Sympathy For The Devil

by King, Asha

  “Leave him alone, Tash,” Mark cautioned. “He’s been through enough.”

  She smiled, but didn’t respond. It would be nice to trust Mark, to step back and let the police worry about it all, but then she remembered Adam pacing in her office, the hurt in his eyes when he spoke about his sister. Chelsea’s murder haunted him still and Danyiah was her best friend.

  She owed them both to find out who Devin Archer really was.

  ****

  As Devin pulled his truck onto the driveway that led to the bungalow he’d been renting, he slowed when he saw another vehicle waiting. Frowning, he parked and climbed out to see figures stepping out of the house. Just as anger ran through him and he opened his mouth to bark about breaking and entering, he recognized the landlady and her husband. Two younger men stood behind them, both tall and imposing.

  With a sinking feeling, he had an idea about what they were going to say. Still, he tried to smile, act friendly. “Is there a problem?”

  “We’ve had several complaints about you being so close to town, Mr. Archer,” the landlady said coolly.

  The two young boys shifted at her back, ready. Like Devin was some kind of wild animal who indiscriminately killed everyone he came into contact with.

  “I’m not hurting anyone,” he said.

  “We’d still feel more comfortable if you found a different living situation,” her husband said.

  God fucking damn it. His hands clenched into fists.

  The landlady tensed.

  He blew out a heavy breath, knew he couldn’t make a scene or it would just make things worse. “I’m paid up until the end of July.”

  She nodded to her husband, and he produced a check, extending his arm in offering but not taking a step toward him. Devin took the paper, glanced over it—it was for the full amount, they weren’t just giving back the deposit but comping him the entire month of July. Like he’d never been there at all.

  He stared down at it with half a mind to tear it up. But then he wasn’t sure how long it would take to sell the old house and he could use the money right now. Instead he folded it up and eyed the landlady. Even if keeping the money was the right thing, he still felt tainted by it, like he was accepting what they labeled him by not fighting it. “Am I allowed to get my stuff?”

  She gave him a tight smile. “Of course.”

  Of course. He supposed he was lucky they hadn’t burned everything.

  Chapter Ten

  Late Monday afternoon, Tash caught up with Archer as he left the bungalow he’d been renting. The truck bed had boxes strapped down and at the sight of a second car leaving the lot, she suspected he’d been forcibly removed. Instead of a motel, he retreated for his old house.

  Night rolled around and Archer went nowhere, the house darkening as he likely went to bed. Tuesday, the same. Wednesday, his vehicle sat in his driveway for most of the day. Tash sat in Malone’s car a ways down the road, parked to the shoulder on enough of an incline that she could see him come and go, as well as the lights flick on when it grew dark. She made a few phone calls, did what work she could without actually going anywhere, and waited.

  The summer wasn’t getting any cooler, all the rain promised by the forecaster on the radio nowhere to be found. The blast from the vehicle’s air conditioner had given her a dull headache, pain throbbing in her temples. Even as evening came around and she cut the engine in favor of rolling down the windows, the headache didn’t abate. Tylenol wasn’t helping at all—what she needed was a good night’s sleep.

  She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 10:30. Twenty minutes to get home and into bed and though she’d planned to be up early for a jog, maybe she could forgo it this once. She yawned, rubbed at her eyes, and reached for the keys.

  Before she could start her vehicle, the slamming of a door drew her attention back to the house. The porch light was on and she could see the top of Archer’s head as headed toward the truck.

  Shit. So much for an early night.

  She waited while he got in the truck and pulled out of the driveway, and when he swung out onto the road, she ducked down. He didn’t go past her, so she gave it thirty seconds and then started the car, heading down the only other road he could’ve taken.

  Within minutes she spotted the truck and eased back on the gas. This time on a weeknight, the roads were dead. She could follow at a distance without worrying he might see her—in the country there was only so many places he could go.

