Dead Run (13 page)

Saturday, November 10
5:15 p.m.

M
ark huddled in the corner of his rented room, eyes fixed on the door. His teeth chattered and he clutched a frayed blanket to his chest, unable to get warm despite the stifling heat of the room. He doubted he would ever be warm again.

Tara was dead. His unborn child, dead. Both murdered.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut, the horror of the past hours washing over him. He struggled to fit all the pieces together, to fill in some of the blanks. He had gone to meet her, as they'd planned. The garden gate had been open. He had eased through and softly called her name. She hadn't answered.

Concerned and confused, he had crept farther into the garden, careful to be quiet, not wanting to awaken
Pastor Tim or Stephen, the old caretaker. He had wondered if she had changed her mind. Or if her parents had caught her sneaking out and prevented her from meeting him.

Then things got fuzzy. He remembered seeing her lying there, covered in blood.

Mark pressed a fist to his mouth to hold back a howl of grief. From outside came the sounds of children playing in the park across the street. Although little more than a sandy patch of ground with a tired swing set and slide, the neighborhood kids didn't seem to mind.

He struggled to focus on the children, their sounds of joy. He struggled to find a calm space to speak to the Lord, to ask for guidance and strength. To turn to the one, the only one, who could help him.

That place eluded him, and instead, his head filled once again with the events of the night before. He remembered he'd called Tara's name, he'd fallen to his knees and reached for her, desperate. She had been warm. When he moved her, a gurgling sound had come from her throat, and at first he had believed her alive. Then he had seen…her throat…the extent of the blood. He had realized the sound had been the wound talking, not her.

Sobbing, he had shot to his feet. His hands, knees, arms and chest had been wet with her blood. It had been everywhere. After that, things got murky again. He had run toward the garden gate, tearing through shrubbery, blinded by tears. He had tripped and fallen, dragged himself to his feet and fallen again. His hands had been cut, his face scratched. He thought he had heard a sound, someone behind him. Breathing.

Somehow, he had made it to his car, then here. Somehow, by God's will.

Mark moaned and pressed himself closer into the corner. That had been hours ago, though he didn't know how many. Through the night and into the morning he had waited for the police to come. He and Tara had kept their relationship a secret, but any number of people could have figured them out.

Mark's teeth began to chatter again. They would think he had done it. Tara had been pregnant with his child, some would see that as a reason for him to do this. Get rid of her and the problem.

Sickness rushed up to his throat and he fought it back. Maybe the cops wouldn't discover his and Tara's relationship? And even if they had, he had been at the Hideaway until 2:00 a.m. the night before. Surely—

Dear God, the IOU. Mark searched his memory. Had he told Rick why he was borrowing the money? Had he told him about Tara? He couldn't remember. He had promised to pay him back as soon as he could. He'd told him it was an emergency.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to remember exactly what he had written. He had to remember. It was important. Maybe even a matter of life and—

Rick would seek him out. Because of the money. He could be here any moment. Mark was surprised he hadn't shown up already.

He had expected to be long gone before Rick found the IOU. Mark pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Maybe it would be for the best. He would tell Rick everything; his friend would believe him.

Mark looked down at himself, taking in the unmistakable stains on his clothes, shoes and skin. With a growing sense of horror, he tipped his hands over. They were red from Tara's blood.

If Rick saw him this way, he would think he had done it. Everyone would.

He would go to jail.

The realization hit him with the force of a wrecking ball. With a cry, he scrambled to his feet and raced to his closet-size bathroom. The room consisted of a single sink, a slightly lopsided toilet and an old tub that had been fashioned into a shower with a barely adequate spray nozzle and plastic curtain that circled the tub. He pulled the shower curtain back and stepped into the tub to open the window behind it and let in some fresh air.

He cranked on the shower, then tore off his soiled clothes. He stepped under the stinging hot spray and started to scrub, so hard his skin burned.

He couldn't go to Rick. Rick had been a cop. The ranking detective at the Key West Police Department was his best friend. Mark had no illusions where his loyalties would lie.

He had no one else to turn to on the island. He was alone.

