Dead Run (21 page)

Monday, November 19
2:45 a.m.

R
ick sat alone in the empty bar, his cell phone on the table beside him. Libby had left several minutes ago. They had finished closing, but Rick wasn't ready to leave, not yet. He needed the quiet to think, to untangle his thoughts.

Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. His and Liz's lovemaking. Val and Carla's visit. The things they had told him. His visit with Daniel and the discovery that Tara's tattoo and the drawing in Pastor Rachel's notes matched.

Mark a serial killer? The good-natured, conscientious Christian boy who never even took a drink? The young man he had not only trusted and relied on but had come to respect?

The seasoned guys in his squad in Miami had seen
it all. They used to laugh that really bad shit was perpetrated by the ones you least suspected. The quiet ones. The handsome, smart or educated ones.

Not the penny-ante crimes. Not the everyday street crimes. But the really bad stuff. The serial killers. The drug lords. The high-tech, big-bucks operations.

Rick had seen their theory play out, time after time.

But Mark? Something, some instinct buried deep inside him, told him it wasn't true.

Everything else told him it was.

That Val and Carla believed Liz was a target terrified him. He shifted his gaze to the cell phone. He wanted to call Liz. To hear her voice. To reassure himself she was all right.

So why didn't he call? He'd gotten her number from information hours ago and had dialed it a dozen times. And had never pressed Send.

He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes. Why the hesitation? Why the knot in the pit of his gut? Guilt, he acknowledged. The feeling that he had betrayed Jill, their wedding vows.

Jill was dead. She had been gone for more than three years.

No, he admitted. She wasn't gone. She lived in his heart. She always would.

A knot of emotion formed in his throat even as a feeling of peace moved over him. He bent his head, vision blurring.

I love you, Jilly. I always will.

Love you, too, babe. It's okay to move on.

He didn't believe in ghosts or the spirit world; he knew she hadn't spoken to him. But he felt as if she had. He felt as if she were with him now.

Without examining that feeling further, he snatched up his phone and punched in Liz's number.

It rang a half-dozen times, then her machine picked up. He listened to her message, heart beginning to thunder.

He racked his brain for an explanation. She was sleeping and hadn't been able to get to the phone in time, he told himself.

She had a phone beside her bed. He had seen it.

“Liz, it's Rick.” He heard the panic in his own voice and tried to temper it. “We need to talk. Call me right away, no matter the time.”

He left her his cell-phone number, then hung up.

She was fine. Sleeping. It was the middle of the night, the time when normal people were in bed. Rick stood and clipped his phone to his belt, then began the last tasks he needed to complete before he could go home.

Those done, he flipped off all but the bar's safety lights, set the alarm and slipped out into the night. If she needed him, she knew how to reach him. He would head home and catch some much-needed shut-eye.

 

Rick ended up at Liz's place instead. He pulled his Nighthawk up in front of her storefront apartment. He cut off the engine and gazed up at her windows. A single light glowed from somewhere deep inside the dwelling. The front window stood open—an invitation to every passing maniac to break in.

Or a way for one particular maniac to get in.

He swore, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. That she was in immediate danger.

Calling himself the lunatic he would look like when he awakened her from a deep sleep, he swung off the
motorcycle and strode to her door. He rang the bell, then pounded, fear becoming panic.

“Liz!” he shouted. “It's Rick.”

Several seconds passed. Finally, the dead bolt slid back; the door cracked open.

Liz peeked around the door frame. Rick went weak with relief. “I was sick with worry. I called and you didn't answer.”

A strange expression crossed her face. “I turned off the ringer.”

Of course, it was something simple. Logical.

He was a lunatic.

“We have to talk. Can I come in?”

She didn't move. “Now's not a great time.”

“It's important.”

She hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “If it's about what happened earlier—”

“It's about Mark.”

Wordlessly, she swung the door wider.

Rick stepped into the foyer. She shut the door behind him, but didn't lead him upstairs. She faced him, arms across her middle in an almost defensive stance.

Something had changed in the few hours since they parted. Something that had caused her to distance herself from him.

Thoughts of Val and Mark and Tara's murder fled his mind. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked.

“Not at all.” She dragged a hand through her already tousled hair. “You said you had information about Mark.”

He ignored her pointed attempt to shift the conversation away from their relationship. “Would you have let me in if I said it was about what happened earlier?”

