Into the Devil's Underground (17 page)

Claustrophobia attacked. Creepy closed in. His warm breath swept over her neck, and his saccharine scent crept into her nose. He had surrounded her again. She was trapped.

No.
She whipped her head around searching in vain for some sign of his presence. He couldn’t be there, could he? Her tired, tormented brain was just playing a cruel trick on her.
Please, just leave me alone.

She tried again to make it to the kitchen. She needed a weapon, something to strike with. If her attacker was there, he wasn’t going to take her out of her own home.

Her shaking hands smacked against the granite bar extending from the kitchen. She slid forward, nearly losing her balance again. Cold metal touched her fingertips.

Her phone.

Light.

Emilie barely registered it was only 10:30 p.m. as she held the phone high over her head and panned it around. There was no one in sight, but he could be hiding in the corner, watching and laughing.

She slammed her thumb down on the ‘call’ icon and scrolled through her contacts.

The perky voice of a happy five-year-old little girl answered the call.

“Get. Your. Daddy.” Each word felt like Emilie’s last.

“Hello?”

“Jeremy. Need help.”

“Emilie.” Jeremy’s frantic voice came through the speaker. “Where are you?”

“Home. No lights.” A heavy thud sounded in the living room. Terror stalled her heart. She twisted around, her phone high in the air. Jeremy shouted her name. Panic seized her. Her breath came in short, painful rasps. Numbness consumed her entire body. Darkness stretched in front of her, a long tunnel with no end in sight.

Emilie flailed blindly. Her foot came down on something squishy. Otis’s screech filled the house, and the angry cat shot between her legs. Emilie stumbled and lost her footing.

She plummeted backwards, dropping the phone. White-hot pain rushed over Emilie as her head connected with a hard, pointed surface.

Her body slammed against the tile floor. Then the pain was gone. Emilie floated in a black abyss, surrounded by silence. A face appeared: a man with olive-colored skin and several days’ beard growth. He had a strong brow, prominent cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips. He smiled down at her.

His eyes. Dark. Beautiful. Terrifying.

“Remember, Miss Emilie,” Creepy whispered. “Remember me.”

And then her mind slipped away.

15

A
SHRILL RING
jerked Nathan awake. He fumbled for the phone lying somewhere on his old wooden nightstand.

“I just came off a twelve-hour shift. This better be important.”

“It is.”

“God, Chris. You should be sleeping too.”

“You know I have to unwind after we have a busy night. You need to read this morning’s edition of The
Sun
.”

“You still get a paper?” Nathan rubbed his eyes. “Like an actual hard copy?”

“I’m old school. You’ve got a fancy phone. Get on their website.”

“Why?”

“Emilie Davis is in the hospital.”

“What?” Nathan sat up. “Was she attacked?”

“Sounds like she had some kind of breakdown. Got hurt. You need to read.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re interested in the case. And her. And there’s some really good info in that article.”

“I’m not interested in Emilie. The case, yes. Creepy is fascinating and—”

“Save it. I know you. Just read it.”

Nathan hit ‘end’ and pulled up The
Sun
’s website on his iPhone. Dread settled in his stomach when he saw the reporter’s byline.

Attempted Kidnapping Victim Admitted to Hospital

According to an anonymous source, Emilie Davis, the attempted kidnapping victim of the masked man known only as ‘The Subterranean Stalker,’ has been admitted to St. Rose Dominican Hospital in Henderson after suffering a panic attack and hitting her head.

The source went on to describe Davis as volatile and argumentative. “Getting information from her is like pulling teeth,” the source said. “She prefers to berate the abilities of law enforcement rather than assist them. Her breakdown is no surprise.”

At this time, Metro Police still have no information regarding the identity or whereabouts of the cunning ‘Stalker.’

Nathan jumped out of bed and searched for a clean pair of jeans. “That dirty sonofabitch. Anonymous source my ass.”

*   *   *   *

A
N ENDLESS WHITE
blur hovered above Emilie. Streaks of light became visible, stretching across the blur’s surface. Then, texture. The mist wasn’t entirely smooth. There were strange, grainy patterns within it. She realized it was an unfamiliar ceiling.

She blinked. Her eyelids felt heavy.

