Into the Devil's Underground

by Stacy Green

  “You can’t think about the what-ifs, son.” His father nudged Nathan’s arm, “That’s nothing but a waste of time. All you can do is keep digging. Sitting around feeling sorry for yourself ain’t gonna save her.”

  Sean slid a bag across the faded table. “Lefty’s pork sandwich and fries.”

  “Thanks.” Nathan’s stomach growled at the mention of food. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.”

  The break room’s door burst open. Chris stumbled in. His shirt was half un-tucked, his short hair a mess. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and too much coffee.

  “Julian Batier.”

  “What?” Nathan asked.

  Chris shoved a handful of fries into his mouth. “Creepy’s name is Julian Batier. He worked at M.S. Rau Antiques in New Orleans. Place is over a hundred years old and a French Quarter landmark. I looked it up online. We aren’t talking shit from Grandma’s attic. This place is ultra high-end. Most of their stuff costs more than I make in a month.”

  “How do you know Creepy came from there?”

  “For one, it fits his description and his attitude. Second, when I brought up the name Bougere, the manager said the mansion was long gone, but I should contact Julian Batier. He grew up in the Cane River Valley and is an expert on Bougere Plantation. Guess he suddenly left town in 2004 after fifteen years at M.S. Rau.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Hope rose in Nathan’s chest.

  “Hell, yes,” Chris said. “Ronson’s searching for Batier’s residence now, but she’s afraid he won’t be listed. No need to use his real name here with a fake identity.”

  “He’ll be listed somewhere. He doesn’t live in the apartment above the store. He’s got a residence someplace. He’s too tied to his previous life to give up his real name.”

  “Then we’ll find him.” Chris looked at Sean for the first time. “Where’s my sandwich?”

  “You didn’t ask for one,” Sean said.

  “I’m the one who called you.”

  Nathan’s phone beeped with an incoming text. “Avery just found Josephine.”

  42

  EMILIE HAD LOST track of time. How many hours had she been stuck in the stale hole? She had to pee. She glared at the bucket and refused to lose her dignity in such a humiliating way.

  “Julian?”

  He opened his eyes. Reclining against the dirt walls, he’d been resting peacefully.

  “Yes, Miss Emilie?”

  She hated the way her name rolled off his tongue, how the thick Louisiana accent made it sound beautiful. She didn’t want to like anything about him.

  “I’d really like to get out of this hole. You said you had something better planned for us. Can we please go there?”

  “I’m not sure you’re ready yet.”

  “Are we ever really ready for our lives to change?”

  He moved away from the wall and brought his face near hers, once again invading her space. She didn’t flinch.

  “A good point.”

  “I’d just like to get to know you in a more comfortable place. I know you did the best you could,” she added. “Short notice and all. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  She forced a smile. “I meant to say, I don’t want to. After all, you’ve gone to such trouble to bring me back into your life. You said it wasn’t about the antiques Mémé took. I’d like to understand what you meant.”

  “I already told you.” His eyes drifted to the necklace she wore. He stared at the bell in reverence. His hand reached out to stroke the pendent.

  Light reflected off a band of silver on his index finger. In the center lay an emerald with the fleur-de-lis etched into the stone. Panic and disgust shot down her spine. Had he sought the ring out after seeing her necklace in an effort to solidify their connection?

  “Your ring is beautiful,” she said. “Is it a family heirloom?”

  “No, this is part of a set I acquired from the Redeau’s, one of New Orleans’s historical families.” He touched the bell dangling from her neck. “I allowed your grandmother to wear this. She died before she gave it back.”

  “Would you like it back?” The necklace felt dirty now.

  His fingers trailed over her collarbone. Emilie kept her eyes locked on his, willing her body not to shrink away from his touch. “No, it’s yours now. As for what brought me back to you… everything, chère. I watched you in the gallery. Your appreciation of the art was so genuine, your expression so profound as you studied Girl with a Straw Hat. You looked as sad as you did the day your grandmother died.”

