Into the Devil's Underground (14 page)

“Ah, it’s Thursday.” Emilie smacked her forehead. “Brunch with the girls. How could I forget? Guess some things never change.” Her bitterness oozed out in the form of tears. She rubbed them away. Claire wasn’t worth the effort.

“I’m sorry. I knew calling would upset you, but I wanted to hear for myself you were all right. What happened between the two of you…please know I had no idea what your mother had hidden. If I had, I would have made her tell you, I swear.”

She doubted that. Sam couldn’t even stop Claire from running her mouth to the blogger. Her stepfather had good intentions, but Claire was a skilled manipulator and would have likely convinced him keeping the secret was ‘for the best,’ just as she had done with Mémé.

“I know you didn’t, Sam. You were good to me when you were around. You deserve better than my mother.”

“Let’s not talk about her,” Sam said. “I was sorry to hear about your divorce.”

Emilie could imagine her mother’s glee when she heard that juicy detail of her daughter’s life. Her big mistake had ended exactly as Claire had said it would. Then again, Claire could easily spot her own kind—selfish and controlling.

“Don’t be. I’ve moved on.”

“You’re not alone out there, are you?” The genuine concern in his voice made Emilie’s throat tight. “You’ve got friends to stay with?”

“I’m not alone. Thank you for calling, Sam.” She couldn’t talk anymore. Every word he said ignited memories she wanted to forget: her mother calling her a whore for her relationship with Evan, Sam trying to calm Claire down and stand up for Emilie, Claire’s massive fit that ended with throwing a vase at Emilie and telling her to get out.

“It was the least I could do.” He cleared his throat. “I kept an eye on you the first few years, you know.”

She sat up in bed, pathetic memories pushed aside. “What?”

“I had a private investigator check on you from time to time. Make sure you were all right and all.”

“You had someone follow me?” Her heart drummed inside her chest. Could this be the answer? Would it really be that easy? “For how long? Where is he now?”

“Easy, kid,” Sam said, “I called him off after about three years. He’s definitely not your guy. He died a year ago.”

Damn.

“Did Claire know?” Stupid question to ask. Sam lived in fear of Claire’s fits. Life was easier to skirt around her and let her pretend she controlled him.

“God, no.” He barked a laugh. “Your mother would have skinned me. She likes to pretend…”

“That I don’t exist,” Emilie finished. She couldn’t remember a time when she felt valued by her mother.
I’ve always been her burden
. “It’s okay. She’s done that all of my life.”

“You deserve better than her too.” Sam sighed. Emilie pictured him sitting at his big desk with cold coffee in his hands, looking out the bay window into the garden. “For what it’s worth, I always thought you were a good kid, and I told her so. She just wouldn’t listen.”

“Why are you still with her?” Emilie burst out. He deserved better. And if Sam had left her mother when Emilie was younger, she would have found a way to live with her stepfather. Maybe life would have been different. “How could you love someone so nasty and calculating?”

“It’s complicated. And familiar. She does her thing, I do mine. Easier that way.”

“Easier than a divorce settlement, you mean.”

“That too.”

An awkward silence followed until Sam spoke again. “Listen, my office number is still the same, kid. You change your mind about that security or need anything, please call.”

“Vi still your secretary?” Emilie remembered the cranky, middle-aged woman who pissed Claire off every time her mother called Sam at work. Emilie had secretly enjoyed seeing her mother rebuffed by Vi.

“Yeah. Don’t worry; she won’t say anything to Claire. Vi still hates her.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

“Emilie—”

“Listen, I have to go.” The dam in her throat was nearing its breaking point. “Thank you for calling, really. It was good to hear from you.”

“You too, kid.” He sighed again, and Emilie realized how much older he sounded. “Please take care of yourself. Watch your back and carry mace.”

“I will. Goodbye.” She pressed the red ‘end’ button and covered her face with the pillow. Maybe if she drowned out the sobs, her breakdown wouldn’t count.

*   *   *   *

N
ATHAN FLASHED HIS
badge and stepped under the yellow crime tape. WestOne Bank was still sealed off, and Metro had placed officers at its front door to ward off would-be crime solvers and nosy civilians.

