Dead Run (34 page)

Friday, November 23
11:00 a.m.

L
iz sat beside her sister's hospital bed. Sunlight streamed through the window, creating bright patches on the white bedding. The storm had passed, leaving Key West only slightly worse for wear. Once again, paradise had been saved.

The city and her citizens had begun to clean up. Repairing the damages. Clearing away the debris. Moving on.

Liz glanced from the window to her sister. Rachel slept. She had been moved from intensive care just that morning. Liz drank in her sister's face, throat tight with tears of happiness. She'd thought she would never see her again. Never be able to hold her, laugh with her—never be able to tell her how much she loved her.

She had been given a gift so precious her heart could hardly hold the joy of it.

The color had begun to return to Rachel's cheeks. Liz, it turned out, had accurately diagnosed her sister's symptoms: heatstroke, dehydration and malnourishment. She had also suffered some secondary infection caused by untreated wounds.

The doctor had proclaimed Rachel a lucky woman. It was a miracle her kidneys hadn't shut down. That she hadn't slipped into a coma and died. Liz, he believed, had arrived in the nick of time. An hour later may have been too late.

Lucky to be alive, Liz thought. They were all lucky to be alive. Gratitude swelled in her chest. Thankfulness. She would never take life or those she loved for granted again. Would never take God's grace for granted again.

For by what else had her, Rick's and Rachel's lives been spared?

“How is she?”

Liz glanced over her shoulder. Rick stood in the open doorway. She smiled. “Good. The doctor's amazed by how she's responded.”

“It's a miracle she's alive.”

“I was just thinking that.” She shifted her gaze to the white paper sack he carried. “Please tell me that's something to eat. Something that didn't come from the hospital cafeteria.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Turkey sandwich from the Green Parrot. Dressed with cranberry sauce. Happy day after Thanksgiving, Liz.”

He crossed to the bed, bent and kissed her.
So much to give thanks for,
she thought.
So many blessings.

“I just left a meeting with the chief,” he said, setting the bag on the bed table.

She searched his gaze. “And?”

“And…the loss of Carla and Lopez has left a huge hole in the department. He needs somebody with experience. Someone familiar with Key West and all her idiosyncrasies.”

And a local hero, Liz thought. Someone who had been wronged by Valentine Lopez but didn't hold the police department liable.

Valentine Lopez's trail of slime had, indeed, led all over the island. It seemed Larry Bernhardt was not the only local businessman blackmailed into feeding Val's bank account. As he had claimed to Rick, Val had been king of his own illegal mini empire, run from his office at the KWPD.

“He offered you a job,” she murmured.

Rick nodded, his expression bemused. “Yup.”

“Are you going to take it?”

“I told him I'd think about it but…yeah, I might.”

Rick, a cop again. Truth was, he had never stopped being one.

“What about Rick's Island Hideaway?”

He met her eyes. Something in them had her heart pounding. “I don't need a hideaway anymore, Liz.”

She shifted her gaze, nervous. Hopeful. Wondering if what had occurred between them had been real or simply a side effect of the danger they had been in. She wondered if, given a chance, it would grow into something wonderful…or wither and die.

“Where's Mark?” he asked.

“Down the hall, visiting Tim.”

Rick shook his head. “Another who's lucky to be alive. A bullet to his sternum, another to a rib. It's hard to believe they weren't fatal.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes,” her sister murmured weakly. “Thank God.”

They turned. Rachel had awakened and was watching them, a small, contented smile tipping the edges of her mouth.

“Hi, sweetie. Feeling okay?”

She nodded. “How long have I been asleep?”

“A while. The doctor says you're going to be fine.”

“I was fine before. My Lord was with me.”

Liz laced her fingers through Rachel's. “When you're strong enough, the police need to speak with you.”

“Anytime,” she murmured, then shifted her gaze. Her eyes widened slightly, as with surprise. “You have my ring. I couldn't find it anywhere.”

Tears stung Liz's eyes. “Glad to be of help, sis.” She slipped off the band and slid it onto her sister's finger.

