Dead Run (20 page)

Sunday, November 18
Midnight

L
iz awakened suddenly. She looked around her bedroom, disoriented, heart pounding. She hadn't meant to fall asleep, in fact she still wore the shorts and T-shirt she had thrown on after Rick left. She had hoped Rick would call. Or Mark.

They had both been so strongly on her mind, she hadn't believed she would be able to sleep.

Liz shifted to get a look at her bedside clock, and the book on her lap slipped to the floor, landing with a thud. She made a move to retrieve it, then froze.

A sound came from the other room, a scuffling noise. The kind a cat or dog might make if trapped in a closet.

Problem was, she didn't own a pet.

Swallowing past the lump that formed in her throat,
Liz slipped quietly out of bed. The noise came again, this time louder.

Liz shook her head. She was imagining things, for heaven's sake. Letting her imagination run away with her. Still, she crept forward, her every sense on the alert.

She reached her bedroom doorway and peered through. She had left a single light on in the living room and another in the kitchen, the one over the sink. Both sent a soft pool of reassuring light spilling into the hallway.

Nothing looked out of order. She hesitated, listening. She heard a moped pass on the street below, caught the sound of distant laughter and a car door slam.

A relieved laugh escaped her. Of course, she had left several of her front windows open. The night had been mild, the humidity low. She had decided to circulate some fresh air. The sound that had awakened her had come from outside.

She headed in that direction to close the windows, then stopped as a distinct but muffled thump came from the kitchen, to her immediate right. She took a step into the room, flipping on the overhead as she did. Bright light illuminated every inch of the small area.

The scuffling sound came again. The cabinet beneath the sink, she realized. She crossed to it and ever so carefully eased the door open. Light flooded the small space. Beady black eyes blinked up at her from the garbage pail. Beady eyes belonging to a creature eight inches long with a hairless, pink tail.

A rat! Liz slammed the cabinet door closed and sprang backward. How had the thing gotten in? And how did she get rid of it? No way could she sleep knowing it was in there.

Rat poison, she thought. Or a trap. Surely she could
find a grocery or drugstore still open. Liz swung around and a scream flew to her throat.

Stephen stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at her, his mutilated face screwed into a frightening grimace. His mouth moved though no sound emerged.

She glanced quickly to her right, then left, assessing her options. The drawers behind her. She kept her knives in one of them. If she could get one, she might have a chance at defending herself.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded, backing up. “Get away from me.”

He advanced. His mouth moved and garbled, words spilled forth. He raised his hands as if in an attempt to grab her.

“Get away from me.” She took another step backward, reaching the counter. She reached behind her, eased open the drawer and fumbled for one of the knives.

Her fingers closed around a wooden handle. In a quick move, she drew out the knife, sprang away from the drawer and brandished her makeshift weapon at him. “Get away from me!” she shouted. “I'll cut you, I promise I will!”

He froze, his expression a mask of horror. She took another step toward him. “I mean it! I'll hurt you!”

With a cry, he inched backward. He reached the wall, but instead of stepping right to escape through the doorway, he sank to the floor. Bringing his arms up to shield his face, he cowered against the wall.

Liz stared at him, grip on the knife faltering. He whimpered, the defenseless sound childlike. Lump in her throat, she recalled what Heather had told her about the caretaker. That he had been the victim of severe
child abuse. That the attack that had destroyed his face and taken his eye had also damaged his brain.

This man posed no danger to her.

Mortified at having frightened him, she laid the weapon on the counter. “It's all right,” she said softly. “I'm not going to hurt you. See? I put the knife away.”

He didn't lower his arms. She saw that he trembled. Her heart broke for him. She could hardly fathom the horrific abuse this man must have suffered.

She held her hands out, palms up. “I won't hurt you, Stephen. I was afraid. I'm sorry I frightened you.”

He lowered his arms a fraction, peeking at her over the top of them.

She took a cautious step toward him. “You understand being frightened, don't you, Stephen?”

He did understand; she could tell by his expression, by the way he averted his gaze.

“Look at me, Stephen,” she said softly, taking another step closer. He did, though tentatively. “It's all right. I'm not angry. And I won't hurt you. I promise.”

She smiled to prove it. “Would you like a glass of milk and a cookie?”

He nodded. She held out a hand. “Come, sit down.”

He took her hand and she helped him to his feet. She led him to the table and he sat, head down.

She poured the milk, went to the pantry and took out a package of Oreos—one of her personal weaknesses. She put three on a plate, then carried the snack to him.

