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  He pushed another branch aside, and then looked up and saw it. In the rock face halfway up the hill before him was a dark hole with a bit of light peeking out from within. The mouth of the cave.

  Dale breathed a small sigh of relief. Finally, out of the rain. But there was also a sense of dread. Although this place was his bit of safety for the moment—both from the weather and from the forces he now knew were pursuing him—it also reminded him of the dark set of circumstances that had led him there. And in the cave was the person he was protecting, Mira, so the place also reminded Dale of the terrible things that had happened to her. The worst things that human beings can do to one another.

  He paused for just moment in the rain, looking at the cave.

  And then he climbed toward it.

  Dale stepped into the dry, dusty space, which was about twenty feet squared and had a ceiling just tall enough that he didn’t have to duck. Immediately he felt a bit warmer, a bit less soaked. He took off the trucker cap, tossed it to the side.

  A flashlight in the corner put out a scant amount of light. Next to it were Mira’s bottles of medication and a large bucket of water with two tin cups sitting to the side. In the other corner was a queen-size mattress, filthy and worn with a few blankets and a pair of pillows. And standing beside the mattress was Mira Lyndon.

  She stepped over to him.

  “Oh my goodness,” she said. “What happened to you? What’s all this green paint?”

  He looked down at his leather jacket, which now had streaks of the paint that had been on Brennan.

  “Let’s just say I had a colorful run in with the law.”

  She pointed at his face. “You didn’t have a goatee when you left.”

  While he was in town, Dale had stopped for some impromptu grooming, something to help hide his identity.

  He gave her a smile. It was a weak smile, not his usual gregariousness. It was the best he could do at the moment.

  “Enough about my fashion choices.” He pointed to the mattress. “Why aren’t you resting?

  “Too anxious.”

  “You need to take it easy and recover for a while.” He paused. “Because tonight we’re leaving Hot Springs.”

  Chapter Five

  Ventress stared down at Nash from her standing position. And Nash hated himself for feeling so damn inferior.

  There was a time—only three years ago—when nothing would have made him feel lesser. He’d been an FBI agent. He worked in a large city, Detroit. He had money and a title and a degree.

  And respect.

  But respect was something of which he now had none. No one respected the sad-looking man who worked a midnight shift on a shithole side of town, selling fuel to the occasional 3AM customer, but primarily cleaning and stocking to prepare the gas station for those with the more prestigious daytime and evening shifts. Even they were above Nash now.

  Nash scuttled through existence like a cockroach. Beneath feet, hiding under tables, eating what's dropped and forgotten.

  He had gone from the heights of life to the absolute depths. The only thing worse would be if he slipped into drugs, which he promised himself he never would, no matter how bad things got. But he had certainly dipped into alcohol, and it had taken a toll. Adding to his weight, his expenses, and degrading his health.

  It's funny what something like a job or money or power or titles can do to a man. All intangible concepts, all man-made ideas. But they can change one's total perspective.

  When Nash had agreed to go along with Conley on this assignment, he had cleaned himself up as best he could. He shaved, and he’d been able to find a couple polo shirts among the filth in his camper, though he knew they would look tattered and faded and disgusting compared to the dress clothes worn by the people he was sure to encounter over the course of the investigation with Dale. So before he even got into the passenger side of Arancia and headed toward Arkansas, he was already feeling small.

  And that was before he met Ventress. Before all her questions. He could never have predicted he would be put on the stand at an impromptu trial. If he'd felt small before, he felt microscopic now.

  She just kept coming at him with the questions.

  Again and again…

  “So Conley is ‘sincere and dedicated,’” Ventress said in that contemptuous, hostile tone of hers. “Coming from someone like yourself, that’s a really strong testimonial, let me tell ya.” She laughed cruelly. “Someone who got kicked out of the FBI for being batshit crazy. You and Conley must have become really close during your assignment together up north.”

  Nash didn't appreciate how derisive she spoke about his experience with Dale. No matter how things had turned out, the truth was Dale had done a lot for Nash. So while Nash’s connection with Dale was certainly a love-hate one— with plenty of checks in the hate column—he didn't want someone like Ventress dissecting it.

  But sitting there, with her looking down at him, his internal resistance dissipated, and all he said was, “We were friends, yes.”

  She snickered.

  “How sweet. And then he ratted you out, told the Bureau what he found out about your sick fantasies.”

  “He did.”

  This was the moment that Nash been dreading. The moment he knew was going to come eventually. His pulse quickened.

  Ventress walked away and picked up the folder she’d retrieved earlier, flipped through some papers inside.

  “Let me get this straight. You have fantasies about hurting and killing women.”

  Nash could feel every eye in the room turn to him. It'd been a long time since he had discussed any of this. With anyone. He’d never talked about it in front of a group. Or against his will. Or illegally, which is what this “trial” was.

  “Yes,” he said plainly. Simple truth, he reasoned, was his best shield against this attack.

  The room became more quiet, and Nash could hear people turning in their seats, the squeaking of chairs. Turning of necks. They all wanted to see the freak. The monster.

