Erica Spindler - Dead Run

He slipped his hands into his pockets, uncertain how to respond. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ve made a total fool of myself.”

“Not at all.” He smiled. “Trust me, okay? I’m a bartender, I see lots of people making fools of themselves.”

She returned his smile, hers weak. “Thanks. I wish I could have helped you more.”

“If you think of anything about that night, you’ll call me at the Hideaway?”

“I promise.”

They crossed to the stairs that led to the first floor and started down them, stopping when they reached the front door. Liz met his eyes. “It makes sense now, how she looked. Ill, like she wasn’t sleeping or eating. I thought she might be using but never that she might be pregnant.”

“It could even explain why she was frightened,” he murmured. “Still in high school, unmarried and pregnant. It doesn’t get too much bigger than that, does it?”

Sunday, November 11

2:00 p.m.

Liz had taken Rick Wells’s suggestion and called Our Lady Star of the Sea Catholic Church. To Liz’s amazement the woman who answered the phone had known not only who Father Paul was but where Liz could find him: the old priest resided at St. Catherine’s, a local nursing home subsidized by the Catholic church.

The woman had assured her that Father Paul would be delighted to have a visitor, even if she wasn’t a Catholic.

Liz swept her gaze over the front of the building, a one-story, flamingo-pink stuccoed structure surrounded by palm trees and palmettos. Liz guessed it had been built in the late sixties or early seventies, a period of architecture better forgotten.

She entered the residence. She had been in many such homes over the years and although relatively small, this one wasn’t much different. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old age. Straight ahead lay the nurses’ station; to her right, a large community area, outfitted with a console television, several game tables and three sofas. The game tables were empty this afternoon, the couches full. In addition, a half-dozen residents in wheelchairs clustered around the TV, much to the irritation of a loudly complaining few whose view of the movie-Charlton Heston’s The Ten Commandments-was obstructed.

Liz crossed to the information desk. As she did, a small dust mop of a dog darted toward her. He came to a stop at her feet, whined and assumed the “feed me” position-weight on back haunches, front paws up. Judging by his rotund appearance, he received plenty of treats. Liz squatted and scratched him behind the ears. “You’re a cute little guy,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to give you.”

He cocked his head, as if deciding whether she was being straight with him, then dropped to all fours and waddled off. She watched him go, then stood.

The nurse smiled at her. “That’s Rascal. We tell the residents not to feed him,” she murmured. “But they can’t help themselves. He brings them such pleasure.”

“I’ll bet.” Liz returned her smile. “I’m looking for a resident named Father Paul Ramos. I was told he lived here.”

“He does.” She pointed. “He’s in C wing, number fourteen. If he’s lucid, he’ll be delighted to have a visitor.”

Liz’s heart sank. “If he’s lucid?”

“Father Paul’s one hundred and two. Sometimes he’s with us. And sometimes he’s not. So don’t be alarmed if he starts talking crazy.”

Liz found fourteen-C. Father Paul sat in his wheelchair, facing the window. A Bible lay open in his lap; his mouth worked as he moved the rosary beads between his fingers.

She tapped on the door. “Father Paul?”

He looked at her, squinting. “Margaret?”

“No.” She stepped into the room. “My name’s Elizabeth Ames. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

“Come in, child.” He smiled and motioned her closer. “How can an old man like me help you?”

She perched on the edge of his bed and he swiveled his chair to face her. “I’m a counselor and one of my patients told me an interesting story. She said you could tell me more about it.”

He laughed, the sound papery with age. “I know many interesting stories, a benefit of having lived a long time.” He leaned toward her, expression almost childlike. “And I love telling them.”

She laughed too, liking this man. “This is a special story, Father. One about the Blessed Mother appearing to children in the churchyard of what is now Paradise Christian Church.”

His inclined his head, expression pleased. “That is, indeed, a special story.” He laid his rosary in his Bible, marking his place, then closed the book. “It is a true story, one I was told by my grandparents, children at the time.

“ Key West was very different at that time. Cut off from the rest of the country by water.”

He looked past her, expression faraway. “Did you know, at one time Key West was the wealthiest city in America?” He returned his gaze to hers. “It’s true. Because of the salvaging industry. Ships crashed into the reef and went down. The bells would sound and there would be a great race to see which outfit reached the sinking vessel first.”

“The first to the vessel rescued the passengers and claimed the ship’s bounty as their own,” she murmured. “Is that right?”

“It is, indeed.” His lips lifted. “There are rumors that some of Key West ’s more nefarious entrepreneurs actually lured the vessels to the reef.”

“And you believe those rumors are true.”

“One must be watchful of greed, child. There’s a reason it’s one of the seven deadly sins.”

He sobered. “The devil is crafty, indeed. He captures us through the things that make us most human. Lust. Pride. Anger. Avarice. Envy. Sloth. Gluttony. These we must guard against, just as the Lord warned us we should.”

Liz thought of Tara and shuddered. The light in Father Paul’s eyes was the same she had seen in the girl’s. Somehow, it seemed less disturbing in a man of Father Paul’s age and religious stature.

“I’ve frightened you,” he murmured.

She rubbed her arms. “No, of course not.”

“I wish I had.”

She blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

He looked past her once more, expression faraway. “I know, you didn’t come here to be warned against the Beast. No one does anymore. It’s not…fashionable.”

He fell silent. His eyes closed. Liz waited, wondering if he had fallen asleep. And if he had, if she should wake him or leave.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes and looked at her, his blue gaze as clear as a summer sky. “Back then, Paradise Christian was St. Stephen’s. And there in the walled garden, among the banyan and poinciana trees, the Blessed Mother appeared as a vision to the children. She didn’t speak, just hovered there, swathed in a halo as bright as the gold coins recovered from all those shipwrecked vessels. The children weren’t frightened. They were awed. They understood they were in the presence of God. They fell to their knees in prayer and thanksgiving. Several ran for Father Roberto.”

“Did he witness the vision?” she asked, spellbound.

The old priest shook his head. “He was too late. But he believed. After all, why would these children, good, faithful children, make such a thing up?

“For the next fourteen days,” he continued, “ Key West was blessed with one miracle after another. Sickness was cured. The blind could suddenly see, the crippled walk. Blood flowed from the hands of the statue of Christ.”

“And then the miracles stopped,” Liz whispered. “And the storm came.”

“Yes. The wind first, a gentle breeze from the west. The old-timers knew. The breeze, the movement of the water. Something was wrong. Word spread. A few packed up their families and made their way toward the mainland, from key to key by boat. Others refused to leave and instead began making preparations.