“I don't expect anything from you, Rick. You don't have to—”

“Dammit, Liz, maybe
I
expect something.”

She searched his gaze, expression altering subtly. “Oh. I…I don't know what to say.”

He looked at the ceiling, frustrated by her response. After a moment, he met her eyes again. “Say anything, Liz. I'm dying here.”

A hint of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “All right. What do you expect… Do you have any idea what that might be?”

“Not yet.” He closed the distance between them and cupped her face in his palms. “I like you, Liz. Being with you tonight… It wasn't… I've been with women since Jill. But never in a meaningful way. It's going to take me a little time to deal with this. Are you okay with that?”

“More than okay.”

He returned her smile, bent and pressed his mouth against hers in a quick, possessive kiss. When he released her, he saw that she looked dazed.

He liked that, he decided. He liked it a lot.

“Val and Carla paid me a visit at the bar tonight.”

She became instantly alert. “What did they want?”

“There's a warrant out for Mark's arrest. They think he killed Tara.”

“Same old song, Rick. They're obviously desperate, trying to convince—”

“They believe he killed Naomi Pearson as well. They have evidence against him, Liz. Strong enough to issue a warrant.”

“I don't believe it.”

“There's more, Liz. They think you may be his next target.”

For the space of a heartbeat she didn't even seem to breathe. Then she shook her head. “That's crazy.”

“That's what I told them. But—”

“But what, Rick?” She hugged herself, as if in protection against his words. “Why are you selling Mark out this way?”

“Just listen, please. I don't want to believe he did it either, but I know enough about police work to understand that it takes real evidence to issue a warrant. The clock starts ticking the minute an arrest is made. The police have to be able to convince the D.A. that they'll be able to prove guilt. And that's tougher than you think.”

“Then why are the newspapers filled with stories about new evidence surfacing that exonerates some poor guy serving time for a crime he didn't commit?”

“The system's not perfect, Liz. Mistakes happen. They're the exception, not the rule.”

“So what is this strong evidence?”

“They wouldn't tell me.”

“Great.” She let out a long breath. “I'm tired. It's been a long night. I think I'd like you to leave now.”

He ignored her. “Serials killers work in a couple different ways. Most begin their killing career with a person close to them, a neighbor, friend or coworker, then they move on to strangers.”

“Stop trying to scare me.”

“But some serials select their stranger, then forge a minimal relationship with them before killing them.”

“You're leaving now.”

She crossed to the door and began to open it. He stopped her. “The relationship, the trust is a stimulant for these killers. It increases their thrill in the kill. Gavin Taft operated that way. Ultimately, it was his un
doing. Most probably it will be Mark's as well. If he's the one.”

She didn't make a move, so he forged ahead.

“Naomi and Mark knew each other through their church. They were in Bible study. That would inspire a deep element of trust.”

She looked shaken. “I don't want to hear any more. Please leave.”

“Now he's forging a relationship with you. The frightened boy. The victim. You respond to that. You trust him because he needs you.”

“Stop it.”

He caught her arm. “But you do trust him. Isn't that right, Liz?”

“Why are you doing this!” She wrenched her arm free of his grasp. “Why are you trying to frighten me this way!”

“Because I don't want anything to happen to you, dammit!”

Her expression softened. “Nothing's going to happen to me. I know things you don't.”

He caught his breath. “He's contacted you, hasn't he?”

She hesitated, but only a fraction of a second. And in that moment Rick knew. “He's wanted by the police, Liz. On a murder charge, for God's sake.”

“I haven't heard from him.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Then that's your problem, isn't it?”

He swore and swung away from her, frustrated. She didn't get it. Her blind trust in this kid could get her dead.

She came up behind him and laid a hand on his arm. He looked at it, then at her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For caring what happens to me.”

“Maybe I shouldn't.” He stepped away from her hand. “Because with your reckless attitude, you may not be around that long.”

Monday, November 19
Noon

C
arla parked her cruiser in front of Paradise Christian. Pastor Tim waited in front of the church for her, expression panicked.

She shook her head and climbed out of her car. A popular pastor disappears. A serial killer is slicing up young women. A prominent citizen bilks a million bucks from his employer then kills himself. Now a depression had formed in the western Caribbean, a depression with the potential to become a full-fledged hurricane. It seemed to her that paradise was going to hell in a handbasket.

The pastor rushed to meet her. “Thanks for coming, Detective. It's Stephen, the church caretaker… I didn't know what to do, so I called the police.”