  The truck rounded Stirling Falls, killing her theory that maybe he planned to try Eight’s again, or maybe the Bar & Grill. There were, of course, plenty of other small counties in the area, but they were tinier than Stirling Falls and late night bars on a Wednesday were few and far between.

  After about forty minutes cruising along quiet country roads, Archer’s truck slowed. Tash peered ahead, easing back to a crawl as he turned past a field, toward lights in the distance. Another car going the opposite direction turned in there as well. She eased Malone’s car closer, past fields of tall grass to see a dirt parking lot with just a few lamps lighting it. A small, one story building sat at the back, an innocuous fluorescent sign proclaiming it “The Box” over the front door.

  Over fifty cars or so were already parked there and the front door had a bouncer. A bar of some kind? Nightclub?

  Either way, I’m finding out.

  While Archer parked and climbed out of his truck, Tash rounded the perimeter of the lot, found a spot to idle the car with the headlights off in the shadows, well away from her target. He paused by the door to speak to the bouncer and then headed inside.

  She pulled out her phone, hit record and began speaking. “Wednesday night, quarter after eleven. Note to self: look up a place called The Box. Archer just arrived and went right in...”

  Her voice trailed off and she paused the recording as another young man stepped up to the front door. He stopped as well by the bouncer but was turned away. So apparently not everyone was allowed in?

  She’d need to scout the place, but hopefully not stick out obviously while doing it. After casting her phone on the passenger seat, Tash pulled out of the parking spot and continued around the perimeter of the club. Around back she found two trucks and a couple of people delivering liquor past a man holding the rear door open and reviewing a clipboard.

  Hmm...

  Putting the car in reverse, she found a spot to park out of sight and cut the engine, then rifled around the duffel bag she’d stowed in the backseat; after rushing into Eight’s unprepared, she wasn’t going to do that again.

  Five minutes later she stepped out of the car dressed anew, without dried horse slobber on her shirt. She’d slipped on low-rise jeans, a T-shirt, and boots, all in black. It wasn’t the only emergency outfit she had in there but seemed the best for slipping in unnoticed through the back door.

  Her purse was a problem. Delivery people didn’t usually carry them. It would mean going in without a gun, but it was also a public place. She slid her cell phone in her pocket, which would function as a camera should she need it during this occasion, along with some cash and a thin tube of pepper spray. After giving her tight curls a rushed flip and pat, Tash locked up the vehicle and headed around back.

  The unpaved ground muted the heels of her boots and dust smattered her toes. Though most of the heat had retreated with the sun, humidity remained and hung heavily on her skin. She hoped whatever this club was, it had air conditioning.

  She watched from the shadows at the side of the club. No drivers in the trucks and the guy with the clipboard didn’t look up as two men passed him carrying crates. Just as they ducked in the building, she darted forward as quietly as she could, reached the passenger side of one of the trucks, and opened and slammed the door as loudly as she could.

  Tash made a show of strolling around to the back of the vehicle and climbing up the ramp; her heart hammered as the dude with the clipboard looked up at her once, but he returned his attention to whatever he was reading. She
’d done this sort of thing enough times that she could move casually without arousing suspicion, but nervousness crept upon her nonetheless. Rarely was she ever in a situation where she had no damn idea where the hell she even was.

  She lifted a case of vodka and swiftly moved down the ramp again. There was no telling how long it would take the delivery guys to return and she didn’t want to risk them seeing her.

  Clipboard Guy said nothing as she passed, and she let out a heavy breath of relief once she’d stepped inside. Quickly her eyes darted around, taking everything in. She stood in a long corridor painted black with lights inlaid along the ceiling. The dull thrum of music pulse in the distance, bass buzzing against the floor. Definitely a nightclub of some sort, then.

  Closed doors ran up and down the long corridor. Tash took a shot in the dark and went right, her heels rapidly clicking on the tile floor. One door lay open at the end, a long storeroom of some sort, and she tucked the vodka off to the side before anyone saw her, then continued on around the hall corner.

