by Erik Carter
What had he done?
Outside rain poured over the trees. A steady stream rushed past the mouth of the cave, a small waterfall. It had started really coming down yesterday afternoon, right during the second time Dale and Nash went to Clyde Bowen’s house, shortly before Dale had taken Mira from the hospital. And it hadn’t let up yet.
That seemed so long ago. The hospital. Sending Nash away.
As Dale threw his arms through the sleeves of his T-shirt and rolled it down his torso, he stole a look back at the mattress. Mira was sleeping in the same position she had been on his chest—on her right side, hand under her cheek.
Oh god. Oh shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Dale had done some bonehead things during his time as a BEI agent. But this had to top them all. This girl was a victim. A victim! And he’d slept with her.
He exhaled, ran his hand through his hair.
It had started with the kiss. So caught up in the moment. And then ... so much more. The slideshow presented itself in his head. Her long torso arched above him. And squirming beneath him. Perfect breasts with perfect nipples. Her fingernails cutting into his back, into his shoulders. Her eyes looking at him with sincerity. Her lips, fiery wet, and kissing him so intensely—lingering, sensual.
Dale’s head dropped. And he sighed.
A victim. Someone he was protecting. Someone he was hiding from a murder investigation, that he was shielding from the local police, the NPS, the FBI. And the BEI. Someone he was risking his career—and freedom—to protect.
And he’d slept with her.
What the SHIT had he been thinking?
Thinking. Yes, that’s exactly what he needed to do. He needed to think.
Think, think, think.
Well, strictly speaking, there was nothing in the BEI operating instructions that forbade him doing what he’d done. That was a bit of good news.
The other good news was … was …
He couldn’t think of any other good news.
So he just went closer to the mouth of cave and sat down with his back against the stone wall, watching the rain beyond.
The best thing he could do now was work on the case. No matter what had happened with Mira in bed, the most important things were keeping her safe from Sadler and the corrupt investigation and catching Clyde Bowen before he kills again.
The issues with find Bowen, though, were plentiful. It had been a day and a half now since Sadler started looking for him. Assuming that he’d found him, this meant—
There was a sound behind him. Mira’s voice behind him.. “Hey.”
Dale turned.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“I’m … just thinking. You mentioned Clyde’s escalation. Everyone one of the women who have been killed, or in your case attacked, so far have been here in Hot Springs. He knows the pressure is on, and it’s a small city. What if he escalates again? Takes his act on the road. All those out-of-town women he met at the spa…”
Mira stepped closer to him.
“That’s too much to worry about all at once. First we need to get out of town. You said we need our rest, and you’re up staring out into the woods. Come back to bed, you silly hypocrite.”
Dale turned to her.
"Mira, listen. What happened was … not right. And I blame myself. This case, it’s messing with my mind. I don’t understand it. Being with you was improper of me, and I—”
“No, Dale. Stop.”
“Go back to sleep. Please. I’m going to do some more planning for us.”
“I see. So you score with woman you’re protecting, the victim, the woman you stole away from the hospital, and then you turn your back on her? You had your fun, and you’re done.”
“(concerned) Oh, no, no.”
“I’m a piece of garbage to you, then? Something to be used up, tossed aside. No, Dale. I thought you were something different from men like and my father. You knew what you were doing, and you’re not going to shirk your responsibility. Come back to bed with me. Now.”
She burned holes into him with her eyes and stuck out her hand.
Dale reluctantly took it and followed her to the back of the cave.
Dale was back in bed with Mira, lying in the same positions they had been before he'd slipped out several minutes ago. She was on his shoulder, her hand on his chest. Just exactly like they had been.
Something about the exact replication of it, the repetition—having gotten into bed with her three times now, twice in the last couple hours—felt … weird.
He knew he’d gotten himself into a bad spot. This whole thing had been bad from the start. He had done what he felt was right, taking her away from the danger of the corrupt investigation.
That much of it was good. That much of it was Dale Conley.
But how had it gotten to this? So very fast? Him in bed with her, for a third time, having had sex.
His judgment had been so poor. The assignment had been so dark—all the gruesome, destroyed women. The stories of Clyde Bowen and Bill Sadler and what they had done to women. The discussions about love and betrayal and Allie. And—
And he was making excuses. Dale hated excuses. And he especially hated when he gave them.
No, he couldn't blame the dark qualities of this assignment for where he was now. He'd gotten himself into this position. He'd made poor decisions.
And for some reason, right then he thought about Nash. He hadn't thought about the guy for a while now, having gotten so caught up in everything at the cave.
The flashlight was on, putting out just a bit of light. Dale leaned off the mattress a few inches and lifted his wrist, looking at the time. It was 4:53.
Time always made Dale feel connected to other people, because if you looked at clock, you knew that somewhere the other person was experiencing that time as well, even if the number was different in a different time zone.
Somewhere, in Hot Springs, it was 4:53 for Nash.
Dale sure hoped Nash was surviving this assignment better than he was.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Nash rubbed his eyes. They were strained, tired. And so was his voice.
