Dead Run (28 page)

Wednesday, November 21
2:00 p.m.

L
iz sat at her kitchen table, a cup of cold coffee in front of her. From the living room came the sound of the latest storm update. At this point it looked as if it would not reach hurricane force. However, forecasters warned the key to brace for intense wind and rain with the possibility of severe thunderstorms or tornadoes. A not uncommon occurrence with this type of storm.

The outer band of Rebekah—the storm's name—had reached Key West, bringing with it the first of the rain. As the storm continued to churn its way toward Key West, the rain would become heavier, the wind more severe.

And here she sat. Brokenhearted. Crying over a man who didn't believe in her. A man who had called her crazy.

She brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. With everything going on, she hadn't allowed herself the luxury of examining her feelings for him. He had been there when she needed someone. Big, strong and rock solid. He had provided emotional support—and physical solace.

She realized now her feelings hadn't needed examining. They had been growing all on their own, on a level deeper than the frantic moment.

How could she feel more for him than a kind of grateful attachment? They hadn't even known each other two weeks. It was nuts—as crazy as he had accused her of being.

Not crazy, she thought. She saw the kind of man he was. Ethical and loyal. He possessed a keen intelligence. He felt deeply and would fight to the death for what he believed in.

He didn't believe in her.

Period. End of story. Time to move on, Liz. Time to do something.

She jumped to her feet and crossed to the window. She stared out at the dark sky and madly swaying branches. Liz swallowed hard. She couldn't shake the feeling that all this had been predestined, as Father Paul had suggested. That somehow this storm was part of something greater than that of man against nature—the ultimate battle, that of good against evil. And as with the hurricane of 1846, the sinners would be swept out to sea, the believers saved.

Stop it, Liz!
She wheeled away from the window. No wonder Rick had called her crazy. No wonder he wanted her out of his life.

But she wasn't crazy. She wasn't obsessed with the Horned Flower or with proving what happened to her
sister. She was caught up in it. She had rattled some cages, and now she was in trouble.

Everything she had told Rick was true.

But truth on her side didn't change the fact that no one believed her. A hysterical-sounding laugh rose from her throat. Not true. Everyone who believed ended up dead or missing.

It seemed logical to assume that she would be next.

What should she do? How could she go up against the Horned Flower alone? She didn't even own a gun—let alone know how to fire one.

Rick's desertion had drained the fight out of her. She needed his cool head. The logical way he looked at things. His strength and the comfort she gleaned from simply knowing he stood with her.

But he didn't stand with her, she reminded herself. Not anymore. So what did she do next? She felt as if she had exhausted her options. She couldn't go to the police. She had neither friends nor allies to turn to. Mark and Heather had both disappeared, victims, she feared, of the Horned Flower. She could seek help from law enforcement agencies on the mainland, but without proof, they were more likely to take her for a psychiatric evaluation then to accompany her to Key West to bust up a group of murdering satanists whose ranks included members of the local clergy and law enforcement.

There had to be
something
she could do, she thought fiercely, stopping and dragging her hands through her hair. Something besides wait for the next body to turn up or for the killer to decide it was her turn to die.

Liz dropped her hands, made a move toward the living room, then stopped, realizing she was staring at the front page of the
Island News,
partially obscured by a copy of the Sunday edition of the
Miami Herald.

She drew her eyebrows together. The weekly was out-of-date, an edition she had picked up her first few days on the island. She had glanced at it, then tossed it in a basket she reserved for catalogs, magazines and the like.

She tilted her head.

Heather Ferguson named—

Liz crossed to the basket and removed the
Herald.
The entire headline jumped out at her.

Heather Ferguson named Key West Businesswoman of the Year.

Liz lifted the folded paper and opened it. Heather smiled out at her from the large photo, her diamond-studded monogram necklace sparkling at her throat. The one Liz remembered noticing the afternoon she and Heather had drinks.

Liz stared at the necklace, seeing it as if for the first time.

H.F. Heather Ferguson.

H.F. Horned Flower.

Her hands began to shake. A coincidence, she told herself. The matching initials were simply one of those weird coincidences that life occasionally offered up. Any number of people on Key West could have the same.

