Erica Spindler - Dead Run

It was as if Rachel had grabbed all the quickly accessible and irreplaceable pieces of her life and shoved them in an envelope for Liz.

Why? To make sure she got them? Or for another reason?

She leafed through the envelope’s contents again. A sheet of unlined paper fluttered to the ground.

Liz retrieved it. The paper appeared to have been torn from a journal. Drawn on the page were several variations of the same image: an image that appeared to be a horned flower.

Liz stared at the drawing, tilting her head, then the paper. What was it? A religious symbol? A local logo of some kind?

“You’re still here?”

She looked up, startled. Pastor Tim stood at his door, Bible tucked under his arm. He didn’t attempt to hide his annoyance.

“Yes. I-” She held out the sheet containing the drawings of the flower. “Do you recognize this image?”

He looked at it, then away. “I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s not a religious symbol?” she pressed. “Or a logo from a local business?”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “I said, I have no idea what it is.” He snapped the door shut. “Good day.”

He was lying. She didn’t know why she was so certain of that, but she was. She swung around to watch him go, reviewing their brief conversation of a moment ago and the one from earlier. She recalled his expression when she showed him the drawing.

It had shifted subtly, she realized. Had it been guilt she’d seen creep across his features? Or alarm? Or some other emotion she couldn’t quite put her finger on?

Liz frowned. And why, when he’d professed to be in such a big hurry, had he spent the last ten minutes in the parsonage? Could it have had anything to do with her request to take a look inside?

Her heart began to thump uncomfortably against the wall of her chest. By his own admission, he was the one who had packed her sister’s things. Perhaps he had found something incriminating, something he had decided to keep to himself.

But what? And why would he? He had arrived on the island after her sister disappeared, hadn’t he?

She needed to get inside the parsonage and take a look around.

Liz glanced at the door, then moved toward it. Luckily, she stood in an alcove, mostly obscured from view. She peeked over her shoulder anyway, then reached out and grasped the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, she twisted.

The door eased open. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she ducked inside, closing the door behind her.

The interior was spartan. None of her sister’s homey sense of style remained. It looked like a watered-down version of a bachelor’s pad: big recliner across from the TV, books stacked on the shelves and coffee table, a few framed photos. No flowers, no pretty afghan tossed across the back of the couch, no profusion of throw pillows or cutesy knickknacks.

It hurt to picture Rachel here, so Liz forced the comparisons from her mind. Fearing Pastor Tim would return before she could complete her search, she began looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything she recognized as having belonged to her sister. She made a quick but careful search of the living room, then moved on to the kitchen, then the bathroom.

Nothing jumped out at her.

From there she entered the bedroom. Again, the room was neat and spare. She glanced quickly at two framed photos on the dresser-one of Pastor Tim in full football gear, flanked by a couple of other uniformed players, the other at graduation from college, he in cap and gown, an older couple at his side, beaming.

It crossed her mind that in both photos Pastor Tim wore a costume of sorts and that every Sunday he wore another.

Would the real Pastor Tim please stand up.

She shifted her attention away from the photographs and back to her mission. She slid open the top dresser drawer. It was filled with the pastor’s socks and Jockey shorts.

Liz’s fingers froze. Lord help her, what was she doing? Going through someone’s personal things? Violating their privacy? How would she feel if the situation was reversed?

Her own actions made her sick to her stomach. Shaking, she slid the drawer shut. She had to get a grip on herself, on her behavior. She had gone too far this time. Breaking and entering, for heaven’s sake.

She grabbed the envelope from the top of the dresser, intent on getting out of the parsonage. She turned, then stopped, a scream rising to her throat.

Stephen stood at the window, staring at her with his one good eye, disfigured mouth twisted into a grotesque grimace.

The man inched closer to the window, mouth working. He lifted his hands; Liz saw that they were curved into fists. He meant to break the window, she realized. He meant her harm.

Suddenly, he pivoted away from the glass, head cocked. In the next moment he was gone.

Liz ran to the window and peered out, hoping to see which way he had disappeared. He had disappeared completely, the only evidence of his presence a broken palmetto.

She released a strangled breath, then sucked in another. Something had frightened him off. Thank God. Something-

Not something. Someone.

Pastor Tim had returned.

She heard him at the front door. Heard him insert the key into the lock. Imagined his expression as he realized it hadn’t been locked. Heard the door open, then close, heard him mutter something under his breath.

Liz looked around, frantically searching for a place to hide. Her gaze landed on what she assumed was the closet. She darted toward it, yanked the door open and slipped inside.

It was, indeed, a clothes closet, and she carefully inched her way to the very back corner. The closet was deep and jammed full with clothing, sports equipment, storage boxes and even some holiday decorations. It smelled stale, faintly of sweat, aftershave and dust.

Pastor Tim entered the room. He let out a frustrated-sounding breath as he moved about. Liz’s heart beat so hard and fast her chest hurt. She pressed her lips together, struggling not to make a sound, to not even breathe.

He reached the closet; she saw the shadow of his feet at the bottom of the door. She pressed herself farther into the corner. Something scurried on the wall by her ear, and a cry rose in her throat.

The doorknob turned, a sliver of light spilled into the closet. The sliver grew. Liz caught a glimpse of the man. In that glimpse he bore little resemblance to the mild-mannered pastor she had come to expect-he looked angry. And determined. A man who would level anyone who dared cross him.

Pastor Tim was not the man he professed to be.

The anxiety attack came upon her without warning. Smothering in its intensity. The weight of it upon her chest crippling. She pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out and squeezed her eyes shut. In the next moment, he would find her out. How would she explain? He would almost certainly call the police. She could imagine Lieutenant Lopez’s disgust. His satisfaction.

Both sisters, nutty as fruitcakes. And to think I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Not now, Lord, she prayed. Please, not now.

The door opened a fraction wider, then snapped shut, leaving her in darkness once more. A moment later came the sound of his footsteps and the front door slamming closed.

Liz curled her arms around her middle and sank to her knees. Her pent-up breath shuddered past her lips in shallow gasps. She fought to slow her breathing, to concentrate on the steady pull and push of oxygen in and out. She willed her heart and thoughts to slow to a gallop. She had nothing to fear, she told herself. She had not been discovered.

Gradually, her breathing and heart rate returned to normal. She stood cautiously, careful to make as little noise as possible. She eased toward the door, cracked it open and peered out. As she had thought it would be, the bedroom beyond was empty.