Little had changed. The broken glass had been swept into the corner and bullets retrieved from the drywall for ballistics testing, leaving the wall pockmarked with holes. Joe’s blood had been cleaned, but the stain remained. Crime scene tape was a puddle on the floor at the basement’s entrance.

Nathan went down the stairs and into the storage room. The air still smelled stale, but the stench of mildew was less overwhelming. Ronson stood near the broken door peering into the exposed hole in the earth.

“What do you think?”

She turned, hand on her chest. “Madigan, you creep like a damned cat.”

“SWAT training.” He grinned. “Sneaking up on people is kind of our thing.”

Ronson motioned to the tunnel. “Thanks for meeting me here. Sergeant Johnson said you were the one to guide me through this mess.”

“Sure. But plenty of officers have been down here.”

“None with your observation skills. I’ve seen you work, Madigan. You’re talented, and you were in the middle of the action the other day. Walk me through this place. Give me your first impressions from that night, thoughts on the perp, whatever comes to mind. Right now, you and Davis know more about him than anyone else.”

“Has she remembered anything more?” Nathan knew he was probably breaking protocol, but he had to ask. Emilie’s frightened face remained foremost in his thoughts since watching her lose control at the station.

Ronson narrowed her eyes, gauging his interest. “That’s right, you were at the station when she came in. Not much. Thinks the partner knows about her past.”

“She mentioned that. It’s definitely possible.

“I agree.

“Did she tell you about her parents?”

“Not in any detail.” Ronson pulled a flashlight out of her bag. “You probably know as much as I do.”

“Interesting how fast Emilie’s medical history appeared online, isn’t it?” Nathan knew Ronson hated press involvement in her cases. When SWAT worked with her last year, she’d refused to speak to the press until her boss threatened to demote her.

“We may have a leak.” Ronson spoke through tight lips. “I’m looking into it.”

“You don’t need to look far,” Nathan said. “We both know someone close to the case who’s own personal gain comes first.”

“Trust me. If I can prove Avery’s leaking information, I’ll have his ass.” Ronson cocked her head toward the tunnel. “Ready?”

An orange extension cord led to the shop light hanging from one of the redwood posts.

“Watch yourself.” Nathan led the way inside. “Don’t get your heels stuck in the dirt.”

“I’m going to call that chivalrous instead of sexist.” She slipped on a pair of running shoes. “I came prepared.”

“Just be careful.” Nathan looked around the walls. “Looks like the light got rid of most of the critters, anyway.”

Ronson drew her arms across her chest as she eyed the dirt walls. “Was that your first impression? The bugs?”

“My first impression was ‘What the hell?’”

“And then?”

The closest he’d come to panic since being a cop. Absolute certainty that stepping into the tunnel would lead him to a nightmare. “Then a sinking feeling I wasn’t going to like what we found. That this guy wasn’t an amateur.”

Ronson ran a gloved hand over one of the newer support posts. “You think he’s done this before?”

“Don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” she said flatly. “But so far, I can’t find any similar crimes within a three-state radius.”

“They’re out there.” Nathan brushed a dangling cobweb out of the way. “No newbie pulls this off.”

“So he runs in here and blocks the door with a piece of wood he’s previously placed. Then he enters—”

Ronson whistled as they rounded the corner into the circular room with the distilling machine. Another makeshift light gave the room a dim glow. “That’s kind of awesome. Wonder how many gangsters sat in that very chair?”

“Maybe Bugsy himself,” Nathan teased. He pointed to the smaller tunnel where a blue tarp had been laid down. “This is as far as I’ve gone.”

Ronson turned on her tactical light and knelt down on the tarp. “Good thing I wore pants today.” She shimmied her narrow body into the hole. Nathan admired her tenacity. And secretly thanked her for not making him do the dirty work.

She emerged minutes later and dusted the dirt off her clothes and hair. “The pipe with the hatch doesn’t look much bigger than this tunnel. I can’t believe the city didn’t notice the hatch when they decided to reuse the pipe for the storm drain system.” She focused her light on Nathan’s face. “You game?”

So much for not getting dirty.
“To go into the pipe?

“I want to follow his trail. Your arm’s bandaged up, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure—”

Ronson cut him off. “I said I wanted your opinion, didn’t I? Besides, I shouldn’t go alone. Capable female I may be, I’m not stupid.”