“Em?”

“Jeremy?” Her unfocused gaze descended, searching for the voice.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Am I in the hospital?” Her tongue felt heavy. She licked her lips.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you remember?”

Her right hand hurt. She raised her arm and searched for the pain’s source. An IV. Why did she have a damned medicine tube stuck in her?

“Remember what?”

Jeremy’s hand rested on hers. She was struck by its femininity: soft and smooth, his fingernails perfectly manicured. Weren’t a man’s hands supposed to invoke a feeling of strength and power? Unlike Nathan Madigan’s calloused touch, Jeremy’s left Emilie feeling insecure.

Why was she thinking about Nathan Madigan?

“You had a panic attack last night,” Jeremy said. “You called me and passed out before I could get to your place. Can you remember anything?”

She touched her aching head. “I tripped over Otis.”

“You hit your head on the corner of the kitchen table. Doctor kept you overnight.”

Images from last night played back in her head like a movie: darkness, the paralyzing fear, the inability to breathe, and the mysterious face.

“He was there.” Emilie attempted to sit up. Jeremy laid his hand on her shoulder, pressing her tired body back into the bed.

“Lie down. Who was there?”

“Creepy. I saw him.”

Jeremy’s sun-kissed cheeks turned white. “That’s impossible.”

“I saw him.”

Jeremy ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Em, no one was in the apartment with you when I got there. I unlocked the door with the spare key and let paramedics in. There was no sign of a break-in. He wasn’t there.”

“He was.” Even as the words fell from her mouth, uncertainty set in. Had she been hallucinating? The sense of not being alone had been incredibly real, and Creepy’s face was solid as he bent over her. His features were etched in her mind.

And yet she was in the hospital with an IV and a pounding headache.

“How bad am I injured?”

“You hit your head. You were unresponsive when paramedics showed up, and your pulse was sky high. I thought you’d had a heart attack. You regained consciousness in the ER, but you were a mess. They had to sedate you.”

“Well, I’m fine now.” She kicked off the scratchy sheet and sat up. Her head throbbed. “Can you get a nurse in here to take out this IV? I want to go home.”

“You’re not going anywhere. Judging by the circles under your eyes, I’d say you’ve barely slept in the past few days. You’ve lost weight, and the doctor said you were dehydrated. You’re not taking care of yourself.”

“I had a few bad days. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

Emilie ground her teeth. “I need to tell Agent Ronson about my flashback.”

“She and that detective were here last night, but you were in no shape to talk. They’ll be back this morning.”

The chair scraped against the floor as Jeremy stood up. He pulled his hair again.

“What?” Emilie didn’t need a lecture. She needed to tell Agent Ronson what she remembered.

“You don’t really think this bastard was in your apartment, do you?”

“I saw his face.”

“But you’ve never seen his face, Em. How do you know the face you saw wasn’t just some random man your mind conjured up?”

“Because I’ve talked to him before.” The answer came without thought, but she knew it was true.

“Are you sure?” Jeremy’s normally smooth tenor cracked with anticipation.

Her chest felt tight, but hope flittered through her. “Yes. I just have no idea when or where.”

*   *   *   *

N
ATHAN IGNORED THE
desk sergeant’s greeting. He stormed down the hall and across the crowded squad room. Avery wasn’t sitting out with the common folk. His narrow ass was planted firmly in his posh leather chair as he lounged in his office, no doubt admiring all the faux awards on his wall.

Nathan shoved open the door without bothering to knock. “What do we have here? Giving out more anonymous information?”

Avery dropped the cellphone that had been pressed to his large ear. “Madigan. Who do you think you are barging into my office?”

Nathan pushed the fancy gold nameplate out of his way and planted his hands on Avery’s gleaming mahogany desk. “You’re a piece of shit.”

The detective’s neck turned red. “What’s your problem, Wonder Boy?”

“Let me jog your memory.” Nathan opened the browser on his phone. “Getting information from her is like pulling teeth. She prefers to berate the abilities of law enforcement rather than assist them. Her breakdown is no surprise.”

“What are you referring to?” Avery picked at his fingernails.

“Cut the shit. You’re the anonymous source. You’re feeding this reporter information because you’re pissed Emilie stood up to you.”