The wind whistled through the edges of the window frame. Rain washed down the glass in rivulets.
There was a brief silent moment—a pause—in the Ventress’ grilling. Nash had noticed for the last half hour or so that she was slowing down a bit. The energy in the room had changed.
He wondered how much time was left, how much longer her had to convince Ventress not to eliminate Dale.
He checked the clock on the wall.
4:53 PM.
Shit! It was almost 5. He only had a few more minutes. How had he lost track of time?
He breathed harder, stared at Ventress, wondered why the hell she wasn’t saying anything.
She’d looked at the one of her folders while Nash answered her last question, and when he’d finished, she didn’t look up. And hadn’t since. She was still perusing the folder’s contents.
Finally she spoke.
“Conley has a ‘code of honor,’ and you believe in it.” She set the folder on the table and looked up. “How cute. But that still doesn’t explain to me your unwavering support for him. If someone got me canned, I don’t give a damn what their personal ethics are like. I’d never forgive them.”
Nash looked away from her.
He’d pondered this himself many times over the last few years. Too many times. Thousands of times.
Those last few interactions with Dale.
The highs and the lows.
The best anyone had ever treated him…
And the worst.
Nash stormed out of the office in Chicago. Dale was in front of him, moving briskly through the desks. The Chicago agents — all ties and dress pants and rolled up sleeves — stopped what they were doing, frozen in the middle of phone calls and handing folders to each other. And they just stared.
Because Dale was striding quickly, intent
ly through their space. Nearly jogging. Notebook in his hand. And Nash was right on his heels.
“Dale, goddammit! Give me that notebook!”
Dale didn't respond.
“Dale, damn you!”
He grabbed Dale’s shirt from behind.
Dale whipped around, smacked Nash’s arm away, and stepped into him, getting right in his face.
“It’s coming with me,” Dale said through gritted teeth, wearing the coldest expression Nash had seen on his face. “I’m doing what’s right.”
“The hell you are.”
Nash reached for the notebook. Dale shoved him away. Half-strength. Not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to give him a warning, to let him know that Dale meant business.
Nash panted, teeth bared. Glared at Dale. And then lunges at Dale. His shoulder catches Dale in the chest, and they flew back into one of the metal desks filling the office space. Dale’s back hits the edge of the desk hard, painfully, and he yelled out.
Both men slid onto the desk’s surfaces, spilling papers, pens, knocking over a full coffee mug.
Nash put one hand on Dale’s neck, and with the other, he reached for the notebook.
Dale slugged him across the jaw. Nash fell off the desk, onto the floor, among the scattered items from the desk.
Dale jumped on top of him, and Nash immediately reached for the notebook again.
Dale grabbed the arm Nash was reaching with and gave it a quick twist.
Nash yelled out.
Another pull to the arm, and Dale whipped Nash onto his stomach. He twisted the arm behind Nash’s back.
“Stop! God, stop! You’re gonna dislocate it!”
“I need you to know that I’m going the right thing. And that’s that. Okay, Nash?”
Nash didn't respond.
Dale gave the arm a sharp twist.
Nash screamed out.
“Okay?”
“All right! Okay!”
Dale released Nash and stood up. He looked across the office. The agents stared at him in stunned disbelief. He took off across the office.
Nash glared at him from the floor.
As Nash remembered all this, it was easy for him to feel that hatred, the same hatred that made him despise Dale three years ago, send him away. And it also would have been easy for him to forget the other memory. The good one. The one that was a polar opposite to the image of Dale leaving the Chicago office, holding Nash’s notebook.
He wasn’t looking at Ventress. And he didn’t turn to her when he answered. He just stared at the window, the rain, as he replied.
“I admire Dale’s code of honor, yes. But it’s not why I support him. Even though he got me canned, even though he sent my life spiraling down, he was better to me than anyone has been in my entire life.”
Ventress groaned. This was surely because Nash was about to bring new information to light, something fresh in an hours-long inquiry that she was clearly wrapping up. Or because of her clear distaste and distrust of the bond between human beings. Or both.
She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “Do explain.”
Nash cleared his throat. “I was back in Detroit. My last day at the Bureau. I’d already been fired. I was cleaning out my office. And guess who knocked on my door?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The office was half-empty, and Nash realized that the last time that he'd seen it half-empty was the day he’d moved in. Putting his items in the drawers. Hanging his diploma and certificates. Lining books on the shelves. The last time the office had been half-empty was when it was half-full.
It looked strange and foreign to him now after all those years with it set up the way he’d liked it, filled with his items. Now there were empty stretches on the shelves, corners of the room that had been covered for years, dust that had never gotten the chance to be cleaned.
He'd been there in Detroit for six years, his longest stay as an agent. The office more chic than his previous ones had been, with nice materials and modern design. But It was also more comfortable than the offices at his other stations. It was both classy and homey. And he was going to miss it.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up, top button open, tie loosened. As of half an hour earlier, he was no longer an FBI agent. A cardboard moving box sat on the desk in front of him.
