Into the Devil's Underground

by Stacy Green

  She touched her aching head. “I tripped over Otis.”

  “You hit your head on the corner of the kitchen table. Doctor kept you overnight.”

  Images from last night played back in her head like a movie: darkness, the paralyzing fear, the inability to breathe, and the mysterious face.

  “He was there.” Emilie attempted to sit up. Jeremy laid his hand on her shoulder, pressing her tired body back into the bed.

  “Lie down. Who was there?”

  “Creepy. I saw him.”

  Jeremy’s sun-kissed cheeks turned white. “That’s impossible.”

  “I saw him.”

  Jeremy ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Em, no one was in the apartment with you when I got there. I unlocked the door with the spare key and let paramedics in. There was no sign of a break-in. He wasn’t there.”

  “He was.” Even as the words fell from her mouth, uncertainty set in. Had she been hallucinating? The sense of not being alone had been incredibly real, and Creepy’s face was solid as he bent over her. His features were etched in her mind.

  And yet she was in the hospital with an IV and a pounding headache.

  “How bad am I injured?”

  “You hit your head. You were unresponsive when paramedics showed up, and your pulse was sky high. I thought you’d had a heart attack. You regained consciousness in the ER, but you were a mess. They had to sedate you.”

  “Well, I’m fine now.” She kicked off the scratchy sheet and sat up. Her head throbbed. “Can you get a nurse in here to take out this IV? I want to go home.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. Judging by the circles under your eyes, I’d say you’ve barely slept in the past few days. You’ve lost weight, and the doctor said you were dehydrated. You’re not taking care of yourself.”

  “I had a few bad days. I’m fine.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Emilie ground her teeth. “I need to tell Agent Ronson about my flashback.”

  “She and that detective were here last night, but you were in no shape to talk. They’ll be back this morning.”

  The chair scraped against the floor as Jeremy stood up. He pulled his hair again.

  “What?” Emilie didn’t need a lecture. She needed to tell Agent Ronson what she remembered.

  “You don’t really think this bastard was in your apartment, do you?”

  “I saw his face.”

  “But you’ve never seen his face, Em. How do you know the face you saw wasn’t just some random man your mind conjured up?”

  “Because I’ve talked to him before.” The answer came without thought, but she knew it was true.

  “Are you sure?” Jeremy’s normally smooth tenor cracked with anticipation.

  Her chest felt tight, but hope flittered through her. “Yes. I just have no idea when or where.”

  * * * *

  NATHAN IGNORED THE desk sergeant’s greeting. He stormed down the hall and across the crowded squad room. Avery wasn’t sitting out with the common folk. His narrow ass was planted firmly in his posh leather chair as he lounged in his office, no doubt admiring all the faux awards on his wall.

  Nathan shoved open the door without bothering to knock. “What do we have here? Giving out more anonymous information?”

  Avery dropped the cellphone that had been pressed to his large ear. “Madigan. Who do you think you are barging into my office?”

  Nathan pushed the fancy gold nameplate out of his way and planted his hands on Avery’s gleaming mahogany desk. “You’re a piece of shit.”

  The detective’s neck turned red. “What’s your problem, Wonder Boy?”

  “Let me jog your memory.” Nathan opened the browser on his phone. “Getting information from her is like pulling teeth. She prefers to berate the abilities of law enforcement rather than assist them. Her breakdown is no surprise.”

  “What are you referring to?” Avery picked at his fingernails.

  “Cut the shit. You’re the anonymous source. You’re feeding this reporter information because you’re pissed Emilie stood up to you.”

  “Please. I have better things to do than talk to the vultures.”

  “Right.” Nathan wanted to knock Avery out of his mammoth chair. “You’re so busy on this case you didn’t even go back to the scene with Ronson.”

  “How would you know that?” Avery’s piggish expression soured.

  Nathan enjoyed the detective’s embarrassment. “She asked me to guide her through the tunnel. Were you afraid of getting your suit dirty or just scared of the creepy-crawlies?”

