Erica Spindler - Dead Run

With each step closer, her heart beat faster, the urge to flee grew greater. Perspiration formed on her upper lip, she began to shake.

What was she doing? Testing herself? It was 3:00 a.m., for heaven’s sake. She was a woman alone in a new town.

Elizabeth Ames, are you strong enough, bold enough, brave enough to be here? Do you, Elizabeth Ames, have the right stuff for the job?

Liz reached the heavy door, grasped the handle and twisted. The door eased open.

A large tabby cat screeched and launched itself at her.

With a cry, Liz jumped sideways, flattening herself against the door. A high laugh bubbled to her lips. The noise she’d heard had been the cat. It had gotten locked in the garden, and hungry, had begun to claw and whine at the door in an effort to escape.

And along had come big brave Liz.

Feeling more than a little foolish, she stepped into the now deathly quiet garden. A sound escaped her, one of surprise. And pleasure. The garden was beautiful in the moonlight. Exquisite. A ghostly paradise.

She moved farther into the garden, growing intoxicated on nature’s perfume: night jasmine, ginger, sweet olive. She roamed her gaze over the landscape. Against the riot of flowers and foliage, the banyan roots became architectural.

Her gaze landed on something at the back of the garden, glowing unnaturally white on the carpet of green.

Frowning, she started for it. Not a blossom or toadstool, she realized.

A hand.

A scream rose in her throat. She inched closer. Trembling, she bent and brushed away the cover of foliage.

Tara stared up at her, face frozen in death.

Liz leaped backward, the scream ripping from her. That scream was followed by another and another. Turning, she ran for the garden door. Her foot landed in a hole and she pitched forward, falling on her knees. She clawed her way to her feet, whimpering, crying for help.

Tara. Dear God. They’d killed Tara.

She made it to the door and stumbled through it. Someone grabbed her, their grip crushing. She screamed again.

Saturday, November 10

3:45 a.m.

Rick held the hysterical woman tightly against his chest. She fought him, kicking, scratching, her piercing screams ripping through the night.

She landed a blow to his shin. He swore and sprang backward, releasing her. “Dammit, lady! Shit.” He rubbed his shin. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I heard you scream and came to see what was…shit,” he said again.

“I’m sorry, I-” She choked on the words. “ Tara…in the…someone-” She uttered a sound, part moan of despair, part whine of terror.

He glanced toward the garden. “Someone’s in there?”

“ Tara -” She brought a hand to her mouth. He saw that it shook badly. “In the garden… Tara. She’s…dead.”

Rick frowned, certain he had misunderstood her. “There’s a girl in the garden? Dead?”

The woman nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “Murdered.”

Rick glanced toward the garden once more. Key West averaged one murder-or less-a year. It hardly seemed possible that this woman had stumbled on a murder victim, in a church garden no less.

He returned his gaze to hers. “Are you certain she’s dead? Did you check her pulse?”

She shook her head.

“All right, you stay put. Where is she?”

“All the way in back. Her hand. I saw…”

“I’ll check it out.” He started into the garden, then stopped and looked back at her. She stood, hugging herself, eyes wide and frightened. “Are you going to be all right?” She managed to nod and he made his way toward the back of the grounds.

It took a moment to locate the girl, but when he did he saw that checking her pulse would be unnecessary.

Her throat had been slit, blood loss had been extreme.

Crouching, Rick checked it anyway.

Swearing, he stood. He breathed through his nose, struggling to remain objective. Fighting against the stomach bile that rose in his throat.

Shit. Son-of-a-bitch. Why did things like this have to happen?

He hadn’t been face-to-face with murder in over four years.

It sucked just as bad now as it had then.

Turning, he headed back to the woman. She looked on the verge of falling apart.

“Is she-”

“She’s dead.” He unclipped his cell phone from his belt, punched in the number for the KWPD and handed it to her. “That’s the police department’s number. Hit send. Tell them what’s happened and where we are. Tell them Rick Wells is with you.”

She did as he instructed and he returned to the garden and the dead girl.

Rick hadn’t done police work in years, but some things a cop never forgot. Crime-scene procedure was one.

She had been young. And pretty. She’d had long dark hair and fine features. He narrowed his eyes. She looked vaguely familiar. He searched his memory. She was a resident, not a tourist. One of a group of teenagers he saw occasionally, partying on Duval.

He shifted his attention momentarily from the victim to her surroundings. Lots of blood. Broken foliage. Bloody footprints leading away from the body.

He inched closer and crouched beside one of the prints. He was no expert on prints, but he would bet this one belonged to an athletic shoe, maybe size nine or ten, men’s.

Swallowing hard, he returned his gaze to the girl. She had been killed in a ritualistic fashion. She was naked, her body arranged in the shape of the cross, arms out, legs almost together. He noticed a tattoo, on her thigh, just below her shaved pubis. A flower, he realized. A strange flower, with curved, pointed petals.

Rick moved on. In addition to slitting her throat, the killer had split open her abdomen just above the pubis-her organs partially spilled out. He had also carved letterlike symbols on her torso and thighs. Judging by the minimal amount of coagulated blood at the wounds, the carving had been done postmortem. Her breasts and genitals had also been mutilated, most likely after death.

He frowned. Something about the style of the murder and the victim’s wounds tugged at his memory. He couldn’t put his finger on just what, and once again shifted his gaze to the scene. By the amount of blood, it was obvious that she had been murdered here, not elsewhere and transported to this spot.

Rick narrowed his eyes. The condition of the brush and foliage around the corpse didn’t indicate a violent struggle. Perhaps the killer had come up from behind, slit the girl’s throat, killing her before she realized what was happening.

So, what had she been doing here in the middle of the night? Judging by lividity and rigor mortis, he didn’t think she had been dead that long. Maybe an hour or two.

He looked at her hands. One was relaxed, one curled into a fist. From what he could see, neither exhibited defensive wounds. He bent closer. She appeared to be clutching a scrap of paper.

From behind him came voices. Val and Carla, Rick realized. He stood to greet the two officers.

“What are you doing, Rick?” Val snapped.

Rick bristled at the other man’s tone. “What do you think I’m doing, Val? Examining the scene.”

“That’s not your job, my friend. I need you to back off. Now.”

Rick stood his ground. He glanced at Carla. She met his eyes and looked quickly away. He returned his gaze to Val’s. “Once a cop, always a cop. Isn’t that what you always say?”

“Carla, would you escort Mr. Wells out front?”

Rick looked at Carla in silent warning-he would not be escorted from the scene like some bimbo civilian. “What is this, Val? I was a cop for eleven years. I’ve handled a lot more murder investigations than you will in your entire life. It seems to me that considering my experience, you should be grateful I was first to the scene. If I were you, I’d be interested in my assessment of the situation.”