“Here you go.” She set them in front of him, and took the chair across from his.

He met her eyes, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth, before his gaze transfixed on the cookies. She watched as he devoured them, then reached for his milk, gulping it down.

“Would you like more?” she asked.

He nodded. This time she brought the entire package to the table, along with a glass of milk for herself. “This is how I do it,” she said, and dunked one of the Oreos in the milk.

He watched her intently, then mimicked her. While he ate a half-dozen more of the chocolate-sandwich cookies, she studied him. Because of his misshapen features, she had thought this man to be a brute. Because of his inability to communicate, she'd thought he meant her harm.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Stephen was a gentle giant. An innocent trapped inside a monster's face and body.

He wanted something from her, she realized. That's why he had tried to grab her that day at the church. Why he had appeared at the parsonage window when she had been inside snooping. It was why he was here now.

But what?

“How did you get in here, Stephen?”

He turned and pointed toward the living room.

“The windows?” she asked. He shook his head yes. The side window, she acknowledged, thinking of the huge, old banyan tree on that side of the building, with its long, sturdy branches. It would have been relatively easy for him to climb the tree, traverse a branch and push through the window.

“Why are you here?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it, a look of frustration crossing his face. He stood and pointed toward the door.

Liz got to her feet. “I don't understand.”

He started toward it, motioning for her to follow him.

She did until they reached the door that led to the downstairs foyer. There, she stopped. He wanted her to follow him outside.

Liz held back. “I can't go with you.”

He pointed toward the door again. She shook her head. “I can't. Please try to understand, it wouldn't be smart of me to do that. Look—” She pointed at her bare feet. “I'm not wearing shoes. And there's this rat in my…” She let her words trail off.

As she had to him only minutes ago, he held out a hand to her. His eyes seemed to beg for her to trust him. They told her he wouldn't hurt her.

She hoped to God she wasn't wrong. Signaling that he should wait, she retrieved a pair of shoes, tied the kitchen cabinet shut with a belt to contain the rodent, then returned to Stephen. Taking a deep breath, she let him lead her out into the night.

Monday, November 19
1:00 a.m.

S
tephen led Liz to Paradise Christian. He took her the back way, avoiding Duval Street by cutting through the alley, staying mostly hidden behind overgrown shrubs and mature trees.

Liz's breath came in quick, shallow gasps. She was scared. No, she corrected silently. She had passed scared a half-dozen steps ago. Terrified would be a better description of her emotional state. What had she been thinking? Why should she trust this man? She knew nothing about him other than what Pastor Tim and Heather had told her.

Rachel had been afraid of him.

He could be a killer.

They reached the church's walled garden. He held a finger to his lips, warning her to be quiet, then eased
open the heavy gate. They stepped through. Liz shuddered—the last time she stood in this spot had been the night Tara died.

She moved her gaze over the beautiful, silent garden, vividly reminded of that night. Of finding Tara. Her beautiful face drawn into a death grimace. Blood staining the ground around her. The sound of her own screams.

Stephen caught her hand and Liz jumped, startled back to the moment. She saw that he had relocked the gate. To keep others out? she wondered. Or to keep her from escaping?

He pointed to the opposite side of the garden. The shadow of the parsonage fell across the grounds. She saw that a single light burned in the dwelling and she wondered if Pastor Tim was up. She wondered if he would hear her if she screamed.

As if reading her mind, Stephen once again brought a finger to his lips. Keeping to the perimeter, they made their way around the garden and past the parsonage.

Then she saw it: a small building adjunct to the parsonage, not much bigger than an equipment shed.

Stephen's quarters, she realized, a chill washing over her. Why had he brought her here? Her mind ran rampant with possibilities—none of them reassuring.

They had to leave the shadows to enter the building. Stephen glanced furtively around, and motioned her forward.

“No,” she whispered, hanging back.

He shook his head in the affirmative. When she still held back, he pulled on her arm.

Liz hesitated a moment more, then took a deep breath and followed Stephen into his quarters.

Basic would be the best way to describe the interior.
It consisted of one room and a kitchenette. The battered furniture was a mishmash of styles, and Liz suspected all had been charitable donations. No pictures hung on the walls, no knickknacks or personal treasures adorned the shelves.

An obviously well-loved teddy bear sat on the neatly made bed, his one button eye seeming to stare at her. In a sad way, the toy reminded her of Stephen—battered but sweet. Sympathy for this man-child welled inside her. She ached for the life he had, but more, for the one he lost.

