"I'm not blind."

"But it's so dark."

"Person's eyes adjust. What do you want?"

She bit her lip to keep from begging the voice for help.

"We're looking for Snake," Nathan said.

"What for?"

"He's not in trouble. We're searching for a suspected kidnapper. Snake may have information."

"He don't."

"We don't believe Snake's involved," Nathan said. "He witnessed a conversation in January between Rod Burrell and a strange man. They talked about a tunnel hidden under WestOne Bank. The stranger used the tunnel in the attempted kidnapping of a woman. He's still stalking her."

Emilie searched the black drain for any sign of the man. His voice echoed off the walls. All she could see were the meager beams from their flashlights and the infinite darkness surrounding them.

"What's Snake got to do with it?"

"He's spent time with the kidnapper," Ronson said. "He might be able to tell us more about him."

A shuffling sound came from the left. Emilie squinted as a pair of scuffed boots stepped into view.

"Like what?"

"Anything," Nathan said. "The tunnel under WestOne connected to the drains. The suspect planned to kidnap the woman and keep her down here. He's been stalking her for a long time, and he's getting closer. The police know very little about him. We need Snake's help to save this woman's life."

"The woman next to you? The one that's not a cop?"

"My name's Emilie Davis." Her voice fell flat in the concrete chamber.

A man crept into the dim light. He was short and thin, but his muscled arms were visible in the cut-off shirt he wore. His shoulder-length hair was held back by a bandana. His face was tanner than many of the tunnel people. The lettering on his gray T-shirt was almost all chipped off.

Emilie found herself staring into a weathered face with a gentle smile and curious gray eyes.

"A lady like you has guts to come in here. Guess the least I could do is answer your questions." He walked to the camp and sat down in the metal chair. "I'm Snake. What do you want to know about the southern gentleman?"

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

"How did you know he was southern? Burrell didn't know about his accent." Emilie dropped Nathan's hand and stepped forward. He had to admire her courage.

"He slipped every now and then, and he'd ease back into that drawl, 'specially if he got excited about something. I never mentioned it." Snake grabbed a five-gallon bucket and turned it upside down. He motioned for Emilie to sit.

"When did you first meet him?" She settled onto the bucket. Nathan stood behind her, his hands on her tense shoulders.

"Couple of weeks after Christmas."

"What was he doing?" Emilie asked.

"Wandering the tunnel over by the Tropicana. Looked lost."

"Did you think he was homeless, too?"

"s.h.i.t," Chris whispered. Nathan waited for Snake to be offended and shut off all communication.

Snake smiled and reclined in the dilapidated chair. "I'm not homeless, honey. Got a roof over my head and a decent place to sleep."

"I'm sorry," Emilie said. "I didn't mean to-"

"'Sall right. And nah, I didn't think he was a downtown resident, if you know what I mean. He looked the part, but I wasn't feelin' it."

"What do you mean?" Avery asked.

"When new people move in down here, they've got s.h.i.t with them, extra clothes and stuff. And they got this way 'bout 'em, like you," he pointed to Emilie. "This place scares 'em at first."

"And the southern gentleman wasn't scared?" Emilie asked.

"Nah. Looked more like he was shopping or at some f.u.c.ked up museum-pardon the language. And he didn't have jack on him. Just the clothes on his back and fancy shoes. I thought maybe he was another reporter, but those guys never tried to pa.s.s themselves off as one of us."

"Did he give you his name?" Avery asked.

"Jim."

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothin'. He said he was new down here and needed someone to show him the ropes. I thought he was full of s.h.i.t, 'specially when his accent popped up, but I was curious."

"You spent a lot of time together, then?" Ronson asked.

"Some." Snake shrugged. "He disappeared a lot, was mostly around nights, and even then, only for a few hours. He wasn't sleeping here."

"Did you ever see him leave the tunnels?" Nathan asked. If Snake had seen the Taker coming and going police might be able to get some idea as to what side of the city he lived on.

"Nah. He was all over the place, exploring."

Exploring for a place to stash Emilie. "Did he spend more time in any one area? Or have you happened across a camp that looked like someone was trying to hide it?" Nathan said.

"I stick to my places. It's hard to hide a camp, 'less you want to deal with even more water. Best to be in the open places."

"You're not," Emilie said. "You're way out in the middle of nowhere."

