Into the Devil's Underground (39 page)

“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 trying 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.”

*   *   *   *

E
MILIE 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

N
ATHAN 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?”

“Julian.” She moved across the Persian rug to stand before him. “There’s no answer to that question, at least none that will give you any peace of mind.” She touched her bound hands to his shoulder. “Watching my Mémé die was the most heart wrenching experiences of my life.”

He looked up. The stalker Emilie knew had evaporated. Julian, the broken child, sat before her. “I can’t let her go.”

“I know. But you can’t let her memory control your life. Do you think she would want you to mourn her like this?”

“It was my fault. I knew better.”

“Any one of us could say that about our past mistakes. I knew running away from Portland and my mother was stupid, but I did it anyway. I knew six months after I married Evan it was a huge mistake, but I chose to stay for another ten years.”

Julian nodded and brought his right hand to rest over hers.

Emilie pressed on. She was getting through. “And my friend, his uncle was murdered right in front of him when he was a kid. He’s always blamed himself. Things happen that are out of our control. The only thing we can control is how we react to the obstacles thrown at us.”

His expression shifted. Eyes narrowed, lips curled. Creepy had returned. “You’re talking about Madigan.”

Emilie swallowed. Her skin turned hot. She’d made a huge mistake.

“I don’t care to hear his sad story. He’s of no interest to me.”

“I just meant your situations are similar. Terrible losses that changed you both.”

“Do not compare me to him,” Julian shouted. He leaped from the chair. “You lied to me.”

She stepped backward. His face had morphed into that of an angry monster. His dark eyes shined with fury. Air rushed between his bared teeth as his chest heaved. His fists clenched, his neck muscles rigid.

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie. It’s most unbecoming of a lady.”

“Julian, I didn’t.”

“Nathan Madigan is more than a friend.” Spittle flew out of his mouth. “Your eyes told the truth when you spoke of his pain. You care for him.”

“Only as a friend,” she cried. “I swear.”

“On what? Your dead mother’s grave? As if that woman’s spirit could save you.”

Emilie tripped and banged against a shelf. The wood dug into her back, the objects on the shelves rattled. Three feet away, the sliding glass door could be easily unlocked. She held her hands in front of her.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought him up. Your loss is nothing like his. Josephine—”

“Do not speak her name,” he boomed. “You are not worthy of her.”

“Please, don’t say that. I want to help,” Emilie begged. A small statue sat on an end table next to the sofa. Two steps forward and Emilie could reach it.

She changed her course and inched toward the table. “You can’t replace her, Julian. No matter what you do, no other woman is going to live up to Josephine.”

“That’s not true. I can teach you.” He stopped his advance. “With some training, you will be a suitable stand-in.”

“I don’t want to be a stand-in. I want to live my own life. What would Josephine say if she saw what you’re doing to me? What you did to that woman in Louisiana?”

“She was unteachable. I still have hope for you.”

“Josephine’s gone.” Emilie had almost reached the table. “You can’t bring her back. You’re only ruining lives, and you’ll never be satisfied. No matter what you do, I’ll never live up to her.”

“Don’t say that.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I need her.”

“She’s dead.” Her hip made contact with the table. She took a step back. If she moved fast enough, she had a chance. “She’s dead, and she’s never coming back.”