Dead Run (32 page)

Wednesday, November 21
10:00 p.m.

H
eart in her throat, Liz pounded on the locked sacristy door. “Let us out of here!” she cried. “My sister needs help! Please, someone hear me!”

Val had locked them in the sacristy, a room located in proximity to the pulpit and used by priests to physically and spiritually prepare themselves for mass.

Liz looked over her shoulder at her sister, lying motionless on the floor. Her breath came in shallow pulls. Her alarmingly pale skin stretched tightly over her bones, giving her the appearance of something out of a house of horrors. Her lips and the inside of her mouth were covered with fever blisters. During the ride to the church, she had opened her eyes once. The color had been dull; she had looked at Liz without recognition.

Rachel was dying.

Panic rose up in her. She pounded on the door again.

“Someone, please! Help us!”

Only the howling wind answered her, and Liz hurried back to Rachel's side. She would have to do what she could to help her. She searched her memory, trying to figure out how by assessing what was wrong with her.

Dehydration, most certainly. She had been locked in that stifling hot box for some time, deprived of water. Malnourished, obviously. She had fever. That meant she had an infection. Or…heatstroke. A friend from college had suffered a heatstroke running in sweats in August. When they'd found her, she'd been barely conscious. Burning up with fever. At the hospital they'd iced her down and administered fluids.

Heatstroke, she had learned, could lead to kidney failure, which led to death.

She needed to bring her temperature down and hydrate her.

Liz tore off her soaked shirt and went to Rachel's side. She knelt beside her, positioning herself by her head. Carefully, Liz twisted a small area of the fabric, wringing out several drops of water. They fell into Rachel's mouth. Her lips moved.

Encouraged, Liz repeated the process until she had wrung out the entire shirt. Then she folded the garment into a neat rectangle and laid the damp, cool cloth against her sister's fevered forehead.

It hurt to look at her. When she did, she imagined the hell Rachel had endured over the past months. Hell delivered at the hands of Heather Ferguson.

Liz squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears. Why had she done it? How could one human being exact such cruelty on another? She shuddered with the force of
holding back her tears. Of restraining her impotent fury. She lifted her face toward heaven, as if by doing so she would suddenly understand the why. As if somehow she would find a way to let go of her anger before it ate her alive.

“Don't cry.”

Liz caught her breath and looked at her sister. Her eyes were open. And she was looking at Liz with that funny, perplexed expression Liz knew so well.

“Hi, sweetie.” Liz caught her hands, a broken laugh passing her lips. “I've been looking for you.”

Her sister's mouth curved up. “I…prayed…you'd come.”

Liz's lips trembled and she pressed them together, working to steady herself. “Of course I came. I love you, sis.”

“Lov' you…too.”

“Save your strength,” Liz said quickly, seeing her sister's fragile grip on consciousness slipping.

“No…sorry I…you into this.”

“You didn't. Rachel, I… The last time we spoke I acted like such a jerk. I'm so sorry. If I could take back the things I said—”

“I should…told you what was happen…afraid. For you. I…” Her words trailed off; a shudder rippled over her wasted body.

“You're ill.” Liz heard the fear in her own voice and worked to hide it. “Save your strength, please.”

Her sister curled her fingers around hers, her grip as weak as a newborn's. “Don't you…understa…this body…just a shell. This world only a…moment in…eternity.”

She closed her eyes and for one panicked moment Liz thought she had lost her. Then she stirred once more.
“My faith kept me…alive. She…didn't understa…the more she tried to turn me away, the closer we beca—”

Another shudder seized Rachel, and Liz held her. She moved slightly so Rachel's head rested in her lap. She trailed her fingers through her sister's hair, gently massaging her scalp, the way she used to when they were kids.

“I'm not going to let you die.” This, Liz whispered fiercely, as if by wanting desperately enough she could will it. “I lost you once and I'm not going to lose you again.”

Rachel's mouth moved. Liz bent closer. Her breath stirred against her cheek, but no sound emerged.

So she continued to stroke her hair and speak softly. “Remember the Christmas we spent in Vermont with Grandma and Grandpa? We'd never seen so much snow. We both stayed out so long that first day our cheeks were still pink the next morning.”

Liz smiled at the memory. “Grandpa took us for a sleigh ride. I remember the jingle of the bells, the taste of Grandma's hot chocolate and the clouds of condensation that formed in the air as we laughed.”

