Be Still Page 4

  Finally, Dale said, “What do you say, Nash? Will you help me?”

  Chapter Seven

  Alberta Ventress couldn't believe the absolute cavalcade of bullshit that she'd heard in an hour.

  She kept running the time through in her mind.

  One.

  Hour.

  She'd only been there for sixty minutes, and she’d already heard so much stupidity she felt like her head was going to pop. Ventress had always had faith in the system, but the fact that this strange group—this BEI—could operate without her knowledge for so long and with such incompetent members—if Conley was any indication—put serious doubt in her brain about ... well, everything. The federal law enforcement community on the whole.

  She tried to comfort herself, to remind herself that her viewpoints were necessarily slanted. Her job required her to iron out the wrinkles that other investigations had created. As such, she was forced to see other professionals and other agencies at their worst. Or at least not at their best.

  But after hearing the stories about Dale Conley—both how he conducted his operations with Nash Harbick in Chicago and his disappearance in Hot Springs—she couldn't give any leniency to this mysterious Bureau of Esoteric Investigation. The agency was obviously a mismanaged shithole, one that would just continue to get shittier. Because there was no oversight. Walter Taft was clearly not a man in charge, after all. And given that Taft felt like Conley was the best the BEI had to offer, Ventress shuddered to think what the other BEI agents must be like.

  But as she looked at the other people in the board room, she wondered if this serial killer investigation wouldn't still be a shit storm even if Conley hadn’t kidnapped the girl, even if Conley wasn’t involved at all. Because she'd never seen such a bunch of impotent and asinine men assembled in one room.

  In addition to Taft, there was, of course, Harbick. The psycho freak. The monster. A sad-looking reddish-haired, blue eyed shell of a man. He had a bit of a gut, a bit of a second chin, and a huge loser attitude.

  But there were the other imbeciles too. There was Greg Fulton, the unpunctual ISB agent. Mr. Cool with his expensive suit, cleanly-shaven head, and neat mustache. And his smug, self-righteously confident face.

  Sitting next to Fulton was Detective Bill Sadler of the Hot Springs Police Department, the man in charge of the local investigation. The guy had a black eye. That alone should say something. Aside from the shiner, Sadler looked like a hillbilly. A small hillbilly. Before he sat down, Ventress had noted that he couldn't have been more than five-foot-seven. Thin lips. Curly, blond hair. He looked like he should be behind the wheel of a big-rig, going on three hours sleep, cursing the thought of returning home to his wife. Gotta get that shipment of frozen peas to Omaha by 2 AM. Boy howdy!

  Gross.

  On the other side of the table, sitting between Taft and Harbick, was Merle Higgins of the NPS, head of the law enforcement rangers for Hot Springs National Park. He’d proudly proclaimed that he was three months away from retirement, and it was clear that he didn't give a shit. Which was probably a good thing because the guy was so absentminded, Ventress wondered as to his competence.

  Sitting in the chairs against the wall behind Sadler were three uniformed HSPD officers, representatives of the department. There were two muscly, jock type men, and, sitting between them, a pretty little blonde thing with a name tag that said Hensley. Just exactly the type of woman that Ventress hated seeing in law enforcement. Cute and girly. Flirtatious.

  A twit.

  Aside from Ventress herself, the only light of reason in the room were her guys, sitting against the opposite wall. All three wearing their SWAT gear, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Prepared to take down Conley. Square-jawed. Cold and precise. Tools of destruction used for a job.

  Ventress couldn't deny that some of what Harbick had said painted Dale Conley in a decent light. The man did seem idealistic, she would admit to that. But the fact that he may have been idealistic yesterday meant nothing now. Because he’d sense snapped. And taken the girl.

  So while part of Ventress wanted to be proven wrong—didn't want to believe that someone could take advantage of a person so wounded, so vulnerable—in her heart of hearts, Ventress felt the Conley had done it.

  And she wanted to catch his ass.

  But Ventress was a fair woman, so she would hear out the evidence.

