Dead Run (24 page)

And entirely too possible.

Sometimes, fact proved more far out than fiction.

He turned to face her, resigned. “And how does the Horned Flower fit in?”

“Pastor Tim is one of them. Maybe the leader. Who better to attract young and impressionable people? Who better to woo adults in search of life's meaning? A former football star, a big, handsome charismatic man. And from a church pulpit, no less.”

Motive. Means. Opportunity. Son of a bitch.
“And why did they leave the rat?”

“As a warning. If I don't cease and desist, I'm going to end up like that rodent.”

“A gruesome thought,” he muttered.

“It doesn't make my day, I'll tell you that.”

The image of Tara filled his head, with it the stats associated with her murder. Throat slit. Postmortem mutilation of genitalia, torso and thighs. Abdomen split wide open; fetus taken.

He had to tell her.

“There's something I haven't shared with you. About Tara's death.” He paused. “It's really bad.”

She went stone still. “What is it?”

“The killer cut open her womb. And took the baby she was carrying.”

The blood drained from her face. She looked at him, expression anguished. “You don't mean…took.”

“I do. The fetus…it wasn't at the scene, Liz.”

She brought a hand to her mouth. He saw that it shook. “But why… I don't understand… Why would he do…”

Her words trailed off. He crossed to the couch and squatted in front of her. “Tomorrow, I take you to Miami. You catch a plane home to St. Louis. I sort this out and keep you apprised of the situation. Agreed?”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“I'm trying to play it smart. And keep you safe.”

“You're starting to believe me, aren't you?”

God help him, he was.
He drew her up and into his arms. “Go back to St. Louis, Liz.”

“I can't do that.” She tipped her face up to his. “I won't let Rachel down again. And I won't let Tara, Mark or their unborn baby down. You'll just have to keep me safe right here on Key West.”

Rick thought of Jill. Of how it had felt to bury her. He bent and pressed his mouth to Liz's. She melted against him, fingers curling into his pullover.

With a groan, he broke the kiss. “How early can you clear the sheets in the morning?”

“Pretty darn early when I'm motivated.”

He bent and rested his forehead against hers. “I worked with a guy on the Miami-Dade force… He was one of the lead detectives on the Taft investigation. He lived, ate and slept that case. Was obsessed with it. I think I'll give him a call, see if I can pay him a visit, pick his brain a little.”

She wound her arms around his neck. “While you're
with him I'll go to the library. Do a little research on Taft. I might find something everyone's forgotten. Or overlooked.”

“Mmm.” He kissed her again, deeply, acknowledging that he didn't want to stop. He did anyway, with a sound of regret. “And when we get back, I'm going to find out what Val has on Mark.”

“All this romantic talk. It could sweep a girl off her feet.”

He sobered. “I'm afraid for you to be alone, Liz.”

“Then don't leave me.”

Rick searched her expression, an ache of arousal in his gut. It was an invitation, he knew. They were already lovers, it would be easy to be together. Easy to fall into her bed and arms and to forget, even if only for a time, that a murderer walked the streets of Key West, mutilating young women and taking unborn babies. That he might have chosen Liz to be his next victim.

But to be with her in the shadow of the day's events felt wrong. As if the darkness around them might infect what was growing between them. He didn't want that to happen.

He told her so.

Her expression became impossibly soft. She stood on tiptoe, cupped his face in her hands and kissed him softly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I'll make up the couch.”

Tuesday, November 20
3:00 p.m.

R
ick hadn't seen Bill Hunter—Wild Bill, they used to call him—since he quit the Miami force. The man hadn't changed much—still chain-smoked, still called waitresses “honey” and still had the most direct gaze Rick had ever encountered.

“Thanks for taking the time to see me,” Rick said, speaking up to be heard above the din of the busy coffee shop.

“No problemo. How've you been?”

“Traded in my badge for a bar. Rick's Island Hideaway.”

“Catchy name.”

“Thanks.” He smiled. “You ever come down to Key West, stop in. The drinks are on me.”

“Apparently, you've forgotten how much cops can
drink.” The other man's smile faded. “I heard what happened to your boy, Rick. I couldn't be more sorry.”

Rick looked away, then back. “Thanks, Bill. I appreciate that.”

The waitress stopped by their table and refilled their coffee. Bill watched her walk away, then turned to Rick. “You say you're looking into the Taft murders?”

“That's right.”

“Seems you've got some kind of copycat operating down there.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. That's what I'm trying to find out.”

“Mind telling me why you're so interested? You're not a cop anymore.”

