Dead Run (22 page)

Monday, November 19
3:00 p.m.

L
iz opened her door a crack. Valentine Lopez and Carla Chapman stood on the other side, their expressions grim. Her heart leaped to her throat.
They knew Mark was here. Rick had seen through her subterfuge; he had gone to the police.

What did she do now?

She worked to hide her thoughts. “Yes, Officers?”

“There's been a development in your sister's case,” Lieutenant Lopez said. “May we come in?”

“My sister's case?” she repeated, moving her gaze between the two detectives. “What—”

“May we?”

“Yes, of course.” Liz opened the door wider and stepped aside so they could enter. Her hands shook as she shut and locked the door behind them.

“Do you have company, Ms. Ames?”

“I don't think that's any of your business.” She moved her gaze between the two officers. “You said you had information concerning my sister?”

The man looked at the other detective. “Carla?”

She nodded and drew a book out of the canvas tote she carried. Even housed in a plastic bag, Liz recognized Rachel's Bible immediately.

Carla handed it to her. The plastic crackled. “Have you ever seen this before?”

Liz stared at the book, the leather cover marred by fingerprints. Bloody fingerprints. Tears choked her. “It was my sister's.” She ran a finger over the letters of Rachel's name, stamped in gold at the bottom of the book's cover. “I gave this to her when she…” Liz lifted her gaze, vision blurred. “How… Where did you…find it?”

“Do you know Stephen St. John? The old caretaker of Paradise Christian?”

“Yes, but what does he—”

“We have reason to believe he may have been involved in your sister's disappearance.”

A chill washed over her. “I don't understand.”

“Detective Chapman answered a routine call to Paradise Christian this afternoon. The caretaker attacked her with a knife that fits the M.E.'s description of the one used to murder Tara Mancuso and Naomi Pearson. Among other things, we found your sister's Bible in his quarters.”

Liz couldn't breathe. “Excuse me, I need to sit down.”

She pushed past the two and sank heavily onto one of the stairs. She lowered her head to her knees and breathed slowly and deeply, in her nose and out her mouth.

More proof that her sister was dead. Another nail in her coffin.

“In any of your conversations with your sister, did she ever mention Stephen St. John to you? Either by name or title of church caretaker?”

She shook her head but didn't look up.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” She lifted her face then. “You might talk to the owner of Bikinis & Things. She was friends with Rachel and she…she told me Rachel was frightened of him. That Rachel had caught him peeping in her windows.”

The two detectives exchanged glances. “Do you know her name?” Carla asked, removing a spiral notepad from her tote.

“Heather Ferguson.”

Carla jotted down the name. “In your sessions with Tara Mancuso, did she ever mention the church caretaker?”

“No, never.”

“Do you have any idea how Stephen St. John could have come into possession of your sister's Bible?”

She shook her head.

“When did you first meet the church caretaker?” Val asked.

She struggled to collect her thoughts and put them into words. “On one of my visits to Paradise Christian. I'd just met with Pastor Tim and Stephen…blocked my path. He startled me by grabbing my wrist. Luckily, Heather Ferguson happened along. She scolded him and he ran off. Isn't he…harmless?”

“That's what we all thought,” Carla said, closing the notebook.

Liz rubbed her arms. “Are you saying… You think Stephen murdered Tara and—”

Val cut her off. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Ames.”

Carla crossed to where she sat. She held a hand out, expression apologetic. “I'm sorry, but we'll have to keep your sister's Bible for the time being. It's evidence.”

She handed the book back, feeling light-headed. “Evidence?” She looked from Carla to her superior. “Then you think Rachel… That Stephen…”

Her voice trailed off. The lieutenant's expression softened. “In light of these new developments, I've decided to reopen the investigation into your sister's disappearance. Looks like you might have been right. We're fearful Pastor Howard may have met with foul play.”

She uttered a sound of despair.
She didn't want to be right. She wanted her sister.

“Ms. Ames?”

She lifted her watery gaze. “Yes?”

“As far as you know, did Mark Morgan and Stephen St. John know one another?”

“What?”

“Mark Morgan and Stephen St. John, did they know one another?”

“I don't… I'm not…” She looked helplessly at them, struggling to come to grips with all they had said, the implications of it. With her own conflicting thoughts and emotions. Who should she believe? Who could she trust?

“It seems like this isn't a good time,” Val murmured. “If you think of anything that might help us, give me a call.”

They let themselves out. For long moments, she stared at the closed door, then slowly stood, crossed to
it and twisted the dead bolt. Exhaustion pulled at her. Her hands and limbs shook and she felt as if her nerves were frayed to the breaking point.

She wanted to climb into bed, pull the covers over her head and sleep. For as long as it would take for this nightmare to end. When she woke up, Rachel would be alive and all that would be left of this would be a vague, unpleasant memory.