He led her to the very back of the dwelling to a door to what she assumed was a closet. Not a closet, she realized as Stephen opened it. A small room, big enough for a single cot.

Mark sat huddled on it, knees drawn up to his chest. He lifted his face as the door opened. He looked as if he had aged five years since she had seen him last.

“Mark!” she cried. “Thank God!”

“Liz!” He scrambled off the cot and they hugged.

“I was so frightened,” she said, alarmed at the way he trembled. “I was sure you were dead.”

He shuddered, tears welling in his eyes. “I thought I was.” He shifted his gaze to the other man, hovering in the doorway behind her. “Stephen found me.”

“Stephen?” she repeated. She glanced over her shoulder only to find that the other man was gone.

“He's standing guard,” Mark murmured. “I owe him my life.”

She frowned. “Where did he find you?”

“Here. In the walled garden.” He lowered his voice to a choked whisper. “On the spot…where Tara—”

He couldn't finish but he didn't need to. On the spot where Tara had been found murdered.

The hair on her arms stood up.

“I was unconscious. I don't remember anything after…”

His words trailed off. He looked ill.

“After what?” she asked. “Mark, what happened?”

He brought a shaking hand to his head. “I don't feel so good.”

Liz caught his elbow and ordered him to sit. He did, heavily, and dropped his head into his hands. He breathed deeply and slowly, using his breath, she knew, to help steady himself.

She sat beside him, at the edge of the cot. She had so many questions for him, ones about Tara and Rachel, about the Horned Flower and what they had done to him, where he had been and whether he had recognized anyone. But she held back, seeing how easily he could be overwhelmed.

Seconds ticked past. They became minutes. Finally he lifted his head and looked at her. “The night I called you, I met a girl named Sarah at Southernmost Beach. She blindfolded me and gave me a drug—”

“What kind?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. It was a pill. It relaxed me to the point where I was no longer aware of what was real. Like I was in a bubble, floating. Removed from the physical world. Above it.”

A depressant, probably. Maybe Xanax or Librium.

“Go on.”

“I don't know where they took me. It didn't seem like I'd been in the car long, but it could have been hours.” He paused as if using the time to prepare himself for what he was about to say next. He clasped his hands in his lap, gaze averted.

“I was aware of many people gathered around. They
gave me something else to drink. From a metal cup, like a communion chalice.”

“What did it taste like?”

“Nothing I recognized. It was room temperature. Not unpleasant but weird.”

“It wasn't alcohol?” He shook his head. “Was it drugged?”

“I don't know for sure, but I think it was because my memory is totally scrambled from that point.” He balled his hands into fists. “How can I help Tara when I can't even remember what happened that night!”

Liz reached over and covered his hands, even as disappointment washed over her. She had hoped he would learn something substantive about Tara's murder and Rachel's disappearance. “I'll help you put it together, Mark. We can do this. Tell me what you do remember. Something that doesn't make sense to you may make perfect sense to me.”

He swallowed audibly and began again, tentatively. “After I…drank from the chalice, they began to chant.”

“What did they say?”

“I don't—” he pressed his fingertips to his temples “—something about heat and the flower and the light. Then they…took off my blindfold.”

Liz straightened. “And? Did you recognize any of them?”

“Creatures,” he said. “They weren't human. Birds and tigers and the walking…dead.” On the last his voice grew thick, and he cleared his throat. “I had this sense they…”

She leaned toward him. “You sensed what, Mark?”

“That they meant to devour me, spirit and all.”

For a moment, she couldn't breathe. She shook her head. “They were probably masked.”

“Yes,” he repeated hollowly. “Of course. Masked.”

“So you couldn't recognize them.”

“I guess not.”

That he didn't sound convinced concerned her. She wondered again at the drugs he had been given. Some sort of hallucinogenic, for sure. As a mental health care professional, she was well versed in the effects and side effects of drugs of abuse. These days, sadly, she wouldn't be able to perform her job if she wasn't.

“They began to tear at me. As if feasting on my flesh. But they… It was sexual.”

He lowered his voice to a thready whisper she had to strain to hear. He told her about their hands and mouths, about his being laid upon an altar and of floating above it, enraptured. He described his all-but-continual orgasm.

Ecstasy or cocaine might explain the intense sexual aspects of Mark's experience. Mescaline or peyote could account for the visual hallucinations. LSD for hallucinations paired with the impaired depth and time perception.

Liz swallowed against the dryness of her throat. Her heart had begun to beat faster.

