Dead Run (14 page)

She started to cry, softly, the sound heartbreaking and helpless.

Rick crossed to her and took her awkwardly in his arms. She leaned into him, the tears becoming sobs that racked her thin frame.

He didn't know what to do, so he simply held her.

After a time, Liz's tears stopped and she eased away from him, obviously embarrassed. “I'm… That was so…uncalled-for.” She looked at him, then away. “I just… This has been hard.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets, uncertain how to respond. “Don't worry about it.”

“I've made a total fool of myself.”

“Not at all.” He smiled. “Trust me, okay? I'm a bartender, I see lots of people making fools of themselves.”

She returned his smile, hers weak. “Thanks. I wish I could have helped you more.”

“If you think of anything about that night, you'll call me at the Hideaway?”

“I promise.”

They crossed to the stairs that led to the first floor and started down them, stopping when they reached the front door. Liz met his eyes. “It makes sense now, how she looked. Ill, like she wasn't sleeping or eating. I thought she might be using but never that she might be pregnant.”

“It could even explain why she was frightened,” he murmured. “Still in high school, unmarried and pregnant. It doesn't get too much bigger than that, does it?”

Sunday, November 11
2:00 p.m.

L
iz had taken Rick Wells's suggestion and called Our Lady Star of the Sea Catholic Church. To Liz's amazement the woman who answered the phone had known not only who Father Paul was but where Liz could find him: the old priest resided at St. Catherine's, a local nursing home subsidized by the Catholic church.

The woman had assured her that Father Paul would be delighted to have a visitor, even if she wasn't a Catholic.

Liz swept her gaze over the front of the building, a one-story, flamingo-pink stuccoed structure surrounded by palm trees and palmettos. Liz guessed it had been built in the late sixties or early seventies, a period of architecture better forgotten.

She entered the residence. She had been in many such
homes over the years and although relatively small, this one wasn't much different. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old age. Straight ahead lay the nurses' station; to her right, a large community area, outfitted with a console television, several game tables and three sofas. The game tables were empty this afternoon, the couches full. In addition, a half-dozen residents in wheelchairs clustered around the TV, much to the irritation of a loudly complaining few whose view of the movie—Charlton Heston's
The Ten Commandments
—was obstructed.

Liz crossed to the information desk. As she did, a small dust mop of a dog darted toward her. He came to a stop at her feet, whined and assumed the “feed me” position—weight on back haunches, front paws up. Judging by his rotund appearance, he received plenty of treats. Liz squatted and scratched him behind the ears. “You're a cute little guy,” she murmured. “I'm sorry, but I don't have anything to give you.”

He cocked his head, as if deciding whether she was being straight with him, then dropped to all fours and waddled off. She watched him go, then stood.

The nurse smiled at her. “That's Rascal. We tell the residents not to feed him,” she murmured. “But they can't help themselves. He brings them such pleasure.”

“I'll bet.” Liz returned her smile. “I'm looking for a resident named Father Paul Ramos. I was told he lived here.”

“He does.” She pointed. “He's in C wing, number fourteen. If he's lucid, he'll be delighted to have a visitor.”

Liz's heart sank. “If he's lucid?”

“Father Paul's one hundred and two. Sometimes he's
with us. And sometimes he's not. So don't be alarmed if he starts talking crazy.”

Liz found fourteen-C. Father Paul sat in his wheelchair, facing the window. A Bible lay open in his lap; his mouth worked as he moved the rosary beads between his fingers.

She tapped on the door. “Father Paul?”

He looked at her, squinting. “Margaret?”

“No.” She stepped into the room. “My name's Elizabeth Ames. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

“Come in, child.” He smiled and motioned her closer. “How can an old man like me help you?”

She perched on the edge of his bed and he swiveled his chair to face her. “I'm a counselor and one of my patients told me an interesting story. She said you could tell me more about it.”

He laughed, the sound papery with age. “I know many interesting stories, a benefit of having lived a long time.” He leaned toward her, expression almost childlike. “And I love telling them.”