  More doors, most of them unlabeled but some with small signs, white lettering painted on the black doors. Staff. Kitchen. Security—and that she ran past without pausing.

  At the end of this hall, the tile was cut off and changed to a red and black, almost marble-pattered carpet. It would at least muffle the sound of her boots. Tash ducked through, finding the lights changed from the ceiling to random wall sconces set far enough apart that the hall was dim and subdued.

  An uncomfortable feeling wormed around in the pit of her stomach. She crept left, listening. There was definitely music, but the farther she went, the more it sounded like it was coming from below rather than above. The beat was slow and seductive, dark and sexy.

  Voices suddenly sounded, a low murmur growing louder—people coming in the opposite direction. Her spine straightened, steps went casual as she strolled down the hall like she belonged there. Moments later a pair of men in business suits turned the corner, talking amongst themselves about something. She didn’t look at them and they paid no attention to her.

  Thank God for terrible security.

  Her pace increased once she was past them and she ducked around the corner, just in case it dawned on them she didn’t belong. Here the music grew louder and the hallway widened. It was a shorter corridor this time, a stout T-shaped one with three steps downward and then branching left and right. Voices murmured and whispered, but not from approaching people—it had to be the nightclub beyond. She treaded carefully down the steps and glanced around. Fresh light invaded the corridor at either end now, shifting shadows playing across the floor.

  She was definitely at her destination.

  Tash went with the right, hoping like hell she could remember the maze she’d just been through if going out the front door wasn’t an option. When she reached the end, she tentatively pressed against the wall and peered around the corner.

  More steps led down, this time to the mezzanine level of some kind of club. She couldn’t see much beyond, as a half wall ran along the mezzanine and above it black lattice work ran up to the ceiling. What she could glimpse was a huge nightclub on the lower level in the shape of a large square—or box. From her position, she saw the bar at the far end, at least, but little else. The bar was backlit, rows of liquor on glass shelves, with a woman in a corset and a lace collar serving drinks to a row of patrons Tash could glimpse the heads of.

  That uncomfortable feeling in her stomach twisted even harder, seeming to know what she would see without her fully looking yet.

  No one else stood on the mezzanine level so she forced herself forward, up to the black lattice work where she could glimpse everything below. Her eyes trailed from the large bar area, over the unoccupied dance floor of mirrored tiles on a raised platform, just a black barstool in the center. A handful of small round tables and chairs were around it, and beyond them dark red booths with tables. Another half-wall topped with frosted glass boxed in that area, and beyond that, couches against walls and dark red curtains that led to other areas.

  All that she took in swiftly; what drew her back was the people. Some wearing black suits or short skirts, often in leather. Occasionally all but naked. Some openly made out in booths, hands running up legs, between thighs, and mouths sucking breasts. In one case, two men and a woman in suits sat around a table, in discussion as any businesspeople would be, but each had a person sitting on the floor at their sides, collars, of all things, at their throats, with their eyes turned downward. Her eyes widened as she spotted Mr. Parker, principal of Stirling Falls High, necking with some dude off in the corner.

  Jesus, it was...some kind of fetish sex club? Just outside of Stirling Falls? Tash had never heard of it, and while she saw her fair share of things she didn’t want to see around town, she’d never seen this.

  What she expected to be revulsion turned out to be an odd curiosity as she crept around the perimeter of the mezzanine level. A handful of steps led to a small level overlooking the club, a couple of antique-looking divans empty of people, reminding her of boxseats at the opera.

  The lighting was low and she had a decent view of the club from here—specifically a man and a woman on a couch below. The woman reclined in a blindfold, her head tipped back and lips parted as the man peeled her shirt back, exposing her breasts. His hands parted her thighs, fingers sliding up and up, beneath her skirt and as she writhed, it left little doubt as to what he was doing.

  A clap and a moan caught her attention next, a woman in a booth lying face down over a man’s lap. Her skirt was hiked up, revealing her bare ass and a scrap of a thong between her cheeks. His hand came down again on her flesh, leaving a red handprint.

