Erica Spindler - Dead Run

“It’s amazing it’s survived,” she murmured, recalling the things Rachel had told her about the church. “Didn’t I hear that it was destroyed by a hurricane and had to be rebuilt?”

“Partially rebuilt, twice actually. The first after the hurricane of 1846, then again after the one in 1935. The present building dates from 1940.”

“I love old buildings. I might try to hook up with the tour later.”

“If you miss today’s, we offer them every day but Sunday.”

“Have you been with Paradise Christian long?”

“Just a few months. My predecessor left rather suddenly and after only a short time with the congregation.”

Liz’s heart skipped a beat. She fought to keep her reaction from showing. “How strange. I can’t imagine just up and leaving a place as beautiful as this.”

“Not everyone is cut out for island life,” he murmured, then changed the subject. “You said on the phone that you’re a family counselor?”

“Yes.” She straightened. “As I explained then, I’m a licensed clinical social worker, which is a fancy way of saying I’m a social worker who is certified for private practice. I specialize in adolescent counseling and, as you know, am new to Key West. I’m trying to get the word out that I’m here.”

She dug several business cards out of her wallet and handed them to him. “I thought you might know of some within your congregation in need of counseling and that you might send them my way.”

He paused as if searching for the right words. “My congregation isn’t a wealthy one, Liz. Yes, there are people of great wealth on the island, but many more of moderate means. Our main industry is tourism and the majority of the island’s year-round inhabitants service that industry.”

He stood and crossed to his window. Sun spilled through, drenching him in golden light, making him look younger than the thirty-five she had originally guessed him to be. “As I’m sure you’ve already discovered, Key West is a very expensive place to live. Cost of living here exceeds that of Miami and is, in fact, one of the most expensive places to live in the continental United States.”

“That surprises me.”

He turned and met her eyes. “We’re so isolated here. Three and a half hours from Miami, with only one road leading out. Everything has to be shipped in. Power, most food, tap water and nearly anything else you can think of. We’re landlocked, so property, even rentals, go for a premium.” His mouth lifted. “Not many of my flock can afford fifty to ninety dollars an hour for counseling, no matter how much they may need it.”

The pastor had a rich, melodious voice and a way of looking at her when he spoke that made her think he really did care about her. That he really was a man of God.

“Which is why,” she responded, “I’m willing to waive or reduce my fees for those in need. I believe that it’s often the ones who need help the most who can least afford to get it.”

He glanced at her business card, then back up at her, eyebrows arched. “And exactly how are you going to pay your rent? This address doesn’t come cheap, that I know.”

“As best I can,” she answered evasively, then smiled. “I don’t live lavishly, Pastor. As far as I’m concerned, there are things much more important than fancy cars and designer clothing.”

The truth was, she had sold her parents’ home to finance this endeavor. They had left it to her and Rachel when they passed away last year, and she believed her parents would have supported her decision.

He grinned. “Luckily, neither of those things fit in here on Key West. A pair of cutoffs and a moped and you’re all set.”

She liked him, Liz decided. As much as she could under the circumstances. “Don’t forget sunglasses and a baseball cap. Very important, I’ve learned that already.”

“Smart lady.” He glanced at his watch. “I tell you what, I’ll put some feelers out. There are many confused teenagers on Key West. They run the gamut from runaways and the Rainbow Nation kids, to kids of great privilege.”

He paused a moment, as if carefully considering his next words. “However, there’s one girl who comes to mind immediately. Nice girl, but troubled. Her parents are frantic…She was seeing the previous pastor but refused to allow me to counsel her.”

Liz caught her breath. “The previous pastor was counseling her?”

“Yes, Pastor Howard. But when she left-”

“Disappeared, wasn’t it?” Liz dropped her shaking hands into her lap, praying she didn’t overplay her hand. “I overheard someone talking about it. They said it was kind of a freaky thing.”

“Talking about it? Really?” He frowned. “I’m surprised to hear that.”

“Was it…freaky, like they said?”

He returned to his chair and sat, expression pensive. “I never met Pastor Howard, but I had to…box up her things when I took over. It was an uncomfortable task.”

Liz remembered getting the boxes. Remembered looking at them and falling apart. When she had finally found the strength to go through them, she’d seen nothing to indicate her sister had been in a crisis. Or in danger.

But maybe the pastor had.

“Was there anything…in her things that suggested what happened to her?” she asked, hoping she came across as simply curious. “Anything at all?”

For a second, as the pastor stared at her, Liz was certain she had given herself away. Then he shook his head. “The police feel she suffered a mental breakdown and ran off. Everything I’ve heard seems to support that.”

“What do you mean?” She wondered if she sounded as upset as she felt. From his expression she feared she did.

He leaned forward. “Look, I don’t feel comfortable talking about this. The Ninth Commandment warns us against bearing false witness against another. In today’s vernacular, that translates to not talking about others, not gossiping or spreading rumors. If I knew the facts, I would share them-”

“I understand,” she said quickly. “But if there’s a possibility I’m going to counsel the teenager you mentioned, or anyone else whose life was touched by Pastor Howard and her disappearance, I feel I should be informed.”

“The police…” He let the thought trail off, then began again. “Pastor Howard was liked quite well by the congregation…at first. As time passed, her behavior became erratic. Or so many in the congregation told me.”

He looked down at his hands, folded on the desk in front of him. Big hands, Liz noted. Callused and strong. Not the soft hands of an academician or scholar.

He returned his gaze to hers, the expression in his troubled. “She’d let her pastoral duties slip. Calls to the sick and elderly weren’t made, appointments weren’t kept. When I came on, I found the church office in chaos. A similar situation existed in the parsonage. So you see why I agree with the police department’s belief that she suffered a mental breakdown?”

Liz struggled to keep from revealing how much his words upset her. She tried to speak but found she couldn’t.

“I feel for her family,” he said softly. “I can only imagine how they must be suffering.”

A prickle of apprehension moved up her spine. Did he know? she wondered. Had he figured out who she really was?

And if he had, could she trust anything he had just said to her?

But how could he have figured it out?

And if he somehow had, why not confront her? He didn’t seem the kind of man who would practice that kind of duplicity.

Uncertain what to do, she decided to play this out as she had begun it. She stood. “I’m sure they are.” She held out her hand. “I’ve taken enough of your time, Pastor. Thank you for seeing me.”