Erica Spindler - Dead Run

“Are you two close?”

“Not really. I rarely see her even though she lives just up the Keys in Islamorada.” Heather took a long sip of her cocktail. “I drifted into retailing, then down here. I opened up my shop a few years back.”

Liz wanted desperately to ask her about Rachel, but didn’t know where to begin. Should she tell her who she was? That Rachel was her sister and that was why she was here on Key West? Her instincts told her Heather was an ally, but what if she was wrong? What if she told Heather the truth and alienated her?

The other woman solved the problem by bringing Rachel up herself. “I probably shouldn’t have said that about that poor man, that Stephen.” She sighed. “It’s just that, after what Rachel said about catching him peeking in her windows…”

“I heard she disappeared. The former pastor of Paradise Christian, that is.”

Heather’s expression became guarded. “What about it?”

Liz fiddled with her straw, trying not to look too anxious. “It sounded a little weird to me, that’s all. A pastor just up and running off like that. Is that what you believe happened to her?”

Heather sighed again. “I don’t know what to believe. The Rachel I knew would never have done something like that.”

“Really?” Liz leaned forward. “Why not?”

“She loved Paradise Christian. Loved Key West.” Her voice thickened slightly. “She was devoted to the congregation.” A frown formed between her eyebrows. “I was on a buying trip when she disappeared. I learned what happened when I returned. I feel really bad about that. Like maybe she needed me and I wasn’t here for her.”

A lump formed in Liz’s throat even as a surge of affection rose in her for this woman she hardly knew. Because she had known and cared for Rachel. And because she felt the same way Liz did, the same regret and guilt.

She had found a potential champion, Liz acknowledged. Someone who would back Liz up if she found any proof supporting her suspicions that Rachel had met with foul play.

“Did you talk to the police? Did you tell them the things you just told me?”

“I tried.” She dropped her hands to her lap. “But the thing is, something had been bothering Rachel. She had been upset about something and acting…strangely.”

“Upset about what?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.”

“Was it Stephen she was frightened of?” Liz pressed.

“Frightened,” Heather repeated, looking at Liz, eyebrows drawn together. “Did I say she was frightened?”

“No, I guess you…didn’t. I just…I suppose I was just filling in the blanks.”

Heather’s frown deepened. She brought a hand to her neck, to the jeweled monogram that hung on a fine gold chain. “You know, that’s a good way to describe how she acted. But of who or what, I don’t know.”

Saturday, November 10

5:15 p.m.

Mark huddled in the corner of his rented room, eyes fixed on the door. His teeth chattered and he clutched a frayed blanket to his chest, unable to get warm despite the stifling heat of the room. He doubted he would ever be warm again.

Tara was dead. His unborn child, dead. Both murdered.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut, the horror of the past hours washing over him. He struggled to fit all the pieces together, to fill in some of the blanks. He had gone to meet her, as they’d planned. The garden gate had been open. He had eased through and softly called her name. She hadn’t answered.

Concerned and confused, he had crept farther into the garden, careful to be quiet, not wanting to awaken Pastor Tim or Stephen, the old caretaker. He had wondered if she had changed her mind. Or if her parents had caught her sneaking out and prevented her from meeting him.

Then things got fuzzy. He remembered seeing her lying there, covered in blood.

Mark pressed a fist to his mouth to hold back a howl of grief. From outside came the sounds of children playing in the park across the street. Although little more than a sandy patch of ground with a tired swing set and slide, the neighborhood kids didn’t seem to mind.

He struggled to focus on the children, their sounds of joy. He struggled to find a calm space to speak to the Lord, to ask for guidance and strength. To turn to the one, the only one, who could help him.

That place eluded him, and instead, his head filled once again with the events of the night before. He remembered he’d called Tara ’s name, he’d fallen to his knees and reached for her, desperate. She had been warm. When he moved her, a gurgling sound had come from her throat, and at first he had believed her alive. Then he had seen…her throat…the extent of the blood. He had realized the sound had been the wound talking, not her.

Sobbing, he had shot to his feet. His hands, knees, arms and chest had been wet with her blood. It had been everywhere. After that, things got murky again. He had run toward the garden gate, tearing through shrubbery, blinded by tears. He had tripped and fallen, dragged himself to his feet and fallen again. His hands had been cut, his face scratched. He thought he had heard a sound, someone behind him. Breathing.

Somehow, he had made it to his car, then here. Somehow, by God’s will.

Mark moaned and pressed himself closer into the corner. That had been hours ago, though he didn’t know how many. Through the night and into the morning he had waited for the police to come. He and Tara had kept their relationship a secret, but any number of people could have figured them out.

Mark’s teeth began to chatter again. They would think he had done it. Tara had been pregnant with his child, some would see that as a reason for him to do this. Get rid of her and the problem.

Sickness rushed up to his throat and he fought it back. Maybe the cops wouldn’t discover his and Tara ’s relationship? And even if they had, he had been at the Hideaway until 2:00 a.m. the night before. Surely-

Dear God, the IOU. Mark searched his memory. Had he told Rick why he was borrowing the money? Had he told him about Tara? He couldn’t remember. He had promised to pay him back as soon as he could. He’d told him it was an emergency.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to remember exactly what he had written. He had to remember. It was important. Maybe even a matter of life and-

Rick would seek him out. Because of the money. He could be here any moment. Mark was surprised he hadn’t shown up already.

He had expected to be long gone before Rick found the IOU. Mark pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Maybe it would be for the best. He would tell Rick everything; his friend would believe him.

Mark looked down at himself, taking in the unmistakable stains on his clothes, shoes and skin. With a growing sense of horror, he tipped his hands over. They were red from Tara ’s blood.

If Rick saw him this way, he would think he had done it. Everyone would.

He would go to jail.

The realization hit him with the force of a wrecking ball. With a cry, he scrambled to his feet and raced to his closet-size bathroom. The room consisted of a single sink, a slightly lopsided toilet and an old tub that had been fashioned into a shower with a barely adequate spray nozzle and plastic curtain that circled the tub. He pulled the shower curtain back and stepped into the tub to open the window behind it and let in some fresh air.

He cranked on the shower, then tore off his soiled clothes. He stepped under the stinging hot spray and started to scrub, so hard his skin burned.

He couldn’t go to Rick. Rick had been a cop. The ranking detective at the Key West Police Department was his best friend. Mark had no illusions where his loyalties would lie.