Rick hesitated, uncertain how to respond. He decided on the direct approach. “I've got a feeling about this case. The local boys are missing something important and…I don't want anyone else to die.”

“Still the cocky cowboy, I see.”

“Yee-hah.” Rick leaned forward. “You worked on the investigation. I figured if anybody could offer insight into how that son of a bitch thought, it'd be you.”

The other man didn't deny it. “I put together a file for you. Some official stuff, my personal notes. A half-dozen pictures.” He inched the legal-size envelope across the scarred Formica tabletop, then shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit up. “It's all public record now.”

“Thanks, man.” Rick opened the envelope, sifted through the contents, then looked at his friend. “You one hundred percent satisfied that Taft's the one.”

“Absolutely.” Bill drew in a lungful of smoke, then blew it out. “Taft was the creepiest SOB I ever had the pleasure of busting. Bar none.”

“In what way?”

“He was proud of the way he had mutilated those women.
Proud,
Rick.” He shook his head, expression faraway. “He liked telling us about it. Got off on it, you know? Like he was reliving it through us. Told us where all the bodies were.” His mouth curled with remembered distaste. “I used to shower after being in the room with him. The evil…it was like it oozed out of him.”

The man took another, final drag on the cigarette then tamped it out half-smoked. “But it wasn't just that,” he said, leaning closer. “It was his eyes, man. They were dead. Flat and lifeless as a shark's.”

A shark. A killing machine. A creature with an insatiable appetite.

In Taft's case, an appetite for killing.

“He scared the shit out of me.” Bill paused for a moment to light another cigarette. “I never told anybody that before. But it's true.”

The hair on the back of Rick's neck prickled. “What about an accomplice? Anything ever suggest he may not have worked alone?”

The detective narrowed his eyes, though whether with thought or against the smoke curling up from the tip of his Camel, Rick didn't know. “He could have had an accomplice, though nothing in the evidence supported that. Taft always maintained he had a spiritual adviser who offered divine help.”

“Any connection to football or the Miami Dolphins?”

“Not that I know of. He may have been a fan.”

“He go to college?”

“Did a semester at Florida State in Tallahassee. It didn't last. Flunked out.”

Rick's heartbeat accelerated. “What year?”

“I'd have to check.”

“I'd appreciate it.” He cleared his throat. “Any markings on Taft or his victims?”

“What kind of marks?”

“Tattoos. Maybe of a strange-looking flower. Like a horned flower?”

Bill shook his head, and Rick shuffled the papers, digesting all that his friend had told him. “As far as you know, were any of Taft's victims pregnant?”

The other man's expression altered subtly. “Why do you ask?”

“One of our victims was. The bastard took the fetus.”

“Shit.” Bill took a long drag on his smoke. “Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “Two of 'em. One six months along.”

“Did he—”

“Yeah, he did. Sick prick.”

Silence fell between them. Rick pulled a picture of Taft out of the file. The killer stared out at him, movie-star handsome. “I didn't remember that he was so good-looking.”

The other man smiled without humor. “Evil takes many forms, my man. And if you're dealing with anyone associated with Taft, I suggest you don't forget that.”

Tuesday, November 20
3:30 p.m.

T
he main branch of the Miami-Dade library was housed in the Cultural Arts Center in downtown Miami. The coral-faced and stained stucco building all but screamed fun-in-the-sun, and Liz suddenly realized that St. Louis was going to seem awfully tepid after the fanciful pinks, corals and palm trees of south Florida.

The second floor housed microfilm issues of all the local newspapers, including the
Miami Herald.
Gavin Taft had been headline news starting in 1998. A look at the microfilm index revealed a wealth of articles on both Gavin Taft and the New Testament Murders.

Armed with a legal tablet, pen and plenty of money to pay for copies, Liz began with the oldest article and moved forward in time. She took a few notes, but for the most part learned nothing new. The first victim had
been found in June of 1987. Between then and October of 1998, eleven other women were murdered. All had been killed the same way.

No connection between the women had been found.

A stupid mistake had led to Taft's capture. During a routine traffic stop for a burned out taillight, the officer thought he recognized the stains on Taft's hands and arms as blood. A thorough search of the vehicle had revealed more blood and a knife. Unbeknownst to the officer, he had caught Gavin Taft on his way home from his most recent slaughter—Jennifer Reed, a twenty-two year-old coed and the last New Testament Murder victim.

End of story until Tara turned up dead on Key West ten days ago.

Disappointed, Liz stared at the microfiche screen. She had hoped she would see a connection between the victims that no one else had. She had fantasized finding a mention of a tattoo, one of a strange horned flower.

As she moved to flip off the machine, an article at the bottom of the displayed page caught her eye.

