Into The Dark Part 6

"So?"

"So has there been anyone around you didn't know? You heard any stories about a guy sneaking around here, up to no good?"

"People come and go all the time. Lot of 'em are up to something. I don't make it my business to find out what."

"Keep your eye out, will you?" Johnson asked. "You see anyone new, anyone running scared, call it in."

"Thanks for the drink." Blaze disappeared back into the tunnel, tossing the empty plastic bottle into the water.

"Look around." Johnson waved his light across the channel. "On the off chance he came through here, maybe he left something."

The search of the drains continued past four a.m. but turned up empty. Nathan wasn't surprised. The partner was too smart.

"I'm burning these clothes." Nathan tossed the Kevlar vest into the truck. His black T-shirt and fatigues stunk of sweat and the heavy stench of the tunnels.

"G.o.d, yes." Chris kicked a vest out of the way and sat down. "Then taking a shower in bleach."

"Adam's at UMC," Johnson said. "He's out of surgery and stable. Nurse said we could see him for a few minutes."

"I'm sure the hospital will appreciate our stinking up the place." Chris grinned and rubbed his hands together.

Nathan hated hospitals. Their sterile walls contained too much pain and sorrow, and the unhappiness caused a surge of memories he'd rather bury. He went anyway. He wouldn't desert his friend.

Heads turned as they traipsed toward Adam's room, still in uniform. Several nurses covered their noses.

"I bet this doesn't fit in with their cop fantasies," Chris snickered.

"He's sedated," the charge nurse said. "You only have a few minutes."

"Is he going to be okay?" Chris asked.

"The bullet punctured a lung, but he should make a full recovery."

Adam grinned weakly when the group entered the room. "Holy s.h.i.t, you guys reek. Where you been?"

"Fifth circle of h.e.l.l, dude." Chris gave Adam's arm a gentle punch. "How you feeling?"

"I've been better. What happened?"

Adam stared as Chris recounted the escape. "Wait...there's a hole under the bank? How did the partner find that?"

"We don't know, and it's not our job to find out," Johnson answered. "Unless Metro gets a lead on his whereabouts, we're done."

"So you were in the tunnels? Cool. Did you see the troll?"

Nathan started laughing. "What drugs are you on, kid?"

"I'm serious. There's a story among the locals about a troll living down there. He eats people..." Adam's eyelids started to droop, and he yawned.

"Time for us to go," Johnson said.

Nathan struggled to stay awake during the ride back to the station. Chris couldn't stop talking. "A troll. You know, that wouldn't surprise me. There's over two hundred miles of storm drains down there. Who knows what's breeding in that filth?"

"You're an idiot."

"I hope they put that woman under some kind of protective custody." Chris unloaded his Glock and shoved the clip into the pocket of his fatigues.

The heavy weight of blame kept Nathan silent. He'd suspected the partner had a separate agenda. Why hadn't he suggested the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs be covered or advised a different entry approach?

The advice his sister had been giving him for years played in his mind. "You can't take on the world just because you feel guilty about the past."

Still, he should have figured out the partner's intentions sooner. If he had, Emilie would be sleeping peacefully tonight instead of looking over her shoulder in constant fear.

The room was like every other hospital room she'd been in: white, sterile, and freezing. Emilie sat on the standard-issue bed trying not to touch the cold plastic sides while the flash of the police photographer's camera attempted to blind her. He'd taken so many pictures she'd lost count-pictures of the bruises on her face and shoulder, the sc.r.a.pes on her arm and knee-even her broken fingernails.

"Do you have enough yet? Surely a hundred and nine will suffice."

The photographer ceased his repet.i.tive clicking and c.o.c.ked his head. "You've been counting?"

"Never mind."

"We just have a few more questions," said FBI Agent Sia Ronson. Emilie already liked her better than Avery. Her cla.s.sic gray suit was nice but not flashy, her voice calm and rea.s.suring. The agent had convinced Avery to deal with the press while she interviewed Emilie.

"Tell me about the lilies and poem."

"Casablanca lilies mean celebration." The words lodged in Emilie's throat. She swallowed hard. "He said they were a perfect flower for today's occasion. That today was just the beginning."

"What about the Blake poem? Was it special to you?"

"It's one of my favorites, but no one knows that."

"Can you remember anything else?"

"After the hostage was picked, the partner said not to worry, that he'd take care of me."

"What else did the partner say?"

Emilie told Ronson about Creepy's strange ramblings. His voice echoed in her head. Her exhausted body began to shake. She wrapped her arms around her chest.

"Did the partner ever mention anything about the tunnels? Something that may not have specifically related to the bank but to the storm system in general?"

"Not that I can remember." Emilie rubbed her temples. "When can I get out of here?"

"Soon. Can you give us a better physical description?"

"No. He could have been bi-racial."

"In comparison to my coloring-was he lighter or darker?"

Emilie looked at the agent's mocha-colored skin. "Lighter."

"How much lighter?"

"I don't know. Quite a bit."

"Is there anything else you can remember?" Ronson asked.

"Did Detective Avery tell you about the partner's...err...excitement?"

