"Light would be wonderful."

"I suppose it's only fair. I've seen you countless times. You probably don't remember what I look like."

"Tall," Emilie said. "You had a beard. Nice eyes."

The sudden flash of yellow light caught her by surprise. She blinked, willing her eyes to adjust.

A face gradually came into focus. It was long and lean with prominent cheekbones. A broad chin jutted out a bit too far, thick eyebrows, and lips that bore the hint of a smile.

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome."

"You shaved."

The Taker broke into a wide smile. "You remembered."

"I told you."

The small camp light cast just enough light to form a small circle around them. It wasn't enough for her to gauge the size of her prison.

"What if they find us?" Emilie kept her voice even. "They know bringing me into the tunnels was your plan all along, Julian."

"My name sounds much more appealing coming from your lips," he said.

She attempted to smile. "It's a lovely name."

"As is yours. Chosen by your French grandmother, no doubt."

"Yes."

"You miss her terribly."

"Every day."

He touched her knee. His hands were large and thin. "And Claire? Do you miss her as well?"

Anger flashed through Emilie. Her lips twitched with the need to lash out.

"I see," the Taker murmured. "You're not ready yet."

He dropped his hand and shifted, his shoulders straight and back stiff. "To answer your question, we won't be found."

"The tunnels aren't infinite. They'll eventually come this way."

"That's debatable. Two hundred miles is a lot of area to cover, especially when cops fear the drains. Still, I didn't want to take the risk."

Her stomach knotted. "What do you mean?"

"A new hideaway had to be procured."

Emilie reached her bound hands in front of her and felt around under the blanket. She hadn't been on cement, but clumps of dirt and rocks. She wasn't in the tunnels. She twisted and touched the wall behind her. It was earth. She was in a hole.

The Taker watched her. What did he want to see? Did he get off on her fear? She wouldn't give into the panic.

"Clever," she said. "We don't have to worry about being interrupted."

"It's funny how things work out." His shoulders relaxed, his hands rested against the ground. "After you chose not to go with me at the bank, I was devastated. So much time had gone into creating the perfect home in the tunnels. I couldn't imagine a better location for our new start." He glanced around. "Until I thought of this. It was right in front of me the entire time."

Emilie forced a smile. "Some might call that fate."

His eyes swept over her. "Fate it is."

"Bougere's Antiques is owned by Josephine Bougere." Ronson tossed a file onto the conference table. "Augustin Bougere bought the property seven years ago."

"Where does Josephine come in?" Nathan rubbed his eyes.

"A couple of weeks after the loan closed, Bougere transferred ownership over to his wife Josephine Bougere. Their residence is listed as the apartment above the store."

"Did you talk to her?"

"She's dead. Employee we talked to said she died from breast cancer a year after the store opened. He identified our sketch of the Taker as Mr. Bougere. He never saw the mysterious Josephine. Her funeral was a private affair."

"She never existed," Chris said.

"She did on paper. Both Josephine and Augustin Bougere were born in Lafayette, Louisiana in 1970 and '71. Both applied for social security cards in 2000, long before the Cane River murder."

"Aren't you a.s.signed a social security number at birth?" Chris asked. "My sister's baby was given one before she came home from the hospital."

"That wasn't always the case forty years ago," Ronson said. "A lot of people didn't have them until they applied for a job."

"So what took Bougere so many years to get his?" Nathan asked.

"This was pre 9/11," Ronson said. "Government was a lot more lax back then."

"Is there a marriage certificate?" Nathan asked.

"Yep. And birth certificates for both. Josephine's maiden name was Labot. Probably forged and fake names, but the Louisiana field office is searching the Cane River area." She handed Nathan her phone. "Look at the place."

He squinted at the small screen. Bougere's storefront was white, with faux Corinthian columns on each side and an arched entrance. A small balcony jutted out from the apartment above, decorated with flower boxes.

"Go to the next picture."

Ronson had zoomed in on the flower boxes. A green, viney plant with delicate white flowers filled the containers.

"Jasmine?" Nathan asked.

"Yep. He's got a planter near the entrance, too."

"You think that means anything?" Chris took the phone and examined the picture.

