Dead Run (23 page)

Monday, November 19
8:00 p.m.

“R
achel!”

Liz bolted upright in bed and looked around her dark room, confused. She had been dreaming of Rachel, she realized. In the dream her sister had been calling out for her. Alone and locked in a stifling hot box. Slowly dying.

Shuddering, Liz scrambled out of bed. She saw it was eight, crossed to the bedroom door, unlocked it and stepped out into the hall. Her apartment was dark. Totally soundless.

“Mark,” she called softly. “I'm up.”

Silence answered her. Frowning, she flipped on the hall light and began making her way toward the second bedroom. She tapped on the closed door. “Mark, are you there?”

He didn't reply. She tried the knob. The door eased open. She peeked into the dark room.

“Mark?” She reached for the light switch. Light flooded the empty room.

They'd come for him while she slept.

She shook her head. How would they have discovered his whereabouts? And how would they have gotten in without her knowing? If he wasn't here, he'd gone out. He'd probably left her a note.

She went into the room. The bed was made, the coverlet army barracks taut, the pillows perfectly plumped. Turning, she crossed to the closet, opened it and looked inside.

Empty. Just as she had expected it to be.

Liz shut the door and started out of the room. Suddenly, she stopped, her gaze going to the bed. To the place the dust ruffle met the wooden floor. The ecru-colored fabric was folded back. As if someone had lifted it.

So they could scurry beneath to hide.

For a moment, Liz couldn't breathe. Then she scolded herself to get a grip. Swallowing hard, she marched to the bed, bent and peered beneath.

Nothing. Of course.
What had she thought she was going to find? The boogeyman hiding under the bed? Mark, grinning at her like an overgrown six-year-old? A dead body?

Mark had gone out. No doubt, he had left her a note, probably in the kitchen. A self-conscious laugh bubbled to her lips. She had better get that grip on herself before somebody had her locked up.

Liz turned off the light on her way out of the room. Smiling at herself, she headed to the kitchen. She flipped on the overhead light, then stopped in her tracks.
A lidded coffee can sat in the middle of her tiny, kitchen table in a puddle of dark liquid. The same liquid appeared to be smeared on the sides of the can and tabletop.

Liz stared at the can. She recognized the brand as the same one her mother used to buy. She hadn't realized they still sold coffee that way, ground in five-pound cans. She and Rachel had made banks out of them as kids. They had used them for butterfly houses and bug hotels, after cutting slits in the plastic top so their captured creatures could breathe.

Liz brought a shaking hand to her mouth and inched toward the table. She saw that the smears were red. The puddle a deep ruby. Blood, she realized.

A scuffling noise came from the can. With a sense of déjà vu, she reached for the can. She snapped off the lid and peered inside.

The creature peered up at her with its beady black eyes, teeth bared.

She jumped backward. The can slipped from her fingers and landed on its side on the table then rolled off and onto the floor. Blood splashed across the linoleum, the rat spilled out.

It lay there, chest heaving, near death.

Liz began to shake. Rat in a can. Sister in a box. Slowly dying.

Slowly dying.

The words played in her head like a deranged nursery rhyme. She backed away. The doorbell rang. Liz swung in the direction of the front room, then started forward. Her slow pace quickened until she was running, tearing through the apartment to the stairwell, thundering down the stairs. Ripping the door open.

Rick stood on the other side.

With a cry, she fell into his arms.

His went around her. “You're trembling.”

She pressed her face against his chest and held him tighter.

Mark was gone. Rachel was dead.

She was next.

“I heard,” he said after a time, softly. “About Stephen. That he had your sister's Bible.” He tipped her face up to his, searching her expression. “I know what that might mean, Liz. I'm sorry.”

Emotion choked her. She couldn't speak and tears welled in her eyes.

“I'm so sorry.” He cupped her face in his palms and brought his mouth to hers. He kissed her softly, sweetly, then rested his forehead against hers. “So sorry.”

A movement from beyond her open door caught her eye. Someone passing by, glancing in. Someone watching.

Her heart stopped. Liz caught his hand and drew him the rest of the way into the foyer. Reaching around him, she closed and locked the door.

She held a finger to her lips and led him upstairs. He made a move to turn on the light but she stopped him. “Not yet. Someone could be watching.” She crossed to the front windows and closed the blinds, then to the side windows and did the same.