"Yes. I don't know if the reaction came from direct physical contact with you or because he thought the two of you were about to make a great escape. But clearly there's a s.e.xual component to his fascination with you."

Ronson didn't need to say more. Emilie knew what would have happened had Creepy Guy managed to succeed with his nefarious plan. She imagined being forced down into the filth of the tunnels and his hands all over her. He would have no doubt continued his strange commentary, as genteel as ever while he violated her. And then what? Death? Another go?

"Anything else?"

She tried to quell the shaking. It only got worse. "He was just...different."

"How so?" Ronson asked.

"He was polite, almost formal. He even called me Miss Emilie. Joe was constantly agitated, but the partner never got upset, except..."

"Except what?"

"I asked Joe if I could go to the bathroom. I just wanted to get away from the other guy for a few minutes. Creepy offered to take me. I knew I couldn't let him get me alone, so I said no."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. He didn't have to. His eyes said enough. He was furious."

"When did this happen?"

"Not long before SWAT came in." If only the customer hadn't screamed. Hope and then sheer panic had gripped Emilie when she realized the police had entered the bank. Before she could react, Creepy grabbed her and dragged her to the stairs. He'd known their exact location.

"Other than the flowers today, have you had any other weird things happen?" Ronson asked. "Other strange gifts or notes? Weird calls?"

"No."

"You hadn't noticed anyone following you, or the same person turning up wherever you went?"

"No."

"Why didn't you know about the door? You're the branch manager..."

"The building is only about five years old, but the bas.e.m.e.nt is an original foundation from a previous building," Emilie said. "That room has been storage since the bank was built. I've been down there a few times, but that wall was always blocked by boxes and old equipment."

"Was the previous building a bank?"

"No, an old hotel-one of the city's first. WestOne bought the property for its new location. Building inspector said the foundation was solid, so the architect saw no reason to tear it out." A sudden thought occurred to Emilie. "When did he move the boxes away from the door? When I was knocked out?"

"I don't think so. SWAT said only three or four minutes at most pa.s.sed during that time."

"Then how did he get the door open? It had to have been sealed for years. That entire room smelled like a crypt."

Agent Ronson glanced at the door and then focused on her notes. "I don't like to jump to conclusions."

"You're an FBI agent. You've got instincts, right? What does your gut tell you?"

"This is a complicated individual." Ronson folded her arms, notebook still in her hand. "We've only touched the surface of what he's capable of."

"Why did he try to take me from the bank?" Emilie asked the other question that was driving her crazy. "s.n.a.t.c.hing me from my apartment would have been easier."

"You live in Henderson. A strange man skulking around the storm drains in a community like that would have stuck out. The safest way for him to get you into the tunnels was from the bank."

"You never answered my first question." Emilie's head spun. "How did he get the door open? How did he find out about the tunnel? And not only an escape tunnel under the bank, but one that led to the storm drain system?"

"You told us the storage room door should have been locked. Who has keys?"

"Me. Jeremy, the branch president; Lisa, my loan officer; and Miranda, my head teller. Lisa has a bad habit of leaving hers lying around. Someone could have made a copy." A wave of fear rippled up her spine. "What are you getting at?"

"I don't want to further upset you, but at this point, we have to a.s.sume he had help."

"What kind of help?"

"The kind that only someone with inside knowledge of the bank would have."

Emilie dropped her head to her hands. That meant someone she worked with disliked her. She knew exactly who that someone would be. Lisa had worked at the bank longer than Emilie, and her sights had always been set on management. Her unfriendly att.i.tude and inability to work with others had squashed that hope. She'd been furious when Emilie was promoted to branch manager.

"Lisa. She left before the robbery, and she's not exactly my biggest fan."

Chapter Seven.

The sun had crept up the horizon by the time Nathan stumbled into his apartment in East Las Vegas. He stripped and put his smelly clothes into a garbage bag; then he sealed the bag and set it by the door. Those clothes were a lost cause. Dumped some food into the tank for his hungry green Tiger Barbs, cursing when he saw their dark home. The light had been out for a week. Green gunk spread over the gla.s.s like a spider web.

After the shortest shower in history, Nathan collapsed into bed. Maybe he would be less disillusioned after a few hours of sleep. He was always exhausted after a hostage situation, but today had been different. Seeing the lengths the masked man had gone to in order to kidnap Emilie made Nathan question his choice to work in law enforcement.

In his six years as a cop, he'd seen the worst society was capable of. His rookie year, he and his partner had interrupted a robbery in progress. The suspect was apprehended, but the damage had already been done: the forty-nine-year-old cashier lay dead on the cracked tile floor behind the counter, blood streaming from the bullet hole in her forehead. The most haunting image of the night had been the woman's daughter running up to the ambulance begging to know why there was no hurry to get her mother to the hospital. The sound of her grief remained in Nathan's head for weeks.

He had seen druggies overdosed and left to rot, some beaten so badly their eyes had swollen shut. Regardless of the nature of the victim, Nathan always took a moment to reflect on each loss, wondering about those left behind and how they would cope.