  She looked at Harbick.

  “So you agreed to Conley’s proposition,” she said, “and you came down here to Hot Springs where it was to be Conley and Fulton investigating and you as the consultant into the serial killer’s deranged mind.”

  “That was the idea, yes.”

  “But it didn’t turn out that way because Fulton wasn’t here.” She turned to face the man in question. “Isn’t that right?”

  Fulton opened his mouth, and the beginning of a word came out before Ventress cut him off.

  “Rhetorical question,” she said.

  She walked along the side the conference table, behind Fulton and Bill Sadler. Rain hissed against the windows.. She locked eyes with Harbick as she continued to slowly walk away from him.

  “You and Conley get down here, and a park ranger takes Fulton’s place.”

  “Ranger Plunkett, yes.”

  Ventress doubled back, heading in his direction again, never taking her eyes off him. “Then the adventure began. An insane person, a doofusy, rule-bending secret agent, and inexperienced park ranger. And the three of you were going to catch a serial killer. What a comedy of errors. What a crock of shit.”

  She stopped pacing. Her eyes scanned over the people sitting at the table and along the walls.

  “I’ll tell ya, Harbick, the picture you’ve painted of Dale Conley has done nothing to persuade me. I think the man’s lost it. The roguish agent with a penchant for the ladies has had one too many dark assignments and finally snapped, taking the most vulnerable woman imaginable hostage. But Taft is right. I need to hear the full story before I sign his life away.”

  She looked at the clock on the wall. It was a few minutes after 2.

  “I could you a full day to prove Conley’s case. But I’m not. It’s already 2. I’m not dragging this into a second day. He’s got a hostage, and we’ve got a serial killer running loose too. You’ve got until 5, Harbick. Start from the beginning. Tell me exactly what happened here. Three hours. That’s all you get to convince me not to have of my guys to put a bullet between Conley’s eyes.”

  She gave him a long stare.

  “So ... what happened when you got to Hot Springs?”

  Chapter Eight

  The sun was bright, the surroundings were picturesque, and Nash was somewhere he’d never visited before. Oh, and he was getting a stipend, as much money as he would have made in four months at the gas station for what would likely end up being no more than a week or two of work—work that required him to do nothing more than offer his so-called expert opinion.

  On the surface, it would seem like a pretty damn good scenario.

  But as Nash walked with Dale down the sidewalk lining the beautiful and world-famous Bathhouse Row in Hot Springs, Arkansas, two notions clouded what could be a perfect moment. First, the tranquility was about to be spoiled by the real purpose for this visit to the resort town—he and Dale were heading to their first meeting, their introduction to the investigation they were about to embark upon—crime scene descriptions of two grisly murders.

  Nash wasn’t certain how he would respond. He wanted to be appalled. He wanted to feel the same instant revulsion that a normal person would. But he was brought here for the very reason that he wasn’t a normal person, that he might not be disgusted by what he saw. He might actually like it.

  Nash didn’t want to like it. But he knew that he might.

  The second thing spoiling the moment was the man walking next to him. Dale. Nash had been trying for three years to form a new life, and during those three years, he had also tried to forget Dale Conley.


  But here he was. Back in Nash’s life.

  And he wouldn’t shut the hell up.

  Dale had already explained to Nash that Bathhouse Row was a line of Victorian Era spas stretching down Central Avenue, utilizing the natural hot spring waters of the town. He’d gone on to describe the dates of some of the buildings, specifics on how the land was the first protected by the National Park Service…

  And on and on…

  And while this was all at least marginally interesting, Nash would much rather simply enjoy the view. The line of buildings to their left was a long row of beautiful, ornate bathhouses. Each spa had its own unique flair, yet together they formed a cohesive aesthetic. They were stately and detailed and looked very Victorian. The landscaping, too, was exquisite. Everything was picturesque and immaculate.

  The sidewalk was full of tourists. People loitered at the spas’ front porches, some of them in large, fluffy robes. On the other side of the street were shops, restaurants, tourist shops.