It couldn't be Heather. Heather was her friend. She had been Rachel's friend. Someone had been following her.

Or so she had said. Liz had no proof of either of those. Just as she had no proof Heather had actually gone missing.

Perhaps she had gone into hiding, instead.

Feeling ill, Liz whirled around and crossed to the sink. She laid the weekly on the counter, turned on the
cold water, bent and splashed her face. She twisted the faucet off and lifted her head, the cold water running down her neck and under the collar of her shirt.

Rick was right about her, she thought, glaring at her own reflection in the window above the sink. Who hadn't she accused of being part of this conspiracy of evil? A pastor? A ranking police detective? Now a woman who had never been anything but nice to her, one who may have become a victim.

Liz snatched a paper towel from the roll hanging beside the sink. She dried her face and tossed the towel in the trash.

Her anger faded. She hadn't imagined her sister's disappearance or the two murdered women. She hadn't conjured up Mark's experience with the Horned Flower, her sister's drawings or the rat left in her kitchen.

Heather probably wasn't the one. But at this point, she would follow any lead, even a flimsy one. Heather was beautiful and charismatic. Her shop afforded her access to a great number of teenagers. She had known at least one of the victims.

Liz began to pace once more, working to remember the things Heather had told her about herself and her past. Very little, Liz realized. She had grown up in Miami, had given college a try and dropped out in favor of a stab at modeling. That had gone nowhere and she had drifted into retailing. Three or four years back, Heather had opened her own store here on Key West.

Liz frowned. Had Heather mentioned family? Siblings? Father or mother—

Liz snapped her fingers, remembering. Her mother. It had been a passing mention. When Heather had been talking about her abortive attempt at modeling. She had inherited her mother's bone structure, she'd said.
Which the camera flattened. Liz had then asked about the woman, if she was still alive and where she lived. Heather had replied that she was indeed alive and that she lived on Islamorada.

Liz ran to the drawer where she kept the phone book, one with listings for the entire keys. She yanked it out, flipped it open to the section for Islamorada, praying the woman was listed. She found two Fergusons—a J. A. and a Martha.

Liz dialed J. A. Ferguson first. A young woman answered. She sounded harried and Liz heard an infant crying. Though certain this was not Heather's mother's number, she asked anyway. A moment later, she dialed Martha Ferguson.

“Hi, is this Mrs. Ferguson?”

“It is,” the woman replied, tone reticent. “I'm not buying anything, if that's what you're—”

“I'm not. Actually, I'm looking for Heather Ferguson's mother. Would that be—”

The phone went dead. “Hello?” she said.

The woman had hung up on her!

Excited, Liz dialed the woman again—and got the same results. Which to her mind meant she had, indeed, located Heather's mother. But if that was true, why had she hung up on her?

Liz tried one last time. Although she let it ring for a full minute, the woman didn't pick up.

Frowning, Liz glanced at her watch. If her memory served, Islamorada was located just more than halfway between Key West and Key Largo, she would guess about a two-hour-and-forty-five-minute drive. Probably longer, considering the weather.

Liz ran to her bedroom, changed into a pair of comfortable white capri pants and slipped into her canvas
deck shoes. She didn't know exactly what she wanted the woman to tell her about her daughter or how she would obtain the information, she just knew she had to do this.

She ripped the page from the phone book, grabbed her purse and umbrella and ran out into the storm.

Wednesday, November 21
3:30 p.m.

“I
s this Detective Carla Chapman?”

The voice was a man's, one she didn't recognize. “Yes,” she answered. “How can I help you?”

“It's Jonathan Bell. The Sunset Key ferryboat captain. I ferried you across—”

“To Larry Bernhardt's place,” she filled in, that afternoon seeming a lifetime ago now. “I remember.”

“You told me to call if I remembered anything about that night, anything I'd forgotten to tell the police.”

“Go on.”

“That night, I ferried over a mother and her two daughters, real attractive, all of them. They said they were going to the restaurant…you know, Latitudes. But I remembered this morning that when they got off the
boat they headed toward the other side of the island. Toward Bernhardt's place.”

Carla digested that. “You think they were hookers?”

