Into the Dark (33 page)

His body crackled with excitement. The smell of her skin—something sweet, yet musky, not unlike jasmine—overrode his senses. His gloved fingers drummed on the steering wheel, his lips were dry. He licked them. His chest swelled with triumph. Just the two of them now. No weak, pathetic friend trying to protect her, no meddling cop tainting what belonged to Julian.

Had she allowed Madigan access to her body? That particular filth would have to be eradicated. She needed to be cleansed, made innocent again. But first, she needed to understand. Her fate belonged to Julian—she’d been made to salvage him from a life of guilt.

Their new life together had finally begun.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Nathan read the texts again.
Letter’s in vault. Going to bank. Text when I leave. Sorry.

The second came over an hour later.
Got it. Heading back. Call asap
.

Why wasn’t Emilie answering her phone? The second text had been sent fifty-seven minutes ago. No way had she gone back to sleep. She wasn’t at the bank. Ronson had already woken the assistant manager to demand security tapes.

“How’d she get past the patrol?” Chris insisted on coming with Nathan.

“I have no clue. I may kill her myself.”

“Patrol entering the house?”

“Right now.”

His fingers dug into the steering wheel. Something had happened. Emilie should have answered.

“Maybe her phone’s dead.” Chris read his mind.

“She’s got a charger.”

He dodged through traffic on I-215 disregarding the speed limit. Patrol officers traipsed out of the Vance’s house when Nathan skidded to a halt in the driveway.

“She in there?”

“No. Car’s still here, though.”

Nathan’s insides clenched. She’d gotten back safely. Then he’d taken her.

“What about Vance’s car?” Chris asked. “He drives some kind of SUV.”

“Davis’s Impala is the only one in the garage. She must have driven Vance’s vehicle to throw us off.”

“It’s an Acadia.” Nathan rounded on the officers. “How could you let her sneak out like that?”

“Knock it off.” Chris jerked at his arm. “That’s not helping anything.”

“He’s got her, Chris.”

His friend didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew Nathan was right.

* * * *

The thick, putrid odor of mildew permeated her tongue. Emilie gagged on the bulky material shoved into her mouth. Darkness was her next realization. Her eyes were open and staring at a veil of black—she was blindfolded.

She lay on a thin blanket, her nose mashed against the cotton. Beneath the material was a rough surface.

Fear slammed into her chest. Her rapid heartbeat stole her breath. Adrenaline raced through her veins and prompted her to move. The plastic bonds around her wrists and ankles were so tight they cut into her skin.

She listened for the sound of something other than her own panic. The slow, even breathing of someone mere feet away was the terrifying result.

The Taker had her. She was in the tunnels.

“Relax.” The voice was familiar, the southern drawl no longer obscured. “I have no desire to hurt you, Miss Emilie.”

Slender hands brushed her face and caressed her cheek. The gag was removed.

“You’ve got a fucked up way of showing it,” Emilie spat.

“Language, please. Ladies shouldn’t be so vulgar.”

She couldn’t tell him to go to hell. She had to play his game, be what he wanted. That was her only chance of survival.

“Sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

His voice came from the left, near her ear. He was close. She turned her head in his direction and blinked. Her eyes had adjusted but were little help. Her prison was still black with only the faint outline of a shape a foot away.

“Can you please turn on a light?”

“In due time.”

“How’d you get inside the bank?”

A soft laugh from the darkness. “Didn’t Vance tell you he lost his keys some months ago? They were only gone for a short while—just long enough for me to make a copy.”

“Apparently there’s a lot he neglected to tell me.”

“Don’t blame him, my dear. He is a man ruled by his weakness and gluttony. He never had a chance.”

Emilie tried to wiggle her wrists but they were bound too tightly. Terror rendered her mute. She wasn’t getting away this time.

* * * *

“Why didn’t she call me?” Ronson had arrived at the station wearing a polo shirt and tennis shoes, her dark hair pulled back. She looked ready for a Saturday at home.

“Because she’s stubborn and impatient,” Nathan said. “She wanted to know what was in the letter.”

“And if she’d called, I could have told her techs had finally gotten past the encrypted code on Vance’s Mac and expect to have all of its data within a couple of hours.”

“When did you find this out? You could have given us a heads-up.”

“Three a.m. I assumed she was sleeping.”

“She should have been. What are you doing to find her?”

“We’ve got an APB out for the Acadia. I’m putting together a search team for the tunnels.”

“You really think he’d take her there?” Nathan asked. “I know we’ve always assumed it, but he’s got to know we’ve been in the drains. His plan isn’t exactly secret anymore.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ronson said. “We can’t search everywhere. He’s had time to find the perfect spot. No reason to worry about being caught. His ego will be his undoing. He’ll screw up.”

Nathan didn’t agree. Emilie had to find a way to stay alive until she could be found. And if Vance’s computer didn’t give them anything, she could be permanently lost.

Avery emerged from his office. His normally impeccable suit had been replaced by jeans and a T-shirt, an LVPD cap over his thinning hair.

“Damn,” Chris said. “Never seen you look normal.”

“Shut it.” Avery turned to Ronson. “Just got a call from patrol. Found the Acadia.”

“Where?” Ronson asked.