“Please. I have better things to do than talk to the vultures.”

“Right.” Nathan wanted to knock Avery out of his mammoth chair. “You’re so busy on this case you didn’t even go back to the scene with Ronson.”

“How would you know that?” Avery’s piggish expression soured.

Nathan enjoyed the detective’s embarrassment. “She asked me to guide her through the tunnel. Were you afraid of getting your suit dirty or just scared of the creepy-crawlies?”

Avery jumped from his seat, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Nathan raised his eyebrow. “Touchy subject I see.”

He didn’t flinch as Avery circled the desk and came to stand toe-to-toe with him.

“You’re a cocky prick, Madigan. A jealous kid from the wrong side of the tracks. What would Jimmy think of your attitude?”

“Don’t bring him into this.” Nathan grabbed Avery by his expensive lapels.

“Watch out, Madigan.” Avery’s skinny fingers clawed at Nathan’s grip. “SWAT wouldn’t want its superstar suspended, would they?”

“Knocking your teeth out would be worth a suspension.” Nathan shoved Avery away, sending him into a filing cabinet. “But not today.”

“Typical.” Avery adjusted his suit. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not this ‘source’ you’re so upset with.”

“Right.” Nathan picked up a crystal paperweight and envisioned leveling it at Avery’s bulbous head. “I’m warning you, Dalton. Stop feeding the press information about Emilie Davis. It’s bad enough fame whores are digging up dirt on her when she’s the one who’s been harmed. Don’t add to her problems by using the media in a personal vendetta because your delicate ego is bruised.”

Avery snatched the paperweight and set it carefully back down on the desk. “I find your concern about Davis interesting. Personal, even.”

“I really don’t care what you think.”

“It’s just fascinating to me. You’ve barely had any contact with her, and yet here you are, acting as her champion. Odd thing to do for a near stranger, even if she is a hot piece.”

“That’s why I’m a negotiator, and you sit behind a desk.”

“Do you offer this service to every victim you help?”

He didn’t. Although he frequently checked on those he’d assisted, Nathan never had any personal contact after SWAT left the scene. That wasn’t his job.

But Emilie was different.
No, her case is different. Emilie is just another survivor.

Avery’s lips twisted condescendingly. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“Makes me think you’re an asshole.” Nathan stalked toward the door. “Remember what I said. Back off.”

He pushed past the nosy officers trying to nonchalantly observe the argument, kicking a wastebasket as he left the squad room. Damned Dalton Avery. He was a pompous bastard who never should have made detective. Nathan had no doubt Avery was the one talking to the press about Emilie.

How was her head injury? What had happened to send her into a panic attack?

Why did he care?

He didn’t hear Ronson calling him until she grabbed his arm and shouted his name.

“Jesus.” Nathan rubbed his ear. “I’m not deaf.”

“You sure?” Ronson was out of breath. “I chased you down the hall, called your name half a dozen times, and you just kept right on walking.”

“Preoccupied.”

“So I heard,” she said. “You and Avery?”

Nathan started walking again. “You read The
Sun
?”

“About Davis? Yep.”

“Avery’s the source—the leak.”

“You got any proof?” Ronson looked hopeful.

“I don’t need it.”

“Well, I do,” she said. “Unless we can prove it’s him, I can’t get him kicked off the case.”

“It’s good to know you’d like to.” Still didn’t keep the mouth from leaking information that might put their chances of catching Creepy in jeopardy.

“Did I say that?”

“You didn’t have to.” Nathan smirked. “Skilled at reading people, remember?”

“Right.”

“Have you talked to Emilie yet?”

“No,” Ronson said. “We’re headed to the hospital soon. Hopefully she’s better than she was last night.”

“What happened?” Nathan shouldn’t be asking, but he still felt a responsibility for Emilie. If only he’d stopped Creepy’s escape.

“She called Jeremy Vance—the bank president—for help,” Ronson said. “She panicked and hit her head. She regained consciousness in the ambulance but freaked out. Fought the docs too. Had to sedate her.”

“You saw this?”

“Avery and I were there.”

“Of course.” Avery had given the reporter first-hand information, just like Nathan suspected.