by Stacy Green
Her head spun when she was upright. How long had she been trapped? The darkness had robbed her sense of time. It could have been an hour or six.
Emilie remained still as Julian’s hands slid down her arms. He sat in front of her, his knee grazing her thigh, close enough for Emilie to catch the scent of coffee on his breath.
“Do you need anything else?”
“Light would be wonderful.”
“I suppose it’s only fair. I’ve seen you countless times. You probably don’t remember what I look like.”
“Tall,” Emilie said. “You had a beard. Nice eyes.”
He removed the blindfold, and the sudden flash of yellow light caught her by surprise. She blinked, willing her eyes to adjust.
A face gradually came into focus. It was long and lean with prominent cheekbones. A broad chin jutted out a bit too far, thick eyebrows, and lips that bore the hint of a smile.
“Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
“You shaved.”
Julian broke into a wide smile. “You remembered.”
“I told you.”
The small camp lantern cast just enough light to form a small circle around them. It wasn’t enough for her to gauge the size of her prison.
“What if they find us?” Emilie kept her voice even. “They know bringing me into the tunnels was your plan all along, Julian.”
“My name sounds much more appealing coming from your lips,” he said.
She attempted to smile. “It’s a lovely name.”
“As is yours. Chosen by your French grandmother, no doubt.”
“Yes.”
“You miss her terribly.”
“Every day.”
He touched her knee with large, thin hands. “And Claire? Do you miss her as well?”
Anger flashed through Emilie. Her lips twitched with the need to lash out.
“I see,” Julian murmured. “You’re not ready yet.”
He dropped his hand and shifted, his shoulders straight and back stiff. “To answer your question, we won’t be found.”
“The tunnels aren’t infinite. They’ll eventually come this way.”
“That’s debatable. Two hundred miles is a lot of area to cover, especially when cops fear the drains. Still, I didn’t want to take the risk.”
Her stomach knotted. “What do you mean?”
“A new hideaway had to be procured.”
Emilie reached her bound hands in front of her and felt around under the blanket. She hadn’t been on cement, but clumps of dirt and rocks. She wasn’t in the tunnels. She twisted and touched the wall behind her. It was earth. She was in a hole.
Julian watched her. What did he want to see? Did he get off on her fear? She wouldn’t give into the panic.
“Clever,” she said. “We don’t have to worry about being interrupted.”
“It’s funny how things work out.” His shoulders relaxed, his hands rested against the ground. “After you chose not to go with me at the bank, I was devastated. So much time had gone into creating the perfect home in the tunnels.”
“Because of the mural referencing Danté.”
His face lit up. “You understand the reference?”
“I remember you telling Mémé her edition was worth more as it was. And I suppose the tunnels are a good example of purgatory.”
He sighed with beaming pleasure. “I couldn’t imagine a better location for our new start.” He glanced around. “But everything changed, and I thought of this. It was right in front of me the entire time.”
Emilie forced a smile. “Some might call that fate.”
His eyes swept over her. “Fate it is.”
* * * *
“BOUGERE’S ANTIQUES IS owned by Josephine Bougere.” Ronson tossed a file onto the conference table. Augustin Bougere bought the property seven years ago,” she said.
“Where does Josephine come in?” Nathan rubbed his eyes.
“A couple of weeks after the loan closed, Bougere transferred ownership over to his wife Josephine. Their residence is listed as the apartment above the store.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“She’s dead.” A yawn cut Ronson off mid-sentence. She shook her head. “Employee we talked to said she died from breast cancer a year after the store opened. He identified our sketch of Creepy as Mr. Bougere. He never saw the mysterious Josephine. Her funeral was a private affair.”
“She never existed,” Chris said.
“She did on paper,” Ronson countered. “Both Josephine and Augustin Bougere were born in Lafayette, Louisiana in 1970 and ’71. Both applied for social security cards in 2000, long before the Cane River murder.”
“Aren’t you assigned a social security number at birth?” Chris asked. “My sister’s baby was given one before she came home from the hospital.”
“That wasn’t always the case forty years ago,” Ronson said. “A lot of people didn’t have them until they applied for a job.”
“So what took Bougere so many years to get his?” Nathan asked.
“This was pre 9/11,” Ronson said. “Government was a lot more lax back then.”
“Is there a marriage certificate?” Nathan asked.
“Yep. And birth certificates for both. Josephine’s maiden name was Labot. Probably forged and fake names, but the Louisiana field office is searching the Cane River area.” She handed Nathan her phone. “Look at the place.”
He squinted at the small screen. Bougere’s storefront was white with faux Corinthian columns on each side and an arched entrance. A small balcony jutted out from the apartment above, decorated with flower boxes.
“Go to the next picture.”
Ronson had zoomed in on the flower boxes. A green, vinyl plant with delicate white flowers filled the containers.
“Jasmine?” Nathan asked.
“Yep. He’s got a planter near the entrance too.”
“You think that means anything?” Chris took the phone and examined the picture.
“His first known victim, Marie Adrieux, was sent white jasmine. Could be a reminder of home. Or tied to whatever his trigger is.”