  His hand moved to her bare upper arm. “I was fascinated by you, but it was your eyes that awakened me. So green, so serious. They remind me of someone I once knew.”

  Her mind raced. Marie Adrieux, the woman he’d kidnapped and murdered in Louisiana? “Who?”

  His serene expression faltered. “Someone I lost long ago whom I cared for very much.”

  Emilie recognized the pained look in his eyes. She’d seen it before, in the bank. Josephine.

  “What happened to her?”

  “She died.”

  “How?”

  Julian dropped his hand. He gazed at the earthen walls. His mouth sagged, his body slumped.

  “An accident.”

  Emilie rested her tied hands on his. “I’m sorry, Julian.”

  “She didn’t deserve to die. She was so innocent, so young.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through.”

  He gripped her fingers. “The moment replays in my mind every day, as vivid as when she first fell.”

  “What was her name?”

  Julian’s eyes closed. His mouth twisted into a grimace. “Josephine. It means ‘God will add.’ I’ve tried to tell myself that’s why he took her from me, but then I never really believed in Him. Josephine had the faith, not me.”

  “Will you tell me about her?” She brought their laced fingers to rest on her legs and tried not to think about the gesture.

  He didn’t respond. Instead he looked down at their interlocked hands. This was her moment. If he believed her, she had a small chance of getting out of the miserable hole. She refused to let her inner turmoil show.

  “I’ll do more than that.” He brought her hands to his lips. “Let me show her to you.”

  * * * *

  “JOSEPHINE—WHO IS SHE?” Nathan entered the conference room with Chris close behind.

  Avery looked up from his computer. “You mean who was she?”

  “She’s dead?” Chris asked.

  “Yep. She was twelve.”

  “What happened?” Nathan’s fingers dug into the table.

  “She fell from the balcony of an abandoned plantation—Bougere Plantation.” Ronson stood behind Avery, phone in hand. “Railing gave away, and she died instantly. Her friend witnessed the entire thing.”

  “Julian Batier,” Nathan said.

  Ronson nodded.

  Chris sat down on the table. “How old was he?”

  “Eleven,” Ronson answered. “She’s our trigger.”

  Avery spun his MacBook around. On the screen was a faded Polaroid of a smiling little girl. Her skin was neither black nor white but a beautiful mixture. Her black hair framed her face like a halo. Even in the two-dimensional picture, Josephine’s wide, green eyes sparkled with life and mystery.

  “Just like Emilie’s.” Nathan finally understood what Batier was searching for.

  “Huh?” Chris asked. “I can’t see any resemblance, except she’s got green eyes.”

  “Exactly,” Nathan said. “So did Adrieux.”

  “Millions of women have green eyes,” Avery said.

  “It’s more than that.” Nathan searched through Batier’s file until he found Adrieux’s picture. “It’s their expression, their depth. Just like Emilie’s. It’s the only thing these women have in common. They represent Josephine’s essence—her soul. That’s what he’s tryin
g to replace.” Nathan pushed the file aside. “What do we know about Batier?”

  “He blamed himself,” Ronson said. “Told the Parish Sheriff it was his idea to go onto the balcony. Kept saying he was old enough to know better. Berating himself for being so stupid and selfish.”

  A natural reaction, Nathan thought. Just like he had had when Jimmy was murdered. Nathan lived for years as though he were the only person on earth to have such a horrific experience, but that was bullshit. Millions of people suffered through loss. Most didn’t end up becoming stalkers and murders.

  Nathan was driven to save people. Julian Batier was driven to harm them.

  “What happened to Batier after Josephine died?” Chris asked.

  “He became nearly catatonic,” Avery said. “Was admitted to the parish hospital and for days, her name was the only word he’d say.” Avery tapped the Mac’s touchpad. “Suffered night terrors, crying out for her. Had some therapy. Docs thought he should stay hospitalized, but his family took him home. Grandmother was some kind of healer who insisted she could take care of the boy herself.”

  “He’s been searching for a replacement ever since Josephine’s death,” Nathan said.

