Dead Run (26 page)

Wednesday, November 21
10:30 a.m.

L
iz entered St. Catherine's Nursing Home and headed straight to the information desk. She noticed few of the residents about today; the TV in the community area was off, the game tables empty. Even the rotund Rascal was nowhere to be seen.

“Good morning,” she greeted the receptionist. “It's quiet around here today.”

The woman returned Liz's smile, hers weary. “We're in lockdown mode because of the tropical storm. With the residents safe in their rooms, we can focus our attention on getting everyone ready to move, should the storm upgrade and an evacuation be ordered. If we wait too long, we're stuck.”

Liz glanced at the community area's wall of windows. Maintenance workers were in the process of
boarding them over. The whole thing felt slightly surreal. Although she knew a powerful storm threatened, the sky remained a perfect, cloudless blue. She recalled Father Paul's story about the hurricane of 1846, about the devastation it had wrought. No wonder there had been so many storm naysayers. The sky looked so pretty. The air felt so sweet.

“It must be difficult to evacuate a place like this.”

“Difficult? Try a nightmare.” She leaned toward Liz. “When a hurricane comes this late, it's most likely a whopper. And trust me, I have no plans on being a sitting duck here on Key West. And certainly not with a bunch of geriatrics.”

“What are they saying?”

“It's moving fast, which is good news. The longer it churns through the warm waters, the stronger it becomes. The bad news is, we'll start seeing weather pretty quickly. The outer storm bands should reach us by midafternoon.” She glanced at her watch, then smiled again, this time sheepishly. “I'm sorry, storms addle me. Are you here to see someone?”

“Father Paul. Is he up?”

“Up but agitated today. It may be the approaching storm. The change in the barometric pressure sometimes disturbs the elderly patients. You remember which room is his?”

Liz did, and after she signed in, Liz started down the C-wing hall. Most of the doors were open. She saw that the majority of the residents hovered nervously inside, some making themselves busy, others just staring into space. How frightening the threat of the storm must be to them, Liz thought. How vulnerable they must feel.

Liz reached the old priest's room and stopped in his doorway. Same as the last time she had visited, he sat
facing the window, Bible in his lap, rosary beads in his hands. She tapped on the casing. “Father Paul?”

He turned. She saw by his expression that he didn't remember her. “It's Liz Ames, Father. I visited you once before.” Still nothing. She took a step inside the door. “You told me the story of how the Blessed Virgin appeared to children in the garden of Paradise Christian Church.”

A flicker of recognition moved across his features and he waved her into the room. “A storm's coming.” He worked the rosary beads in his lap, his movements jerky.

“The staff seems to have everything under control,” she murmured, crossing to the bed and sitting on the edge, facing him. “There's no need to be frightened.”

“Indeed. It's in the Lord's hands. He provides for the faithful.”

“Yes, He does.” She cleared her throat. “I came here today, Father, because I need to ask you a question.”

“Are you from the church?”

“No, Father. I'm just a friend.” She opened her handbag and took out her sister's journal page, the one with the drawings of the horned flower. “Father, have you ever seen this image before?”

He took it from her. He stared at it, horror creeping into his eyes. The paper slipped from his fingers. “The battle for paradise has begun.” He crossed himself; she saw that he trembled. “The Evil One and his warriors have come.”

“What do you mean? Who's come?”

He met her eyes, his glassy and bright. “You know, child. The angel of light. Lucifer, the fallen one.”

Satan. His worshipers.

She had been right.

A chill washed over her. She bent and retrieved the journal page, hands shaking. “You know these people?” she asked. “This group?”

He shook his head. “I know it as one of Satan's signs. Like the horned goat and inverted cross. A blasphemy. And where it resides, so does he.”

“What do I do, Father?”

“Run, my child, you are in great danger. He is a soul collector. A defiler of angels and God's children alike.”

She swallowed hard. “I can't do that, Father. They stole my sister from me and I…I have to defeat them.”

He slowly shook his head, eyes growing bright with tears. She reached out and caught his hands. “Help me, Father. I don't know what to do.”

His cheeks grew pink, sweat beaded his upper lip. “Lucifer was God's angel of light. He was our Lord's most perfect creation. But Lucifer came to believe he was more beautiful, more perfect than God.”