“What else did the employee say?” A glimmer of hope ignited in Nathan. They were circling Creepy’s true identity.
“Nothing but praise for Augustin Bougere,” Ronson said with disgust. “It’s just the two of them. Employee works full time, Bougere’s in and out. He spends a lot of time searching for new acquisitions. Travels some.”
“Says Bougere knows more about antiques than anyone he’s ever met. Doesn’t know much about Bougere’s past, only that he’s supposedly got a degree in art history and worked for fifteen years in one of the South’s best antique stores, first as an apprentice and then as a buyer. Never told the employee the name of the store—all in the name of privacy, of course.”
“He knew Josephine in childhood,” Nathan said. “I’m convinced of that.”
“Agreed.” Ronson nodded. “She’s got to be his trigger. The field office will find her.”
“If that’s her real name,” Chris said.
“It is. He’s trying to live as though she’s still with him. He’s not going to give her a fake name.”
“We know he left New Orleans in 2004—” Nathan started.
Avery entered the room clutching a stack of paper. “Nearly a hundred antique stores in the New Orleans area. This is going to take forever.”
Ronson looked at Nathan and Chris. “Let’s get to work.”
41
“YOU MUST BE hungry.”
“Starving,” Emilie said.
Julian grabbed the light and stepped to the side. Emilie studied her prison. The room was barely large enough for him to stand upright and no more than six feet square. Plywood ceiling held up by two-by-fours, earthen walls.
He’d stuck her in her own personal vault. If she disappointed him like Marie Adrieux had done, he could leave her here to rot.
She strained to see the ceiling.
It had to have a door of sorts. The light shifted. She quickly lowered her gaze.
“I’m sorry our space isn’t larger,” Julian said. “Your friend’s visits to the tunnels left me with little preparation time.”
“It’s fine.” Emilie took the plate he offered and balanced it carefully in her zip-tied hands. A shiny red apple sat in the middle surrounded by seven club crackers. “Thank you.”
She stifled a moan as she bit into the apple. He put a bottle of water at her feet and sat back down in front of her. “Drink up. You need to stay hydrated.”
A humiliating thought suddenly occurred to her. “What about when I have to go to the bathroom?”
He tilted his head to his left. “I’ve provided facilities.”
A bucket sat against the wall. It was covered by an embroidered, linen sheet. Tears popped into her eyes before she could stop them. “A bucket?”
“Don’t worry, Miss Emilie. It’s only temporary.” Julian patted her arm. “We’ll move to a more comfortable location when you’re ready.”
“Is there any way you could untie my ankles?” She’d been sitting with her legs stretched out for so long her ass was numb.
He studied her again.
“Julian, I promise I’m not going anywhere.” She kept her voice modulated. “I just want to get more comfortable. Please?”
He traced his index finger over his lips and hummed a tune she didn’t recognize. “Tell me about the negotiator first. His name is Madigan, I believe?”
Her heart raced. She worked hard to keep her face benign. “What about him?”
“Seems the two of you have been spending a lot of time together.” His mouth twitched. “In fact, I believe he spent yesterday evening at the Vances’ home. With you.”
“He did. I couldn’t stay at the hospital, and Agent Ronson didn’t want me to be alone. Nathan offered to keep an eye on me.”
“Isn’t that a bit out of his job description? SWAT’s a team operation, not a bodyguard service.”
“He’s interested in my case.”
An eye twitch this time. “And you.”
She had to convince him Nathan meant nothing to her.
“I don’t know about that. He’s fascinated by your escape and feels responsible. He thinks he should have figured you out.”
“Why?”
“He’s got a hero-complex. I told him you were too smart, and there was nothing he could have done. Guess he’s been trying to make up for his shortcoming.”
“A good man,” Julian murmured. “But what about you? What are your feelings for the stalwart Nathan Madigan?”
She’d fallen in love with him. But Julian needed to believe her feelings were ambivalent. Seeing Nathan as a rival would derail her chance at freedom.
“Like you said, he’s a good guy. I suppose I’d call him a friend of sorts.”
“And that’s all.”
“That’s all.”
He stroked his chin, again studying her with frightful scrutiny. She felt stripped bare.
Julian reached into his back pocket and drew out a Swiss Army knife. He turned the knife over in his hand and stared at it as if in thought.
Emilie didn’t move. The knife was a reminder of who was in control.
His hand shot out, the steel glinting in the dim light as he sliced the zip ties in one swift movement. “Is that better?”
She sucked in sharp breath and let the air recede from her lungs. Julian grinned, a hint of malice in his smirk. He enjoyed her fear.
Let him. As long as he was happy, she’d stay alive. She drew her legs into her chest and leaned forward with a groan. Her tailbone would never be the same.
“Much. Thank you, Julian.”
“Drink, please.” He handed her the bottle of water. “I don’t want you falling ill.”
* * * *
“AUGUSTIN BOUGERE DIED in 1840.” Ronson tossed her phone onto the table. It landed with a thud on top of the mountains of paperwork Nathan had been combing through.
“The field office didn’t find anything more current?” Nathan asked.
