by Green, Stacy
“So do you.”
“Yeah, but that’s because Amy was over last night. We didn’t go to bed until a couple of hours before the alarm went off. What’s your excuse?”
“Maybe I had a woman over, too.”
“No you didn’t.” Chris laughed. “You’re a relationship guy, not a one-night-stand guy. And you’re choosy. So unless you reconciled with Ava—”
“Hell, no.”
“Then what’s your excuse?”
“I was just up late doing some research.”
“On what?”
“Stuff.”
“Bullshit.” Chris kicked him hard in the shin with his boot. “On what?”
“Ouch! Obsession crimes, all right?”
“Why?”
“They’re interesting.”
“Come on. Even for a nerd like you, research is a form of torture. What’s this all about?”
“The Taker.”
“The Taker?” Chris dropped his duffle bag and sat down next to Nathan. “Isn’t that the nickname that fame-whoring reporter gave the kidnapper?”
“Her article was a self-indulging piece of shit, but you gotta admit, the name’s fitting.”
“I guess. But why the research?”
“I want to know more about what makes people like the Taker tick,” Nathan said.
“What brought this on?”
“Avery is incompetent. And Ronson wanted my opinion.”
Nathan wasn’t sure that was the real answer. Since his encounter with Emilie at the station, he’d been unable to forget her pain and lack of faith in the police. He wanted to help her.
“You know you’re not a profiler, right? Not officially, anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nathan asked.
“It means you’ve got some kind of bizarre sixth sense. Somehow you always know what kind of person you’re dealing with and how they’re going to react, especially in crisis situations. Isn’t that a lot like profiling?”
“Now you sound like my sister. I suppose you’re going to tell me I should apply to the FBI, too?”
“I would, but I’m a selfish asshole.” Chris stood and hefted his bag over his shoulder. “They’re bound to snatch you up, and I like you being around. Most of the time.”
“Thanks.”
“In all seriousness though, what are you hoping to get out of the research other than frustration at not being able to do anything?”
“There’s something important about his behavior we’ve missed. I just haven’t figured out what yet.”
“You always were the knight in shining Kevlar.”
“Shut it. I’m going home to pass out until tomorrow morning. Don’t call me unless you want a boot up your ass.”
Nathan trudged down the hall, thinking only of his comfortable bed and eight straight hours of rest. Several feet in front of him, Agent Ronson struggled to keep up with Avery’s long strides. Nathan kept his head down—he was in no mood for Avery’s God complex.
“The damned kid is a junkie,” Ronson said. “Bastard paid him twenty bucks to pick Davis’s mailbox and leave that clipping.”
Nathan forgot about Avery and increased his pace.
“Can he add anything to the sketch?” Avery asked.
“No. Wore a facemask. Kid was too high to give any other details.”
“Another dead end. This has become a high-profile case that could make or break a cop’s career. Stupid article from The Sun went national. And I don’t want a red mark on my file.”
Ronson stopped abruptly and slammed her hand into Avery’s chest.
Nathan slowed his pace and ducked his head. He didn’t want to miss this.
“Do you ever think of anyone but yourself? We need to solve this case to save Emilie Davis’s life. Pleasing the mayor is the least of my concerns. Get your priorities in line or stay behind the desk.”
“Agent Ronson, I know you don’t like politics, but they’re a factor.”
“Only because you allow them to be. I mean it—if you can’t focus on catching this guy, stay here. It’s your choice.”
“You forget, this is my case.” Avery adjusted his silk tie. “The FBI was invited by Metro.”
“Because it’s mandatory in a kidnapping situation.” Ronson didn’t back down. “You want to make it to the Bureau, right? You can be sure my recommendation will make or break your chances.”
Avery’s face twisted in anger. “Understood. I’ll catch up with you at the car.” He stalked down the hallway to the men’s room.
Nathan waited until he was safely out of sight before catching up with Ronson. “That was fun to watch.”
