Erica Spindler - Dead Run

“Of course, as in all things, there were disbelievers. Naysayers. There would be no storm. The Lord had always spared this beautiful place, they believed he would spare her once more.”

But he didn’t spare her, Liz knew. She had read about this hurricane, thought the worst Key West had suffered. The year 1846 predated hurricane naming and classification systems, so it was called only the storm of 1846.

“Back then there was no early-warning system. No hurricane center in Miami. No Weather Channel.” His eyes clouded with the memory. “Only the church bells to ring. And only when it was already too late. The storm was all but upon them.”

Liz shivered, imagining. She knew from her reading that in those days the only way on and off the island was by boat. Flagler’s railroad didn’t open until 1912; the overseas highway not until 1938.

“For forty-eight hours the storm pummeled the island. With the scream of the wind could be heard the church bells and the cries of the lost ones. Many were washed out to sea, and for weeks afterward bodies floated ashore. Entire families, lashed together.” He lowered his voice. “Men, women and children. It’s a miracle that anyone was spared.”

“Your grandparents and their family were among the survivors.”

“Yes. They were protected. The Blessed Virgin protected them.”

Liz realized she was holding her breath and released it. “The church was destroyed.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “The church and all who had taken refuge there were washed out to sea.”

“So the archdiocese decided to demonize the visions.”

He shook his head, his expression unbearably sad. “The visions were a true miracle. Acts of God not demons. They were a warning to guard against the wicked, a warning of the approaching storm. The believers were saved.”

He lowered his voice to a crackly whisper. Liz leaned toward him, straining to hear. “The church lies on sacred ground. Listen well, child.” He reached out and caught her hand, his skin as dry as parchment, his grip surprisingly strong. “It is a profoundly holy place and must be protected at all costs. For in the desecration of the holy, evil extends its putrid grasp.”

Monday, November 12

9:30 a.m.

Liz sat at her desk staring blankly at her far wall, Father Paul’s last words still ringing in her head. She had slept with them, tossing and turning, her dreams populated with demons, and with bodies floating facedown in the water.

“For in the desecration of the holy, evil extends its putrid grasp.

“For weeks afterward the bodies floated ashore. Entire families lashed together.”

She had been unable to sleep for those images in her head-ones drawn by Father Paul’s words-but also by Rick Wells’s comments. She had been haunted by his description of Tara ’s death, sketchy though it had been.

He had soft-pedaled the truth for her, she knew. The newspaper had carried even fewer details. But her mind had filled in the blanks-added details including Tara ’s last thoughts: ones, Liz imagined, of terror, for her baby’s life and her own. Liz had imagined the girl’s cries for help.

Liz brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. She had totally embarrassed herself in front of Rick Wells-falling apart and clinging to him, blubbering like a baby.

All those noisy tears had made him uncomfortable. She had seen it in his eyes. She had tried to stop them, had tried to rein them in, but it had been so long since she’d had someone to hold on to, strong arms to support her. His arms, his strength, had been so comforting, such a relief. She had simply melted against him and fallen apart.

Now, he thought her an emotional wreck.

Get in line, Wells. You’re not alone.

The phone rang and she jumped, startled. She grabbed it. “Liz Ames.”

“Ms. Ames, it’s Pastor Tim.”

Something in his tone had her straightening. “Yes, Pastor?”

“The strangest thing…I found something that belongs to you.”

“Something that belongs to me?” she repeated, frowning. “I wasn’t aware that I’d lost anything.”

“You misunderstand. I found an envelope addressed to you. In my study, under the cushion of the window seat.”

Rachel. It had to be from Rachel.

“Liz?”

“Sorry, that’s just so bizarre.”

“Would you like to pick it up now?”

“Yes. If that’s all right?”

“Fine. I’m working out of the parsonage this morning, not the church. Meet me there.”

Liz agreed, and not ten minutes later she hurried up the parsonage’s front walk. She found Pastor Tim waiting anxiously by the door.

“I tried to call you back,” he said. “There’s been an emergency…one of my flock. I have to go.”

“But what-”

He thrust an oversize envelope into her hands. Her name had been printed in large, bold letters on the front. She stared at it, unsettled. The handwriting was not Rachel’s. So, whose was it?

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to-”

“Wait!” She caught his arm. “Where did you say you found this?”

He looked at her, gaze cool. “Under the cushion of the window seat in the parsonage study. What do you imagine it was doing there?”

She swallowed hard, feeling guilty, wondering if lying to a man of God constituted a big sin. “I wish I knew.”

He glanced at his watch, then back at her, expression unreadable. “You know, I’ve sat in that seat more times than I can count and never noticed that envelope. I wonder why I did today?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “If I had the answer to that question, I’d certainly tell you.”

For a long moment, he searched her gaze. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Liz? Anything at all?”

Pastor Howard was my sister. I think she was murdered by the same monster who killed Tara. Can you help me?

That’s what she opened her mouth to say. Instead, she murmured that there wasn’t.

He looked disappointed. “I really need to go.”

“Before you do, would it be possible for me to see where you found this? It might help me discover the answer to that question.”

“I don’t think the help you need is in my quarters,” he told her, glancing at his watch once more. “I suggest you look to God, Liz. Only he can fill the empty place inside you.”

With that, he shut the door in her face. Shocked, she stared at the closed door.

He knew who she really was. That was obvious. And since his attitude toward her had done a three-sixty or one-eighty after the night of Tara ’s murder, she suspected Lieutenant Lopez had told him.

Less obvious, however, was why she hadn’t taken the opportunity to come clean. Why hadn’t she told him the truth and asked for his help? He had offered it to her.

Because she didn’t trust him.

A shaky laugh tripped off her lips. She didn’t trust him? She was the one who had been lying. The one who had deliberately misrepresented herself.

No wonder he had slammed the door in her face. What was wrong with her?

She lowered her gaze to the envelope and the oddly printed letters across its front. She was obsessed with uncovering what had happened to her sister. And she would do anything to discover the truth.

Even lie to a man of God. Heaven help her.

Her hands began to shake. Heart in her throat, she opened the envelope. It was filled with family photographs and other mementos: a ticket stub to the Broadway musical she and Rachel had seen together; a note from their mother, Liz’s graduation announcement; Rachel’s baby book.

Liz shuffled through the pictures, tears choking her. Ones of her parents and grandparents, of she and Rachel as youngsters and young adults. Sisters and best friends.