The priest curled his fingers tightly around hers. “So God expelled him and all the angels he had coerced to his side from heaven. He sent them to the Valley of Gehenna, a place he created for them at the center of the earth.”

The Valley of Gehenna. Hell. The fiery pit. The place she had feared so often during her childhood.

The devil had been real to her back then. A beast with red flesh, horns and a forked tail. Her fear of him had motivated her to behave, to pray, to
believe.

When had she left that behind? When had Satan and the fires of hell become a religious myth to her? Had her faith in God disappeared at the same time? Or had one influenced the other?

She believed now. In heaven. And hell. The forces that drove them both.

“I'm frightened, Father.”

“That's good,” he murmured, inclining his head. “Never doubt, my child, he is the snake. Slick and charming. Beautiful. Ask the Lord to protect you from his evil tricks. His voracious appetite. Do not allow him to feed upon your soul, for each soul he devours makes him stronger.”

“How do I fight them?” she begged, voice shaking. “What do I do?”

“Arm yourself with the Holy Spirit. For only a true messenger of God can fight the Dragon. Only the one who is the purest of heart, the one with absolute faith in Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.”

Wednesday, November 21
10:45 a.m.

A
fter that, Father Paul slipped out of lucidity. He started to ramble—as near as she could tell, about events from his childhood. Soon, fatigued, he began to nod off.

Liz prepared to go. “It was nice talking with you today, Father Paul.” She bent and squeezed his hand. “The Lord be with you.”

He smiled and returned the pressure of her hand. “You, too, my child. May He bless and protect you.”

A lump in her throat, she left his room and started down the hall, thoughts whirling with the things he had said, struggling to put his words into perspective.

“The battle for paradise has begun. The Evil One and his warriors have come.”

She shuddered and rubbed her arms. How could one
take those words any way but at face value? He had recognized the horned flower immediately. She had been right, it was a satanic image. It had frightened the old priest. She had seen the fear in his eyes—and the resignation. As if he had known this was coming, as if he had been waiting.

And as if he accepted that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Nothing but pray.

“Is everything all right?”

Liz looked up, startled. The receptionist was looking at her, her expression strange. “I'm sorry, did you say something?”

“You looked upset. Is Father Paul all right?”

“Yes, fine,” Liz said quickly. “He's sleeping now.”

“His ramblings didn't upset you, did they?”

From the corner of her eye, Liz thought she saw one of the male aides looking her way. She glanced over in time to see him pivot and walk the other way.

Frowning, Liz turned back to the receptionist. “No, he didn't upset me.” She forced a casual smile. “Any news of the storm?”

“Nothing new. Keep your fingers crossed.”

Liz thanked the woman and left St. Catherine's. She had walked to the nursing home, located on Whitehead Street, only a handful of blocks from her office. She took a left, heading toward Old Town.

“Only a true messenger of God can fight the Dragon. Only the one who is the purest of heart, the one with absolute faith in Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior.”

She warned herself not to take his words too literally. No doubt Father Paul had been speaking allegorically. He was an old man. One steeped in the superstitions of the Catholic church. Not the present-day Catholic faith,
but that of eighty years ago, one shrouded in mystery, superstition and ritual.

But he had recognized the horned-flower image as demonic. That meant she had been right. And that they were out there, who knew how many of them. A handful. Or many. Liz glanced quickly behind her, searching faces in the crowd. She would have no way of knowing who they were, but they would be watching her. Maybe following her now. Just like Rachel had said.

Liz's skin crawled at the thought; her heart began to drum. She glanced over her shoulder once more. The sidewalk behind her teemed with people. No one seemed to be paying her any undue attention.

Still, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. With a quick glance to the left, then right, she ducked across the street. Safely on the other side, she moved forward quickly, daring another quick glance over her shoulder.

Nothing. No one.

Just her imagination.

She laughed self-consciously and turned onto Duval Street. The sidewalk went from crowded to congested. She made her way through the throngs of tourists, stopping occasionally for groups emerging from stores.

A group with two strollers and a half-dozen other kids between the ages of six and fourteen, all of them whining about the heat and wanting ice cream, stepped into her path. Liz stopped and glanced to her left, into a storefront window. As she did, she met the eyes of a young man standing behind her to her right.