“Slow down,” she murmured. “Tell me what happened.”

He nodded and clasped his hands together. “I hadn't seen Stephen in a day or two, so I grew concerned. I went to his quarters to check on him. And I found—”

His voice broke. “Come, let me show you.”

They hurried around the side of the church, bypassing the garden. Carla saw the parsonage, then a smaller building behind it.

“That's where Stephen lives,” Pastor Tim said as if reading her mind. “Originally it was the buggy barn, then an equipment shed. It was converted to living quarters after Stephen returned from the sanatorium in Miami. He didn't do well there, and the church decided to accept responsibility for his full-time care.”

They reached the dwelling's entrance. The door stood slightly ajar. “Was the door open before you went in?” she asked.

The pastor hung back slightly, expression queasy. “No. I knocked, then tried the knob. Maybe I shouldn't have gone in, but I was worried.”

Carla didn't comment. She crossed to the door and tapped on it. “Police! Anybody home?” No one responded and she tried again. When she got the same response, she pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside. The interior was neat, its furnishings basic.

Pastor Tim came up beside her. “There—” he pointed “—on the bed.”

The twin bed was pushed up against the right wall, under a small, curtainless window. The baby-blue chenille spread looked worn. Ditto for the pastel, floral sheets. Carla crossed to the bed.

Pastel, floral sheets smeared with blood. Carla gazed
at the unmistakable puddles, spots and swirls, her vision blurring for a fraction of a second.

To hell in a handbasket, no doubt about it.

So much for paradise.

“Is that what I thought it—”

“Yes,” Carla replied grimly. “Please stand back, Pastor. Did you touch anything earlier?”

“No, I—”

“Good.”

“Do you think Stephen is—” The clergyman's voice shook. “I mean, that seems like an awful lot of blood. Is it an awful lot, Detective?”

It wasn't a little.

Carla thought of Tara. But she had seen more. A lot more.

“You say you haven't seen Stephen in a couple days?”

“That's right.”

Carla fitted on a pair of rubber gloves. Bending, she carefully examined the bedding, pulling the top sheet away from the fitted. The blood appeared fairly fresh. She touched a large irregular-shaped spot and found it was still damp.

She shifted her gaze to the floor by the bed. A bloody trail led away from the bed and toward the back of the room and a door set into the wall. A bloody handprint stood out in bold relief on the pale yellow paint.

Carla's heart jumped to her throat. She swallowed past it. “That a closet?”

“I think so but I'm not sure.”

She unclipped her cell phone, punched in the number for headquarters number and requested backup, ASAP. Possible homicide, she informed the dispatcher, then flipped the phone closed. She glanced at the pastor. “I think you'd better wait outside.”

“But Stephen may need—”

A moan from the other side of the door interrupted his words. Carla sprang toward the door and yanked it open. Not a closet, she realized in the same instant she registered the condition of the room's occupant.

He was naked save for a pair of bloodied boxer shorts. His limbs, torso and hands were also stained red. A Bible was open on the cot beside him; pages that had been ripped from it littered the cot and floor. His face was tipped heavenward and Carla saw that his eyes were rolled back in his head.

“Stephen,” Pastor Tim cried, alarmed. “Are you all right?”

The caretaker's head snapped down. For the space of a heartbeat he stared at them, his good eye wide, expression terrified. Then he opened his mouth and a terrible sound came out, the sound of a wild animal in pain. The sound tripped along Carla's nerve endings and sent shudders racing up her arms.

She saw the knife clutched in his hand. The kind a hunter might use, with an edge that was both serrated and smooth. Its four-inch blade was covered with blood.

Dammit. Carla went for her weapon. But not fast enough. With a bloodcurdling howl, the caretaker launched to his feet and charged her.

“Watch out, Pastor!” she called, lunging sideways in an attempt to protect them both.

She didn't completely elude the caretaker. He caught her shoulder and sent her crashing into the opposite wall. Pain shot through her side, and even as she righted herself and took off after him, she wondered if he had managed to cut her.

“Freeze!” she shouted. “Freeze or I'll shoot.”

He didn't acknowledge her command with the slight
est pause in his flight. Carla was vaguely aware of a group of tourists in the distance, of their frightened squeals. And of the sound of sirens. The cavalry. Thank God.

She darted toward the garden. She heard screaming. A shout for help. A child began to cry.