She lowered her gaze to her sister. Her eyes were closed but Liz could tell she was listening. And that her words were soothing to her. So she continued, recalling other stories they shared, other sweet remembrances.

From the sanctuary came the sound of voices. Liz bent close to Rachel's ear. “I'll be right back.”

She eased Rachel's head off her lap, got to her feet and tiptoed to the door. She pressed her ear against it. Heather was speaking.

“—told me he was dead!”

“He should be. He took a bullet in the chest.”

Pastor Tim? Were they talking about—

“Then where the hell is he?”

“When I left, he was sprawled across his office floor, bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Pastor Tim was alive! If he had managed to escape—

“I am not happy about this.”

“Do you think I am? If not for you, Collins wouldn't have been a problem. You were supposed to kill her that night.” Val's voice vibrated with fury. “Instead, you send those Rainbow Kids to lure her to you. What were you thinking? We don't have enough problems without her?”

“Rachel Howard is not your concern.”

“Not my… But you expect me to clean up your mess. You expect me to keep making everything all right.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “I do.”

“Well, fuck you!” he shouted. “You take care of her. I wash my hands of this.”

Silence followed. Liz pressed her ear closer to the door. When Heather spoke again, her voice was different: deeper, ugly. “Let's be clear on this, Lieutenant. You're in so far and so deep, your trail of slime leads all over this island. I can slip away. Can you say the same?”

“I could kill you now.” He lowered his voice. “I should. Poor Heather Ferguson, another one of Rick Wells's victims.”

She laughed. “But you won't, will you? Because you don't have what it takes to use the knife. And you know how it's going to look if the pastor and her sister aren't killed in the same fashion as the others. It'll be a big red flag for the investigators. And suddenly, your nice neat story is anything but. Maybe I'm wrong, but a pretty boy like you wouldn't do well in prison.”

This time it was Val who fell silent. After a moment,
he spoke. “There are limits to what even I can do, Heather.”

“I don't want to hear about your limitations. I've made you a very rich man, Valentine Lopez. I suggest you show me the proper gratitude.”

“Fuck you to hell and back.”

“That would be a lovely start. We can make that date after we finish this thing. Get Wells over here now.”

Wednesday, November 21
10:25 p.m.

R
ick paced, struggling to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. They had four victims confirmed. Tara Mancuso. Naomi Pearson. The woman found on Big Pine Key. And now, Carla Chapman. Another woman, Rachel Howard, was missing and presumed dead.

They had one banker—dead by suicide—into bogus loans and young girls. Also in the mix was a cult called the Horned Flower, maybe or maybe not involved in satanism. Definitely into drugs and sex, probably underage prostitution.

And they had a once-honest, upstanding cop turned murderer.

Rick squeezed his eyes shut, working to divorce himself from the betrayal and anger that surged through him. He needed a cool head, his wits about him.

If he was going to escape this with his life. The way he figured it, Val wasn't going to allow him to walk away alive. He couldn't. Rick knew the truth.

Val, and whoever his accomplices were, had begun cleaning house. Tonight, they were tying up loose ends. They had to. He was their killer. They'd showed their hand and set the clock ticking. Time had run out on their scheme.

He thought of Liz and fear rose up in him like an icy wave. She was a loose end. Maybe their last one.

And she was alone out there.

“Son of a bitch!” He jerked his hands against the cuffs; the metal bit into his wrists and pain shot up his arms.

“Settle down, Wells,” the rookie barked, trying to sound fierce but coming off prepubescent instead.

He ignored the kid and refocused on the facts as he knew—or suspected—them to be. Tara got herself involved with the Horned Flower. Her involvement included having sex with twisted old Bernhardt—and maybe others like him. She wanted out, so she goes to her pastor. Who goes to Val.

Goodbye, Pastor Howard.

He flexed his fingers. Dammit! What had transformed his friend into a murderer? Greed. That's what turned most cops. Val had probably been in on the bogus loan scheme. Hell, he may have masterminded it. Feed Bernhardt's sick addiction, then blackmail him with the very addiction he helped grow.

