Erica Spindler - Dead Run

Liz started through the door, then realized she had left the envelope behind. As she bent to retrieve it she caught the glint of metal on the floor of the closet. Curious, she bent closer. A ring, she realized. Peeking out from under a pair of work boots.

She picked it up. Her hand trembled. She recognized the ring-a circle of gold studded with rubies-it had been her mother’s, one of a matched pair.

Liz shifted her gaze slightly. She wore its mate on her right ring finger.

And like Rachel, she never took it off.

Monday, November 12

5:00 p.m.

Hours later, Liz sat alone in her office, evening shadows beginning to gather in the room’s corners. After finding the ring, she had fled the parsonage. She had made it to her office, gotten the door closed and locked behind her before she’d fallen apart.

She lowered her gaze to her right hand and the twin eternity bands, nestled together on her ring finger. Her mother had given them to her and Rachel just months before she died. Liz remembered the day vividly, could recall the color of the sky, the smell of the flowers at her mother’s bedside, what both she and Rachel had been wearing.

At their mother’s funeral several months ago, they’d vowed never to take the rings off. A silly kind of promise, Liz supposed. A vow either one of them could have broken without the other knowing. But she hadn’t. And she didn’t believe her sister had either.

So how had the ring ended up at the bottom of that closet?

The answer hurt. It was further proof that her sister was dead.

Proof, unfortunately, that she couldn’t take to the police.

Liz turned her gaze from the rings to her front window, to the constant stream of people passing. How could she? You see, Lieutenant Lopez, I found it when I was sneaking out of Pastor Tim’s bedroom closet.

Right. She was already hanging on with him by a thread. One wrong move and he would have her tossed into a cell.

Or into the loony bin.

Her head hurt. She brought a hand to her temple, to the spot where the pain was most intense, and massaged it. The envelope with its mementos and cryptic drawings. The ring. The old caretaker at the window spying on her. Pastor Tim’s transformation from caring clergyman to angry accuser. Her sister’s disappearance. Tara ’s murder. How did all the pieces fit together?

The phone rang and she reached for it. “Elizabeth Ames here.”

“Is this Dr. Ames, the therapist?”

Liz straightened. The voice on the other end of the line sounded deliberately muffled, and she frowned, straining to determine the caller’s age and gender. “This is Elizabeth Ames, the family counselor. I’m not a doctor, however.”

Total silence ensued. “Hello?” she said. “Can I help you?”

“I’m a friend of Tara Mancuso’s. I need to talk to you.”

For a moment, she couldn’t find her tongue. It was almost as if thoughts of the girl had conjured the caller. “Did you want to make an appointment? If so-”

“I’m not calling for an appointment.”

“How can I help you?”

“I have information about her death.”

She caught her breath. “I’m in my office now. Do you know where it-”

“No,” the caller said quickly. “Not there. I’m…I don’t want us to be seen together.”

A male, Liz realized.

She shifted her gaze to her front window and the gathering twilight. Something about this didn’t feel right. “You say you were a friend of Tara ’s?”

“Yes, I…” The caller fell silent a moment. “Never mind. Calling you was a mistake-”

“Wait! Where do you want to meet? I’ll be there.”

For a split second, Liz feared the caller had hung up. Then he spoke, so softly Liz had to strain to hear. “ Mallory Square at sunset.”

“But how will I know-”

“I’ll find you. And Ms. Ames? I suggest you be…really careful.”

The sunset celebration in Mallory Square was a nightly Key West event, and for many it served as a kickoff for the night’s revelry. Tourists and locals alike flocked to the square to watch the sun melt into the Gulf of Mexico. Placards all over town announced the exact time the fiery orb would make its descent. Today’s sunset, Liz learned, was expected at 5:42.

When Liz arrived, the official celebration, which began an hour before sunset, was already under way. The crowd was immense, a mass of half-clothed, sunburned bodies. Street performers entertained the crowd, and every so often a roar would go up as one of the performers aced a particularly tricky move.

Liz worked her way across the square, past a fire-eater, a stand-up comedian on stilts, several jugglers and all manner of mimes. The mood was part drunken bacchanal, part Sunday-worship service. Some had come to party, some to meditate and still others to simply witness it all.

She had come for answers.

Liz stopped at the edge of a group circled around a juggler. The man tossed a half-dozen blazing hoops into the air; the group murmured their appreciation as he caught each in rapid succession.

She moved on. Minutes passed. She continued to wind her way through the crowd, studying each face, wondering which belonged to her caller. Her apprehension grew. The crowd, which she had considered a positive at first, became a negative. So many faces, she thought, a thread of panic racing through her. So many bodies. How would her caller find her?

If the call had even been legitimate. It could have been a hoax. An attempt to scare her. An attempt to get her out on the street, alone in the crowd. For in a funny way, the density of the crowd made her as vulnerable as if she were waiting in a deserted parking lot.

“And Ms. Ames? I suggest you be…really careful.”

Sweat beaded her upper lip. The crowd closed in on her. She brought a hand to her chest; her heart beat wildly under her palm.

Not now, Liz. Stay calm. Focus.

She became aware of someone behind her, standing too close. She inched forward but found herself trapped in a sea of bodies.

“Hello, Ms. Ames.”

She glanced over her shoulder.

The young man behind her wore dark sunglasses, a baseball cap and a pair of tattered cutoffs. He was shirtless. There his resemblance to the other young men on Mallory Square ended. This boy was both totally sober and as watchful as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.

He caught her arm. “Come with me.”

She nodded and allowed him to lead her through the throng to the bulkhead at the water’s edge. The party was behind them, and it occurred to her that this boy could ever so casually push her over the side and no one would even notice.

“Sit,” he murmured. “Don’t look at me. Only the sunset.”

She did as he requested. Several moments passed and she dared a glance at him from the corner of her eyes. He stared out at the water, expression intent.

She cleared her throat. “Why did you contact me? Why the secrecy?”

“Not yet. I need a minute.”

Although difficult, she swallowed both her questions and her nerves, and focused on the constantly shifting water.

“Tara and I were in love,” he began finally. “We were going to run away together.”

The boyfriend, Liz realized. Tara ’s baby’s father.

“I went to meet her. That night.”

Liz looked at him, chilled. He removed his sunglasses and met her eyes. His were bloodshot.

“I found her,” he said. “Like…that. I-”

Her first reaction to his declaration was pity. Her next was fear.

This young man could be Tara ’s killer.

And he had sought her out.

“The police are looking for me, I’m sure. Because Tara was…pregnant.” His voice grew thick and he cleared it. “But they don’t know who I am. We were very careful.”