She laughed, too, liking this man. “This is a special story, Father. One about the Blessed Mother appearing to children in the churchyard of what is now Paradise Christian Church.”

His inclined his head, expression pleased. “That is, indeed, a special story.” He laid his rosary in his Bible, marking his place, then closed the book. “It is a true story, one I was told by my grandparents, children at the time.

“Key West was very different at that time. Cut off from the rest of the country by water.”

He looked past her, expression faraway. “Did you know, at one time Key West was the wealthiest city in
America?” He returned his gaze to hers. “It's true. Because of the salvaging industry. Ships crashed into the reef and went down. The bells would sound and there would be a great race to see which outfit reached the sinking vessel first.”

“The first to the vessel rescued the passengers and claimed the ship's bounty as their own,” she murmured. “Is that right?”

“It is, indeed.” His lips lifted. “There are rumors that some of Key West's more nefarious entrepreneurs actually lured the vessels to the reef.”

“And you believe those rumors are true.”

“One must be watchful of greed, child. There's a reason it's one of the seven deadly sins.”

He sobered. “The devil is crafty, indeed. He captures us through the things that make us most human. Lust. Pride. Anger. Avarice. Envy. Sloth. Gluttony. These we must guard against, just as the Lord warned us we should.”

Liz thought of Tara and shuddered. The light in Father Paul's eyes was the same she had seen in the girl's. Somehow, it seemed less disturbing in a man of Father Paul's age and religious stature.

“I've frightened you,” he murmured.

She rubbed her arms. “No, of course not.”

“I wish I had.”

She blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

He looked past her once more, expression faraway. “I know, you didn't come here to be warned against the Beast. No one does anymore. It's not…fashionable.”

He fell silent. His eyes closed. Liz waited, wondering if he had fallen asleep. And if he had, if she should wake him or leave.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes and looked at her,
his blue gaze as clear as a summer sky. “Back then, Paradise Christian was St. Stephen's. And there in the walled garden, among the banyan and poinciana trees, the Blessed Mother appeared as a vision to the children. She didn't speak, just hovered there, swathed in a halo as bright as the gold coins recovered from all those shipwrecked vessels. The children weren't frightened. They were awed. They understood they were in the presence of God. They fell to their knees in prayer and thanksgiving. Several ran for Father Roberto.”

“Did he witness the vision?” she asked, spellbound.

The old priest shook his head. “He was too late. But he believed. After all, why would these children, good, faithful children, make such a thing up?

“For the next fourteen days,” he continued, “Key West was blessed with one miracle after another. Sickness was cured. The blind could suddenly see, the crippled walk. Blood flowed from the hands of the statue of Christ.”

“And then the miracles stopped,” Liz whispered. “And the storm came.”

“Yes. The wind first, a gentle breeze from the west. The old-timers knew. The breeze, the movement of the water. Something was wrong. Word spread. A few packed up their families and made their way toward the mainland, from key to key by boat. Others refused to leave and instead began making preparations.

“Of course, as in all things, there were disbelievers. Naysayers. There would be no storm. The Lord had always spared this beautiful place, they believed he would spare her once more.”

But he didn't spare her, Liz knew. She had read about this hurricane, thought the worst Key West had suffered. The year 1846 predated hurricane naming and
classification systems, so it was called only the storm of 1846.

“Back then there was no early-warning system. No hurricane center in Miami. No Weather Channel.” His eyes clouded with the memory. “Only the church bells to ring. And only when it was already too late. The storm was all but upon them.”

Liz shivered, imagining. She knew from her reading that in those days the only way on and off the island was by boat. Flagler's railroad didn't open until 1912; the overseas highway not until 1938.

“For forty-eight hours the storm pummeled the island. With the scream of the wind could be heard the church bells and the cries of the lost ones. Many were washed out to sea, and for weeks afterward bodies floated ashore. Entire families, lashed together.” He lowered his voice. “Men, women and children. It's a miracle that anyone was spared.”

“Your grandparents and their family were among the survivors.”

“Yes. They were protected. The Blessed Virgin protected them.”