“No way. They looked real…fresh-scrubbed. The mother was real classy. Gorgeous.”

Carla narrowed her eyes. Bernhardt's housekeeper had claimed he had liked young girls. She had found photographs of them performing sexual acts with him. Carla thought of the man's bedroom, of the mirrors placed strategically on all sides of the bed.

“How old do you think these girls were?”

He was silent a moment, as if thinking. “Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen at the most.”

“The ferry's still crossing?”

“Yeah, it's a little rough 'cause of Rebekah, but we're still doing it.”

Carla thanked him and hung up. Sounded to her like a quick trip out to Sunset Key was in order.

 

Larry Bernhardt's children had begun getting the house ready to sell. The furnishings they hadn't already taken could be sold with the house or would be auctioned. Or so the receptionist at Sunset Key Realty told Carla as she handed her the key to the property.

“I thought the investigation was complete,” the woman murmured.

“You know police work,” Carla replied with what she hoped was just the right note of professional boredom. “Some new little thing pops up and we have to investigate it.”

“Bummer.” The young woman peered out the window at the threatening sky. “You're not going to be long, are you? My boss gives the okay, and I'm out of here.”

“A few minutes, fifteen or twenty, tops.” She smiled again and held up the key. “I'll have it back on your desk in no time.”

Minutes later, Carla let herself into Bernhardt's house. She headed directly up to his bedroom and flipped on the light.

The bedroom was empty.

With a sound of disappointment, she made her way into the room. The massive four-poster bed and matching dresser, highboy and nightstands were gone. Only the mirrors remained.

She wasn't certain what she had hoped to find, but this wasn't it. She brought her hands to her head.
Think, Carla. Think. There are answers here.

We have one dead teenager. A girl supposedly a member of a weird sex club.

We have a dead banker, one with a fondness for teenage girls. A man who liked to watch, evidenced by the mirrors surrounding the bed and the photographs the housekeeper had found.

The night he supposedly killed himself, two teenage girls and a woman paid him a visit.

It hit her then. If Bernhardt liked the live action the mirrors provided, he would like videotapes even more. Sick self-gratification anytime, day or night. And considering his moral fiber, Bernhardt was one hundred percent capable of secretly videotaping the action taking place on his bed.

Secretly
being the operative word here.

So where would the camera—or cameras—be?

Carla moved to the spot the bed had occupied. She stood quietly, listening, putting herself in Bernhardt's head. She moved her gaze over the room, imagining herself making love, wanting to watch. Now. And later.
One mirror to the right of the bed. One to the left. One at the head. Nothing on the wall at the foot of the bed. She lifted her gaze. No mirror above, just a crystal chandelier.

She frowned. No mirror above? It seemed to her, the ceiling would have provided Bernhardt with one of his best, consistently reliable views.

She narrowed her eyes, studying the chandelier, its crystal teardrops. They sparkled like diamonds. Not all of them, she realized. The bottom teardrop didn't refract the light the way the others did.

She stood on tiptoe. Once she knew what she was looking for, it was easy to find. There in the bottom crystal, a pinhole lens, no more than an eighth of an inch across. A wide angle, no doubt. Wired up the light fixture and through the ceiling.

Excited by the find, she turned to the mirrors. A guy with Bernhardt's addiction and funds wouldn't stop with one camera. No way. When the action was live, he had three views to enjoy; he would settle for no less from his video action.

She crossed to the mirror mounted where the head of the bed had been. She carefully examined the ornately carved, antiqued-gold frame inch by inch. She found what she was looking for imbedded in the top center of the frame, wired through the wall. An inspection of the two remaining mirrors revealed the same, those imbedded at bed height.

So where was the system? Carla wondered. She eased her gaze slowly over the room once more. Bernhardt had a mirror on every wall but one. The windowless wall directly across from the bed. On her previous visits it had sported a large abstract painting.

A false wall, she would bet her life on it.

She crossed to the wall and began a search for a spring or pressure release button. After nearly ten minutes, she admitted she wasn't going to find one.

Frustrated, she swung away. Her gaze landed on the doorway to the master bath.
The television in the master bathroom, mounted in the wall above the garden tub.
Of course.