Swallowing hard, she turned.

Mark stood at the top of the stairs. Their eyes met. A shiver of fear moved over her. “
There's a warrant out for Mark's arrest. They think he killed Tara. And they think you may be his next target.”

“
As far as you know, did Mark Morgan and Stephen St. John know one another?”

“I heard them.” He fisted his fingers. “And it's not true. Stephen wouldn't hurt anyone. He's gentle. The most gentle person I've ever met.”

Who should she believe? Who should she trust?

He frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I'm not… I—” She shook her head and started up the stairs. “I'm exhausted, Mark. I can't talk about this right now.”

“They knew exactly what they were doing to you!” he cried. “They were trying to break you down. Trying to make you question yourself and what you believe.”

She reached the top of the stairs and looked him dead in the eyes. “Who should I believe, Mark? You? Or the police?”

“Me.” His expression became pleading. “You can trust me. I wouldn't lie to you.”

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

“Please, Liz,” he begged. “Stephen's my friend. He has this innocence, like a child. Look into his eyes, you'll see it. He couldn't even conceive the actions they're accusing him of.”

“How do you know!” She jerked her arm free and faced him, furious. Hurting. “I'm a family counselor, I work with the walking wounded every day. The kind of abuse Stephen suffered damages a person. Sometimes in awful, frightening ways. Ways that sometimes make them turn that anger and pain on others.”

“Not Stephen.”

Liz brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. A headache jackknifed against her skull. “He had my sister's Bible.”

“What does that prove? Maybe she gave it to him.”

“You didn't see it! It was smeared with blood. It— They said he had a knife, Mark. A knife like the one used to kill Tara.”

“What about Pastor Tim? He could have planted the knife.”

She started past him; he grabbed her arm. A shiver raced up her spine. “Tara didn't like Pastor Tim. She said there was something creepy about him. That she had caught him in a lie. That he looked at her funny sometimes. In a way that scared her.”

“Let me go.”

“He could have planted the knife, Liz. He could have planted the Bible, to frame Stephen. To divert suspicion from him. He lives there, too. He has unlimited access to the garden, parsonage and Stephen's quarters.”

“I said, let me go!” Confused, head pounding, she
broke free of his grasp. “He attacked a detective, Mark. Can you explain that away? Can you?”

His defiance seemed to evaporate, leaving him looking young and vulnerable.

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “We'll figure it all out, Mark. I promise. But first, I have to take some Advil and lie down. Please?”

He nodded but didn't meet her eyes.

She squeezed his shoulder, then headed to her bedroom, acutely aware of his presence. She entered her bedroom, closed the door behind her and started toward the bed. There, she stopped, turned and looked at the door.

After a moment's hesitation, she hurried back and locked it.

Monday, November 19
5:00 p.m.

C
arla paused outside Rick's Island Hideaway. She hoped Rick was here. She needed to talk to him. She needed him to tell her everything was going to be all right. That she had done the right thing.

She felt for all the world that she hadn't.

She glanced quickly behind her, looking, no doubt, as guilty as she felt, then stepped out of the blazing heat and into the bar's cool, dim interior. A half-dozen patrons were scattered throughout the room: lovers at a table in the corner, a couple of singles at either end of the bar, a group of tourists who were obviously feeling no pain.

Rick straightened when he saw her.
He'd already heard.
She wasn't surprised. News spread fast on this
tiny island, and in his line of work Rick missed little of it.

Of course, the official news had been limited to the basics. The caretaker of Paradise Christian Church had freaked out, threatened a group of tourists with a knife and Key West officer Carla Chapman had been forced to shoot. The caretaker was in critical condition.

Val and the chief had managed to keep everything else under wraps. For now.

“Are you okay?” Rick asked as she sank onto the stool across from him.

“If you call feeling like total shit okay, then I'm it.”

He set a draft in front of her. “No matter the circumstances, shooting another human being never feels right.”

She smiled weakly and took a sip of the beer, though technically she was still on duty. “All afternoon people from the chief down have been patting me on the back and congratulating me. It feels like such a lie.”

He arched an eyebrow, and Carla felt herself flush. She looked away. She'd been unable to get the image of Stephen's face as he lunged at her out of her head. Something about his expression nagged at her. Had his intent been murderous? Had he been attacking her? Or had his actions been those of a terrified, cornered animal attempting to flee?

“You want to talk about it?”

She should say no. She should sit, sip her beer and simply let his presence soothe her. If Val knew she was here, he would be furious.

She squeezed her eyes shut as Stephen's image filled her head once more. Murderous rage, she told herself. That's what she'd seen in his eyes. He'd come at her like
a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth, eyes lit with blood fever. Not with helpless fear. Not with desperation.

She met Rick's concerned gaze. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I think I would.”