He smiled slightly and she caught her breath. She recognized him. From her first day on Key West. The Rainbow Nation kid who had looked at her with such malevolence.

He had been behind her two blocks ago.

At the realization she caught her breath. He made a move toward her; she darted forward, crashing through the stalled family, earning the father's shout of disapproval. She called out an apology and ran as best she could while having to dodge slow-moving shoppers.

She reached Paradise Christian Church and stopped, breathing hard. She glanced to her left.
Bikinis & Things. Heather would help her.

Liz shot across the street. And found the shop closed, the door locked. She glanced at her watch, confused. Why was Heather's store closed now, midmorning on a weekday?

Frowning, she peered into the front window. Not even a security light burned inside. “Heather!” she called, rapping on the door. “It's Liz. Are you in there?”

“She's gone.”

Liz jumped and whirled around, hand to her throat. A small man in a green apron stood slightly behind her.

“Sorry I scared you.” He motioned to the shop next door. “I just sneaked out for a smoke.”

She struggled to find her voice. “What do you mean she's gone?”

“Missing.”

The word hit her with the force of an icy wave. “I don't understand. Heather's missing?”

“Didn't show up to open the shop two days ago. Still hasn't.” He nodded at a husband and wife who stopped to peer into his shop window, then turned back to her. “I called her place, got no answer so I went by.”

“And?”

“Closed up tight as a drum. Just like the shop. It's weird.”

Liz brought a hand to her mouth.
Her sister. Naomi Pearson. Now Heather.

She looked at the man. “Heather told me she thought a man had been following her.”

“No kidding? Come to think about it, she was acting strange lately. Jumpy, you know?” He glanced nervously toward his shop. “I've got to go.”

“Wait! Did you call the police?”

“You bet I did. I even talked to the big cheese, that Lieutenant Lopez. He did
nothing.
Said she had probably decided to take a trip.” The man's voice dripped sarcasm. “And not even tell her employees or make arrangements for the shop to be open? Right.”

Liz watched him walk away. The day seemed to close in on her. She couldn't find her breath; she began to shake. She didn't know what to do. Should she go to the police? To Rick?

She pivoted and came face-to-face with the man who had been following her. His bright blue eyes seemed to burn into hers. He grabbed her arm.

“Leave Key West,” he murmured, voice low, threatening. “If you don't, you'll end up like your sister.”

He tightened his grip. “Got that? Just like your sister.”

He released her arm, turned and was swallowed by the crowd. For a moment, Liz stared after him, frozen. Then with a cry, she ran.

The Hideaway was located one block up on the other side of the street. She pushed through the crowds, darting across the street, earning the blare of several horns. She prayed Rick was there.

He was. He stood beside a table of customers who had to be tourists. They were discussing the storm and fell silent as she approached.

“Liz?” He moved his gaze over her, his concern growing. “What's wrong?”

“I have to talk to you,” she managed to say. “It's urgent.”

He excused himself from the group and led her to the back of the bar. “What's wrong?” he repeated.

She couldn't find her voice. She began to tremble, her teeth to chatter.

“My God, Liz.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “What's happened?”

For a long moment, she simply held him. Finally, she lifted her face to his. “I'm so frightened. They…they took Heather.”

“Heather?”

“My friend. Rachel's friend…Heather Ferguson. She told me someone had been following her. She was frightened—”

A look of frustration tightened his features. “I'm alone here today, Liz.” He glanced toward the bar and the customers looking their way, clearly eavesdropping. “Just spit it out, okay. As concisely and calmly as you can.”

So she did. Quickly, she told him how she and Heather had met, what she had learned from the woman and about her visit three days ago. “She told me someone had been following her. She was frightened. Now she's missing. The shopkeeper next to Bikinis & Things said she hasn't opened her shop in two days.”

“Maybe she went out of town?”

Liz drew in a shaky breath. “She would have made arrangements for the shop. She would have told her employees what was going on.”

“But she didn't?”

“No.” Her throat constricted with tears. “They warned me, Rick. Said I would end up like…like Rachel…if I didn't leave Key West right away.”

“Who said that? When?”