“Eavesdropping, Madigan?”
“I just couldn’t resist the sound of your voice, Sia. You make everything sound so good.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t throw your buckets of charm on me just so I’ll give you information.”
“Can’t help that. I’m naturally charming.”
Ronson waved to the desk sergeant and led the way into the blistering sunshine. “So what do you want? You guys just got back from early raids, and you’re dragging ass. Spit it out.”
“Did the Taker leave something for Emilie?”
“I hate that damned name.”
“What happened?”
“A clipping of The Sun’s article was mixed in with Davis’s mail. Security footage from her building showed a scrawny white kid picking her mailbox and slipping it in there. He was so high he looked right at the camera. Vice didn’t have any trouble finding him.”
“That article was full of bullshit conjecture.”
“And a lot of facts.” Ronson put on her sunglasses. “That reporter’s got her nose up our asses all the time.”
“You think the Taker gave the clipping to the junkie?”
“Said a tall guy with a facemask gave him twenty bucks to do it. Couldn’t even provide us with a skin color, but it had to be our guy.”
“Where did the junkie meet the Taker?”
“On Bonanza near one of the local in-and-out motels,” Ronson said. “We’re on our way to interview the manager and employees now, but it’s a long shot. That place is prostitution central. Nobody keeps track of who’s hanging around.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Only the junkie’s. Christ, it’s hot out here.” Ronson fanned herself with the file she was carrying. “This guy is good, Nathan. He hasn’t even left us a crumb.”
“So what now?”
“Madigan.” Avery bore down on them, his face an ugly shade of red. “What the hell are you doing?” He turned his anger on Ronson. “Why are you discussing the case with him? He’s not a detective.”
“Neither are you, Dalton,” Nathan countered. “You’re just the guy who kisses department ass while someone else works the case.”
Avery closed the distance between them. “Someone needs to take you down a notch or two, Madigan.”
“I’m just telling the truth. Not my fault you can’t handle it.”
They both knew Avery didn’t stand a chance against him in a fight. SWAT kept Nathan in top physical condition while Avery was soft, with slow reflexes and arms like noodles. Instructors at the academy had repeatedly told him to bulk up, but Avery was either unable or unwilling to do so.
“Come on, Dalton,” Nathan taunted, his voice deceptively soft. “Do you really want me to embarrass you in front of Agent Ronson?”
Avery flinched. A fat bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and settled into one of the pockmarks on his chin. He stepped back and mopped his face with a white handkerchief. “Typical, Madigan, using brute force instead of intellectual prowess.”
“Intellectual prowess? You wanna compare I.Q.’s now, Dalton? I’ll save you some time; mine’s higher.”
“And you say I’m arrogant.”
“You brought it up. I’m just being honest. Your problem is you care more about yourself than about your cases.”
“Enough.” Ronson shoved
her hand in Nathan’s face. “You guys can continue your pissing match another time.”
“I just want to know what you’re doing for Emilie.”
“Why do you care?” Avery sneered. “Interested in the damsel-in-distress, Madigan? She is pretty easy on the eyes.”
“You’re a pig.”
“Just calling it like I see it.” Avery wiped the sweat from his upper lip.
“You don’t see shit.” Nathan turned to Ronson, resisting the urge to knock out Avery’s teeth. “What are you doing to keep her safe?”
“Everything we can. We’ve urged her to be careful, and we’re following up on every lead. The sketch is out there. We just have to keep digging and hope the partner makes a mistake.”
“Can we go?” Avery asked. “It’s miserable out here. The motel manager leaves at three.”
Nathan put on his sunglasses and headed for his car. “Have a nice day, Dalton.”
* * * *
Nathan woke up face first on the couch to a dark apartment and a growling stomach. He stumbled into the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets. They were nearly empty. He should have gone to the grocery store last night instead of spending hours on research. He settled for stale Cocoa Puffs, but the milk had expired three days ago. Dry cereal it was.
