Into the Devil's Underground (12 page)

“Is there anyone more competent to work with Agent Ronson?” Emilie’s shrill voice made every head in the room turn in their direction. “Because it sure as hell seems like you’re either too busy or too stupid to be bothered.”

“Excuse me?” Avery looked as stunned as Nathan felt.

“You’re more interested in checking out my legs and insulting me than finding Creepy. I’m sick of it.”

Nathan knew he should stop her, be professional, and diffuse the situation. He was good at that. But he just couldn’t muster the effort. Not for Dalton Avery.

“Ms. Davis, I’m a law enforcement officer trying to solve your case.” The vein in Avery’s forehead bulged above his quivering lips. “The least you could do is have some respect.”

“Then do something to earn it. You’ve insulted me, accused me of having an affair with my boss, and called me crazy. So I ask again, is there someone more competent to replace you, or can Ronson handle the case on her own?” Emilie’s eyes snapped with fire, and Nathan had to suppress a snort.

Avery flushed crimson from the top button of his fancy dress shirt to the top of his receding hairline. “You…I have never…”

Nathan swallowed his laughter. “I’m sure Detective Avery will do his best. You’ve got to be emotionally drained. Why don’t I walk you to your car?”

Emilie crossed her arms and stared up at Avery. “I don’t want to talk to you again. If you have more questions for me, send Ronson.”

“No problem.”

Nathan followed as Emilie stomped out of the station. She clenched and unclenched her fists, her back rigid. She whirled on Nathan in the parking lot. “How in the hell did that man ever make detective?”

He stepped back at the force of her anger. “He knows what he’s doing—”

“Oh bullshit. You don’t have any respect for him, either. The animosity between the two of you is obvious.”

“We don’t like each other, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think he can do his job.”

“Don’t tell me a cop like you thinks that man is competent.” Emilie shaded her eyes. Her knuckles were bruised, and her fair skin looked even more delicate in the bright sun.

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“It matters to me. Do you think Avery has the ability to catch Creepy?”

Nathan could have lied, but Emilie deserved better. The truth was the least he could offer. “Honestly? I’m not sure anyone has the ability to catch him.”

“That’s great.” Emilie unlocked her car and groaned as the sweltering heat rolled out. She fished a pair of bronze-colored sunglasses out of her bag and slipped them on. “Well, look on the bright side, I guess. At least someone out there is interested in me, right? Not everyone can say she has her very own stalker.”

“No, I guess not.”

“I suppose I should keep that information private if I ever get a date. Might turn the guy off to know creepy-stalker-man is watching.” Emilie pushed her hair off her face.

“You never know.” Nathan smiled. “Some guys like that sort of thing.”

“Right.” She looked back at the station. “Thanks for helping with my situation in there. I don’t know why that happened.”

“You’ve been through something terrible. You should talk to someone.” He didn’t know if she’d been given any information for counseling, but she needed it. He wasn’t sure Emilie had fully dealt with what had happened to her yet—not that he could blame her.
Processing takes time, especially when your attacker isn’t in jail.

“Nathan, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I’m fine.” Her friendly tone was gone. She stepped away from him.

“Counseling could help, especially with the guy still at large.” Nathan wasn’t going to give up easily. “Once you recover from the shock, the real mind games will start.”

“Thank you again for everything.”

Nathan took her extended hand. It was small and soft. “You’re welcome. Listen to the police. It’s the best way for you to stay safe.”

“Take care.” She withdrew her hand.

He grinned at her clear dismissal. “You too. Don’t forget what I said.”

Emilie gave a curt nod and then hopped into her car. Nathan watched as she sped out of the parking lot, tires squealing.

The drive home was a blur. Emilie just wanted sanctuary—to curl up with Otis and hide under the covers. She swerved in and out of traffic, cutting off cars and ignoring honking horns.

Reality was too much to handle right now: her Creep, her mother’s nasty words, the embarrassing experience in the police station. And Nathan Madigan.

He was too perceptive. Too kind. Emilie’s carefully constructed guard slipped in his presence, making her forget her rule of maintaining a safe distance.