Liz realized she was holding her breath and released it. “The church was destroyed.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “The church and all who had taken refuge there were washed out to sea.”

“So the archdiocese decided to demonize the visions.”

He shook his head, his expression unbearably sad. “The visions were a true miracle. Acts of God not demons. They were a warning to guard against the wicked, a warning of the approaching storm. The believers were saved.”

He lowered his voice to a crackly whisper. Liz
leaned toward him, straining to hear. “The church lies on sacred ground. Listen well, child.” He reached out and caught her hand, his skin as dry as parchment, his grip surprisingly strong. “It is a profoundly holy place and must be protected at all costs. For in the desecration of the holy, evil extends its putrid grasp.”

Monday, November 12
9:30 a.m.

L
iz sat at her desk staring blankly at her far wall, Father Paul's last words still ringing in her head. She had slept with them, tossing and turning, her dreams populated with demons, and with bodies floating face-down in the water.

“For in the desecration of the holy, evil extends its putrid grasp.

For weeks afterward the bodies floated ashore. Entire families lashed together.”

She had been unable to sleep for those images in her head—ones drawn by Father Paul's words—but also by Rick Wells's comments. She had been haunted by his description of Tara's death, sketchy though it had been.

He had soft-pedaled the truth for her, she knew. The newspaper had carried even fewer details. But her
mind had filled in the blanks—added details including Tara's last thoughts: ones, Liz imagined, of terror, for her baby's life and her own. Liz had imagined the girl's cries for help.

Liz brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. She had totally embarrassed herself in front of Rick Wells—falling apart and clinging to him, blubbering like a baby.

All those noisy tears had made him uncomfortable. She had seen it in his eyes. She had tried to stop them, had tried to rein them in, but it had been so long since she'd had someone to hold on to, strong arms to support her. His arms, his strength, had been so comforting, such a relief. She had simply melted against him and fallen apart.

Now, he thought her an emotional wreck.

Get in line, Wells. You're not alone.

The phone rang and she jumped, startled. She grabbed it. “Liz Ames.”

“Ms. Ames, it's Pastor Tim.”

Something in his tone had her straightening. “Yes, Pastor?”

“The strangest thing… I found something that belongs to you.”

“Something that belongs to me?” she repeated, frowning. “I wasn't aware that I'd lost anything.”

“You misunderstand. I found an envelope addressed to you. In my study, under the cushion of the window seat.”

Rachel. It had to be from Rachel.

“Liz?”

“Sorry, that's just so bizarre.”

“Would you like to pick it up now?”

“Yes. If that's all right?”

“Fine. I'm working out of the parsonage this morning, not the church. Meet me there.”

Liz agreed, and not ten minutes later she hurried up the parsonage's front walk. She found Pastor Tim waiting anxiously by the door.

“I tried to call you back,” he said. “There's been an emergency… One of my flock. I have to go.”

“But what—”

He thrust an oversize envelope into her hands. Her name had been printed in large, bold letters on the front. She stared at it, unsettled. The handwriting was not Rachel's. So, whose was it?

“I'm sorry, but I've got to—”

“Wait!” She caught his arm. “Where did you say you found this?”

He looked at her, gaze cool. “Under the cushion of the window seat in the parsonage study. What do you imagine it was doing there?”

She swallowed hard, feeling guilty, wondering if lying to a man of God constituted a big sin. “I wish I knew.”

He glanced at his watch, then back at her, expression unreadable. “You know, I've sat in that seat more times than I can count and never noticed that envelope. I wonder why I did today?”

“I don't know,” she answered. “If I had the answer to that question, I'd certainly tell you.”

For a long moment, he searched her gaze. “Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Liz? Anything at all?”

Pastor Howard was my sister. I think she was murdered by the same monster who killed Tara. Can you help me?

That's what she opened her mouth to say. Instead, she murmured that there wasn't.

He looked disappointed. “I really need to go.”

“Before you do, would it be possible for me to see where you found this? It might help me discover the answer to that question.”

“I don't think the help you need is in my quarters,” he told her, glancing at his watch once more. “I suggest you look to God, Liz. Only he can fill the empty place inside you.”