She switched on a lamp. A gentle glow fell across his features, softening them. Smoothing his concerned frown.

“What's going on?”

She brought a hand to her mouth. It shook. She realized how close she was to falling apart and it frightened her. She couldn't go there. Not now. Not again.

“I need to show you something.”

She led him to the kitchen. She saw that the rat hadn't moved. Most probably it had died from lack of oxygen or of shock. Perhaps it had drowned in the blood it had been swimming in.

“Mother of God, Liz!” Rick crossed to the creature. He examined it without touching it. “Who did this?”

“After Lieutenant Lopez left, I was really tired… I had this headache… I lay down. When I woke up, he was…gone. I thought he might have left a note and I—” She cleared her throat. “I found the can and the… It was still alive.”

“Who, Liz? Who was gone?”

She dragged her gaze from the rat to Rick. “We have to talk.”

“Dammit, Liz. Who did this?”

“The Horned Flower.” She crossed to the sink and retrieved a pair of rubber gloves and a bottle of antibacterial cleaner from beneath it. She put the gloves on, then took a roll of paper towels from the dispenser. She returned her gaze to Rick's. She saw by his expression that he thought she had lost her mind. “Mark was here, Rick. And now, they have him.”

Monday, November 19
8:20 p.m.

L
iz refused to say more until they had cleaned up and disposed of the rat. Rick urged her to leave it as it was and to call the police; she flatly refused. What would she tell them? she had demanded. That she had been harboring a wanted man? That cultists had crept into her apartment and abducted him while she napped, leaving this lovely package behind?

Oh sure, she had continued, Valentine Lopez would love to hear that story. He would have her locked up before she had even finished talking. The only question remaining would be whether he locked her in a cell or the loony bin.

Rick glanced at her, huddled on one edge of the couch, knees drawn to her chest. He had to choose, he
acknowledged. Who did he give allegiance to? Val and the police department? Or Liz and her crazy story?

As if reading his thoughts, she looked at him. “I need you to believe me, Rick. I need you on my side.”

“Mark's wanted by the police, Liz. For murder. They believe he may mean you harm. Considering all that, what in God's name possessed you to harbor him here?”

“If I tell you everything, will you promise to keep an open mind?”

He hesitated a moment, then agreed. “But I can't promise anything else. You understand that, don't you? And you understand just how nuts this all seems to me?”

“Oh yeah, I understand. Half the time I think I've gone around the bend. Then someone leaves a bloody rat in my kitchen, and I snap right back to reality.”

“So talk to me.”

After taking a deep, fortifying breath, she began. She described how she had awakened to find Stephen in her apartment. He had led her to his quarters at Paradise Christian, where he had hidden Mark.

She met Rick's eyes. “He found him in the walled garden, Rick. Unconscious.”

“The walled—”

“On the spot where Tara was found.”

“Jesus, Liz, that doesn't look good. If the police had found him there—”

“They would have used it as further evidence against him. Which is exactly what they'd hoped would happen.”

Then her story got weird. She described Mark's Horned Flower experience, how he had been blindfolded, drugged and driven to an unknown destination where many people waited. “He was given another
drug, one he drank from a chalicelike cup. Only then did they remove his blindfold.”

Rick leaned forward. “And? Did he recognize any of the other teenagers?”

“They were masked.” She cleared her throat, then continued, relaying what Mark had shared with her, the sensation of being feasted upon, laid upon an altar and sexually devoured. Of continually orgasming.

“He was talking crazy, Rick. About good and evil. About the battle between the two. He spoke of the Beast.”

“The Beast?”

“The devil,” she murmured. “Mark's thoughts have been consumed with the experience. He insisted they wanted to kill him. He kept saying they were inside his head. And that he couldn't get the Beast out.”

She rested her forehead on her knees a moment, then looked at him. “I was frightened for him. Whatever drugs they gave him caused some sort of psychotic episode.”

“Did you get him medical treatment?”

“I suggested it but backed off when he became agitated. He said they would know, that they would find him.”

“What about the—”

“Police?” She shook her head. “He was afraid of going to the police. He figured they'd arrest him. Rightly so.”

Rick was silent a moment, absorbing what she had told him, weighing it in his mind. He met her eyes. “What's your interpretation of his experience?”