  And though Nash had given him several disinterested Hmms, Dale was still continuing with his history lesson.

  “Isn’t it just amazing? It’s my first time here too. This side of Central Avenue—all of Bathhouse Row—is NPS property. We’re in Hot Springs National Park right now. If were to cross the road,” he said, pointing, “to the businesses on the other side, we’d be on private property. The city was named for its natural hot and cold springs, which were first discovered by the Indians. Its supposed to have amazing therapeutic qualities, which is why the spas were created. Part of the whole turn-of-the-century healthy living thing. Can’t you just imagine people in Victorian or Edwardian clothes coming and going here, laughing, getting their relaxation before returning to New York or wherever? Women in corsets, fluffy dresses. Men in waistcoats and shiny shoes tipping their hats to them. Fantastic.”

  Dale had stars in his eyes.

  Nash looked at him, dumbfounded.

  “We’re investigating a pair of gruesome murders, you know?”

  Dale glanced over at him.

  “Not yet we’re not. Right now we’re strolling down world-famous Bathhouse Row. Gotta live in the moment.”

  He looked back to his left at the latest grand spa they were passing by.

  “Hot Springs has some seedy history too. Later on down the line, after the days of bodices and top hats. Then there were speakeasies and illegal gambling. You had mobsters here, people like Al Capone and Lucky Luciano. Imagine Capone going into one of these places and soaking in the hot water for an hour or two. Wild!”

  Nash pointed ahead of them. “This should be it.”

  They approached the corner and turned.

  There was a sign that read: Hot Springs National Park, National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior.

  As they headed toward the steps leading to the building’s entrance, they saw a group of people standing beside a metal fountain with multiple spigots. The people were filling up jugs of different sizes—water cooler jugs, milk jugs, small water bottles.

  “The spring water?” Nash said.

  Dale nodded. “That’s right. There are fountains like that all over town from the different springs where people can come and fill up containers.

  “How are they ever going to get enough to fill up a bathtub?”

  “The water’s not just good for soaking in. They’re getting it to drink. It’s very healthy. And quite tasty, as I understand. Once it cools, of course.”

  They took the steps and headed toward the building. In front of them was a different type of fountain, an ornamental one. It was a half-sphere rising out of an octagonal basin, water draining over the sides. Coming out of the top of the sphere was a small metal feature from which several small jets of water shot a couple inches into the air, arching back down into the pool beneath. The fountain was covered with minerals and a bright green growth of some sort.

  Nash studied it.

  “So that water really is hot, huh?” he said.

  “Touch it and find out.”

  Nash stuck his finger in and quickly pulled it out.

  “Yeah, I’d say it’s hot.”

  Dale grinned. “There are others around that are even hotter. You definitely don’t want to stick your fingers in those.”

  Dale’s eyes moved past Nash.

  “Nash, do you know anyone in town?”

  Nash was looking at his finger in amazement while he dried it with his shirt.

  “Just you.”

  “Thought so,” Dale said, staring past him. “Which is why I’m concerned about that person hiding in the trees over there and watching us with binoculars.”

  Chapter Nine

  As Nash turned around to look at where Dale had indicated, Dale stepped around him, getting a bit closer to the gawker. He leaned his head down and looked over the top of his sunglasses, narrowed his eyes.

  Someone wearing baggy, dark clothes—with a hood cinched up around their face—sat in the shadows of some trees beyond a decorative retaining wall, near another fountain, about a hundred feet away. This stranger was watching them with binoculars, sunlight glinting off the lenses.

  Nash disregarded it.

  “Just another tourist. Sightseeing. Come on,” he said, and Dale heard him start toward the building.

  Dale didn’t move, though. He kept his eyes on the stranger.

  “A tourist hiding in the bushes?” he said.

  Dale reached his hand high above his head and gave a big, arching wave to the guy.