“This young guy. On the way here…one of those Rainbow Nation kids. He grabbed my arm and told me if I didn't leave the island I would end up like Rachel.”

He frowned as if confused. “You're saying this guy you'd never seen before stopped you and threatened you?”

“Yes…no, I'd seen him before. My first day on the island. He was standing outside my storefront window and he looked at me with such malevolence that I—”

“Stop it, Liz,” he hissed. “This is too much. You're talking crazy.”

“It sounds crazy, but it's not. Please, keep an open mind.” She drew a deep breath. “I think the police might be in on it.”

“What?”

“The man, the other shopkeeper, he went to Val about Heather. He did nothing, Rick. Explained Heather's disappearance away…just the way he did Rachel's and Naomi's.”

Rick took a step back from her, expression closed. She grabbed his hands. “You've got to believe me.”

“Valentine Lopez is my oldest friend.”

“I know,” she whispered, hurting for him. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I'm the one who's sorry.” He glanced past her, toward the bar and its patrons. When he met her eyes once more, the anger in his took her breath. “You're accusing my best friend of murder. Of conspiracy. Of satanism. What else? Stealing little old ladies' social security checks?”

“Just hear me out.” She tightened her grip on his hands. “Please, Rick.”

“Can't do it.” He eased his hands from hers. “I let
myself be drawn into your drama. I used my friends and contacts in an unethical fashion. No more, Liz.”

Realization dawned. It hit her with the force of a blow. “You talked to Val, didn't you? He poisoned your mind against me.”

Rick didn't reply and tears flooded her eyes. “You have to believe me. Please, I have no one else.”

He brought a hand to her cheek. “I want to,” he murmured, voice thick. “Believe me, my every instinct shouts for me to hold you close and protect you from all the bad guys, real or imagined.”

“They're not imagined,” she whispered. “The Horned Flower exists.”

He dropped his hand. “You don't have any real proof, Liz. You don't have one person to back up any of your accusations.”

“The shopkeeper, he'll tell you Heather's missing—”

“Did she tell him or anyone else that she was being followed? Anyone but you, that is?”

“I don't know.” With a growing sense of panic, she realized he was right. “I mean, I don't think so, but—”

“Did she go to the police?”

“I urged her to, but—”

“But she didn't? Just like your sister didn't go to the police even though teenagers in her flock were in danger from this Horned Flower group?”

It sounded implausible—crazy—even to her own ears. But it wasn't. “Look at the evidence, it's real.”

“What evidence? A couple drawings that supposedly came from your sister's journal. A tattoo on Tara's thigh? The coincidence of two men from Florida attending the same state university. The word of a young man who's wanted in connection with a murder? A young
man no one's seen since that murder—except you, of course.”

He looked away a moment, then back at her. “You could have manufactured all of it. The envelope, the threats, even the dead rat.”

“And the dead women, Rick?” she demanded, quivering with the force of her emotions. “Could I have manufactured them as well?”

“No, unfortunately.” He let out a heavy-sounding breath. “I understand you're hurting. That you want to make sense of what happened to your sister, that you—”

“I'll never make sense of it,” she corrected, tone bitter. “I just want to
know
what happened to her. Is that so wrong?”

“Only if you've used these murders to support that agenda.”

Liz couldn't believe what she was hearing. Or how much it hurt. “Is that what you think I've done?”

He didn't reply; she took a step away, devastated. “Why can't you see? Who knows how many people are a part of this? And if the Horned Flower is operating with the full support of the police—”

“Stop it! This has gone too far! You're accusing upstanding citizens of murder and moral corruption. My oldest friend. A popular preacher. Who else? The mayor? The elementary-school principal?”

“Why not?” she retorted, a hairbreadth from falling apart. “Anyone could be involved.”

He took another step back, expression closed. “You're the outsider here. You're the one who's crazy, not everybody else.”

She brought a hand to her mouth. “How can you say that? After all we've shared?”

“Did we share anything, Liz?” he asked tightly.
“I'd begun to believe that maybe…that sometimes life offered up second chances. But now I wonder, was I simply a pawn in your desperate game?”

She moaned as if in pain. She had never felt more alone, more abandoned.

“It's over, Liz,” he said softly. “I can't be a party to your delusions anymore.”