She burst through the gate. Stephen was running back and forth, knife clutched in his hand, sounds more animal than human spilling from his misshapen mouth.

She shouted for the civilians to get back. From the corner of her eyes she saw her backup storm the garden from the other entrance, weapons drawn. From Duval Street came the sound of more sirens.

“Freeze, Stephen!” He swung toward her, his expression desperate. Then he charged. She lifted her gun, ordered him to stop, once, then again.

He was nearly on top of her when she fired. The bullet caught him square in the chest. His body jerked slightly at the impact, though it didn't halt his forward momentum.

He slammed into her and sent her sprawling. Her life flashed before her, a series of brightly colored disappointments.

A moment after hitting the ground, the other officers were at her side. They eased the caretaker off her.

“You okay, Chapman?” Val asked.

She had to think a moment about that. She realized that other than having had the wind knocked out of her and being scared senseless, she was okay. She told Val so, then motioned to the caretaker.

“Is he—”

An officer at his side looked up at her. “He's alive.”

“Get an ambulance,” Val shouted. “Now!”

The next minutes were a blur. The ambulance ar
rived. A news crew. The evidence team, even the chief of police. The man congratulated her, then made his way to where the reporters waited eagerly for a statement.

“You did good, Carla,” Val murmured. “Real good.”

That wasn't the way she felt, though she didn't say so. She'd never discharged her weapon in the line of duty before, let alone shot another human being.

She glanced down at herself and choked back a sound of revulsion. She was covered with Stephen's blood. She went to wipe at it and realized she still wore the latex gloves she'd put on what seemed like hours ago now.

“What do you say we take a look around inside?”

She nodded and followed Val because she knew it was what he expected of her. She was shaken but unharmed. She had a job to do.

The evidence guys had already begun to do their thing. One of them was carefully combing the bedding for trace material, another was busy photographing the scene.

Val looked at her. “What happened?”

Carla filled Val in. “I was on my way to lunch when I received the call from dispatch. Pastor Tim had called in. There was a situation, he'd said. He feared someone had been hurt. He was pretty shaken up.

“I arrived at the church at approximately noon. Pastor Tim was waiting. As I had been warned, he was upset.”

“How upset?”

She thought a moment. “Rattled. Shaky.”

Val nodded and she continued. “He hadn't seen Stephen, the church caretaker, in a couple of days and was worried about him. He had gone to his quarters looking for him and found the bed bloodied. That's when he called us.”

“He have a key to the place?”

“It was unlocked.” Carla let out a breath. “He led me here. Upon a brief inspection of the bed, I noticed a trail of blood leading to what I assumed was a closet.” She pointed. “I saw the handprint and feared we had a perp hiding in the closet. I advised the pastor to wait outside and I called for backup.”

Val drew his eyebrows together. “But you didn't wait for backup to arrive.”

“No.” She met his eyes. “I screwed up. When I heard him moan, I reacted. I figured we had a victim in need of medical attention.”

“Go on.” Val crossed to the door and peered into the space.

“At first I thought I had been right. The caretaker was bloodied and appeared to be having some sort of seizure.”

“A seizure?” Val murmured, frowning. “What indications—”

“His eyes were rolled back in his head.” She shuddered, remembering. “When Pastor Tim cried out the man's name and asked if he was hurt, it was if they snapped back in place. Really creepy.”

Her superior looked annoyed at her editorializing and she refocused on the facts. “That's when I saw the knife. I went for my weapon, but I was too late. He charged us and headed out to the garden. The rest I think you know.”

Val moved into the narrow room. He squatted in front of the cot, careful not to disturb anything. “Bible pages,” he murmured, indicating the papers that littered the cot and floor around it. “That's curious.”

He tilted his head to read one. “This one's from the
Gospel of Peter. This one from Luke. Looks like mostly New Testament stuff.”

He looked at her. “You read much Scripture, Carla?”

“I grew up Catholic.” She rubbed her arms, at the chill bumps that dotted them. “Went to mass and confessed my sins regularly. Said my share of novenas, but that's about it. Why?”

“Don't know.” His expression grew pensive. “Just trying to figure out what it all means.”

He drew his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. Using it to prevent possible contamination of the evidence, he carefully tipped the Bible over. The breath hissed past his lips.

“Carla, you might want to take a look at this.”

Carla crossed to her superior and peered over his shoulder at the book. Imprinted in gold on the cream-colored leather cover was the name Rachel Howard.