  The stranger’s binoculars lowered. The pair of reflections off the lenses disappeared. He was completely hidden in the shadows now, a dark silhouette.

  Nash stepped up behind him. “Dale, it’s nothing. We—”

  “Come on,” Dale said. “Let’s go say hello.”

  He started toward the stranger. After a half moment, he heard a groan from behind him and then footsteps following.

  “And so it begins,” Nash said. “Another assignment with Dale Conley.”

  “Good afternoon!” Dale shouted amicably to the person in the shadows. “Nice day for people-watching, isn’t it?”

  The stranger stood up, climbed out from beneath the tree, and dashed away, going up a decorative brick path.

  Dale didn’t hesitate. He just bolted right after the stranger. Nash followed.

  “Hey!” Dale said. “Just wanna talk!”

  In the bright sunlight, Dale could now clearly see the stranger. He was a diminutive man—both very short and very thin—which made his fashion sense even more peculiar. Because while Dale had noted the clothing as looking baggy when the person was still hidden in the shadows, now that he could see the guy clearly, he saw that the clothing was so oversized that it almost looked comical, clownish. Both his navy blue sweatshirt and dark tan work pants—the cargo pant style with pockets on the thighs—looked at least two sizes too big. The stranger’s feet were in big, clompy work boots, and with the guy’s slightly awkward, cumbersome stride, it seemed like they too were too large. Even the black leather gloves on his hands looked oversized. It was as though the stranger had stolen someone else’s entire outfit. Maybe he had.

  The wide walkway that the stranger was sprinting on ascended a ridge that ran behind the spas of Bathhouse Row. The walkway was wide and inlaid with ornamental brick. The area surrounding it was a well-maintained park with stately trees, decorative bushes, and lush, green lawns. Spaced along the walkway were comfortable benches and clearings with scenic views of the city. This was the Grand Promenade.

  The Promenade was full of tourists—taking pictures, strolling hand-in-hand, walking dogs—and the stranger’s disruption brought lots of shouts and finger-pointing as he pushed his way through, sprinting between the people.

  Dale and Nash ran up three sets of steep steps, bringing them level with the top of the Promenade, and Dale was surprised to see that the stranger had gotten a big lead on them. He was way up ahead on the walkway. A damn fast runner. Lithe and light on his f
eet. Clearly, Dale had underestimated the stranger, and he pushed on at full speed, yelling at the tourists in front of him.

  “Coming through! Make way!”

  Ahead, Dale saw that the stranger had taken a ramp off the main brick pathway. The cement-paved footpath descended to the back side of one of the bathhouses. The stranger disappeared from sight.

  Dale and Nash reached this ramp and ran down at full speed, tourists plastering themselves to the side to get out of their way. Ahead, the stranger rounded the corner.

  A couple moments later, Dale and Nash had also made it down the ramp and turned the corner. There was a gap between the bathhouse and the adjacent one—a pathway that led out to Central Avenue. This could have been the perfect escape route for the stranger … if the area between the two buildings hadn’t been filled with a loitering crowd of tourists.

  Dale and Nash slowed to a walk and began squeezing their way through the people. It was a small city market, about eight booths or so. Dale spotted the stranger, ahead, worming his way through the thick crowd, moving toward Central Avenue, but finding his path blocked by a group of people surrounding a street performer.

  The stranger looked back at them. It was the first time they’d gotten a good look at him. And now they could see that the stranger had his hood cinched up tight around his face—almost comically so—all the way up to his nose. Beneath the hood, the stranger wore a big pair of aviator sunglasses, concealing the rest of his face, only tiny bits of skin showing.

  The stranger took another look at the blocked path in front of him, and then darted toward the building, disappearing around the front corner.

  As Dale and Nash took off toward the front of the building, there was a loud crash of glass. Tourists screamed.

  They rounded the corner to find one of the building’s large front windows busted. Dale used his elbow to knock out some of the jagged glass remaining in the window frame.

  He stole a glance back at Nash, giving him a quick look that said, Are you up for this?