She’d babbled on about her mother. Why had she said so much? And then when he mentioned the paper, Emilie had wanted to crawl into a hole. But there had been no judgment on Nathan’s face, just genuine concern. Maybe he was a good guy.

Didn’t matter. She would never see him again, and that was a good thing. Enough of her secrets had already been laid bare for the world to see.

In her apartment, she stripped to her tank top and got into bed. Otis joined her, pawing at the blanket until he’d tunneled his way underneath, snuggling against her arm. Emilie would sleep now and deal with life tomorrow.

10

Twenty-three years ago
.

A
N EARLY MORNING
fog bathed the landscape in an eerie mist. In a nearby cotton field, strange figures moved through the vapor like long-dead slaves returning to tend the crops. He knew the wandering forms were likely the neighbor and his hired man examining the cotton, but reality lacked imagination.

To the east, a faint pink glow merged with the fog. Still sleepy, he scrambled out of his narrow bed. He wanted to see the sun break through the mist from a favorite place in the swamp where the cypress trees ruled and the vapor would be at its thickest.

The fog was not as thick in the village, but it still gave the old homes a sad, haunting quality. The old Kate Chopin house stood over them all, still grand despite its age.

As he walked, a strange sensation crept over his skin. Something was different—a rare change in the village’s everyday routine. At first glance, the community was still mostly quiet. A few lights were on, and there was little traffic. A rusted, white and green Ford F100 lumbered by. Henri Coulon waved, a Marlboro dangling from his lips.

But at the southern end of Main Street, the new addition emerged out of the dim cover of fog like an angelic spirit. A girl sat alone on the front steps of a weather-beaten cottage. She was about his age, the frayed hem of her white dress scarcely reaching her bare knees. A cluster of white lilies, probably picked from the Chopin yard, lay beside her. Her black hair lay draped over her shoulders, her toffee-colored skin glowing in the sun-tinged fog.

She stared as he approached. Chill bumps erupted across his arms. His insides began to churn, and his legs grew wobbly.

In her delicate hands she held an empty Mason jar.

“What’chu gon’ to put in that thing?” He could barely get the words out.

“Don’t know yet. Maybe a frog or even a dragonfly if I can catch it.”

His body quivered at the melodious sound of her voice. “How you gon’ catch a dragon fly?”

“Run faster than him, I reckon.” Her eyes, fringed with thick, dark lashes, were a brilliant green scattered with tiny flecks of gold.

“You gon’ to keep it for a pet?”

“Of course not. I just wanna watch him for a bit. Then I’ll let him go.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why let him go? Jus’ keep him until he’s done for.”

“What’s your name?” She cocked her head and leaned back on the cracked step.

“Julian.”

“Well, Julian, you can’t keep something trapped forever. Living things is meant to be free, jumping or flying or whatever else they was made for. And my mama says killin’ another living thing is the worst sin there is, so I’m going to make sure whatever I catch lives. God don’t want killers in heaven.”

Julian didn’t understand. His father and brothers hunted in the swamps all the time.

“What ‘bout eatin’ what you kill?”

“Like hunting? That’s different. You’re making use out of it. God understands that. Just don’t be hurting or killing animals for fun, you hear?”

Julian nodded. He would have done anything she asked at that point. She was the most beautiful and fascinating creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

“How old are you?” she asked, her eyes once again boring into him.

“Eleven.”

A small smile flickered across her face. “I’m twelve, just last week. We just moved here.”

Julian paced the floor of his large study, his footsteps muffled by the Persian rug covering the Brazilian hardwood floor. Thick drapes were drawn over the picture window, blocking out the sun and the rest of the world. One wall of the study was devoted entirely to books, while the other exhibited his favorite works of art, including a commissioned oil painting that displayed a place forever frozen in his mind, a place where the oak trees were swathed in Spanish moss and the spirits still ran wild. The piece was a reminder of a dark past he didn’t want to think about today.

His mind raced with the need to see Emilie. He needed to smell the scent of jasmine drifting from her neck—to be with her. She’d ruined everything. Her rejection burned hotter than the Nevada sun.