“In a downtown parking garage, old one without security cameras. A unit recognized the make and model. Got a match on the plate number. Team’s heading out to process.”

Nathan walked to the eastern windows. The rising sun shot bright rays of pink across the sky. Las Vegas stretched before him, a vast area with thousands of places to hide and below ground, hundreds more.

He didn’t believe The Taker would take Emilie into the tunnels. The police had snooped around down there. Emilie had already seen the misery that lived in the drains. The shock factor was gone.

“He’s not stashing her in the tunnels.”

“It’s our best lead,” Ronson said.

“I need to help search.”

“No.” Ronson’s voice was firm. “You’re too close to Emilie. I want you here.”

“What for? I need to be out there looking for her.”

“I need you here to help decipher Vance’s notes.”

“Even if he knows who the Taker is, what good does it do? His name isn’t going to lead us to his hideout.”

Ronson came to stand beside him. “She’s smart. She’ll figure out a way to get him to bring her outside. She’ll make him feel safe. He wants her to care for him, to share his life with her. Once he feels that she does, he’ll take her to his home. And when he does, we’ll be waiting for him. We just need his name.”

Nathan searched the agent’s face. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because it’s her only hope.”

* * * *

“Are you thirsty?”

Cotton lined Emilie’s mouth. “Yes, please.”

A hand cupped the back of her head and caressed her hair. Emilie didn’t allow herself to react. She had to make him trust her.

A plastic straw tapped against her mouth. She parted her lips and eagerly drank. Water halfway down her throat, a terrifying thought struck: what if he’d drugged the water? Or poisoned it?

She choked.

“
Ma chère
.” He stroked her hair. “Easy. You’ll make yourself sick.”

Should she drink? She needed the water for strength. He had any number of other options if he wanted to harm her. She had to take the risk.

“Sorry. Can I please try again?”

“Of course.”

This time, she drank until the Taker removed the straw. “We must make it last.”

Water dripped from her chin. She licked her lips, not wanting to spare a drop. “Thank you.”

“
Parkwa.
” The word rolled off his tongue.

“I don’t speak Creole, but I assume that meant, ‘you’re welcome.’”

“
Wi
—yes. You recognize my language?”

“It’s quite beautiful. Much different than French.”

“
Parlez vous francais?
”

“
Oui
.”

“Your
Mémé
taught you?”

“Yes.”

“An exceptional woman.”

They had a five-minute conversation about
Mémé
. The Taker knew nothing of
Mémé’s
spirit, her sacrifice. Emilie swallowed her anger and pressed on.

“What’s your name?”

“Julian.”

A beautiful name for a blackened soul, Emilie thought. “I like it. What’s your last name?”

“I’ll keep that to myself,
chère
.”

Bastard. “Of course. So where are you from, originally?” She played dumb. “Not much of a Creole population in Nevada.”

A moment of silence, and then, “Why do you ask?”

“You already know so much about me.” Emilie chose her words carefully. “Will you please tell me more about you?”

“Why?”

She stretched her legs. How big was her prison? Did she have room to fight? Her feet touched nothing. She didn’t dare try to move her bound hands from her lap.

“Isn’t that what you want? For me to know you?”

“Hmm.” The silence hung between them as Emilie waited.

“New Orleans,” the Taker finally drawled.

“Beautiful city.”

“It is quite wonderful—the most European of all American cities. I miss it.”

“Why did you leave? Were you affected by Katrina?”

A quiet shuffling rippled through the darkness. He’d shifted closer. His leg now touched her upper arm. He sat cross-legged. If she moved fast enough, she could slam her fists into his crotch. And then what? Her ankles were still tied–running was pointless.

“Fortunately, no. An opportunity arose I couldn’t resist.”

She knew he was lying. He’d fled because he’d murdered Marie Adrieux.

“Must have been hard to leave the place you grew up.”

“Life is a series of hard choices. Something you understand, I’m sure.”

Her defense mechanism flared. She bit her lip against it. This was not the time to say something stupid. “I do.”

“Why did you leave home, Miss Emilie?”

He was baiting her, trying to get her to talk about her mother. He wanted her to thank him.

“Don’t you know?”

“I gathered your mother did something terrible. Although I’m not sure what could be worse than lying to you about your paternity.”

Emilie ground her teeth, and then caught herself. “Claire lied to me my entire life about my father—at least the man I thought was my father.” Her bitterness was real. Emilie didn’t know if she would ever be able to forgive her mother.

“How did you discover the truth?”

“When I was eighteen, I received a letter from
Mémé
. She’d written it before she died and left instructions for it to be delivered. She told me everything.”

“Why didn’t she share the truth with you before she passed?”

“I was too young.”

“And she didn’t want your last memories of her to be filled with anger.”

A jolt rushed through her. Emilie had never thought of
Mémé’s
actions that way. She remembered her grandmother with love and adoration and understood her choice. If
Mémé
had told the truth when Emilie was just a child, her reaction would have been different. Instead, Emilie had been given the gift of understanding.

“You’re right, Julian. I was devastated she was dying, but my last memories of her are wonderful.”

“As they should be,
chère
. Your
Mémé
was a wise woman.”

Emilie’s blindfold soaked up her tears. As much as she missed
Mémé
, she had no desire to join her any time soon. She wanted to live, to have a life with Nathan.