeping too.”

  “You know I have to unwind after we have a busy night. You need to read this morning’s edition of The Sun.”

  “You still get a paper?” Nathan rubbed his eyes. “Like an actual hard copy?”

  “I’m old school. You’ve got a fancy phone. Get on their website.”

  “Why?”

  “Emilie Davis is in the hospital.”

  “What?” Nathan sat up. “Was she attacked?”

  “Sounds like she had some kind of breakdown. Got hurt. You need to read.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re interested in the case. And her. And there’s some really good info in that article.”

  “I’m not interested in Emilie. The case, yes. Creepy is fascinating and—”

  “Save it. I know you. Just read it.”

  Nathan hit ‘end’ and pulled up The Sun’s website on
his iPhone. Dread settled in his stomach when he saw the reporter’s byline.

  Attempted Kidnapping Victim Admitted to Hospital

  According to an anonymous source, Emilie Davis, the attempted kidnapping victim of the masked man known only as ‘The Subterranean Stalker,’ has been admitted to St. Rose Dominican Hospital in Henderson after suffering a panic attack and hitting her head.

  The source went on to describe Davis as volatile and argumentative. “Getting information from her is like pulling teeth,” the source said. “She prefers to berate the abilities of law enforcement rather than assist them. Her breakdown is no surprise.”

  At this time, Metro Police still have no information regarding the identity or whereabouts of the cunning ‘Stalker.’

  Nathan jumped out of bed and searched for a clean pair of jeans. “That dirty sonofabitch. Anonymous source my ass.”

  * * * *

  AN ENDLESS WHITE blur hovered above Emilie. Streaks of light became visible, stretching across the blur’s surface. Then, texture. The mist wasn’t entirely smooth. There were strange, grainy patterns within it. She realized it was an unfamiliar ceiling.

  She blinked. Her eyelids felt heavy.

  “Em?”

  “Jeremy?” Her unfocused gaze descended, searching for the voice.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Am I in the hospital?” Her tongue felt heavy. She licked her lips.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  Her right hand hurt. She raised her arm and searched for the pain’s source. An IV. Why did she have a damned medicine tube stuck in her?

  “Remember what?”

  Jeremy’s hand rested on hers. She was struck by its femininity: soft and smooth, his fingernails perfectly manicured. Weren’t a man’s hands supposed to invoke a feeling of strength and power? Unlike Nathan Madigan’s calloused touch, Jeremy’s left Emilie feeling insecure.

  Why was she thinking about Nathan Madigan?

  “You had a panic attack last night,” Jeremy said. “You called me and passed out before I could get to your place. Can you remember anything?”