  Ventress flipped some more pages.

  “You imagine yourself strangling and cutting them.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said.

  Hensley gasped. Someone cleared their throat. Rain tapped hard against the window.

  “You get off on the idea of bringing women pain, causing their deaths.”

  Nash didn’t respond.

  “Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  He heard more of the little noises he was expecting from the others. Not quite shudders, but the sounds of people who had never heard something quite so revolting in their whole lives.

  “Disgusting,” Ventress said. “And yet somehow you made it past the psychological screening for the FBI.”

  “They’re just fantasies. I know how to control them.”

  Back when he was an agent, back when he was somebody, when he was a man, Nash had always felt that being defensive was the weakest thing a person could do. And yet now, all he knew to do, the only thing he could do, was defend himself. Against the whole damn room.

  Ventress was showing them who he was.

  Ventress was painting a picture of the monster.

  “You know ‘how to control them,’” she repeated. “You also know how to display yourself as a decent, normal human being. How to hide your true self, getting so far as becoming an FBI agent. That’s quite impressive, Harbick. I have to hand it to you. You fooled ’em all. Until you met Dale Conley, that is.”

  She looked at him, wanting him to respond.

  He just stared back at her.

  “And how have you kept yourself busy since you left the FBI?”

  “I stock shelves and mop floors. At a gas station.”

  Ventress scoffed again. “How glamorous.”

  “It’s a little hard to use your college degree when your resume says you were kicked out of the FBI after twelve years of service.”

  “Without telling them you’re screwed up in the head. Blech. You m
ake my skin crawl. Sicko.”

  More noise from the room. Increased shuffling in the seats. Papers and briefcases being adjusted. Small coughs. The discomfort level was rising. People had seen what Ventress was trying to show them—that Nash was indeed the monster.

  “As I said, they’re just fantasies. I’ve never hurt a soul.”

  “Fantasies. About hurting women,” she said and stared at him for a moment. “I’m a woman. Do you feel like hurting me?”

  Yes.

  “No.”

  She narrowed her eyes, twisted her cruel mouth into a bit of a smirk. “Do you want to watch the last breaths flutter out of my mouth, Harbick?”

  Absolutely.

  “Of course not.”

  Ventress in the darkness, She was a mean old thing, ruthless and nasty, but she wasn’t without her appeal. Her figure was surprisingly trim and shapely for a woman her age. Perhaps unnoticed by some. By many, even. But Nash had noticed. In that skirted business suit. That he tore off her. Screaming. Stepping behind her. A foot to the back, shoving her to the ground. Hands beneath her jaw. Yanking back hard.

  Ventress crossed in front of the window. There was a gust of wind outside. A wave of rain slapped the glass. She looked Nash over, giving him an undeniable non-verbal message: You make me sick.

  Then she spoke again.

  “So you’re up in Memphis,” she said, “minding your business, living the gas station life, when suddenly Conley comes to visit. What was it like, after all those years, seeing the man who ruined your world?”

  “It was ... unexpected.”

  Chapter Six

  Two days earlier, Nash had been sleeping soundly—just before it all started.

  It was late in the morning, about eleven o’clock, and Nash awoke with a jolt in the over-the-cab bunk in his pickup camper. He was unshaven, wearing a tank top, eyes bloodshot.

  There was an incessant tapping coming from the square of glass on the camper’s door. It was piercingly loud—or at least it sounded that way to Nash’s hangover.

  He climbed down from the bunk, groggy, and stumbled through the filthy camper, dodging empty cans and strewn clothes.

  On his door, he kept a towel draped over the small window. He put his finger on the towel, inched it back a tad. And when he saw the person outside, he felt his mouth open, followed by a flush to his cheeks. He couldn't believe who was standing on the small set of metal steps outside the door.

  Next to the doorframe, resting against the wall, were a pair of tall, thin items: a double-barreled shotgun and a Louisville Slugger. For a moment, Nash considered the shotgun. But he grabbed the baseball bat instead.

  He swung the thin door open.

  Standing outside in the bright sunshine was Dale Conley.

  Smiling.

  The jackass was actually smiling.

  He wore a light green, V-neck T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Sunglasses. His orange De Tomaso Pantera was parked several feet back, toward the front of Nash’s rented property, under the shade of the oak tree.

  Dale smiled larger, all big and toothy. “Miss me?”

  Nash stormed through the door and squinted in the bright sunshine. It was a hot day. And muggy. Nash had been avoiding the sun in the shade of his camper, but he hadn’t been able to escape the humidity. Not with his half-functioning window-unit air conditioner.

  The highway rumbled nearby. The cicadas were deafening. Godforsaken dogs barked in the distance. And from the trailer park, the screams of children, shrieking domestic disputes.

  Nash clenched the bat midway up the shaft and approached Dale menacingly, holding it high in the air.

  Dale eyeballed the bat and stepped away, down the steps, and onto the dusty ground. The smile largely, but not entirely, disappeared from his lips.

  Nash followed.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t bash your head in!”

  Dale eyes flicked to the bat again.