  “So why’d he wait so many years to act on it?” Chris asked. “Adrieux was taken in 2004.”

  “Maybe she resembled Josephine in some profound way,” Nathan said. “Or he’d held his demons at bay for as long as he could and then snapped.”

  “What else did you find out?” Chris nudged Avery’s shoulder.

  “Attended the parish school.” Avery tapped the touchpad again. More pictures came up. A faded yearbook picture of a grinning kid. “Batier in fifth grade. Year before it happened.” A second picture popped up. “This is the next school year.”

  Batier was stone-faced in the next picture, all traces of the grinning boy gone. He’d grown up far sooner than he should have. Just as Nathan had.

  “Went to New Orleans after he graduated,” Ronson said. “Got a job at M.S. Rau and worked there until 2004. This picture is from 2001. It was in the Times-Picayune. Batier had acquired a rare piece of art.”

  Nathan looked at the grainy newspaper photograph. Batier appeared refined and calm. Proud of the porcelain bowl he held.

  “Now he’s off the grid.”

  “You’re telling me he doesn’t have any address in this city?” Nathan asked. “I don’t buy that. He’s tied to his identity. He couldn’t give it up if he tried.”

  “We’re still searching,” Ronson said. “All we can do now is—”

  “Wait. I know.” Nathan slammed his foot into a chair. It rolled across the room and hit the wall with a thud. “I’m goddamned sick of waiting.”

  “We need a strategy,” Chris said. “You’re the people expert. When we find Emilie, how are we going to talk this guy into giving her up?”

  “I don’t know,” Nathan said. “Depends on how his mental state is. He’s trying to replace Josephine. If he’s had a psychotic break and believes Emilie’s actually her, he’s not going to give her up.”

  * * * *

  EMILIE BRACED HER still-bound hands against the dirt walls in an effort not to fall on her face. Fresh air wafted into the confined area. She sucked in a deep breath. She recognized the cool scent of night, coupled with the fragrance of lilies. Casablanca lilies.

  “Stand aside, Miss Emilie.”

  Roughly six feet above her head, a square, crudely-fashioned trap door stood open. Julian lowered a wooden ladder down into the hole. “Climb up. Take your time. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

  Emilie grasped the rungs. Her body had grown numb over the hours, and her progress was slow. Her mind rushed at the speed of a freight train.

  Once she got her bearings, she could jump him, knock him over, and run.

  To where? And she was at a disadvantage with her hands still zip-tied.

  She had to keep playing the game. Figure out exactly where she was, get her bonds removed, then make a plan.

  Julian’s hands closed around her wrists. Emilie was hefted out of the hole. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light and the warm Nevada air. They stood in a small structure, surrounded by flowers: Casablanca’s, wisteria, azaleas, rose bushes, and jasmine. Beyond, the stars glittered. Emilie realized the structure had no walls, only a roof and an intricate railing. It was a pergola.

  “Where are we?”

  “In my sanctuary. For all my searching for our perfect place, the answer was in my own backyard. Do you like it?”

  She touched a delicate lily. “The ones you sent me, you grew them here?”

  “Yes.”

  Her hands drifted to the wisteria wrapping around the iron posts. “Beautiful. And this pergola, is it an antique? It looks like something out of the Old South.”

  Julian beamed. “I knew you wouldn’t miss the details. It is an antique, dating back to 1794. It comes from a plantation near my childhood home, Bougere Plantation.”

  “Wow.” Emilie wasn’t sure if she was impressed or frightened by his devotion. The pergola was stunning, the secrets of its age hidden in the iron.

  “Come. Let’s go inside.”

  A house loomed before them. Emilie searched for details. Modern, partially hidden by Palo Verde trees and desert grasses. A mix of stucco and brick. She glanced at her surroundings. Far off in the distance, lights twinkled. They were very nearly in the desert. She was alone.

  He led her across a sparsely decorated patio. She looked back at the pergola. Eclipsed by the flowers, it looked like a small shrine.

  “Here we are.”