Fear grabbed him by the throat. For a moment, Mark couldn't breathe. He struggled to get a grip on his runaway emotions. He had to think this through. Had to stay calm, think clearly.

His survival depended on it.

He lathered his hair, thoughts racing. What were his options? Run, climb into his car and head out, ASAP. He had the six hundred bucks he had borrowed from Rick; it would take him a long way.

That felt wrong. It felt like an abandonment of Tara, of their child.

He shook his head. But they were dead. He couldn't help them anymore.

But he could. Mark cut off the water and stepped out
of the tub. Tara's friends had threatened to hurt her. She had been terrified of them.

They must have followed her to Paradise Christian's garden last night. And killed her.

Fury rose up in him, displacing the last of his fear. He dried himself, dressed and then ran to the closet. He grabbed his few possessions and threw them into his duffel bag. He needed to get the hell out. Now. Before Rick showed up at his door. Before the police did. But he wouldn't leave Key West.

Tara's friends had done this. Just as they had threatened they would. And somehow he was going to prove it.

Sunday, November 11
10:00 a.m.

R
ick pounded on the door to Mark's rented room. “Open up, Mark!” He waited, then pounded again. “Open up or I'll go to the cops, you thieving son of a bitch!”

He put his ear to the cardboard-thin door—no sound came from inside. He glanced down the dingy hallway, to the right, then left. His young employee lived in a building little better than a flophouse. The smell of frying bacon came from one of the units, as did the sound of a television tuned to a sports channel.

Dammit.
He hadn't really thought Mark would be here, but he had hoped.

Mark Morgan was long gone, his trip financed with Rick's six hundred bucks.

He hadn't discovered the missing cash and the bogus
IOU until yesterday afternoon when he'd officially closed out Friday night's register. By then he'd known it was already too late, but he figured he couldn't not try. In truth, it wasn't the money; it was how let down he felt. He had believed in that kid. He'd trusted him.

Rick stood at the door a moment more, contemplating breaking in, then turned and walked away. What would he have to gain by doing that? Mark was gone, the money with him.

Rick shifted his thoughts from Mark to Tara's murder. The murder had been news all over the state. Not headline news, fortunately, as the more prurient aspects of the crime had been withheld from the media—the ritualistic nature of the murder, its religious overtones, the fact that Tara had been pregnant and that the killer had taken the fetus. Rick didn't have a lot of confidence that Val would be able to maintain that level of secrecy for long. One reporter smelled “cover-up” and Key West would become a media circus.

Rick didn't want that to happen. The media could big-time screw up an investigation, especially one run by rookies. Whether Val wanted to admit it or not, he needed him.

Which was the reason he had decided to pay Liz Ames a visit.

Rick swung onto his Honda Nighthawk, started the bike and headed back into Old Town, only a short drive from Mark's Packer Street address. While waiting to be questioned the night of Tara's murder, he had learned that Liz Ames lived and worked on Duval Street, in the property two down from the Hideaway. He also learned that she was new to Key West and that she was a family counselor. She had been jogging the night of the murder
and, alerted by a howling cat, had stumbled upon the scene.

Something didn't add up. He had the feeling that Elizabeth Ames knew something she wasn't telling. Her story didn't ring true to him.

He found a spot in front of the Hideaway, took it, then walked up the block to Liz Ames's storefront. There, he tipped his head back and gazed up at the building's second level, then down the block, in the direction of Paradise Christian. Why would a single woman, new to a city, be out jogging in the middle of the night? She hadn't been carrying pepper spray or a cell phone, nor had she been accompanied by a dog.

It didn't add up.

Though considering how completely he had misjudged Mark, he wasn't so sure his instincts hadn't gone totally to shit. He crossed to the door that led to the second-level apartment and rang the bell. Within moments he heard the sound of someone approaching. A moment after that, the door cracked open and Liz Ames peered out at him.

He smiled. “Hi. I'm Rick Wells. I own the bar next door.”

She didn't return his smile. “Yes?”

“It was me who heard you screaming the other ni—”

“I know who you are. What do you want?”