Satanists Believed Responsible for Death of Livestock.

The story came from nearby Homestead. It detailed a rash of livestock killings—the animals had been found with their throats slit. Images associated with satanism had been drawn on fence posts and the sides of farm buildings. Pentagrams. Horned goats. An inverted cross.

A horned goat.

The Horned Flower.

Heart pounding, Liz altered her search from Gavin Taft to satanism.

Tuesday, November 20
5:00 p.m.

“H
ey, gorgeous.”

Liz jumped and gasped, a hand going to her throat. She swung in her seat to find Rick standing behind her, expression amused.

She scowled at him. “You scared the life out of me!”

“I see that.” He bent and kissed her, then pulled out a chair and sat. “Sorry.”

She rubbed her arms. No wonder he'd frightened her, considering the things she had read in the past hour. She might never
not
be frightened again.

“What's so interesting?” He tipped one of the books up so he could read the title.
The Devil's Hour.
He looked at her, eyebrow cocked in question.

Rick wasn't going to take what she had to say well. Considering the brevity of their relationship, she
shouldn't know him well enough to predict that, but she did. He would be resistant to anything that fell outside the typical law-and-order scenario of bad guy is busted by good guy—nice, neat and explainable.

A cult that worshiped Satan and murdered its wayward members and all others who might expose them fell way outside of that.

Liz changed the subject and forced a weak smile. “How'd it go with your friend?”

“Good. Seems Taft spent a semester at Florida State.”

“That's where Pastor Tim went to school.”

“Yup. Bill's checking the date for me.” Rick caught her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “He told me something I'd never heard before. Said Taft always claimed to have a divine mentor. A spiritual adviser.”

She frowned. “And?”

“Think about it, Liz. A spiritual adviser. Who in society is recognized as—”

“A pastor,” she murmured, excited. “Of course.”

“This might all be nothing but a coincidence. But if it turns out that Gavin Taft and Tim went to school together, I'll feel a lot more confident that what we found is solid enough to go to Val with.”

“We have, I'm certain of it.” She drew a deep breath. “They're satanists, Rick. The members of the Horned Flower are satanists.”

He gazed blankly at her a moment, then laughed. “Very funny.”

“I'm not joking.” She tightened her fingers over his. “When I was looking for stuff on Taft, I found this article. Here.” She slid the copy she had made out from under a pile of books and handed it to him.

He read the article then handed it back. “I saw stuff
like this when I worked on the Miami-Dade force. What about it?”

“The horned goat, the horned flower. See the connection?”

He shook his head. “You're making a pretty big leap there, Liz. My feeling is the Horned Flower is a sexual image, the group some sort of sex club. Think about it. The flower is a symbol for the female genitalia, the horn for a man's.”

He had a point, but she knew she was right about this. She had to convince him. “Just listen to me, please. Satanists aren't as rare as you might think. They're not just the stuff of Hollywood. Research suggests there are more than a hundred thousand practicing satanists in the United States alone. And that figure doesn't include self-styled satanists who aren't part of a coven or those simply dabbling in the black arts. Research also supports that satanists' belief in the power of darkness predisposes them to acts of lawlessness and violence.

“According to my research, law enforcement has learned to repress any satanic elements of a crime because they don't play well in court or with juries. The defense calls it supernatural mumbo jumbo and the real evidence is discredited by association. So, they make their case without mention of black candles, altars, gutted animals or pentagrams. Can you tell me you didn't do the same when you were with the Miami-Dade force?”

She took his silence to mean he couldn't and continued. “Think about the rash of school shootings. The great majority of those kids had satanic paraphernalia in their possession.”

“And a great number of them had Nazi symbols and objects, too. They were troubled kids looking for any
thing out there that was associated with the dark side of human nature.”

From the corner of her eye, Liz saw a man at the next table glance at her. She moved her gaze and thought she saw the interest of several others. A chill washed over her.

They could be anywhere. Watching. Listening.

She grabbed her purse. “Let's talk outside.”

Rick followed her out front. They stood in the cool shadow of the Cultural Arts Center's long colonnade, away from the curious stares of others. Liz picked up where she had left off. “These satanic groups lure troubled teens into the coven with promises of power and a sense of belonging. A family, if you will. Which is the exactly the way Mark told me Tara and her friends referred to the Horned Flower.”

“That's typical of cults. From what I learned when I was still on the job, it is that very promise of acceptance and belonging that lures most cult devotees.”

She ignored him and continued. “Of course, once in the cult, they are expected to do whatever is asked of them, whether they want to or not. Some who have escaped have told they were required to act as sex slaves to other coven members. Others were forced into prostitution.