"His first known victim, Marie Adrieux, was sent white jasmine. Could be a reminder of home. Or tied to whatever his trigger is."

"What else did the employee say?" A glimmer of hope ignited in Nathan. They were circling the Taker's true ident.i.ty.

"Nothing but praise for Augustin Bougere. It's just the two of them. Employee works full time, Bougere's in and out. He spends a lot of time searching for new acquisitions. Travels some.

"Says Bougere knows more about antiques than anyone he's ever met. Doesn't know much about his past, only that he's supposedly got a degree in art history and worked for fifteen years in one of the South's best antique stores, first as an apprentice and then buyer. Never told the employee the name of the store-all in the name of privacy, of course."

"He knew Josephine in childhood," Nathan said. "I'm convinced of that."

"Agreed." Ronson nodded. "She's got to be his trigger. The field office will find her."

"If that's her real name," Chris said.

"It is. He's trying to live as though she's still with him. He's not going to give her a fake name."

"We know he left New Orleans in 2004-" Nathan started.

Avery entered the room clutching a stack of paper. "Nearly a hundred antique stores in the New Orleans area. This is going to take forever."

Ronson looked at Nathan and Chris. "Let's get to work."

Chapter Forty-One.

"You must be hungry."

"Starving," Emilie said.

The Taker grabbed the light and stepped to the side. Emilie studied her prison. The room was barely large enough for the Taker to stand upright and no more than six feet square. Plywood ceiling held up by two by fours, earthen walls.

He'd stuck her in her own personal vault. If she disappointed him like Marie Adrieux had done, he could leave her here to rot.

She strained to see the ceiling. It had to have a door of sorts. The light shifted. She quickly lowered her gaze.

"I'm sorry our s.p.a.ce isn't larger," the Taker said. "Your friend's visits to the tunnels left me with little preparation time."

"It's fine." Emilie took the plate he offered and balanced it carefully in her zip-tied hands. A shiny red apple sat in the middle surrounded by seven club crackers. "Thank you."

She stifled a moan as she bit into the apple. The Taker put a bottle of water at her feet and sat back down in front of her. "Drink up. You need to stay hydrated."

A humiliating thought suddenly occurred to her. "What about when I have to go to the bathroom?"

He tilted his head to his left. "I've provided facilities."

A bucket sat against the wall. It was covered by an embroidered, linen sheet. Tears popped into her eyes before she could stop them. "A bucket?"

"Don't worry, Miss Emilie. It's only temporary." The Taker patted her arm. "We'll move to a more comfortable location when you're ready."

"Is there any way you could untie my ankles?" She'd been sitting with her legs stretched out for so long her a.s.s was numb.

He studied her again.

"Julian, I promise I'm not going anywhere." She kept her voice modulated. "I just want to get more comfortable. Please?"

He traced his index finger over his lips and hummed a tune she didn't recognize. "Tell me about the negotiator first. His name is Madigan, I believe?"

Her heart raced. She worked hard to keep her face benign. "What about him?"

"Seems the two of you have been spending a lot of time together." The Taker's mouth twitched. "In fact, I believe he spent yesterday evening at the Vance's home. With you."

"He did. I couldn't stay at the hospital, and Agent Ronson didn't want me to be alone. Nathan offered to keep an eye on me."

"Isn't that a bit out of his job description? SWAT's a team operation, not a bodyguard service."

"He's interested in my case."

An eye twitch this time. "And you."

She had to convince him Nathan meant nothing to her.

"I don't know about that. He's fascinated by your escape and feels responsible. He thinks he should have figured you out."

"Why?"

"He's got a hero-complex. I told him you were too smart, and there was nothing he could have done. Guess he's been trying to make up for his shortcoming."

"A good man," the Taker murmured. "But what about you? What are your feelings for the stalwart Nathan Madigan?"

She'd fallen in love with him. But the Taker needed to believe her feelings were ambivalent. Seeing Nathan as a rival would derail her chance at freedom.

"Like you said, he's a good guy. I suppose I'd call him a friend of sorts."

"And that's all."

"That's all."

He stroked his chin, again studying her with frightful scrutiny. She felt stripped bare.