She shifted, tucking her legs under her, expression pensive. “I believe Mark was given a powerful, mind-altering combination of drugs. I believe they influenced
his perception of the experience. There are a number of drugs or combination of drugs that could have elicited those feelings. Ecstasy and cocaine are powerful sexual stimulants. LSD causes bizarre visual hallucinations and distorted physical perceptions. After an acid trip, the user may suffer acute anxiety or depression for a varying period of time.”

Rick pursed his lips. “Which could be what Mark's been continuing to experience.”

“Exactly. In addition, because of its structural similarity to a chemical in the brain and its similarity to certain aspects of psychosis, LSD has been used as a research tool to study mental illness. The full spectrum of effects of peyote and mescaline have also served as a chemically induced model of mental illness.”

She met his eyes. “These people are toying with powerful, dangerous drugs. Chemicals with the ability to cause a psychic break in the right individual.”

They fell silent a moment. She pulled in a deep, fortifying breath. “This cult exists. They're dangerous. And I believe one—or more than one—of them is a murderer.”

“A bold statement.”

“Yes.” She cocked up her chin. “What do you think, Rick? Something brought you to my door tonight and, call me cynical, but I don't believe it was my sister's Bible.”

“Something's not right about this, Liz. About all of it. We've got two women brutally murdered in a manner nearly identical to the method used by a serial killer presently on death row. We've got another woman missing, now presumed murdered. Suspect number one is a twenty-year-old man from Texas. A young man who was in middle school during the height of Gavin Taft's
rein of terror. Yes, he could have studied the man's crimes, but it seems unlikely. First off, there are details of the crimes difficult to come by, even with the Internet. The weapon, for one. The length and depth of the blows. The markings. The similarities are too damn close.

“That's the key, Liz. I keep coming back to those similarities. Put everything else aside and look at how those women were killed. The way Taft killed. There's a connection. And I don't believe Val, or anybody else working the case, is looking hard enough at it. They're so busy running around trying to find a suspect, they're ignoring the biggest real clue they have.”

He stood and began to pace. “A killer driven to acts such as those committed by Taft is motivated by some internal compulsion, some mechanism inside that seeks release. That release can only be found through a specific and highly individual ritual, one acted out with each victim.”

“I don't understand. What do you mean by a ritual?”

“Everything about the crime. How the victims are chosen and why. The manner in which they're killed. Where and how he disposes of the bodies. Whether or not they're sexually assaulted. In some cases, even the geographic location of the crimes becomes part of the ritual.

“In Taft's case, he established a cursory relationship with the women. For him, that was part of the thrill. He chose young, attractive women. The youngest in her late teens, the oldest her late twenties. He slit their throats, mutilated their genitalia and carved pseudo-religious symbols and verses on their torsos and thighs, postmortem. All were found naked, bodies arranged arms
out, one foot on top of the other, as if they had been crucified.”

“So you're saying it's not killing the women that satisfies these monsters, but how they kill them?”

He met her eyes, saw the horror in them and wished he could protect her from the truth. “Exactly. Serial killers are a different breed of criminal. They don't kill for the typical reasons, jealousy, greed, hatred or anger. And the way they kill is as individual as a fingerprint. Copycatting a killer to divert suspicion for a single crime, to get rid of a lover or business partner, for example, I could buy. But a serial adopting another psychopath's fingerprint for a series, it doesn't work that way.”

“So, what do the police have on Mark? It must be something more than the fact he knew both women and was at the scene the night of Tara's murder. Don't you need more than that to arrest someone?”

“Yeah, you do. My guess is they found something damn incriminating in his room.”

“The weapon?”

“No. Because now they've turned their attention to Stephen—”

“Who was in possession of a knife similar to the one used to kill Tara and Naomi Pearson,” she filled in for him. “If they already had the weapon, that wouldn't be such a big deal.” She let out a long breath. “Do you think it's possible Stephen's the one?”

“Could Stephen go over the bend and kill someone, sure. Anyone can snap that way.” He stopped pacing and swung to face her. “Once again, I come back to the similarities to the Taft murders. Stephen's lived on Key West his entire life and reads at maybe a second-grade level. A guy like Stephen doesn't cruise the Internet.
He doesn't read the newspaper and he sure as hell didn't work with the man. Any way I look at it, he had zero opportunity to study Taft.”

