Erica Spindler - Dead Run

“He’s Tara ’s baby’s father. He’s the reason she was in the garden that night. They’d arranged to meet there. They were running away together.”

“Son-of-a-bitch.” Rick crossed to his desk and sank heavily onto its edge. “The IOU he left. Of course.”

“IOU?”

“The six hundred bucks. He left me a note promising to pay it back. He said it was an emergency.” Rick passed a hand across his forehead. “What else did he tell you?”

Liz launched into the story, finishing with Mark’s account of finding Tara dead, and running.

“No joke he’s got himself in trouble,” Rick muttered. “Stupid kid. Did you tell him to go to the police?”

Her silence was his answer and he narrowed his eyes. “Exactly how did you say you knew Mark?”

“He contacted me last Monday. I never heard of him before that.”

“Then why call you?”

“He wanted someone to know everything in case…he disappeared.”

“But why you?”

She hesitated, considering her options. She could tell him the easy part of the story and probably get away with it. But at this stage of the game it seemed not only pointless but dishonest as well.

And being dishonest with Rick Wells would be a mistake.

“Because I had counseled Tara. And because I’m Pastor Rachel Howard’s sister.”

She saw the moment he made the connection. “From Paradise Christian. The woman who disappeared.”

It wasn’t a question. She answered anyway. “Yes.”

He glanced at his watch. “I have to check on Margo. It might be a few minutes.”

The door shut behind him and she sank onto a chair. Only then did she realize she was shaking. She clasped her hands together and moved her gaze over the office. No photos adorned his neat desktop, no awards, diplomas or other memorabilia hung on the walls.

No, she realized. One picture. Mostly hidden behind the in-box on his desk. She stood, crossed to the desk and picked it up. It was a picture of Rick in his full-dress police uniform and a woman in a lovely spring outfit. Liz tilted her head. Rick’s graduation from police academy, she decided, judging by his crisply pressed uniform.

That the woman adored him was obvious by the way she was gazing up at him. Because of the slightly fuzzy quality of the photo and the way the sunlight fell across her face, it was difficult to make out her features. She had coloring similar to Liz’s own; a slight build. She was pretty.

A lump in her throat, Liz returned the framed photo to its spot on his desk. As she did, she discovered another photo tucked into the back of the frame.

It was of a little boy with curly blond hair and Rick’s smile. He looked to be about three and was smiling at the camera, pure joy radiating from him.

Who was he? she wondered. Rick’s son? A favorite nephew? Was the woman his wife? That would have been her first guess, but Rick didn’t wear a wedding ring.

Though these days many men didn’t.

She trailed her finger lightly over the boy’s image. She found something sad about the way Rick had the photographs tucked almost out of sight.

She heard Rick at the office door and quickly replaced the child’s photo, then set the frame back where she had found it. She turned just as Rick stepped through the door.

“Sorry,” he said. “Saturday’s my busiest night.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it-just not for what he thought. By peeking at those pictures she had pried into a corner of his life he obviously preferred no one see. “My timing stinks, but I didn’t…I was afraid for Mark. I think he’s in danger.”

Rick sat and ordered her to do the same. “Now, start at the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.”

Liz began. She told him why she had come to Key West, that she didn’t believe the police version of her sister’s disappearance. She relayed the content of the message her sister had left on her answering machine. “She said she had uncovered illegal activities on the island, something that involved the young people. She feared for her own safety. I believe those involved killed her. Nobody believed me…until Mark.”

Rick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his fingers together. “Go on.”

She repeated everything Mark had told her: that the group called itself the Horned Flower, that Tara had belonged and that they had threatened her when she tried to get out. “They describe themselves as a family and are both devoted to and possessive of other members of the family, as well as suspicious of those outside. So suspicious that Tara had to keep her relationship with Mark a secret for fear of reprisal. He said the group was into drug use and indiscriminate sex. Their shared ideology was hedonistic and atheist.”

“What you’re describing is a cult,” he murmured. “There are thousands of loosely joined and highly organized groups in the United States that meet the criteria that defines a cult, basically a group organized around a central figure and singular philosophy. Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s Unification Church, Crowleyism, the Charles Manson family all fit the criteria though each is very different from the other.”

“Whatever they are, they had great power over Tara and she was terrified of them. He believes they killed her because she tried to break away from them. He believes they killed my sister as well.”

Rick looked unconvinced. She pressed on. “Mark decided the best way to expose the group was to become one of them. He left me a message saying he was being initiated last night. He told me to come to you if I didn’t hear from him.” She held her hands out, palms up. “So, here I am.”

For a long moment, Rick was silent. When he finally spoke, his tone was low, measured. “Have you asked yourself if Mark was truthful with you?”

“No. Why wouldn’t he have been?”

“Maybe he had something to do with Tara ’s death?”

“No way.” She shook her head for added emphasis. “You didn’t see him when he talked about Tara, about that night. He was in love with her.”

“Do you have any idea how many victims are killed by the very people who claim to love them? A lot,” he finished, answering his own question. He paused as if to allow his words time to sink in. “I was a cop, Liz. I’m thinking like a cop here. Sorting through the facts, looking at this from all angles.”

“And I’m not?”

“Frankly? No, you’re not. You’re too close. Emotionally involved. Overwrought.”

Making a sound of frustration, she stood. “I’m so tired of people telling me that. I’m not overwrought. Mark feared for his safety. He contacted me so someone would know what he was doing and sound the alarm if he disappeared. He’s disappeared, we have to do something!”

Rick stood. She had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “Okay,” he murmured, tone as calm and soothing as if attempting to reason with a headstrong child. “You’re fine, steady as a rock. Just hear me out. In all probability, Tara was killed by the accomplice of a man who murdered young women in Miami, or someone who is copying his crimes. There’s a chance your sister fell victim to the same maniac. Or that she suffered a mental breakdown and ran off, the way the police think.”

She opened her mouth to deny it was true, and he held up a hand to stop her. “Your sister’s been missing what? Three months?”

“Four,” she corrected. “She was last seen July twelfth.”

“So, where’s her body, Liz? Tara ’s killer made no attempt to conceal his handiwork. If you hadn’t found her that night, someone else would have the next morning. Taft worked in the same manner.”

He had a point; she had wondered the same thing.

But she knew she was right.