Erica Spindler - Dead Run

Or were those sounds slipping from his?

It was as if they were worshiping him. The physical sensations were incredible, more exciting than any sexual experience he’d ever had. Not of this world. He was infused with power. He was a god. All-knowing. All-powerful.

This was what Tara had meant, he thought. What Sarah had promised. The most perfect experience ever. If he chose the Horned Flower family, this power, this exaltation, could be his forever.

Mark felt himself levitating above the floor, floating, enraptured. He found himself upon an altar. Lips and mouths consumed him, arms enfolded, hands explored. He orgasmed, how many times he didn’t know, for the spasming was all but continual.

Suddenly, light exploded in his head. Blinding. Burning like white fire. The light was followed by darkness, as black and impenetrable as hell. A darkness more frightening than anything Hollywood could fathom, more frightening than his darkest nightmare.

In it, the beast waited.

Saturday, November 17

9:45 p.m.

Rick’s Island Hideaway looked nothing as Liz had imagined. She supposed that because of the movie Casablanca she had expected lots of tropical plants, slowly whirling ceiling fans, women in sleek sundresses accompanied by modern-day Bogies.

Nothing could be further from reality. No plants. No sleek sundresses or Humphrey Bogart look-alikes. And instead of Sam “playing it again” at the piano, a sound system pumped out reggae music, its decibel only a notch below ear numbing.

The level needed to be heard above the raucous crowd.

She hesitated in the doorway, uncertain what to do. Obviously, her timing sucked, big time. The crowd at the bar was six deep. Rick and another bartender, a sexy-looking twenty-something woman with a wild mane of sun-streaked hair, worked the bar-each managing to fill drink orders, run the register and socialize in what seemed to be one fluid movement.

Rick would not be happy to see her now.

Liz hung back, considering her options. According to the message Mark had left on her machine the previous evening, he expected to be initiated into the Horned Flower last night. He had been meeting his contact at ten-fifteen.

If you don’t hear from me, go to Rick Wells. He’ll know what to do.

She hadn’t heard from him. She feared every minute could mean the difference between life and death.

If he wasn’t dead already.

“Goin’ in, babe?”

Liz glanced over her shoulder. She had been blocking the doorway. “Sure, sorry.”

Decision made, she stepped through. A moment later, she found herself in the middle of the Saturday-night crowd, elbowing her way toward the bar. She got within shouting distance and did just that.

Rick heard his name on her first try and looked her way. A smile creased his face. “Hey, Liz Ames. What brings you in on this busy night?”

“I need to talk to you,” she shouted. “It’s important.”

“Yeah?” He flashed her damn near the sexiest smile she had ever seen, then shifted his attention to a man sitting at the bar directly in front of him, nursing a beer. “Hey, Pete, be a gentleman. Make room for the lady.”

The other man glanced over his shoulder at her. She saw immediately that he was inebriated. “You wan’ to sit?”

“Thank you, but I don’t mean to-”

“S’ okay.” He slid off the stool, landing unsteadily on his feet. “Pete g’home now.”

She put a hand on his elbow to steady him. He smiled at her, then wobbled off, the crowd seeming to part for the old drunk.

Liz climbed onto the stool. “You didn’t have to chase him off. I could have-”

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared away Pete’s glass and beer bottle, wiped the spot then replaced them with a fresh drink coaster. “Old Pete’s been keeping that spot warm since just after lunch. Time to cut him off.”

“Since noon?” She glanced in the direction the man had gone, amazed. “I hope he’s not driving.”

“Nope. Used to bicycle but landed in the ditch one too many times. Val impounded his bike.”

She cocked an eyebrow at the way he said the other man’s name, with real affection. “You and Lieutenant Lopez are good friends, aren’t you?”

“Pretty much the best of friends. We go way back.” He nodded at a couple other patrons, then returned his gaze to hers. “What can I get you?”

She really didn’t want anything, but felt guilty taking up both his time and space at the bar and not ordering. “How are your frozen margaritas?”

“Killer, if I do say so myself. With salt or without?”

“With, of course.”

He told her he would be right back and worked his way down the bar, taking several other orders as he did, all the while calling out humorous one-liners and greetings.

Liz dragged her gaze away, mouth going dry. She trailed her finger through a bead of moisture on the bar. Rick Wells was just one of those guys who had it all: looks, charm, personality, brains, bod. The complete, woman-eating package. No doubt he had been an athlete in high school and had had a bevy of adoring cheerleader types buzzing around him all the time.

One of those guys a smart, serious girl like her should avoid at all costs.

Her ex-husband had been one of those. But Jared had been shallow, too. A quality she hadn’t noticed until too late. Liz returned her gaze to Rick and found him conversing with another patron while he shook the thick, frozen mixture into a glass.

He looked at her then, and smiled. She experienced the tickle of sexual awareness and jerked her gaze away. Don’t be stupid, Liz, she told herself.

A moment later he set the drink in front of her. “One killer frozen margarita. With salt.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, then sipped. She had to admit, it was the best margarita she had ever tasted. She told him so.

He grinned and leaned toward her. “It’s a secret recipe. My very own.”

“I’m impressed.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Not in the same league as curing cancer, but on a steamy Key West night, it’ll do the trick.”

That it would. The sweet, tangy concoction no doubt packed a deceptive wallop.

“But you didn’t come here to shoot the breeze or drink margaritas, did you?”

She shook her head. “No, though I wish I had. I came because of Mark Morgan.”

“Mark?” His eyebrows shot up.

“He said you were his friend. That he trusted you.”

“That right? He bother to tell you he lifted six hundred bucks from my register, then left town? He trusts me, all right. To be a sap.”

She shook her head, confused. “Left town? That can’t be right.”

“It’s right, I guarantee you that. He left me a note telling me he did it.”

“When did this happen?”

“The night Tara died.”

The night he and Tara planned to run away together. “I’ve seen him since then.”

His gaze sharpened. “When?”

“Last Monday.”

He hesitated, as if deciding if the direction of this conversation was worth any more of his attention. He took a step away from her, signaling that he had decided it was not. “I don’t really have time for this right now. The drink’s on me, Liz.”

“Wait!” She leaned toward him, lowering her voice. “He contacted me about Tara ’s murder.”

He straightened and turned toward his new bartender. “Margo, can you handle the bar for a few minutes?”

She nodded and Rick indicated for Liz to follow him to his office. She did, and there he shut the door behind them. They didn’t sit. “What’s going on?”

“Mark’s in trouble, Rick. Big trouble.”

“Go on.”

“He was there that night, in the garden.”

“Holy shit.”