“Nothing.” She dropped into the nearest vacant chair. “Plenty of Augustins and Bougeres live in Louisiana, but only one Augustin Bougere in the last two hundred years. He lived in the Cane River Valley and established Bougere Plantation in 1795, according to the deed. Plantation remained in the family until the 1940s. The house was torn down in 1982 after being abandoned for years.”
“So Creepy stole Augustin’s identity,” Nathan said. “But why?”
“I’m betting it’s got something to do with his trigger,” Ronson said. “I’m waiting for the history of the plantation. Hopefully the field office will find a picture or two. Any luck in New Orleans?”
Nathan dropped his head into his hands. He needed some aspirin. “Most of them are family owned shops. No one lost an employee in 2004, and no one remembers an Augustin Bougere or anyone fitting his description.”
Emilie had disappeared sometime before dawn. She’d been missing around twelve hours. Creepy had kept his previous victim for weeks. He would be patient at first, treating Emilie with politeness and care in the hope of gaining her affection.
Emilie knew this. She could earn his trust.
* * * *
“I’M SURPRISED BY you.” He mimicked her posture, sitting cross-legged in front of her so their knees touched.
Had he expected her to cry and beg for her life? Scream and fight?
“Why?”
“You haven’t asked about your mother. I was the last one to see her alive. Don’t you want to know her final words?”
Another test. He wanted her to appreciate his gift.
“No need to ask. I’m sure they were about herself, like always.”
“Yes. How she was a patron of her community, her husband was an important lawyer who adored her. All ego-laced pleas. And lies.”
“She was good at that.”
“Do you believe what she said about your biological father?”
Emilie knew he wanted to hear information she’d only shared with those closest to her. He wanted to be a confidant.
“I have no idea.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Julian leaned forward until his face was only inches from hers. Emilie resisted the instinct to recoil from the intimate gesture. “Because people are always honest when they’re about to die.”
She wanted to lunge at him. Her mother had been a terrible person, but Claire shouldn’t have been used as a pawn in his sick game. “What did she say?”
“She’d made a mistake by having a one-night stand with a man whose name she couldn’t remember.”
“What did she say about me?” Emilie couldn’t help but ask.
“That was quite interesting. I expected more of the vitriol she spewed in the alley, but she sobbed about how she wanted to love you. She just couldn’t. Every time she looked at you, she saw her mistake and hated herself for it. So you became her scapegoat.”
Her throat tightened. “She said that?”
“Yes. Claire even begged me to leave you alone. Then she pleaded for more time so she could apologize to you.”
Emilie swallowed around a lump in her throat. “She wanted to apologize?”
“I briefly considered it, but the logistics just weren’t possible. How could I have released her without being caught? She’d seen my face. I wanted her to see me.”
“Why?”
“So she would know her daughter’s avenger, of course. Thirty-four cuts for thirty-four years of misery. All for you.” He held her hand and laced his fingers through hers. His skin felt clammy, and Emilie tried not to shudder. “I only wanted to make you happy. To free you from her torment.”
Emilie didn’t realize she was crying until she tasted salty tears. Claire had wanted to apologize. Deep down, she’d hated herself, not her daughter. And now she was gone.
He smiled. He expected praise. Emilie wanted to rip his heart out.
The taste of vomit burned in her mouth. Her next words would be the most horrid she’d ever uttered. “You did make me happy. I’m free. Thank you.”
Julian’s expression changed. His haunted, docile look was replaced by sheer happiness.
“You’re welcome, my sweet Emilie.” He still clutched her hand. “So many great things lie before us. You’ll see.”
God forgive me.
* * * *
NATHAN SAT IN the station’s break room, an untouched bag of Doritos in front of him. New Orleans had almost a hundred stores listed under antiques. Fifty had been contacted, and none had any information. Two of the owners had heard of the Bougere family and confirmed the plantation had been divided into individual parcels and the house demolished in 1982. Like most of the South’s historic plantations, Bougere’s had a history of sorrow and death. Augustin’s first wife and child had died; slaves had been beaten to death. Nothing to help find Emilie.
The tunnel search came up empty. Officers were still in the drains, but Nathan had little hope they would find anything. Creepy was too smart. He’d found a new place to stash Emilie.
The apartment above Bougere’s Antiques served as an office and storage area. Techs were still processing evidence but hadn’t found anything that proved useful. Creepy could be out of the city and long gone by now. He’d reinvented himself once. He no doubt had a new identity for himself and Emilie already. If she managed to keep herself alive.
A large hand touched his shoulder.
Nathan stared up at his father. “Dad. What are you doing here?”
“Chris called and told me your friend was missing. Got me a visitor’s pass.”
Sean ambled to the other side of the table and sat down. “From the way you talked the other night, I’m thinking you two might be more than friends. How you holding up?”
“We’ve got nothing.”
“You’ll find her.”
“I’m not a detective, Dad. And Emilie and I are involved.” The words hurt to say. “I can’t do much but make phone calls and sit on my ass, waiting.”
“You’re a good cop,” his father said. “The puzzle pieces are all there. You’ll fit them together.”
“And what if I don’t? What if I fail her?” He couldn’t lose anyone else. Especially not her. Not when they’d just gotten a taste of what life together could be like.