  Avery jumped from his seat, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Nathan raised his eyebrow. “Touchy subject I see.”

  He didn’t flinch as Avery circled the desk and came to stand toe-to-toe with him.

  “You’re a cocky prick, Madigan. A jealous kid from the wrong side of the tracks. What would Jimmy think of your attitude?”

  “Don’t bring him into this.” Nathan grabbed Avery by his expensive lapels.

  “Watch out, Madigan.” Avery’s skinny fingers clawed at Nathan’s grip. “SWAT wouldn’t want its superstar suspended, would they?”

  “Knocking your teeth out would be worth a suspension.” Nathan shoved Avery away, sending him into a filing cabinet. “But not today.”

  “Typical.” Avery adjusted his suit. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not this ‘source’ you’re so upset with.”

  “Right.” Nathan picked up a crystal paperweight and envisioned leveling it at Avery’s bulbous head. “I’m warning you, Dalton. Stop feeding the press information about Emilie Davis. It’s bad enough fame whores are digging up dirt on her when she’s the one who’s been harmed. Don’t add to her problems by using the media in a personal vendetta because your delicate ego is bruised.”

  Avery snatched the paperweight and set it carefully back down on the desk. “I find your concern about Davis interesting. Personal, even.”

  “I really don’t care what you think.”

  “It’s just fascinating to me. You’ve barely had any contact with her, and yet here you are, acting as her champion. Odd thing to do for a near stranger, even if she is a hot piece.”

  “That’s why I’m a negotiator, and you sit behind a desk.”

  “Do you offer this service to every victim you help?”

  He didn’t. Although he frequently checked on those he’d assisted, Nathan never had any personal contact after SWAT left the scene. That wasn’t his job.

  But Emilie was different. No, her case is different. Emilie is just another survivor.

  Avery’s lips twisted condescendingly. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  “Makes me think you’re an asshole.” Nathan stalked toward the door. “Remember what I said. Back off.”

  He pushed past the nosy officers trying to nonchalantly observe the argument, kicking a wastebasket as he left the squad room. Damned Dalton Avery. He was a pompous bastard who never should have made detective. Nathan had no doubt Avery was the one talking to the press about Emilie.

  How was her head injury? What had happened to send her into a panic attack?

  Why did he care?

  He didn’t hear Ronson calling him until she grabbed his arm and shouted his name.

  “Jesus.” Nathan rubbed his ear. “I’m not deaf.”

  “You sure?” Ronson was out of breath. “I chased you down the hall, called your name half a dozen times, and you just kept right on walking.”

  “Preoccupied.”

  “So I heard,” she said. “You and Avery?”

  Nathan started walking again. “You read The Sun?”

  “About Davis? Yep.”

  “Avery’s the source—the leak.”

  “You got any proof?” Ronson looked hopeful.

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Well, I do,” she said. “Unless we can prove it’s him, I can’t get him kicked off the case.”

  “It’s good to k
now you’d like to.” Still didn’t keep the mouth from leaking information that might put their chances of catching Creepy in jeopardy.

  “Did I say that?”

  “You didn’t have to.” Nathan smirked. “Skilled at reading people, remember?”

  “Right.”

  “Have you talked to Emilie yet?”

  “No,” Ronson said. “We’re headed to the hospital soon. Hopefully she’s better than she was last night.”

  “What happened?” Nathan shouldn’t be asking, but he still felt a responsibility for Emilie. If only he’d stopped Creepy’s escape.

  “She called Jeremy Vance—the bank president—for help,” Ronson said. “She panicked and hit her head. She regained consciousness in the ambulance but freaked out. Fought the docs too. Had to sedate her.”

  “You saw this?”

  “Avery and I were there.”

  “Of course.” Avery had given the reporter first-hand information, just like Nathan suspected.

  “You should stop by and see her,” Ronson said. Nathan was aware of her scrutiny as she waited for his reaction. “You established a connection. She might talk more frankly about what happened.”

