Into the Devil's Underground

by Stacy Green

  Beside her, Avery was pasty white. He still wore a suit. He’d shed the heavy jacket and donned a pair of Nike running shoes. Even his tie was still tightly knotted.

  Locals were going to love him.

  “Avery, at least take off your tie,” Ronson said. “You look like a lost accountant.”

  “Where’s Burrell? Wasn’t he supposed to meet us here?” Avery tore off the silk tie and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “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, since it’s close to the Strip. The mural’s just down here.”

  As the drain widened, the air grew more stale and thick enough to taste. Nathan shined his mag-lite on the walls trying to think of something other than throwing up. A swatch of dark red caught his attention.

  “There it is.” Burrell used his flashlight as a guide. “Creepy but awesome.”

  The group’s combined lights enabled Nathan to make out the flames of hellfire surrounding stony gates, with hopeless souls wandering through, some on their knees and fighting to flee. Above the painting, the inscription “Devil’s Underground, Abandon All Hope,” was emblazoned in red.

  “There’s your Dante reference,” Nathan said. “Guess Creepy saw this as a sign he was on the right course.”

  Avery made a clicking sound that bounced off the concrete walls. “Awesome. Does this mean we should have someone studying Dante and looking for more clues?”

  “It won’t hurt,” Ronson said. “Because if it’s a ritual thing or a type of penance, and he feels like he can’t use his chosen purgatory, what’s his second option? But then again, this is Dante and there are different interpretations. We could end up chasing our tails.”

  “Why her?” Nathan asked as the group trudged deeper into the drains. “Did he just see her at the gallery that day and lock on? Or is there more to it?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Ronson said. “It’s fairly rare, but that kind of intense obsession does happen.”

  Nathan couldn’t shake the idea they were missing something, that the story started long before Creepy first spoke to Emile. And he had no idea how to find the first chapter.

  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—probably drugs. Barely five foot, Angel wore dingy clothes, her hair 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 Creepy. 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 copy of a blog about the attempted kidnapping with a note promising they’d be together soon. 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?”

  A sharp pain cascaded through him. Jimmy. “Yes.”

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

  “Yes.” Guilt welled up as strong as the day it happened. He’d never rid himself of that burden. Not that he deserved to.

  “Who?”

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

  “You have anything to do with it?”

  He had everything to do with it, and that moment still ruled his life. “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: it’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, his boots 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 Creepy. 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.” Ronson shuddered.

  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 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 anymore, and then Ronson spoke up.

  “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 sensed 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 Creepy snuff him out?”

  Ronson acknowledged the change of subject with a wry smile and a nod of her head. “I’m not sure Creepy is a murderer. He was in disguise in the tunnels and has enough confidence to think no one can ID 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.”

  * * * *

  EMILIE THUMBED THROUGH the old photos one by one, unsure of why she’d dug the box out of the closet. She only had her grandmother for seven short years, but they were easily the best of her life. Most of the Polaroids were wrinkled, their glossy colors faded with age. Emilie and Mémé at Christmas, baking the Easter ham, weeding the garden. Several pictures of items inside her grandparents’ store. Their small antique shop in New Orleans had always been full of eclectic pieces, from jewelry to mismatched dishes to furniture. Emilie’s hand drifted to the bell around her neck. Mémé said the silver and emerald necklace belonged to a Creole family who’d settled in the area more than two hundred years ago. The piece was her grandmother’s favorite, and Emilie never had the value of it confirmed. She didn’t care.

  Her gaze landed on a picture of the interior of the shop. Emilie was about five years old, her hair a brighter red and in tangled curls. She sat on the counter, holding a tarnished spoon and talking to a young man with coffee-colored skin, typical of the New Orleans Creole p
opulation. His long sideburns and fitted, washed-out denim jacket made him look like every other male in the eighties, but the angular planes of his thin face looked familiar to Emilie. There was no writing on the Polaroid. Obviously, I knew him as a kid. She dropped the picture into the box and looked at the next one. This one was of her mother: a sullen, blond beauty working behind the counter in a place she hated. The same man stood leaning against the counter, this time posing for the picture.

  Shock rippled through Emilie as if she’d stuck her finger in a live outlet. Sticky fear coated her mouth like sludge, her muscles locked up, her pulse sprinted until she couldn’t catch her breath. He was younger, more handsome. But the sad eyes hadn’t changed. The man in the picture was Creepy. He’d known Emilie as a child. He’d known Mémé. And he’d known her mother. A new round of dread circled like the scavenging birds of the Nevada desert.

  She had to call Claire.

  The home number hadn’t changed. Claire hated change, which always blew Emilie’s mind, since she’d uprooted her daughter from the only home she’d ever known without a second thought. But Claire’s phone number was in the status area code—one of the richest areas of Portland—and she had no doubt her mother would take the number to her grave.

  “Hello?” Claire still had the gravelly smoker’s voice, but age deepened it.

  “It’s Emilie.” Her pride screamed at her rational side. She’d sworn she’d never speak to this woman again.

  “Well, this is a surprise.” Nothing more. No how are you, no asking about the man trying to kidnap her.

  “It shouldn’t be.” Emilie countered with as much detachment as her mother. “You know what’s going on out here.”

  Claire sighed. “Is this about my speaking to that blogger?”

  “She was a gossip blogger, not a reporter. And no, it isn’t. You’re free to say whatever you wish.” Even if it’s a pile of lies. You’ll never admit the truth, anyway.

  “Then why are you calling?” A beat passed before Claire made a noise that almost sounded like happiness. “Are you wanting to apologize and mend fences?”