Her unfriendliness surprised him. Key Westers—even those new to the island—were typically outgoing and warm, infected with the laid-back charm of the southernmost tip of the continental United States.

He supposed he'd be suspicious, too, if he had just stumbled upon the scene of a brutal murder.

“I wanted to talk to you about the other night. About what you saw.”

When she hesitated, he flashed her what he hoped was his most winning smile. “And I wanted to make sure you were okay. I know how traumatic witnessing something like that can be.”

She frowned slightly. “And how do you know that?”

“Because I used to be a cop.”

She paused a moment more as if carefully considering his truthfulness, then swung the door open. “Come on in.”

She relocked the door after him, and started up the narrow flight of stairs. He followed her up and into her sparsely furnished living room. The furniture consisted of a comfortable-looking couch, a battered coffee table and a floor lamp. All three looked as if they could have been purchased secondhand. Nothing hung on the walls, the wooden floors were bare. A number of hardcover books lay open on the coffee table.

The room told him a lot about Elizabeth Ames, including the fact that she didn't plan to live in Key West long.

Odd, he thought. Why would a therapist open up a private practice if she didn't intend to make a long-term commitment to a location?

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked stiffly. “Water, coffee, soft drink?”

“No, I'm good. Thanks.”

“Have a seat.”

He crossed to the couch, pausing to glance at the books on the table. There were several, all books on the history of Key West.

She came up beside him, bent and flipped the books closed. “I'm doing a little research.”

Odd, he thought again. Elizabeth Ames was not the
typical island transplant, thrilled to be living in paradise, effusive and relaxed.

Prickly, that's what she was. And suspicious, like a lot of folks from the mainland. No wonder she didn't plan to stay long—she would never fit in.

He sat and smiled at her. “Looking for anything in particular?”

She frowned at him again. “What do you mean?”

“Your research. I grew up on the island—” He spread open his hands. “There's not much about Key West I don't know.”

She stared at him a moment, then took a seat at the opposite end of the couch from him. “Actually, I am looking for something in particular. Something a client told me about.”

“Shoot.”

“This patient said the Blessed Virgin appeared to children playing—”

“In what's now the walled garden of Paradise Christian,” he filled in for her. “Sure, I've heard the story. Though I don't know if it's true or not.”

Her expression sharpened with interest. “I haven't found a single record of it in any of these books.”

He shrugged. “It's one of those stories everyone who grew up here knows. In fact, I've heard several different versions of it. Why so interested?”

She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. He sensed she was trying to decide whether to tell him the truth. Whether or not she could trust him. When she looked up he saw by her expression that she'd decided she could. Her next words confirmed it. “Tara was a patient of mine. She told me the story.”

Elizabeth Ames had not only stumbled upon a murder victim, but one whom she had known.

She suddenly didn't seem as unfriendly and suspicious as before. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. “That must have been a terrible shock.”

“It… Yes.” Her lips trembled and she pressed them together.

“Did you tell Lieutenant Lopez about your connection to the victim?”

“Of course.”

The way she said the words conveyed dislike. Not of him, of Val.

He decided to call her on it. “You don't like him much, do you?”

“I don't know him.”

“He must have been interested to learn the two of you had a relationship.”

“A professional relationship,” she corrected. “And if you're so interested, why don't you ask him? You're friends, aren't you?”

He smiled, impressed. Seems he wasn't the only one who listened and asked questions. He decided he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by being completely honest with her. “He told me to butt out.”

“Because you're not a cop anymore.”

“Yes.”

She smiled for the first time. The curving of her mouth altered her face, making her approachable, warm. Attractive, he realized, surprised. When she dropped her prickly, suspicious demeanor, Elizabeth Ames was actually quite attractive.

“So you decided to launch your own mini-investigation,” she said. “Basically.”

“Why?”

He arched his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“Why launch your own investigation?”

“Because I was a cop and—”

“But you're not now. So, why do you care? Did you know Tara?”

He thought a moment before answering, searching for absolute honesty—for himself as well as her. “Because I was, in essence, first officer at the scene. Because I recognized the killer's style. Because I hate being shut out of something I know I can do better than anyone else.”

“And that's it?”