  He slid open a glass door and stepped inside. Emilie followed, straining to see. The door was shut, and a lock clicked in the darkness. Sudden light blinded her. Again Emilie blinked against the harsh change.

  “Welcome to my home,” Julian said.

  Emilie scanned the room. Her exits to freedom were directly across from each other. Julian stood next to an antique desk. Behind him was a wall of books, many of them old. To her right was a loveseat. Opposite the desk, the room’s southern wall was devoted to art.

  Her entire body turned cold. Several sketches of her were scattered across the walls, haphazardly pinned here and there. Most were just sketches of her face. Terrifying as they were, the drawings were an uncanny likeness.

  “You’re quite an artist.”

  “Thank you. It’s a hobby.”

  Emilie ignored the pulsating fear and focused on the rest of the art. She recognized the Clementine Hunter at once, but next to it was a painting she’d never seen. She inched forward for a better look. In the center of the portrait sat a stately plantation, its ten Corinthian columns a hallmark of Louisiana Creole architecture. A hulking oak tree loomed in front of the mansion. Dormer windows peeked through the moss-covered branches. Overflowing white rosebushes surrounded the house, white jasmine growing at their roots. On the home’s immense colonnade, a girl with flowing black hair watched over the grounds, one small hand resting on the railing, the other raised as if she were waving.

  “Josephine?”

  “Yes, that’s my sweet girl.”

  Emilie turned to see Julian still at the desk. Dressed in black, he was a stark contrast to the warmth of the room.

  She looked back at the painting. Emilie’s eyes were drawn to the girl. Everything in the scene had been structured around this waving figure.

  “This is where she died, isn’t it?”

  Deep wrinkles cut between his eyes as Julian sank into a leather chair. His hand rested against his chest.

  “Julian, what happened to her?”

  43

  NATHAN SHOVED TWO caplets into his mouth. The dry pills rolled down his throat. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be chewing antacids next.

  Footsteps clunked behind him, accompanied by the telltale smell of cigarette smoke. “Madigan.”

  “Sergeant Johnson.” Nathan was glad his boss was on shift. He knew how to sneak in and pounce before the suspect had a clue anything
was wrong. Emilie was safe in Johnson’s hands.

  “Apartment was empty.”

  Ronson had discovered two addresses under ‘Batier.’ The first was a small residence in northwest Las Vegas, the second a private home twenty miles south of the city, surrounded by desert.

  “We knew it would be.”

  “You can be as pissed off as you want. You’re not going in. Neither is Holt.”

  “I get it.” Nathan was too tired to worry about disrespect. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

  “Your ass is lucky I’m letting you ride with Ronson and Avery. If you get out of the car before I give you the all clear, you’ll be facing another suspension. And this one will be a lot longer than three days.”

  “We don’t even know if she’s there. He could still have her hidden.”

  “We’ll do surveillance first. Any sign of activity in the house or on the property, we move in.”

  Nathan looked out at the gathering clouds. They blocked out the stars like swamp water. Perfect cover for SWAT. Batier’s property was nearly an acre. The team would have a difficult time covering escape routes. If he had Emilie anywhere near the place, SWAT had only one shot.

  He didn’t need to tell Johnson any of this. Focusing on the logistics kept Nathan’s mind away from the torment Emilie might be experiencing.

  “Just find her.”

  * * * *

  “I BLAME MYSELF.” Julian’s soft voice grew husky with misery. “I knew the house was dangerous. We never should have been on the colonnade. One minute she was laughing, the next she was falling. Her plunge seemed to take forever, and yet it was over before I realized it. Her blood stained the white jasmine growing over the brick walk. I watched her slip away.”

  Sadness swept over Emilie. Josephine had been a sweet girl with her whole life ahead of her. Fate ripped it away. And left Julian scarred forever. The world is cruel.

  “I’m sorry. You miss her?”

  “Every second of every day. She’s always there, walking beside me.” He closed his eyes. Moisture crept out from beneath his thick lashes. “Why did God take her from me?”