“Then my head…exploded.” He began to tremble. “It was like the most brilliant light in the universe flashed before my eyes, blindingly white. Then it went black.” He looked at her; she went cold at the terror in his eyes. “That's when I saw it, Liz.”

“It?”

“The Beast.”

For the full count of five, Liz sat silent, motionless. She couldn't find her voice.

He dropped his face in his hands once more. “I'm so ashamed.”

“You were drugged. Probably given a combination of something like ecstasy and LSD, a drug cocktail designed to elicit the responses you describe. You aren't responsible for what happened.”

“They mean to kill me, Liz.”

“Did they say that? Did anyone verbally threaten you?”

“They know what I was up to. Somehow they know.”

“But how?” She frowned. “Mark, you've had a shock. You were given God only knows what combination of narcotics, ones that influenced your reactions the other night and how you feel mentally and physically right now. If they planned to kill you, they would have done it then.”

“The Lord was there with me, Liz. He protected me. He sent Stephen into the garden for me.”

Liz didn't know what to say. The truth was, her young friend was frightening her. The fanatical light in his eyes reminded her of the way Tara had looked that day in her office, when the girl had relayed the story of the Blessed Mother's appearance here at Paradise Christian.

He leaned toward her. “Do you believe, Liz?”

“I believe you wouldn't lie to me, Mark.”

“Not my story, that's not what I mean. Do you
believe?
”

“Are you talking about God?” she asked. “About believing in God?”

Mark nodded, his teeth beginning to chatter. “In heaven, hell and all their power. In Satan and his army of darkness, in Jesus Christ and his eternal light and promise of forgiveness? He is the light, Liz. Without him we're doomed.”

“You're upset,” she murmured, reaching out to lay her hand on his forehead. “It's going to be okay. It's—”

“It's not!” he cried, pushing her hand away. “You don't get it. It's happening. The battle is being waged now.”

Liz cleared her throat, frightened. “Mark, if you calm yourself, we can talk about what to do—”

He grabbed her hands, holding them so tightly she winced. “The outcome isn't a given, Liz. Too many people take for granted that good will win out. We can't do that.” He released her hands. “The darkness is powerful, more powerful than we ever imagined.”

He broke down then, sobbing like a baby. Liz took him in her arms and held him while he cried. She heard a sound and looked up to find Stephen in the doorway, gazing at Mark with affection and concern.

And fear. She drew her eyebrows together. Had they known each other before this? she wondered. The depth of emotion she saw in the caretaker's expression suggested they had, but she hardly thought it possible.

As if becoming aware of her scrutiny, Stephen shifted his gaze to hers. They stared at one another a moment, then he backed silently out of the doorway.

Liz returned her attention to Mark, who had gone still in her arms. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.

He nodded and drew away from her, wiping at his cheeks, obviously embarrassed at having broken down that way in front of her.

“I can't get them out of my head,” he murmured, voice thick from his tears. “I can't get the Beast out.”

Satan. Beelzebub. The Angel of Darkness.

Liz searched his expression, alarmed. In some people, drugs like LSD and mescaline proved the kindling for a prolonged psychotic event. Typically those
people had either a biological or emotional predisposition to mental illness. For example, buried issues they had never dealt with or a family history of schizophrenia. The stress of the acid experience could psychically break them open. Some never recovered, their delusions persisting like the never-ending “bad trip.”

Delusions involving Christ, the devil or other religious figures were common.

“I have to get you to the hospital, Mark. A doctor needs to look at you.”

“No!” He jumped to his feet, expression panicked. “They'll know. They're everywhere. They see everything.”

Rachel had said they were listening. That they were everywhere.

Liz shook her head against the thought, not knowing what to believe, what was fact and what was nightmare brought on by the drug cocktail. Frequently, schizophrenics heard voices and felt they were not only being watched but were in mortal danger as well.

She had to get him medical attention. She wasn't a medical doctor. She knew little about drug interactions or antidotes. She feared for his health. She told him so.

“They'll kill me, Liz! I know they will.”

She opened her mouth to reassure him that the police would protect him, then closed it. They wouldn't protect him. According to what Rick told her, they thought Mark killed Tara. They thought the Horned Flower was a figment of her and Mark's imagination. They needed a suspect and had decided Mark was that man.

She thought of Rick. What did he believe? If she told him she was with Mark, would he turn him over to the police?

She feared he would. She couldn't allow that to happen.

The two of them were on their own.

Liz reached up and caught Mark's hand. “All right,” she murmured. “No doctors and no police…for now. But no promises about tomorrow.”