“No.” He silently swore, wondering how he had ended up being the one interrogated. “Because I have a feeling about this. That I need to investigate. It's stupid.”

“No, it's not. I feel the same way.”

They stared at each other a moment, something passing between them, something strong. Rick jerked his gaze away, uncomfortable with the connection.

“What did you mean about recognizing the killer's style?”

He returned his gaze to hers, choosing his words carefully. “A number of years ago a serial killer was operating in the Miami area. He killed young women in the same fashion Tara was killed.”

Rick saw that his words shook her, but she met his gaze evenly anyway. He noticed that her eyes were a clear, light green. “How did… I saw a lot of blood, but I didn't… The paper said her throat was slit.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what wasn't in the paper.” When he hesitated, she leaned toward him, expression earnest. “I was there, Rick. I know there's more.”

So he told her, quietly, without drama, excluding only the most gruesome details.

Liz paled. She struggled, he saw, not to cry. “And that's how…that killer in Miami—”

“Gavin Taft. Yes.”

“And he was never caught?”

“He was,” Rick corrected. “And convicted. At present, his address is death row at the Florida State Prison in Starke.”

She frowned. “I don't understand. If these killings mirror those others and that murderer is behind bars, who…”

Her words trailed away. He picked up the thought where she had left off. “I don't understand either. Not yet anyway. Could be a copycat. Or an accomplice the police didn't know about.”

Silence fell between them. She broke it first. “Have you ever heard of an old priest named Father Paul?”

Rick thought a moment, then shook his head. “I'm not Catholic.”

“Tara said he knew the story about the appearance of the Blessed Virgin. I thought…if I could talk to him, maybe—”

“This might make sense?”

“Something like that.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, expression anguished. “I can't stop thinking that I should have been able to do…something. That somehow I could have stopped this terrible thing from happening.”

“She was murdered, Liz. You were her counselor, not her bodyguard.”

“But she was my patient. Even though we only met twice, it was my job to help her.” Liz clasped her hands together. “You said she knew her attacker. That means she put herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. It
was my job to try to stop her from that kind of destructive behavior.”

Rick felt for her. He understood. He thought of Sam, his senseless death. His own part in it. Yes, he understood. Only too well.

“Call the Catholic archdiocese. Or Our Lady Star of the Sea Catholic Church. I bet they'll be able to help you.”

She looked away, then back. “How can I help you, Rick?”

He leaned toward her. “I wondered if there was anything you could tell me about the other night that would be helpful. Something you might not have thought was important at first. A noise? A smell? A sense of something being out of place or wrong?”

She tipped her hands up. “I told the police everything.”

“Would you tell me what you told them?”

She agreed and recounted the events of early Saturday morning—she had been unable to sleep and had gone for a run. A block past Paradise Christian Church, she had felt compelled to turn toward the church. A noise had drawn her to the garden door. It had been unlocked. When she'd pushed it open, a cat had leaped out at her. She had entered the garden. And found Tara.

“And that's it? You're certain? Sometimes, in the shock of the moment, a witness can overlook something small, something that seems inconsequential. Sometimes it's that very thing that cracks a case.”

Liz shook her head. “I can't—”

“Think. Carefully go over the events of that night, the sessions you had with Tara, the things she said. Your impressions.”

“As I said, I only met with her twice. Her parents
were worried about her…she was obviously troubled. Frightened about somethi—”

“Frightened? Of what?”

She looked uncomfortable. “I don't know. She seemed to have a bizarre view of religion. A fanatical view of heaven, hell, the devil. That's another reason I wanted to talk to Father Paul.”

He thought a moment, working to put the pieces together. “Did you know who the baby's father was?”

“Excuse me?”

“The baby's father,” he repeated. “Tara knew her killer. Aspects of the crime indicate the killer was aware of her pregnancy.”

The blood had drained from her face and Rick realized his mistake. She hadn't known.

He held a hand out. “I'm sorry. I thought you knew.”

“A baby?” She stood. He saw that she shook. “Tara was…pregnant?”

He followed her to her feet. “I'm sorry,” he said again. “I thought you—”