“Where’s your partner?” Nathan couldn’t resist. The idea of Avery crawling around down here was laughable. “Too dirty down here for Avery?”

Ronson’s mouth twitched. “Following a lead.” She pointed to the tunnels. “Dig in.”

Nathan dug out his own flashlight. “I don’t even know if I’ll fit through here.”

He stretched out his arms, ignoring the painful sting of his stitches, dug his elbows into the tarp-covered dirt, and slithered slowly through the earth. His shoulders caught on the sharp edges above and snagged his T-shirt. When he reached the sewer pipe with the rusted, open hatch, there was no choice but to crawl in face first.

He shined his light into the hatch. The pipe was empty, but the soft trickling of water warned Nathan he was about to get wet.

He grabbed the outside of the hatch and pulled, easing his head into the pipe. His hands were next. Nathan grimaced as his skin touched the cold water. He regained his footing, but the pipe was so shallow he had to crouch down several inches.

“I’m in the pipe,” he called to Ronson. “Come on.”

She crawled inside. “It took you more than five minutes to make it here. No way it took the partner that long. Granted, he’s traveled the route before, but he’s definitely lankier.”

They traipsed through the pipe until they reached a fork. To the right was a manhole that led to the surface, while the left drain continued into the storm drain system.

They followed the second pipe about fifty feet until it opened into a large culvert. There, the tunnels began to branch out, giving them three choices of direction.

Ronson looked at her watch. “Five minutes. That’s ten minutes total, and I didn’t count the time in the tunnel before the distilling room.”

“He had that long. Four or five minutes before SWAT established contact with Emilie and then at least another five before the guys breached the door.”

“Then he disappeared into one of these mazes.”

“And he’s gone.”

“Not gone,” Ronson said. “Hiding. Waiting. Watching. He’s not through yet. His prize is still out there.”

*   *   *   *

E
MILIE CLUTCHED THE
note she’d found stuffed in with her mail. Written in a delicate scrawl with a fine point black marker, the note had been attached to a copy of the blogger’s post.

Dearest Emilie,

I am sorry our reunion was so brutally interrupted and that my endeavor to bring us together has caused you so much public embarrassment. Know that was never my intention.

We have so much to discuss, and I have faith we will be able to talk freely soon.

Until we meet again.

The elevator doors opened and closed, but terror pinned her to the wall. One word raced in a loop: reunion. Was this a trick, or was this someone from her past, someone she’d forgotten or hadn’t even been aware of?

She stumbled into the hall on rubber legs. How had the note and blog post gotten into her mailbox? Creepy wouldn’t have left it himself. Too risky. She’d hung up on the blogger and hadn’t answered any more calls. Was this the blogger’s childish way of getting revenge on Emilie?

She unlocked her apartment door, ignored Otis’s greeting, and read the blog post’s final sentences out loud. “Only one thing is certain: the Subterranean Stalker is somewhere in the city, no doubt watching and waiting. Will he strike again?”

Pain shot through her temple. Suddenly Emilie was back in the bank lobby, trying in vain to ignore Creepy’s odd stream of dialogue:

“The past has always fascinated me.” His face hovered over her left shoulder. “When I was a small child, I spent hours exploring the countryside. History was everywhere: the aged buildings, abandoned houses, the people’s stories. I wanted to learn everything I could. Understanding the past is the only way to accept who we are as individuals and as a culture. So many lessons from our ancestors can be applied to our own lives, and in some cases, the road ahead has already been paved. We just have to find it. Of course you understand, don’t you? You were given an appreciation of our history at a young age, weren’t you, Miss Emilie?”

Her knees ached as she fell to the hardwood floor, hitting her shoulder against the open door.

He moved in front of her as he spoke, each slow breath magnified by the filter of the black facemask. “The past is an important part of life, isn’t it? Our past can affect us forever. A split-second decision can change everything.”

She stared into his dark eyes. Framed with thick, black lashes and a smattering of fine wrinkles, they were too beautiful to belong to someone like him. “You know what I mean, don’t you, Miss Emilie? Isn’t there a single moment from your past that defines you?”