She spoke softly, starting with her call from Pastor Tim, finishing with the moment she pulled the trigger, eliminating any details that linked Stephen to Tara's and Naomi's murders.

“Sounds like a good shooting. Everything by the book.”

“I'm not so—” She shook her head, biting back what she had been about to say, that she wasn't so sure. That she wondered if she could have wrestled him down. That she had second thoughts about whether he had meant her harm.

“You grew up here,” she said. “What do you know about him?”

“Not a lot. That he was the victim of child abuse. That the church takes care of him. As kids we used to tell stories about him because he was different. Because he looked frightening.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Ones about how he murdered his entire family but the police couldn't prove it cause they never found the bodies. Rumor was, one night he chopped them all up into little pieces then tossed them into the ocean. Stupid kid stuff.”

“Was it just kid stuff?” She leaned forward. “As far as you know, did he ever threaten anyone?”

“As far as I know, no, he didn't. Why?”

She didn't answer right away. Revealing the details of this investigation would be cause for suspension.

The way she felt right now, that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

“He might be the one, Rick.” She glanced toward the end of the bar, then lowered her voice. “He carved himself up. The way Tara and Naomi were. Weird shit, like writing on his torso and thighs.”

Rick straightened. “Go on.”

“We think they might be Bible passages.”

The guy at the end of the bar to her right stood, called good-night to Rick and headed out.

She waited a moment, then continued. “He'd pulled all these pages out of a Bible. When we found him, he had the knife. There was blood…everywhere. And the pages were scattered all around him. Like he was in the act of cutting himself.”

Rick glanced toward his customers, then back at her. “And the knife's consistent with the one used on both victims, right?”

“Right. How'd you know?”

“Because without that, you have little more than a crazy son of a bitch into self-mutilation.” Rick narrowed his eyes. “What does Val think?”

“That we're on to something.”

“What do you think?”

She never went against Val's opinion. Maybe that's why she was here. She had questions, ones she didn't trust herself to answer. Ones she had hoped Rick could help her make sense of.

“I don't know.”

He leaned toward her. “Sure you do, Carla. What do
you
think?”

“I need your help.”

“I'm not part of the investigation.”

“I wish you were. There's something…” She swore and stood. “I've got to go.”

Her caught her hand. “Give yourself some credit,
Carla. What do you think? Something propelled you in here tonight, something you wanted to run by me.”

She lowered her gaze to his hand on hers. In that moment she wanted him to hold her, wanted it so badly she couldn't breathe. The feeling passed and she slid back onto the stool. “Okay, yeah. I think something about this doesn't fit. I always heard this Stephen had the mind of a child. Like he was brain damaged or something. What kind of kid could do what was done to Tara and Naomi?”

“But he's not a child,” he said, playing the devil's advocate. “He's an adult.”

“I know. But—” She rubbed her temple.

“But what?”

She swore, recalling the way he had looked at her, the expression in his eyes. “It doesn't feel right to me. I looked into his eyes and—”

Someone at the table of tourists signaled Rick. He nodded at them, then looked at Carla. “Hold that thought. I'm being paged.”

Carla watched as Rick closed out the table's tab, brought the lovers another round and shooed old Pete off his bar stool and out the door.

“I'm taking you away from your customers,” she murmured when he returned. “I'm sorry.”

He flashed her a quick, breath-stealing smile. “What customers? Monday's the slowest night of the week. Last week's tourists have gone home, the majority of this week's haven't arrived and the partied-out locals are doing their best to get back to the grind.” He smiled again. “I'm glad you came tonight, Carla.”

Her heart skipped a beat. God help her, she was, too.

“I guess I just have so many questions. Like, how does a guy who never hurt anybody suddenly commit
a string of grisly murders. Usually there's a history of some sort of violence. Cruelty to animals. A morbid fascination with death. Something. But everybody we talked to claimed he'd never hurt a fly.”

“They might be wrong. He's a weird guy, Carla. Lives alone. Keeps to himself.”

“I know.” She picked up her beer, then set it back down without sipping. She lifted her gaze to his, anguished. “I hate my job today. I don't want it, you take it, Rick.”

He reached across the bar and covered her hand with his. “He went at you with a knife. You defended yourself. He could have killed you, Carla.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, the image of Stephen filling her head again. His anguished cry. The terror in his eyes.

She forced the image out.
He had meant her harm. She had been one hundred percent justified in shooting him.

He was the one.

Rick released her hand.

“He had opportunity,” she murmured. “That's for sure. Killers like this rarely stray far from their geographical comfort zone. Tara was found murdered at Paradise Christian, Rachel Howard was last seen at—”

“Rachel Howard? What does she have to do with this?”

“St. John had her Bible. Val's revised his opinion of her disappearance. He thinks she might have been the first victim.”