  Warmth pooled low in Tash’s belly and between her legs. Though she might not consider herself a voyeur by any stretch of the imagination, she also didn’t get out much, didn’t have much of a sex life, and the current environment sent a rush of arousal through her. A blush bloomed in her cheeks, spilling down her neck to her chest. She was practically glowing with a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

  “You know you’re pretty when you blush.” Devin Archer had said.

  Oh, if you could see me now.

  And he was who she was there to find, so she snapped her focus back to scanning the room and not looking directly at those engaging in intimate acts.

  Eventually her gaze snagged him sitting alone at the end of the bar. He had a glass of honey-brown liquid clutched in his hand, his head bowed and broad shoulders hunched. The bartender paused across from him, leaning over the counter with what seemed like miles of pale cleavage exposed, and said something to him, but he didn’t glance up or speak. Eventually she grew bored with the lack of conversation and moved on to take another order. And it didn’t end there; a petite blonde woman with a red cocktail, wearing a tiny white tennis skirt and short pink top that exposed the underside of her breasts and taut stomach, sidled up to him next. Tash knew she shouldn’t be surprised—he was possibly one of the only single men present and he was extremely attractive at that—but she didn’t like it, nonetheless, these women throwing themselves at him. The blonde touched his shoulder, leaned in deeply so her chest crushed his arm, and whispered something in his ear.

  Whatever Archer responded with, she didn’t like—immediately she backed away, cocktail in hand, hips swishing as she went in search of someone else to play with. He took a drink and then hunched over his glass again, staring into its depths.

  Tash let out a breath, oddly relieved. Because if he’d gone anywhere with the woman, she’d feel compelled to follow. Watch. And while there was an undeniable dark part of her wanting to see him peel that shirt off, to lose the pants and reveal everything beneath them, to use his strong hands to take control of a woman, she knew she didn’t want it to be that blonde.

  But it surprised her that he didn’t. What kind of man could sit in the middle of this and not care? All this going on around him and he didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge anything but his drink
. For a moment, her heart hurt as it dawned on her: all this just to go get a drink. He’d decided against the Bar & Grill, been threatened and all but kicked out of Eight’s. So now he went to a sex club not for sex but just a whiskey or whatever.

  Right. Because he’s a killer and they don’t want him in town. Duh, Natasha. But maybe she had an overactive sense of empathy, as she did feel bad for him. And maybe she seriously needed to start dating because these highly inappropriate thoughts could only be coming from a place of sexual starvation.

  She settled on one of the divans and wished she could head down for a drink, but didn’t want to risk someone questioning who she was. Instead she pulled out her phone and snapped a few photos from a distance. They didn’t seem like much but there was no telling when they might come in handy, whether to question people about Archer or pull a few favors with light blackmail later.

  The whole time Archer remained at the bar, drinking alone.

  Interlude I

  He left the club, ignoring the bouncer and scanning the parking lot. Irritation thrummed through him with every step and he couldn’t get far enough from the place. Some cars were unknown to him, but many were familiar—people in the area snuck out here, mingling with fake names, hiding who they really were. The thought of their hypocrisy made him sneer.

  He stopped at a car he recognized near the back of the lot. His head tilted, looking up and down the vehicle. Definitely familiar—he knew the fly-fishing decal on the lower corner of the rear window, the spot on the bumper where jagged white paper remained after a sticker had been hastily torn off. But Gregory Malone was retired, on vacation by all rights.

  He looked up, eyes narrowing on the club. Precisely one person came to mind who might’ve “borrowed” the vehicle.

  She had no business being here. She was good. Pure. Sweet. Natasha Whitaker wasn’t the sort to frequent a place like this. Anger rolled through his veins, his hands clenching into fists. He should find her. Drag her by her fucking hair out here, toss her to her knees, demand to know what the hell she thought she was getting mixed up in.