Rachel gazed at it a moment, then turned her attention to Rick. “Hello,” she said. “You must be one of my heroes.”

Liz introduced them and Rick crossed to the bed. “It's good to see you looking so well, Pastor.”

“Please, call me Rachel.” She tightened her fingers on Liz's. “Is Stephen… Did they—”

“He's fine,” Liz said quickly. “Under a doctor's care in Miami. He'll be home soon. And very happy to see you, I know.”

Rachel closed her eyes, then reopened them. “He got you the envelope? With the photographs? And the drawing?”

“He did.”

Rachel was quiet a moment. “I was afraid to involve Stephen that way, afraid to involve you. Afraid for my congregation. I tried to warn them through my sermons, but I only succeeded in alienating them. Then when I
realized the police were involved, I didn't know where to turn.”

“You did good, sis.” Liz squeezed her fingers, then turned as two sheriff's officers entered the room.

“How are you feeling, Pastor Howard?” the first said, crossing to the bed. “I'm Deputy Newman, Sheriff's Department. This is Deputy Paulson. Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”

She said she was and the deputy looked at Liz and Rick. “If you don't mind, we'd like to speak with her alone.”

Liz hung back. “I'd really prefer to stay.”

“Go on, Liz.” Rachel squeezed then released her hands. “Go on and check on your friends, I'll be fine.”

Liz hesitated a moment more, and nodded. She and Rick slipped out into the hall. She glanced back as the door shut, then up at Rick.

“Did the chief say anything about the investigation?”

“They're still piecing things together, but you were right, Liz. It seems that Heather was Taft's accomplice. They believe she met him at FSU and that they became lovers. She had already dabbled in drugs and the occult, had become fascinated by the teaching of satanists Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey. She was easily drawn into his belief in his own divine evil. They killed Heather's sister, their first victim working together as a team.

“After Taft's conviction, Heather traveled to Key West and started her cult, which they believe was a continuation of one she and Taft designed. Her first initiate was Lieutenant Lopez.”

“And his allegiance afforded her not only a steady supply of the drugs she used to control her flock, but
also allowed her to operate with police protection,” Liz said. “Right?”

“Exactly. Like all cults, she seduced people with promises of acceptance, belonging and power. And pleasure. Sexual. Monetary. You name it. So far, they've rounded up a dozen members. They believe there might be three or four times that many.”

Liz recalled how Heather had proclaimed the seven deadly sins a girl's best friend. She recalled, too, Father Paul's words. She repeated them aloud to Rick. “The devil is crafty, indeed. He captures us through the things that make us most human. Lust. Pride. Sloth. Anger. Avarice. Envy. These we must guard against, just as the Lord warned us we should.”

He drew his eyebrows together in confusion and she explained about Father Paul, the things he had said. “We were there. What we witnessed was…I don't know. A part of me can't help but think…”

Again her words trailed off. She met his eyes. “What was she, Rick?”

“A psychopath. A schizophrenic with delusions of divine evil. We'll never know for sure.”

Liz wanted to agree. How much more reassuring to believe Heather a terribly twisted individual than an ancient evil. Than
the
one true evil. From the things Rachel had managed to tell her, Heather really had believed herself to be the devil incarnate. She had believed herself indestructible, unbeatable. She had become obsessed with the need to break Rachel's faith, as if in doing so she would have beaten her one real adversary: Jesus Christ.

“Liz, Rick!”

They turned at the sound of Mark's voice. He was with Pastor Tim, pushing him in a wheelchair.

“How's your sister?” Mark asked as he reached them.

“She's good. Really good.” Liz smiled and shifted her gaze to the pastor. “Thank you, Pastor Tim, for saving her life.”

He returned her smile. “Thank you for saving mine. If not for you, Lopez would have finished the job. You scared him off.”

“But I left you for dead. If you had made a sound—”

“He would have killed us both. So I played dead and prayed for God's help. He sent Mark.”

She cleared her throat. “Pastor, I'm sorry for all…for my dishonesty with you. For suspecting you of such heinous crimes.”