She made her way there. Not just a television, she saw, but a VCR as well. She climbed into the tub and lay down, placing her head in the spot Bernhardt had most likely placed his. Sure enough, the television had been angled slightly for optimum viewing from the bath. Sick prick, she thought. Probably lay in the tub and jacked off while he watched himself committing carnal crimes with these…children. Fifteen? Sixteen. Jesus. It made her sick.

Carla stood, climbed on to the edge of the tub, flipped on the VCR and pressed eject. The machine proved empty. She ran her hand over the top and sides of the unit. Her fingers closed over not one remote, but two.

Her heartbeat quickened. One of the remotes possessed only a single button, much like a garage-door opener would.

Excited, she jumped down and hurried back to the bedroom. There, she faced the blank wall, pointed the remote and pressed the button. The corner of the wall popped free. She crossed to it and swung it the rest of the way open, revealing a two-foot-deep storage area.

Recorder. Amplifier. Video library. Hands shaking, Carla opened the recorder.

And found a tape. A tape most probably recorded the last night of Bernhardt's life.

She snatched it out, ran to the bathroom and inserted
the tape in the VCR. She rewound it, then hit play—and struck pay dirt. The tape was time and date stamped: Thursday, November 1, 11:18 p.m.

The small screen filled with naked bodies, the room with the sound of their sex. There were three people involved—two teenage girls and Bernhardt. Bernhardt was on his knees, skewering one of them from behind. The other girl was behind him, fondling and sucking.

So, where was the mama Jonathan Bell had told her about?

The cameras must have been on timers because every three minutes the view switched. When it did, Carla had the answer to her question. The breath hissed past her teeth. Heather Ferguson, she realized. Observing the action. Directing it. Feeding the participants a liquid, most probably laced with drugs.

The view changed again and Carla's eyes widened. Tara, she realized with a sense of shock.
The girl on her hands and knees was Tara Mancuso.

Having seen all she could take, she shut off the player, popped out the tape and jumped down. She unclipped her phone from its holster and dialed Rick.

He picked up right away. The connection crackled. “Rick!” She raised her voice to be heard above the static. “It's Carla. I found tapes. Bernhardt was into young girls and he taped them. The night he died, Tara was with him. Another teenager, too, one I didn't recognize.” She paused to gulp in air. “And so was Heather Ferguson.”

Rick whistled and Carla continued. “From what I could tell, she was a kind of pimp. She wasn't involved in the action, she just observed it. She also administered some sort of drug.”

“Did she know they were being taped?” he asked.

“I'm positive she didn't.” Carla glanced toward the mirrors. “If she had, no way would she have allowed this tape to be—”

She bit back the word. “Hold on, I thought I heard something.” She crossed to the bedroom door and stepped out into the empty hallway. Heart pounding, she went to the top of the stairs and peered down. “Hello, anyone down there?”

“Just me.”

The Sunset Key Realty office girl appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She was dripping wet and looked miserable. “Are you almost done? My boss told me to retrieve the key and lock up. They're getting ready to stop ferry service because of the wind.”

Realizing that she had been holding her breath, Carla let it out and smiled. “All finished. I'll be down in one minute.”

When Carla was certain the woman was out of earshot, she continued her conversation with Rick. “No way Heather Ferguson would have allowed the tape to be found.”

He was silent a moment; the connection crackled. “A pattern's emerging here, Carla. Everyone associated with Larry Bernhardt is turning up dead.”

“So how did Pastor Howard fit into this twisted little scenario?”

“My guess? Tara told her what was going on and she was killed because of it.”

A thought occurred to Carla and a chill washed over her. “We've got to locate the other girl in this video before it's too late. Where are you?”

“At the Hideaway. I'm storm-proofing the bar, just in case. When I'm done, I'm checking on Liz. I went
by before, but she wasn't there. I haven't been able to reach her by phone either.”

Carla heard the worry in his voice and hastened to reassure him. “Maybe she evacuated because of the storm.”

“Maybe, but I just don't think so.”

“I tell you what—” Carla glanced at her watch “—I'm heading back now. Finish there, collect Liz, then meet me at my place as soon as you can.”