  “Can’t.” The prospect of seeing Emilie again made Nathan happier than it should. “We just came off a long shift. I need to sleep.”

  “Just came to confront Avery?”

  “Few things in life are black and white, but this is one of them,” Nathan answered. “You don’t throw a vic to the wolves because she pissed you off.”

  “Very honorable,” Ronson said. “Passing on much-needed sleep just to fight the good fight. I’m impressed.”

  Nathan didn’t miss the innuendo in her tone. “Good luck interviewing her. I gotta get going.”

  “See you soon.”

  Nathan hurried to his car, regretting his hasty decision to confront Avery. The argument had clogged Nathan’s head with ideas he wanted no part of. He threw his Toyota Camry in drive, zoomed out of the parking lot, and merged onto the busy street.

  Better to leave Emilie Davis in the capable hands of Agent Ronson. She didn’t need Nathan’s interference or to be burdened with the guilt he felt over not preventing Creepy’s escape. Walking away from the case was the smart thing to do.

  * * * *

  HOSPITAL BEDS HAD to be the most uncomfortable creations in the world. Emilie’s back ached, and she was miserable no matter which way she twisted. She sat up and reached for her toes in an effort to stretch out her sore muscles.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Sarah strolled into the room.

  “Advanced yoga. What does it look like I’m doing?” She eyed the large handbag Sarah hauled around. “There better be chocolate in that thing.”

  “What do you take me for? Of course there’s chocolate.” She fished out a king-sized Hershey’s bar and tossed it onto the bed. “You’re welcome.”

  “I dare one of the nurses to try to confiscate this.” Emilie tore off the wrapper and shoved a generous bite into her mouth.

  Sarah settled in the chair Jeremy had vacated an hour ago. “Cops come back yet?”

  “No.” Emilie took another bite of chocolate. Her head throbbed when she chewed. “How bad was I last night?”

  “Bad. I was afraid they were going to restrain you.”

  “I don’t remember any of it.” That was probably a good thing. She already had plenty of traumatic experiences to haunt her.

  “What do you remember?”

  Emilie played with the chocolate wrapper. Just talking about what happened made her nerves tingle. “The lights went out, and I panicked. I really thought Creepy was there with me.”

  “You were hallucinating.”

  “Maybe, but I know I saw his face. I’ve met him before.” Emilie refused to back down. She knew she’d had a prior conversation with Creepy just as she knew she’d experienced a panic attack last night.

  “Fine,” Sarah said. “Does that really come as a surprise? His infatuation with you didn’t just materialize. Something about you obviously piqued his interest. Then his ‘crazy’ gene kicked in.”

  “But who is he? If I could remember where I first saw him, I could actually give Agent Ronson something useful.” Emilie slammed her fist into the hard mattress. “All I do is sit around, looking over my shoulder, waiting for something to happen. I need to do something.”

  “You need to get help.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on.” Sarah shook her head. “You’re having flashbacks and hallucinations and panic attacks. You’re consumed with stress. It’s only a matter of time before you really do break down. And then you’ll end up back in a damned psych ward.”

  Anger and embarrassment flared up inside Emilie. She glared at Sarah, resenting her perfect life.

  “Talk to someone professional. Find a counselor or a support group. There’s got to be a bunch in the city.”

  “I don’t want to tell my life story to a bunch of strangers.”

  “Who said anything about your life story?”

  Emilie blanched at her slip of the tongue. She’d never told anyone the entire story. The prospect of having to do so was almost as bad as confronting Creepy again. “Never mind.”

  “No, no, let’s get into this.” Sarah scooted the chair closer to the bed. “Everything happens for a reason. Maybe this whole deal with Creepy is fate’s way of getting you to face the past and finally deal with it all.”

  “I have dealt—”

  “No, you haven’t,” Sarah said. “You’ve put the divorce behind you, but you still harbor guilt for getting yourself into that position in the first place. And you haven’t even touched the surface on your issues with Mommy Dearest.”