"Yeah, but I'm on higher ground. And I pay attention to the weather and know when to get the h.e.l.l out of Dodge."

"Does it flood down here a lot?" Ronson asked.

"Enough to be a pain in the a.s.s. Lucky Vegas don't get that much rain."

"Where's the best place to truly hide?" Nathan tightened his grip around Emilie's shoulders to ground her to him.

"From the cops?"

"From everyone," Nathan said.

"Deeper in. In the black areas where no one goes."

"Isn't this deep enough?" Avery glanced around and then shivered. Nathan rolled his eyes.

"This ain't nothing. Go in another fifty feet and it's like a crypt. Air's so stale you can hardly breathe. Even I get the bubbleguts down there."

"Have you seen the southern man recently?" Emilie said.

"Once. Right after the night Burrell let it slip about the tunnel. Saw him snooping around the drain near Fremont Street."

"What did you talk about?" Emilie tensed. Nathan rubbed her shoulders.

"Dunno. He talked a good game. Liked to impress us with facts and history. Like we was all dumba.s.ses."

"What kind of history?" Nathan asked.

"s.h.i.t, all sorts. Talked about the Depression, old Vegas, gambling." Snake's hand dug around under the chair and emerged with a battered, plastic water bottle. "Now that I think about it, he did love to talk about the Old South."

"Any specific places?" Nathan asked.

"Don't remember. Sometimes he'd slip into another language. French, maybe. And I didn't have a clue what he was sayin'."

"What was it?" Emilie demanded.

"Well, I don't know if I can say it right-"

"Try," Ronson urged.

"All right." Snake cleared his throat. He said, 'lese an vye pen. Wa fom an.'"

"Say it again." Emilie's voice trembled.

"Lese an vye pen. Wa fom an.'"

"What is it?" Ronson asked. "Do you know what he's saying?"

"That's not French," Emilie said. "Wa isn't a part of the French language. It's Creole."

"How do you know?" Avery demanded. Nathan wanted to pop him in the jaw again.

"Because I've always been interested in the differences between traditional French, Cajun, and Creole. And Evan and I took a trip to New Orleans on our third anniversary. I've heard it before."

"Can you translate?" Ronson asked.

"Not much. Lese is leave. I think fom is woman."

"Cajun and Creole are the same, right?" Chris asked.

"Different heritages," Emilie said. "Creole language is based on French, but it's a distinct system all its own."

"Where are the main Creole communities?" Avery asked.

"Scattered all over. There are several in Southeast Texas. California also has a lot of Creoles, but the epicenter of Creole culture is Louisiana. There are large community groups down there."

"Then we've got a starting point," Ronson said. "I'll check for similar crimes in those three states. I'll also look for any Creole communities in the greater Vegas areas. There've got to be a few."

"What other Creole words did he use?" Emilie was growing fidgety on the bucket.

"They was all random, honey. Just that one phrase he said all the time."

"There's got to be more." Emilie's hands clenched into fists on her lap until they turned white. Her right foot rhythmically thudded against the cement.

"Did he talk about me? A redheaded woman? Where did he go in the tunnels? Did he have a secret place?"

"Calm down," Nathan said. "Badgering him isn't going to help."

"Honey, if he did, I never saw it. Never mentioned you that I recall." Snake scratched the heavy stubble on his chin. "His favorite thing to talk about was the past. Sometimes he'd ramble on 'bout how the past could tell our futures or some weird s.h.i.t like that."

"But he never said anything about Miss Emilie?" Defeat crept into her voice.

"Josephine." Snake sat up straighter. "He did talk 'bout her, more than once."

"Josephine." Emilie twisted to look up at Nathan. "That's the name he mentioned in the bank and then got upset when I asked about her."

"Yeah, he didn't like to answer no questions," Snake said. "Just talked about how sweet she was, how she'd have been scared to death of this place. Didn't trust the dark, I guess."

"She sounds like a child," Ronson said.

"The Taker told me Josephine's bad luck came in the daylight," Emilie said. "Something bad happened to her."

"Figured that. Whenever he talked about her, he'd get this look. Half-crazy and half-miserable. Wondered if she was his kid or something."

Emilie had gone silent. Her foot-tapping ceased, her breathing deepened.

"What is it?" Nathan asked.