He reached up and caught her hand. “I'm sorry, too. When Lieutenant Lopez told me you were Rachel Howard's sister, I was angry. That you had lied to me. That you were continuing to lie.”

“He told you?” she said, surprised. “When?”

“The morning after Tara's murder. I realize now, he wanted me to distrust you. I'm sorry. Instead of giving in to my carnal nature, I should have offered you help.”

“We should go,” Mark said. “It's nearly time.”

“A member of my congregation is in for tests this morning,” Pastor Tim explained. “I wanted to offer my support and prayers.”

Liz watched them go, then turned to Rick. “I'm going to miss Mark. But he'll make a good pastor someday.”

The day before, Mark had told them that he was leaving. Heading back to Texas to pursue his dream of college then the seminary.

“What are you going to do?” Rick asked softly, interrupting her thoughts.

She met his gaze. “Stay with Rachel while she heals. After that, I don't know.”

He drew her into his arms. “I was hoping you might give paradise another try. We could use you here. The kids who got sucked into the Horned Flower could use you. They're going to need you.”

“And what about you, Detective Wells?” she asked, searching his gaze. “Do you want me to stay?”

He was quiet a moment. She held her breath, so hopeful it hurt.

“Yes,” he murmured finally, cupping her face in his hands. “You make me believe in second chances, Liz Ames. You make me glad I'm alive.”

Tears of joy stung her eyes. Wordlessly, she stood on tiptoe and brought her mouth to his. For the first time, she understood the true meaning of paradise.

V
enturing into the unknown is one of the aspects of novel writing I find the most exciting. And the most frightening. For how does one authentically create that which they have never experienced?
Dead Run
presented me with several such challenges, ones involving both the corporeal and spiritual realm.

I surmounted these challenges only through the generous help of experts from various fields. These experts gave of their valuable time and expertise with patience and an enthusiasm I appreciated more than I can adequately express. Thank you, one and all. Any inaccuracies are mine alone. At times I bent fact to suit fiction; I hope these do not cause you consternation. To that end, I mixed historical Key West facts with fictional ones for the sake of this story. In addition, by the time this book is published, the Key West Police Department will most probably be housed in its new high-tech police
complex. I will miss the charming, slightly dilapidated police headquarters depicted in
Dead Run
.

Gratitude to my experts in the corporeal realm: Lieutenant Mark Bascle, Louisiana State Police, Bureau of Investigations, Narcotics Division, for the sometimes daily answers to questions on drugs of abuse, police procedure, dynamics, protocol—the list goes on. Dr. Douglas Walker, Ph.D., for information on drugs of abuse as related to the psyche and psychosis. Chris Rush, international private investigator, Chris Rush Private Investigations, White Plains, New York, for the video surveillance expertise, technical and anecdotal.

Brian Osborne, youth director, Hosanna Lutheran Church, for bringing to life the approach of the clinical social worker. Local TV favorite Margaret Orr, WDSU TV, for her assistance with tropical storms and hurricanes.

A special thanks to Cynthia Edwards, Office of Public Information, Key West Police Department, for the tour, the explanations, the many returned phone calls. Everyone I met during my visit to the KWPD was professional, helpful and friendly—Key West–style.

And to my experts in the spiritual realm: Brian Osborne again, for spiritual insight into today's youth. Pastor Anton Kern, also of Hosanna Lutheran Church, for insights into the life and faith of a Christian pastor. The gang at CC's Coffeehouse for the thought-provoking discussions on faith, Christ and His nemesis, Satan. Particular thanks to Diane Cooper and her husband, Pastor Marvin Cooper, and to Adrienne Gilliland.

Finally, gratitude to friends and colleagues for their support and assistance: my editor Dianne Moggy and the entire MIRA crew. My assistant Kellie Crosby-Bascle. My agent, Evan Marshall. My publicist, Lori
Ames. Walton and Johnson, radio gods, whose names I jokingly promised to mention in each of my novels.

And last but never least, my husband and sons, for loving me—even when the words wouldn't come.