  “Claire has nothing to do with this.” What a liar she was. Everything Claire had done since the day Emilie’s beloved Mémé died and Claire moved them away from New Orleans affected every decision Emilie made. All the nasty things her mother told her when she threw Emilie out, and the threat of something even worse—a secret Claire taunted Emilie with—shaped the jaded, battered person Emilie became.

  “She has everything to do with it.” Sarah’s voice rose in the small room. “She’s the reason you allowed yourself to be manipulated by a man like Evan in the first place. If she hadn’t treated you the way she did, you would have never fallen for your—”

  “Enough.”

  “Yes, it is enough,” Sarah implored. “Enough running from the past. Face it.”

  Hot tears pricked at the corners of Emilie’s eyes. The door to her past held an entire well of pain, and to open it even a crack would bring everything crashing down around her.

  “And there’s more than just this Creepy to consider.” Sarah laid her hand on Emilie’s arm. “Who helped him? What if it’s someone you work with? You’re going to have to go back to WestOne and deal with that.”

  “Jeremy’ll be there to keep me straight.”

  “He can’t always be there. And he’s not inside your head. You have to help yourself.”

  Emilie stared at her hands. They were pasty white from lack of sun. Her fingernails were jagged from constantly gnawing on them. “I’m exhausted. Let me sleep for a while.”

  “All right. But think about what I said, please.” Sarah slipped another chocolate bar underneath the inflexible pillow before she left the room.

  Emilie lay down on the hard bed. All the fight had drained out of her. She just wanted to crawl under the covers and disappear.

  It was a feeling she knew well. The same unyielding melancholy had struck her after the divorce and grew worse with each passing day until she had succumbed to the misery.

  She couldn’t let that happen again. If she didn’t fight for herself, no one would. Time to stop living in the past.

  “The past is an important part of life.” She repeated Creepy’s words from the bank. “A split-second decision can change everything.”

  She rolled over. On the wall was a large watercolor—a reprodu
ction of Cézanne’s Le lac d’Annecy. Emilie preferred the impressionist style of Pierre Auguste Renoir, but Le lac d’Annecy was lovely to look at with its soft blue water reflecting the peaceful green of the landscape.

  Maybe she should start painting again. It had been months since she’d taken up a brush and put her emotions onto paper. Nothing was more therapeutic.

  The room tilted. Emilie’s head swam. An image of a large area with soft lighting and expensive hardwood floors burst into her mind. Emilie had felt out of place milling among Las Vegas’s upper echelon. But there it hung—the painting she’d come to see. Renoir’s Girl with a Straw Hat temporarily displayed at the Bellagio’s fine art gallery.

  It was December and unseasonably cool. The heat was up and the room crowded. The skin on the back of her neck prickled with warmth and nerves. And then the strange man appeared at her side, asking questions in a quiet, sophisticated voice.

  She’d had her first encounter with Creepy at the exhibit six months ago.

  16

  “HOW LONG DID you talk to him in the gallery?” Ronson and Avery had arrived only minutes after Emilie had her epiphany.

  “I don’t know. Ten minutes, maybe.”

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  “Jim. That’s it.”

  “What did he look like?” Ronson’s tone was clipped, excited.

  She saw him perfectly now. Malignant fear seeped through her tired limbs. “Trimmed beard. Cropped hair, had some gray in it. Trimmed nails, expensive clothes. Silver ring on his right middle finger.”

  “Anything about his face that stands out?”

  “Only his eyes and voice,” Emilie said. “I think he disguised it when I met him and in the bank.”

  “You can’t know that.” Avery spoke for the first time.

  Emilie gritted her teeth and turned to Agent Ronson. “It was the way he talked, just like in the bank. His voice was too controlled. Everything he said was precise.”

  “This is a big break,” Ronson said.

  “How?” Emilie asked.

  “It gives us a starting point. From your description of the man in the bank, we’ve always believed he wasn’t a street hustler. Now we know he’s capable of mingling with the wealthy crowd at the very least. Combine this with Nathan Madigan’s Dante theory—”