Of course. Rick stopped pacing. Bernhardt can't take the pressure anymore and takes a swan dive out his bedroom window. Which left Naomi Pearson hanging in the wind. With Bernhardt dead, Pearson had not only outlived her usefulness but had become a liability.
Island National would uncover Bernhardt's activities, trace them to her and she would sing like a canary.

Unless she was dead.

Goodbye, Naomi Pearson.

Then there was Carla. Obviously, Becky had mentioned the message-pad incident and Val had realized she'd caught on to him.

Goodbye, Carla.

To his thinking, the unknown vic found on Big Pine Key was either Heather Ferguson or the other teenager on Bernhardt's homemade porno. Next up, Liz Ames.

Val would have his clean house.

Rick swung to face Walters. “How long you been on the force, kid?”

“Three weeks.”

“You don't say?” Rick eyed the boy, feeling sorry for him. “I used to be a cop.”

“I'd heard that.”

“Worked for six years with the Miami-Dade force. I tell you, I saw some shit that'd curl your hair.”

“Like what?” the kid asked warily.

“Gang wars, murder, drugs, you name it. Lots of drug trade in Miami. Lots of money in it. Some of the cops went bad.”

Walters glanced at the door, obviously interested but uneasy.

“You know how to spot a dirty cop, Walters?”

He shook his head. “They break regs. At first it's little stuff. The stuff everybody does even though they're not supposed to. Then it gets bigger. They tamper with evidence. They look the other way for profit. Pretty soon, they're in so deep there's more bad to them than good. Pretty soon, even murder's not too much to expect.”

“I know what you're up to, Wells, and it's not going to work.”

Rick ignored him. “In the academy, Walters, did they teach you the proper procedure for handling a murder scene?”

“Sure. First officer secures the scene, then calls for backup.”

“Why?”

“To keep the scene from being contaminated or tampered with. When evidence is lost or destroyed, the chance of solving the crime becomes unlikely.”

“And someone gets away with murder.” Rick fixed his gaze on the kid's. “And if the victim is a fellow officer, what happens then?”

“Everybody's involved, from the chief on down. No stone unturned.”

“Lieutenant Lopez left Detective Chapman lying in a pool of blood. He didn't call for backup. He left the scene unsecured. Why do you suppose that was?”

The rookie flushed. “So you say.”

“He did, Walters. And his decision had nothing to do with law and order.”

“Why should I believe you? Lieutenant Detective Lopez is a highly decorated officer. He answers only to the chief himself.”

Val had picked Walters well. A rookie. Naive. Anxious not to rock the boat, anxious to impress his superior officer.

He tried again anyway. “Wake up, Walters! Lopez is dirty. He killed Carla Chapman. Before it's all over, he may kill you, too.”

“Shut up!” the kid shouted. “Shut the hell—”

The wall phone rang. They both turned toward it. Looking shaken, the rookie picked it up. “Officer Wal
ters.” He paused, listening. “Yes, Lieutenant Lopez. He's right here, no problems.” He listened again, then glanced at Rick. “Bring the suspect to you? At Paradise Christian?”

Now, why did Val want to get him away from police headquarters?

He didn't want any witnesses.

“Fuck him,” Rick called. “I'm not going without a lawyer.”

“Lieutenant Lopez, Wells is refusing to go. He's talking lawyering up.” He paused, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I'll do that.”

“Think regs, kid. What would the rule book say about this one? Releasing a murder suspect, a suspected cop killer, before he had been fully questioned? Refuse him his right to legal counsel? That sound right to you?”

The rookie frowned at him, obviously rattled. He cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Lopez,” he said hesitantly, “I don't think—”

He paused and Rick knew it was to listen to a tirade from his superior officer. “Yes, sir.”

Walters held the phone out. “He wants to talk to you.”

Rick crossed to the room. The rookie brought the phone to his ear. “I have nothing to say to you, you backstabbing bastar—”

“Hello, Rick,” his friend interrupted cheerfully. “Liz is with me. We're at Paradise Christian. I suggest you allow Walters to accompany you—”

“You son of a bitch! If you so much as touch her, I'll—”

“I've given Walters his instructions,” he continued. “And unless you want to lose her the way you lost Jill, I suggest you cooperate.”

“Let me speak with her, you prick,” he said, all but
spitting the words at the man. “I'm not going anywhere until—”

Val laughed. “Of course you will. You'll do anything I tell you. And, Rick,” he finished, “the clock's ticking.”