“Val asked me if Stephen and Mark knew each other.”

“They're both suspects. He's wondering if they could have done this together. At this point he's exploring all possibilities.”

“I didn't answer, but I think he knew. I had this feeling he could see right through me.”

Rick thought of his friend, of the way his mind worked. “Val's smart. Real smart. And for as much as I believe he's not handling this investigation correctly, he's a good cop. Don't ever underestimate him.”

“What about Pastor Tim?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“Mark told me that Tara didn't like him. That he scared her. He suggested Pastor Tim might have planted the Bible and the knife. Geographically, he had as much opportunity as Stephen to kill Tara.”

“Tim?” Rick repeated, tone doubtful.

“You know him?”

“Sure. I played high-school ball with him, though he was two years older. So did Val.”

She made a sound of confusion. “He's from Key West? I thought he only arrived after my sister disappeared.”

“No, Tim grew up here. In fact, he was pretty much a hero around here his senior year. He took the Fighting Conchs to the state football championship.”

Rick slipped his hands into his pockets. “He left to play ball for Florida State, then was drafted by the NFL. He only played a couple years, then dropped out to go to seminary. Said God called him. Could have knocked all
of us over with a feather. I mean, who makes the NFL then voluntarily leaves? And to become a pastor?”

“What team?” she asked.

“Miami Dolphi…”

Rick's voice trailed off. He did the math.

Tim had been in Miami about the time Gavin Taft had been on his killing spree.

He could tell by her expression that she had done the calculations, too. “He told me he didn't know my sister. That he'd never met her.”

“That could be true, though it's difficult to believe. His parents are members of the Paradise Christian congregation, or at least they used to be, and he visited quite often. However, your sister wasn't on the island that long. He may have had an interim position somewhere that I'm not aware of.”

She glanced down at her hands, then back up at him. “There's something I haven't told you or anyone else.”

She held up her right hand. “See these bands? They were my mother's. Eternity bands. Before she died, she gave one to me and one to Rachel. She asked that we never take them off—they would link the three of us for eternity.”

He drew his eyebrows together, confused. “Then how did you get Rachel's?”

“Pastor Tim had it.” She drew in a deep breath. “I found it on the floor of his bedroom closet.”

“The floor of his… What were you…” His voice trailed off, realization dawning. “You broke into the parsonage?”

“Yes.” She tipped up her chin, expression defiant. “The parsonage was Rachel's home, most probably the place she spent her last hours. I just had to see for myself that she—”

“Was really gone?”

She flushed. “I knew she wasn't there, but I…I had to see for myself.”

Rick passed a hand over his face, recalling what Val had said about Liz. “
She has issues, my friend. Serious emotional issues. That she's not playing with a full deck right now makes her a little scary.”

“Why didn't you just explain to Tim who you were and why you wanted to look around? That would seem the most rational approach.”

“I felt like he was lying to me. That he knew more about my sister than he was saying. There was something about his demeanor…something about him that wasn't adding up. I had to do it, Rick. And just as I'd thought I would, I found something.”

Rick acknowledged that he wanted to believe her. On some emotional level he did. Her answers made sense, even when they shouldn't.

“Desperate people do desperate things. They lie. They manufacture evidence. And they can be pretty goddamned convincing.”

“Rachel could have taken the ring off.”

“She never took it off.”

“You don't know that.”

“But I knew Rachel.”

“It could have slipped off one day while she was dressing. By the time she realized it was gone, she wouldn't have had a clue where she had lost it.”

Liz met his gaze. “Or, Tim Collins is the killer and the ring's a trophy. I read that serial killers do that, take some memento of each victim. Often a piece of jewelry.”

“Dammit, Liz! Slow down.”

“He lived in Miami during the time Gavin Taft was
butchering those women. He's the right age, he had my sister's ring. Things he said are questionable. He's the one who called the police about Stephen.”

Rick swung away from her and strode to the windows. He inched up one of the slats and peered out at the street. The typical Monday crowd made their way along Duval. Every night was party night in paradise.

He frowned. Why did she make so much sense? Everything she proposed was the stuff of blockbuster fiction, far from the open-and-shut reality of most murder investigations.