“Then, when the member wants out, threats and intimidation are used to keep wayward cult members from leaving the group.”

“Also standard cult practice, Liz. Absolute loyalty is demanded of sect members and is enforced by threats to body or spirit.”

“We're on the same page here, Rick,” she said, excited. “Satanists have been known to threaten to kill not only the cult member, but their family and other
loved ones as well. If the member continues to try to separate from the coven, they increase their threats. For example, they might kill the member's pet, then present the mutilated animal as a very real warning.”

Rick remained silent and she pressed on, encouraged. “That's what happened to Tara. She went to my sister, they found out about it and killed Rachel before she could go to the authorities. Then when Tara became involved with Mark, who insisted she leave the group, they threatened to harm her and her unborn child.

“Tara feared the Horned Flower, Rick. She told Mark she did. And sure enough, the night she was due to run away, they stopped her.”

“Slow down, Liz.” He held his hands up, palms out. “There's nothing to suggest Tara's murder was the act of satanists.”

“No? What about the pseudoreligious carving on the body? The mutilated genitalia? Maybe the bodies weren't laid out to form a crucifix but an inverted cross, another satanic image.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe Taft's spiritual adviser was the devil himself.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Stop it, Liz. You're talking crazy. Talking like this will get us—”

“What? Laughed out of the Key West Police Department?”

“Yes.” He made a sound of frustration. “You're right, when I was with Miami-Dade, we swept any ritualistic aspects of a crime under the rug because it would discredit us. But also because it wasn't really pertinent to the crime.” She opened her mouth to argue; he held up a hand to stop her. “If a Buddhist or a Christian or an atheist commits a crime, their faith isn't thrown up to the jury as pertinent.”

“But, Rick—”

“Listen to me. Tara, and probably Rachel, too, were killed by a sick human being acting alone, not as part of a group. In my opinion it was most probably someone who worked directly with Gavin Taft or was an admirer of his.”

“Then how do you explain what happened to Mark?”

“The experience Mark described was wholly sexual with none of the chanting and ritual associated with a black mass.”

“What about the altar. The ceremonial cup? And sex is often a major part of satanic ritual because it can be used in the most base and sinful way. Not as an act of love or as a beautiful gift from God, but as a sinful instrument of the devil. Aleister Crowley, the most famous satanist of all time, issued a creed declaring, ‘Lust. Enjoy all of the things of sense.' He believed that sex had magical properties and practiced all kinds in his religion, even child molestation.”

Rick looked shaken. He stepped away from her. “You're obsessed with this. You're starting to sound like your sister.”

She froze. “How can you say that? You never even met her.”

“Her words and actions discredited her. And if we press forward with the satanist angle,
we'll
be discredited. Everything we have to say will be discredited.”

She recalled the most horrifying thing she had unearthed today. And perhaps the one that best illustrated what they were dealing with. “Did you ask your friend with the Miami-Dade force if any of Taft's victims had been pregnant?”

“Yes. Two were.”

“And did Taft…take the fetuses?”

“Yes.”

She whispered a prayer. For strength. For protection from an evil that would commit such a vile act against nature. “A satanic priest's most prized possession is a candle made from the fat of an unbaptized baby.” Her voice shook slightly. “Maybe this isn't an accomplice of Taft's, but a fellow cult member continuing his lord's work.”

Rick was silent a moment. “We have to be very careful here. Just because something's in print doesn't mean it's accurate or even true. What did these researchers base their fact on? What kind of studies? A few anecdotal or sensationalized incidents? Stories that were later recanted? The public has an insatiable appetite for the sick and bizarre—it sells newspapers. Liz.”

Rick's cell phone rang. He took it from its holster but didn't answer. “What I know to be true, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is that there are cruel and sick people in the world, ones capable of horrific acts. Whether guided by the ultimate evil or simply broken beyond repair, they cannot be allowed to move freely with the rest of us.”

He flipped open the phone. “Rick Wells here.” Liz watched as Rick listened, his expression changing from intent to jubilant.

“Thanks, Bill,” he murmured. “I'll keep in touch.”

Rick closed the phone and turned to Liz. “My friend got that information we were looking for. Gavin Taft attended Florida State the spring semester of 1987. I'll need to confirm it, but that should have been the semester Tim graduated from FSU.”

A tingling sensation started at her fingertips and spread outward. “It's him, isn't it? We've got him.”

“There's more, Liz.” Rick let out a short breath; Liz could see that he was excited. “One of Taft's victims was a Miami Dolphins' cheerleader.”