  “I’ll give you two.” He held up a finger. “One, you wouldn’t want to mess up a mug this handsome, would ya?” He extended a second finger. “Two, the last time I checked, murder is still illegal in the United States. Killing a federal agent is especially bad.”

  Nash stared at him, a low growl rumbling out of his throat.

  He wanted to. So badly.

  The feeling was there.

  The fantasy.

  Though it wasn’t the same. This wasn’t a woman.

  But there were personal reasons. Oh-so delicious personal reasons.

  The bat swinging. A scream from Dale before the crack of his skull. Him collapsing to the ground. Swinging and swinging. Crimson splashes. Warm droplets. Until there was no more of that smirking, smartass face.

  Different thoughts then, more rational ones. Memories. About everything this man had done for him, to him. The terrible things…

  But also the good.

  After a moment of staring at Dale, Nash realized his nostrils were flaring. He could feel them sucking in big breaths.

  He lowered the bat. Stared at Dale for a moment longer. Then threw the bat down. It clattered on the dusty ground.

  He crossed his arms.

  Dale still had that stupid smile on his face, but Nash could also see some relief in his eyes. He’d put the fear in Dale for a moment. With the bat. He felt rather good about that.

  Nash wondered what differences Dale could perceive. It had been three years since they’d seen each other. Nash had lived nothing like he was currently living. Clearly Dale couldn't help but see the camper, the parched earth with scraggly patches of grass, the trailer park surrounding them, peeking through the gaps in the trees.

  But Nash wondered if Dale also saw the differences in Nash himself. In his current existence, Nash shaved only when he had to. Which was rarely. It wasn't required for his job, after all. His skin was blotchy, frequently infected, and home to more acne than he’d had as a teenager. Beer and frozen pizza will do that to a man. He’d also gained twenty pounds, and when Dale had known him, Nash didn't have the hint of a second chin that he now did.

  Nash felt pathetic.

  Years ago, there had been something about Dale that made Nash feel like a better man—a man who could quite possibly be a decent person after all. Pridefully, Nash had never told Dale, but the guy had been a bit of a role model to him

  Once the series of events began, though, Dale’s shining image had made Nash feel weak. Small. Like the monster he'd been told he was. And that was before Nash had gained all the weight. Before the second chin. Before the greasy skin and hair.

  He crossed his arms and barked out a question, trying to maintain some level of power, dignity.

  “What the hell do you want, Dale?”

  “I need your help. I’m on my way down to Arkansas. I’ve got a case where—”

  He was here to ask for help??

  Nash snapped.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  He threw a swing at Dale, who ducked the punch. Another swing, which Dale also dodged. Dale wasn’t fighting back, and he was easily avoiding Nash’s attack.

  The third swing from Nash was unavoidable, and it caught Dale in the side, bending him over.

  This angered Dale. His eyes grew dark.

  And now he fought back.

  He took a swing at Nash, slugging him across the jaw There was a jolt of pain. Nash stumbled back toward the truck/camper combo.

  Dale punched a second time, landing a blow to Nash’s stomach, pushing him farther back. Nash felt sick. There were several beers inside him. The blow threw him back again, and he smacked into the camper with a loud crack.

  Dale lunged at him, but Nash sidestepped and used Dale’s misbalanced forward momentum against him, swinging his arm around Dale’s neck and throwing a leg in front of him.

  They fell in a tangle to the bare earth, tossing up a cloud of dust. Hands and arms grabbed at each other, years of built-up anxiety working its way out. They struggled, contorting and twisting, the dust cloud gr
owing large around them.

  Dale got behind him, placing a forearm in front of his neck. He yanked back.

  Nash coughed.

  “Yield!” Dale shouted.

  No response.

  Dale yanked harder.

  “Yield!”

  Nash waved a hand in the air. “All right, all right!”

  Dale climbed off him, panting. They both crawled to the side of the camper, put their backs against it.

  “I told you to leave me alone,” Nash said, gasping for breath. “And you just show up at my doorstep years later ... asking for help? I can’t believe you. What help could you possibly want from me, Dale?”

  Dale wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “Hot Springs, Arkansas. Copycat killer. Two women have been chopped up already. Our guy is imitating serial killers from history who were never identified. My liaison for the case is from the Park Service ISB, Special Agent Greg Fulton. And I want to bring you on as a consultant.”

  Nash stared forward, not looking at Dale.

  “Because I dream about doing the sort of shit your killer is actually doing,” Nash said. “Is that it? You want to get inside his head by getting inside mine?”

  “That’s right. I know you never really wanted to hurt anyone, that you wanted to do just the opposite: you wanted to help people. Now’s your chance to do that again.”

  “I got things to do. I have to work.”

  “At?”

  Nash turned his head farther away from Dale, not looking at him.

  “A gas station.”

  “My agency can help you out when this is over. Get you a better job, a fresh start. You know this. We could have set you up in the first place. If you’d only taken my offer, you wouldn’t be living like this.”

  “You’ll forgive me for not accepting your help.”

  Dale didn’t respond for a moment. They sat there with the sounds of cicadas and dogs and highway noise.