He’d nearly forgotten the original reason he’d sought her out. She had something that belonged to him. He’d still like it back, of course. But now he had to have her as well. She’d fill the void after so many years.

One replacement had already failed. She now rested in the earth not far from the place that had ruined his life. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes with Emilie.

Alongside the paintings, Miss Emilie’s face adorned the walls of his study—sketches he had drawn from memory. Every picture was different, but each was perfection.

He had to be free once again to observe her life and figure out a new way for them to be together.

But that would require a carefully thought out plan. Police were undoubtedly watching her apartment, hoping he would make a mistake. Common sense said to pack up and move on as he’d done before. There were plenty of warm places to go, and he could adapt anywhere. The past few years had proven that. But he just couldn’t leave her. Not after spending those blissful hours together.

He had to send her a message. She had to know he would find another way for them to be together. And perhaps her memory could be tweaked. If Miss Emilie could only recall their first connection, she would understand. Maybe even come to him on her own.

11

N
ATHAN LAID THE
fragrant white roses at the base of the graying stone and brushed away dried leaves and grass. The flowers would soon wither and die. But for now, they were beautiful.

“I miss you, Jimmy.” A hot breeze rustled the bright yellow flowers of the Palo Verde trees. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think about what happened to you. About what I did to you.”

Guilt had consumed Nathan for the past fourteen years. His life was literally a gift—that’s why he’d become a cop. Atonement, his sister called it. Maybe it was. Nathan figured saving others was the least he could do.

While Nathan negotiated for the hostages’ lives yesterday, his family had gathered here for Jimmy’s anniversary. Kelsi left yellow daisies like she did every year. Nathan always chose roses. The flowers on Jimmy’s casket had been roses.

The wind blew one of the delicate flowers away from the rest. Nathan caught it before it was damaged. Turning it over in his hand, he thought of Creepy and his fixation on the color white.

White meant innocence. Purity. Was that how her attacker saw Emilie? Did he see himself as some sort of savior or protector?

“Not my problem anymore.” Nathan traced the words etched across the granite:
Loving son,
brother, and uncle. Beneath this simple stone that marks his resting place, our precious darling
sleeps alone in the Lord’s long embrace.

Knees aching, Nathan stood. He dropped the escaped rose to the ground. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. It should have been me.”

*   *   *   *

N
ATHAN WHIPPED HIS
Toyota Camry into a vacant spot two blocks away from Chicago Joe’s. He and Kelsi had been having their weekly lunch dates at the popular Italian restaurant since Nathan joined the police force.

He wasn’t looking forward to today’s meeting. The story of the bank and the partner’s astonishing escape had been all over the news, and Kelsi would no doubt have a thousand questions. Questions he had no idea how to answer.

His mind was also preoccupied with Emilie Davis. The torment from her past and present bubbled just underneath the surface of her bravado, and he felt like she teetered on the edge of a breakdown.

Kelsi lounged in a booth, impatiently tapping her foot. Nathan kissed the top of her head. “I see you got new highlights. Purple, huh?”

“You’re color blind. They’re dark red. And you’re late, as usual.”

“Only a couple of minutes, so that doesn’t count.”

Kelsi huffed and flagged down the waitress, ordering the usual for both of them. “First off, how’s your arm?”

Nathan showed her the wrapped bicep. “I’ll live. Long as I remember to clean it.”

“Good.” She narrowed her eyes, and Nathan braced himself. “I cannot believe you allowed yourself to be taken hostage. What were you thinking? Do you know how scared we all were when we found out?”

He was tired of answering this question. And Kelsi, of all people, knew damned well why he’d gone in. “I didn’t have a choice. And I’m sorry for scaring you all. But I’m fine.”

“Physically,” his sister snapped. “Nathan, you don’t have to keep paying for past mistakes.”

“He would have killed the hostage.”

“That’s better than him killing you.” Kelsi jerked her head back and forth. “I didn’t mean that. I know you didn’t feel like you had a choice. But I’m still angry with you.”

“I’m sorry.” No use saying any more. She’d stew and get over it.