He picked a softbound text off the shelf. Forensic Basics. One of his texts from the Academy. It was an introductory volume and one he rarely referenced anymore. He turned to the index and wondered when was the last time he’d cracked the spine. He closed it.
There was a tapping at the office door, and he looked up.
Dale stood in his doorway.
Nash had the book in his hand, ready to go into the box, and he froze, the book hovering. He remained like this for a half moment as he stared at Dale, and then he looked back to the box, put the book in and started grabbing other items.
“Unbelievable,” he said, not looking up. “You’re just unbelievable. Do you know that?”
“May I come in?”
“It’s not technically my office anymore, so you can do whatever the hell you want.”
Nash didn’t look up, but he heard Dale walk in and stop halfway to the desk. There was a pause. Nash heard the jingling of keys, as though Dale had put his hands in his pockets and was fidgeting.
So annoying.
“I figured this would be my last chance to get a hold of you,” Dale said. “No one has a forwarding address for you. They didn’t have a clue what you’re doing next.”
Nash put another book in the box. He still hadn’t looked up. “That’s because it’s none of their business. The FBI is done with me, and I’m done with the FBI.”
“So what will you be doing next?”
“It’s none of your business either.”
“I can set you up with a nice life. The BEI has the resources to—”
Nash opened the right-side drawer of the desk again. He still couldn’t find his blue coffee mug. “I got your fax. Not interested. Why are you here, Dale?”
“I have something to offer you. Something to help.”
“I just told you I’m not interested.”
“Not that. Something different. Let me ask you: these dark fantasies of yours, has anyone ever listened to you about them?”
Nash stopped packing. He finally looked up at Dale.
“What I mean is,” Dale continued, “I imagine you’ve had shrinks or family members, maybe some close friends who you told part of the story to. But I’m guessing you’ve never felt that you could unload it all onto anyone. You’ve probably not told anyone how dark your thoughts really get.”
Nash crossed his arms.
“I started to tell some of the truth to a shrink. Before I joined the Bureau. And it became clear to me that she was getting nervous with what I was telling her. Confidentiality only goes so far, you know. If she thought I was going to hurt myself or someone else, she would have had to turn me in. So she started saying leading things like, ‘But you’d never go through with those thoughts, of course’ or ‘Those images in your head are all very abstract, yes?’ I began to understand that she was running damage control for herself. I guess I don’t blame her. She didn’t want to get mixed up with the law. At least she helped me to realize that I was never going to find anyone who would really listen.”
“I kind of assumed that’s what your experiences were like. And that’s why I’m here..”
“What do you mean?”
Dale gave him a comforting smile. “I’m here to really listen.”
Chapter Forty
Dale took a deep breath and released it quietly. He didn’t want Nash to see. He wanted the guy to be perfectly comfortable.
But he had to make himself comfortable too. He was about to willingly listen to someone talk about his desires to hurt and kill other people…
That’s why Dale was taking deep breaths.
Dale and Nash sat on a park bench in a Detroit city park, aging
and plain but well maintained. The park was deserted. They were alone.
Nash leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands nervously.
“Are you sure about this?”
Dale nodded.
Nash looked him over. “You wearing a wire?”
“You’re already fired from the FBI. You just cleared out your office, for God’s sake. Why would I need to record you? Come on. Quit stalling. Tell me about these thoughts of yours. Let it out, man. Lay it on me.”
Nash paused for a moment longer. Then started.
“My mother was domineering. I guess that’s where it started. Cold. Distant. Never physically mean, mind you. She didn’t hit me once. Hers was a psychological game. Control. Manipulation. Humiliation. I started fantasizing about my teachers. Probably around second grade. Touching their parts before I even knew what a vagina even looked like. It didn’t take too long before I progressed to wanting to not just touch them but to hurt them. I pictured myself … sticking my fingers through their eye sockets.”
Dale shifted on the bench. And he felt a wave of discomfort. He didn’t know it was going to get so dark so quickly. He hoped he could make it through the whole thing…
Nash paused. Looked at him for a moment. And continued.
“That was the extent of it for the longest time. The eyeball thing. For years. Until I was teenager. Hit puberty. Then everything just exploded. I wanted to cut them, the girls at school. And whereas the eyeball thing was pure fantasy, very abstract … this was a real desire. I wanted to cut them."
Dale’s mouth opened a bit. He uncrossed his arms.
Nash stopped again.
“Are you sure this okay?”
“Yes. Continue, please.”
“I forgot all about the eye-gouging. That was childish, I thought. It was all about the cutting now. In high school, I started thinking about strangulation too, so it become a combination of the two. Cutting and strangulation. I was very concerned with the visceral details. Making dinner, I’d cut through a chicken thigh with a sharp knife, feeling the sensation of the splitting skin through the knife’s handle. And I’d imagine that as a woman’s flesh. Except she’d be screaming. And my mother would be screaming. And I’d be in control. I’d have the power.” He stopped. “Dale, you’re losing your color. You’re starting to sweat.”