The light in the fish tank was still out. If he didn’t get it replaced soon, he’d be flushing the Barbs down the toilet. He checked his voicemail. Aunt Kay had left a message inviting him for dinner later in the week. “Your dad and I want to see you soon,” she said. “We miss you.”
Sure. Nathan knew she meant well, but he didn’t think his father missed him. It was easier when Nathan wasn’t around. His dad didn’t have to pretend he didn’t care about the past and that everything was fine between the two of them. Some things can’t be fixed.
Kelsi wanted him to confront his father and lay all their feelings out on the table, but it wouldn’t make a difference. His father loved him but couldn’t forgive him. And Nathan couldn’t blame him for that.
He dropped into his worn desk chair and flicked on the light. Post-it notes and index cards littered the desk. Dog-eared books on FBI profiling were piled up next to his laptop.
Still on the front page of The Sun’s website, the article Emilie had received was easy enough to find. The reporter envisioned herself an amateur detective. The piece focused on the sensational tie-ins to Las Vegas history and the reporter’s own conspiracy theories. Although the reporter briefly mentioned Emilie’s ‘vacation’ at University Medical Center’s psych ward after her divorce, her short paragraphs on Emilie centered on her estranged family. The reporter hadn’t bothered to interview Emilie to get her side.
Nathan wondered why Emilie had gone to the psych ward. Had the loss of her marriage broken her that badly? He doubted that. She had spoken scathingly of her ex-husband, and there was no indication of any feelings except disgust.
He turned back to the computer. There had to be something in the article that stood out to the Taker, something he wanted to share with Emilie.
Nathan focused on the reporter’s approach. She was fascinated with the dramatics of the escape and envisioned a scenario in which the Taker spent weeks making the tunnel safe again, risking his own life to bring his plan to fruition.
Passageway to Hell Discovered Beneath WestOne Bank by Rachel Hunter
“It was probably dark when the masked man began his quest. From the handmade hatch in the sewer pipe, he likely slithered through the narrow tunnel until he reached the hidden room. He knew the danger he was in: the plywood ceiling was rotten as were the redwood logs that held the ceiling in place. Surely one of his first decisions would have been to make the room safe. Eventually he moved through the larger tunnel, passing the empty barrels until he came to the wooden door leading into the basement of WestOne Bank. There his plan may have come to fruition: the perfect opportunity to escape with the woman he coveted.
And what about that woman? Although attractive, nothing about Emilie Davis stands out. She is a quiet, single woman just living her life. Clearly, she has demons to fight, given her stay in a psych ward. Was the Taker drawn to that weakness? Did her pain call out to him, or is his obsession with Davis more deeply rooted? Perhaps he is a scorned suitor from the past, a man Davis has completely forgotten. Whatever the case, the Taker’s extraordinary efforts indicate a connection to Davis.
That’s why he paid the junkie to leave the clipping. Nathan rapped his fist against the desk. He couldn’t help himself. He’s watched her for so long, he needed to reach out and let her know he was thinking of her.
The answer jumped off the screen and knocked the breath out of his body. She’s met him before. And he wants her to know.
Chapter Fourteen
Emilie’s vision blurred as the words of Faulkner’s classic, As I Lay Dying, ran together. She didn’t want to sleep. Her mind would venture into places she didn’t want to face.
She forced her eyes open and darkness greeted her. What had happened to the lights? She clutched the old book. Pain radiated through her fingers. She blinked once, twice. Heart slamming against her chest, body frozen in place, she prayed the lights would reappear. Breathe. Don’t let the bubbling panic seize control.
Something soft and furry brushed against her arm. Otis. Emilie scooped him up. She needed some sort of normalcy to help her think straight. He purred and snuggled his furry head under her chin.
Okay. She took deep, calming breaths. Think. Where’s the flashlight?
She needed to get up, find a candle, a match—something. But her muscles were hardwired to the fear that had taken over her brain. Rational thought wasn’t possible.
