Into the Devil's Underground (18 page)

“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.

*   *   *   *

H
OSPITAL 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 reproduction 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

“H
OW 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—”

“What theory?” Avery and Emilie fired off the same question. The detective looked furious, but Emilie desperately wanted to hear more.

“Madigan thinks your attacker chose the tunnels because they’re symbolic to him,” Ronson said. “Representative of Dante’s journey to hell and a possible form of penance for kidnapping you.”

It made sense to Emilie and somehow sounded exactly like the man she feared. “But how does that help you catch him?”

Ronson messed with her short hair. “It’s just another piece of the puzzle. It gives us a better idea of his state of mind, and it might help us predict his next move. If he’s got to go through some ritual, he’s not going to grab you off the streets. He’s going to construct another elaborate plan that will satisfy his need for repentance.”

That should probably make Emilie feel better, but it only made her more confused and angry. The more complicated Creepy was, the harder to catch him. “So how does some rich art enthusiast end up trolling the Las Vegas tunnels?”

“Could be the bottom fell out at some point,” Ronson said. “Maybe he was already heading down the drain—no pun intended—when he met you and just grasping at some semblance of his old life. Or maybe he’s still rich.”

“And the tunnels have deep meaning to him?”

“They’re a good place to stash a body,” Avery said.

Ronson shot a reproachful glance at him. “This man is a predator. Something about you triggered an emotional response within him. From the moment he realized this connection, however imagined it may be, he decided to pursue you. But I agree with Madigan—a part of him feels guilty at this choice, so he must also pay an imagined price for it. The sketch artist is on her way for a new composite. When are you being released?”

Emilie shook as if she’d been doused with ice water. “Tomorrow. Apparently I need rest and nourishment.”

“I want you to think about hypnotherapy,” Ronson said. “It could help unlock more details you’ve forgotten.”

“Are you serious?” Avery laughed. “That mental mumbo-jumbo is a joke.”

“No, it’s not.” Ronson’s controlled voice had a sharp edge. “Hypnosis has been successful in treating addictions, medical issues, and in memory retrieval. You’d be amazed at what some people are able to remember.”

“I’m not sure.” Emilie twisted the sheet. Exposing her life for a few little details that probably wouldn’t help the case wasn’t worth the risk. She’d kept her secret too long to have it stolen from her by some medical magician.

“Just think about it.” Ronson left with Avery, and Emilie lay back down in the bed, staring at
Le lac d’Annecy
. Art no longer represented peace of mind but darkness instead—a living, breathing entity waiting to snare her within its labyrinth forever.

*   *   *   *

N
ATHAN KNOCKED AND
hoped there would be no answer. What the hell was he doing? Getting close to Emilie Davis was only going to complicate his life and prove Avery right. But he couldn’t stop worrying about her, and now here he was, stepping into something that was going to get him into trouble.

“Come in.” Emilie’s voice sounded weak.

He pushed open the door. She lay in bed, her auburn hair spilling over the stark white pillow. She held an ice pack to her head. Her skin was ghostly pale with dark circles under her eyes. An IV stuck out of her right arm.

“Nathan.” Emilie sat up and smoothed her hair, blushing. “You’re pretty much the last person I expected to see.” She set the ice on the bedside table.

“Why?” He sat down in the chair next to her bed.

“Do you usually check in on old cases?”

“Honestly, no. But Ronson told me you were in the hospital. I wanted to stop by.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He felt his ears turning red. “How are you?”

“Pretty shitty. I’m sure I look even worse.”

“You look fine.”

She pulled the sheet tightly around her.

“Here.” Nathan grabbed the blanket from the end of the bed and spread it over her. “Get warm.”

“I had another flashback.” She played with the hem of the sheet. The tips of her ears were pink.

“I heard. You wanna talk about it?”

“I told Ronson everything I remembered. Didn’t she tell you?”

“Not the details.”

Emilie looked down at her hands. “He talked to me about being afraid of the dark. Said darkness was our friend and that sometimes we have no choice but to stay there. I freaked out. Thought for sure he was in the apartment with me.”

“He wasn’t there.” Nathan hoped his tone was reassuring instead of condescending.

“I know, but I saw his face before I passed out. I’ve met him before, at an art exhibit at the Bellagio in December. He looked different, but I know it was Creepy.” She closed her eyes. “In the art gallery, we talked about history. That day in the bank, he repeated my exact words.”

“You’re sure?”

Emilie nodded. “His eyes were the same. I’ll never forget those.”

So Creepy had been stalking Emilie for at least six months, maybe longer. The exhibit may have just been the first time he’d gotten the nerve to talk to her.