Erica Spindler - Dead Run

“Wait!” She shot her hand out, stopping him from closing the door, stunned by Pastor Collins’s anger at her, his confrontational tone and accusatory comments. Previously, he had been warm toward her, kind and eager to help. Last night he had been conciliatory of her feelings, concerned for her safety. He had refused to leave her side until the officer that Lieutenant Lopez had assigned to walk her home had her in tow, for heaven’s sake.

What had caused his attitude to change so dramatically since then?

“Please, Pastor Tim, I wanted to offer my condolences…I thought there might be something I could do for the Mancusos.”

“There isn’t,” he said coldly. “Good day.”

“It might help them to speak with me. I’m a professional counselor and-”

“They don’t want to speak with you.”

“How can you be so certain? They may-”

“They told me so, Ms. Ames. They asked me to keep you away from them.”

She took a step backward, shocked. “They said that? I don’t understand. I can’t imagine why-”

“I can’t help you.” He sucked in a sharp breath, flushing. “A girl is dead, her parents grieving. Don’t you think you’ve helped enough?”

On that, he shut the door in her face.

Shaken, Liz turned away from the door. And found a man standing not three feet behind her, blocking her path. His face was a nightmare: a vicious scar ran diagonally across it, from his forehead to chin. It appeared that whatever had cut him had mutilated his left eye in the process.

He stared at her with his one good eye, mouth slightly agape. She took a step toward him. “Excuse me,” she said, mustering an authoritative tone.

He blinked but didn’t move. Liz glanced over her shoulder at the closed church doors, then back at the man. “Excuse me,” she said again. “I need to pass.”

Before she realized what was happening, his hand shot out and he closed his fingers tightly around her wrist.

With a cry, she took a step backward, tugging against his grasp. He tightened his hold on her, mouth working, guttural sounds spilling from his lips.

“Take your hand off her, you monster!” Heather Ferguson strode up the path behind him. “Right now!”

The man’s expression grew alarmed. He dropped Liz’s wrist, whirled, then scurried off, head down.

Liz watched him go, heart pounding. He ducked through a row of flowering hedges at the end of the walkway, and disappeared.

“Are you all right?”

Liz dragged her gaze to the other woman. “I…think so.” She rubbed her wrist. “He scared me, that’s all.”

“That character gives me the creeps. He’s always lurking about. Spying.”

“Who is he?”

“Stephen. I don’t know his last name, if he even has one.” Heather frowned. “He’s the church caretaker. As far as I know he’s lived at Paradise Christian all his life.”

Liz swallowed hard, working to shake off the effects of her encounter with the man. “What happened to his face?”

“I’m not from Key West, so I may be wrong, but I heard his father did that to him. Apparently, the same attack that disfigured his face damaged his brain. The church takes care of him.”

Liz felt ill. That such sickness and cruelty existed in the world, that it was so often directed against children, broke her heart. “He’s harmless then?”

“They say so.”

Liz frowned. “You don’t agree?”

“The former pastor here, Rachel Howard, caught him peeking in her windows. I told her she ought to send him packing. But she had too big a heart.” Heather looked away, eyes sparkling with tears. “And now she’s gone.”

Liz’s heart stopped, then started again, beating almost painfully against the wall of her chest. For a moment, she could hardly breathe. “You knew the previous pastor of Paradise Christian?”

“Sure, everyone around here did. I suppose you could have even called us friends.”

Liz’s cheeks warmed. If Rachel and Heather had been friends, wouldn’t Rachel have mentioned her sister?

She realized the other woman was looking at her oddly and Liz forced a smile. “You suppose?”

Heather lifted a shoulder. “She was extremely busy, so was I. We were never actually able to do more than have a quick chat when we ran into each other. But I liked her. A lot.”

“Have you closed up shop for the day?’

“Yes, I’m happy to say. Why, are you in sudden need of a bikini?”

“Hardly.” Liz smiled again. “You’ve come to my rescue twice now and I’d love to express my thanks by treating you to a drink or dinner.”

Heather waved the offer off. “That’s absolutely not necessary.”

“I’d like to anyway. If you have the time?”

Heather glanced at her watch then paused, as if considering the things she had to do and how much time it would all take. She returned her gaze to Liz’s and smiled. “After the day I had, a drink would be great. I know just the place.”

Five minutes later they were sitting at a small outdoor table at the Iguana Café. Liz took Heather’s suggestion and ordered a rum runner, a Key West specialty made with blackberry and banana brandy, light and dark rum, cherry juice and sweet-and-sour mix. Heather ordered the same, warning Liz that the refreshing drink packed a deceptive punch.

“This place is a favorite with the locals,” Heather murmured as their drinks arrived. “Great café con leche and Cuban sandwiches. The best, in my opinion.”

“I’ll remember that,” Liz murmured. She took a sip of the frozen concoction. Tall, fruity and delicious, Liz could see why they had become a favorite with Key Westers and tourists alike.

“I heard about last night,” Heather whispered, leaning toward her. “I heard you found…that girl.” She shuddered. “How are you?”

Liz set her glass down hard. “Truthfully? Not so great. Shook up.”

“How did you…I mean, what were you doing out so late?”

Liz told her about not being able to sleep and going for a run. “I heard a noise and went to investigate.” She looked down at her drink, then back up at Heather. “I wish I hadn’t.”

“No kidding.” Heather picked up her drink as if to take a sip, then set it back down, expression distressed. “I knew that girl.”

Liz straightened. “You did?”

“Mmm, kind of. She came into the shop sometimes. Most of the local kids do.” Her lips lifted. “A by-product of the kind of merchandise I sell.”

“Did Tara shoplift?”

“Her name was Tara?” Liz nodded and Heather continued. “No. Not that I know of, anyway. She seemed like a nice kid.”

“She was troubled,” Liz murmured before she could stop herself.

“What do you mean? Was she in your care?”

Liz brought a hand to her mouth, distressed at the slip. “Please, forget I said that. I shouldn’t have.” She changed the topic by asking the other woman about herself.

“Me?” Heather murmured with a small shake to her head. “I’m afraid there’s nothing too exciting to tell. I grew up in Miami, gave college a try but dropped out to do some modeling.” She laughed, then made a face. “It wasn’t for me. Or rather I wasn’t for it.”

“What happened?” Liz asked, honestly curious. The other woman was so beautiful, she would have thought her a natural. She told her so.

Heather laughed again. “That’s a common misconception about models. Many of them aren’t exceptionally pretty in real life-it’s the camera that makes them so. The camera loves them. It didn’t love me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I blame my mother,” she smiled. “I inherited her bone structure, which the camera flattens. Actually, I think she was more disappointed I didn’t make it as a model than I was.”