With that, he shut the door in her face. Shocked, she stared at the closed door.

He knew who she really was. That was obvious. And since his attitude toward her had done a three-sixty or one-eighty after the night of Tara's murder, she suspected Lieutenant Lopez had told him.

Less obvious, however, was why she hadn't taken the opportunity to come clean. Why hadn't she told him the truth and asked for his help? He had offered it to her.

Because she didn't trust him.

A shaky laugh tripped off her lips. She didn't trust him? She was the one who had been lying. The one who had deliberately misrepresented herself.

No wonder he had slammed the door in her face. What was wrong with her?

She lowered her gaze to the envelope and the oddly printed letters across its front. She was obsessed with uncovering what had happened to her sister. And she would do anything to discover the truth.

Even lie to a man of God. Heaven help her.

Her hands began to shake. Heart in her throat, she opened the envelope. It was filled with family photographs and other mementos: a ticket stub to the Broadway musical she and Rachel had seen together; a note from their mother, Liz's graduation announcement; Rachel's baby book.

Liz shuffled through the pictures, tears choking her. Ones of her parents and grandparents, of she and Rachel as youngsters and young adults. Sisters and best friends.

It was as if Rachel had grabbed all the quickly accessible and irreplaceable pieces of her life and shoved them in an envelope for Liz.

Why? To make sure she got them? Or for another reason?

She leafed through the envelope's contents again. A sheet of unlined paper fluttered to the ground.

Liz retrieved it. The paper appeared to have been torn from a journal. Drawn on the page were several variations of the same image: an image that appeared to be a horned flower.

Liz stared at the drawing, tilting her head, then the paper. What was it? A religious symbol? A local logo of some kind?

“You're still here?”

She looked up, startled. Pastor Tim stood at his door, Bible tucked under his arm. He didn't attempt to hide his annoyance.

“Yes. I—” She held out the sheet containing the drawings of the flower. “Do you recognize this image?”

He looked at it, then away. “I have no idea what that is.”

“It's not a religious symbol?” she pressed. “Or a logo from a local business?”

He didn't meet her eyes. “I said, I have no idea what it is.” He snapped the door shut. “Good day.”

He was lying. She didn't know why she was so certain of that, but she was. She swung around to watch him go, reviewing their brief conversation of a moment ago and the one from earlier. She recalled his expression when she showed him the drawing.

It had shifted subtly, she realized. Had it been guilt she'd seen creep across his features? Or alarm? Or some other emotion she couldn't quite put her finger on?

Liz frowned. And why, when he'd professed to be in such a big hurry, had he spent the last ten minutes in the parsonage? Could it have had anything to do with her request to take a look inside?

Her heart began to thump uncomfortably against the wall of her chest. By his own admission, he was the one who had packed her sister's things. Perhaps he had found something incriminating, something he had decided to keep to himself.

But what? And why would he? He had arrived on the island after her sister disappeared, hadn't he?

She needed to get inside the parsonage and take a look around.

Liz glanced at the door, then moved toward it. Luckily, she stood in an alcove, mostly obscured from view. She peeked over her shoulder anyway, then reached out and grasped the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, she twisted.

The door eased open. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she ducked inside, closing the door behind her.

The interior was spartan. None of her sister's homey sense of style remained. It looked like a watered-down version of a bachelor's pad: big recliner across from the TV, books stacked on the shelves and coffee table, a few framed photos. No flowers, no pretty afghan tossed across the back of the couch, no profusion of throw pillows or cutesy knickknacks.

It hurt to picture Rachel here, so Liz forced the comparisons from her mind. Fearing Pastor Tim would return before she could complete her search, she began
looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything she recognized as having belonged to her sister. She made a quick but careful search of the living room, then moved on to the kitchen, then the bathroom.

Nothing jumped out at her.

From there she entered the bedroom. Again, the room was neat and spare. She glanced quickly at two framed photos on the dresser—one of Pastor Tim in full football gear, flanked by a couple of other uniformed players, the other at graduation from college, he in cap and gown, an older couple at his side, beaming.