Otis squirmed; she was squishing him. He leapt out of Emilie’s arms the moment her grip eased and landed with a thud on the floor. Her vision had finally adjusted to the near-complete lack of light. She reached for the nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and fumbled around for some source of light.
There was none.
She had to get up. Her legs shook as she rose to her feet, knees banging together. The blackness was disorienting, the hallway far too reminiscent of the chasm underneath the bank.
With shaking, outstretched hands, she felt her way toward the living room. Her fingers hit the doorframe first and saved her from crashing into the wall. She crept forward. The living room was like a black pit. The blinds were shut to keep the hot sun out.
“Damn it.” Emilie’s knees slammed against furniture. She flew forward over the overstuffed arm of the couch. Her face bounced off a cushion.
A sudden bang from the kitchen paralyzed her.
“Otis?” Her voice sounded meek in the heavy darkness. “Is that you?”
Shuffling, and then a faint meow.
“I know you were on the counter, sneak. Make yourself useful and find the flashlight.”
She pushed herself off the couch and began the slow process of moving forward once more. The junk drawer had matches, and she’d left a candle on the kitchen counter.
The flashback came without warning.
“Are you afraid of the dark, beautiful Emilie?” The Taker whispered as he leaned close to her, sniffing her hair once again. Night had fallen. The only light in the bank came from the streetlights.
“Miss Emilie?”
“No.”
“Did you know the technical name for fear of the dark is Nyctophobia? I don’t mean the normal, fleeting fear we all experience when the lights go out. I’m talking about the irrational anxiety we experience when it’s dark. Some people have panic attacks from it.”
Emilie didn’t respond. He continued in his creepy, breathy whisper. “Studies show the phobia is more common in childhood. Adults who suffer from it haven’t faced the problem and probably had a bad experience with the dark in the past.”
He shifted closer. The overly sweet scent of his cologne invaded her nostrils. “I don’t understand the fear myself. Darkness is our friend. It hides our imperfections and protects us
from the realities of daylight. We can be anything we want in the dark. And sometimes we have no choice but to stay in the dark, grateful for the shelter.”
“Oh, God.” Moisture streamed down her face. The Taker had stayed so close, his breath against her skin and his fingers brushing against her arms more times than she could count.
“Darkness is our friend.”
The tunnels were dark. He wanted to drag her down there, stash her away in some filthy corner with no light and stale air. Locked away from everyone, forever.
Her lungs constricted as panic overwhelmed her. Her comfortable living room suddenly appeared sinister. The blowing wind outside sent a strange sort of murmur throughout the condo—a breathless, restrained whisper.
Emilie whirled in the darkness, squinting at the black lumps spread throughout the room. Her furniture, or was the Taker here? Had he somehow cut the lights to the building?
Claustrophobia attacked. The Taker closed in. His warm breath swept over her neck, and his saccharine scent crept into her nose. He had surrounded her again. She was trapped.
No. She whipped her head around searching in vain for some sign of his presence. He couldn’t be there, could he? Her tired, tormented brain was just playing a cruel trick on her. Please, just leave me alone.
She tried again to make it to the kitchen. She needed a weapon, something to strike with. If the Taker was there, he wasn’t going to take her out of her own home.
Her shaking hands smacked against the granite bar extending from the kitchen. She slid forward, nearly losing her balance again. Cold metal touched her fingertips.
Her phone.
Light.
Emilie barely registered it was only 10:30 p.m. as she held the phone high over her head and panned it around. There was no one in sight, but the Taker could be hiding in the corner, watching and laughing.
She slammed her thumb down on the ‘call’ icon and scrolled through her contacts.
The perky voice of a happy five-year-old little girl answered the call.
“Get. Your. Daddy.” Each word felt like Emilie’s last.
“Hello?”
“Jeremy. Need help.”
“Emilie.” Jeremy’s frantic voice came through the speaker. “Where are you?”