It crossed her mind that in both photos Pastor Tim wore a costume of sorts and that every Sunday he wore another.

Would the real Pastor Tim please stand up?

She shifted her attention away from the photographs and back to her mission. She slid open the top dresser drawer. It was filled with the pastor's socks and Jockey shorts.

Liz's fingers froze. Lord help her, what was she doing? Going through someone's personal things? Violating their privacy? How would she feel if the situation was reversed?

Her own actions made her sick to her stomach. Shaking, she slid the drawer shut. She had to get a grip on herself, on her behavior. She had gone too far this time. Breaking and entering, for heaven's sake.

She grabbed the envelope from the top of the dresser, intent on getting out of the parsonage. She turned, then stopped, a scream rising to her throat.

Stephen stood at the window, staring at her with his one good eye, disfigured mouth twisted into a grotesque grimace.

The man inched closer to the window, mouth work
ing. He lifted his hands; Liz saw that they were curved into fists. He meant to break the window, she realized. He meant her harm.

Suddenly, he pivoted away from the glass, head cocked. In the next moment he was gone.

Liz ran to the window and peered out, hoping to see which way he had disappeared. He had disappeared completely, the only evidence of his presence a broken palmetto.

She released a strangled breath, then sucked in another. Something had frightened him off. Thank God. Something—

Not something. Someone.

Pastor Tim had returned.

She heard him at the front door. Heard him insert the key into the lock. Imagined his expression as he realized it hadn't been locked. Heard the door open, then close, heard him mutter something under his breath.

Liz looked around, frantically searching for a place to hide. Her gaze landed on what she assumed was the closet. She darted toward it, yanked the door open and slipped inside.

It was, indeed, a clothes closet, and she carefully inched her way to the very back corner. The closet was deep and jammed full with clothing, sports equipment, storage boxes and even some holiday decorations. It smelled stale, faintly of sweat, aftershave and dust.

Pastor Tim entered the room. He let out a frustrated-sounding breath as he moved about. Liz's heart beat so hard and fast her chest hurt. She pressed her lips together, struggling not to make a sound, to not even breathe.

He reached the closet; she saw the shadow of his feet at the bottom of the door. She pressed herself farther
into the corner. Something scurried on the wall by her ear, and a cry rose in her throat.

The doorknob turned, a sliver of light spilled into the closet. The sliver grew. Liz caught a glimpse of the man. In that glimpse he bore little resemblance to the mild-mannered pastor she had come to expect—he looked angry. And determined. A man who would level anyone who dared cross him.

Pastor Tim was not the man he professed to be.

The anxiety attack came upon her without warning. Smothering in its intensity. The weight of it upon her chest crippling. She pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out and squeezed her eyes shut. In the next moment, he would find her out. How would she explain? He would almost certainly call the police. She could imagine Lieutenant Lopez's disgust. His satisfaction.

Both sisters, nutty as fruitcakes. And to think I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Not now, Lord, she prayed. Please, not now.

The door opened a fraction wider, then snapped shut, leaving her in darkness once more. A moment later came the sound of his footsteps and the front door slamming closed.

Liz curled her arms around her middle and sank to her knees. Her pent-up breath shuddered past her lips in shallow gasps. She fought to slow her breathing, to concentrate on the steady pull and push of oxygen in and out. She willed her heart and thoughts to slow to a gallop. She had nothing to fear, she told herself. She had not been discovered.

Gradually, her breathing and heart rate returned to normal. She stood cautiously, careful to make as little noise as possible. She eased toward the door, cracked
it open and peered out. As she had thought it would be, the bedroom beyond was empty.

Liz started through the door, then realized she had left the envelope behind. As she bent to retrieve it she caught the glint of metal on the floor of the closet. Curious, she bent closer. A ring, she realized. Peeking out from under a pair of work boots.

She picked it up. Her hand trembled. She recognized the ring—a circle of gold studded with rubies—it had been her mother's, one of a matched pair.

Liz shifted her gaze slightly. She wore its mate on her right ring finger.