Erica Spindler - Dead Run

A moment later, she unlocked it. She wore a pair of running shorts and an undershirt. Her feet were bare.

“I’ve figured it out,” he said. “I know why Mark contacted you.”

Wordlessly, she motioned him inside. She bolted the door behind them, then led him upstairs.

Once in the living room, he faced her. “You might want to sit down.”

She did as he suggested. He laid out his theory for her, leaving nothing out. When he finished, she simply gazed at him, expression stricken.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“About what?” Her voice shook slightly. “Having an opinion?”

“Shattering your hopes. I know how desperately you want to believe this conspiracy theory. Because of your sister.”

She passed a hand across her eyes. “And how did Mark learn about Gavin Taft?”

“Any number of places. Most probably the Internet.”

“He was in love with her, Rick. If you had only heard him that day. It broke my heart.”

“Maybe the baby wasn’t his?” Rick offered. “Maybe she had broken up with him, but had agreed to meet him this last time in the garden. There, he killed her.”

“It’s not true, Rick.” She got to her feet and lifted her gaze to his. “They were running away together that night. That’s why he took the money, why he-”

“If they were running away, where was her stuff?”

“What?”

“Her stuff. She would have packed some sort of bag, one that included cosmetics, changes of clothes, mementos. I didn’t see anything like that at the scene, did you?”

She sank to her seat. “But, what he said…the way he sounded, I was so certain.”

Rick squatted in front of her and looked her directly in the eyes. “Were you certain because of what he said, or because you wanted to be? Because of your sister?”

Her eyes flooded with tears. “I…I don’t know.”

He caught her hand; it was as cold as ice and he curled his fingers around it.

“He’s just a kid, Rick. How could he have done…that?”

“I don’t want to believe it, either. I liked Mark. I trusted him and called him friend. But I’ve heard too many people exclaim after the fact how they couldn’t believe some killer capable of committing whatever vicious and unconscionable act they had committed.”

She released a shaky breath. “What do we do now?”

“Go to the police.”

“Tonight?”

“I think we should. My guess is, after meeting with you, Mark headed out of town. He’s long gone by now, but the more time that passes, the farther away he gets.”

She nodded and stood. “I feel like such a fool. A gullible idiot.”

“You’re not the first person to be taken in by a charming psychopath. Unfortunately, you won’t be the last.”

Liz laughed, the sound brittle. “I was going to see the police tomorrow. I was going to bring them that.” She gestured toward a large manila envelope on the coffee table, her name printed across the front. “My sister left it for me. Pastor Tim found it in the parsonage. I thought it was proof that what Mark told me was true.”

“What’s in it?”

“Family photographs and mementos, a page from my sister’s journal.” She sighed. “Take a look, if you like. I’ll go change.”

She left the room. Rick picked up the envelope and drew out the contents, thumbing through, stopping on the page of sketches.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

Tara had had a tattoo on her inner thigh. A flower. He swallowed hard, throat tight. He struggled to remember what it had looked like, but couldn’t. It had been dark, his inspection cursory. The tattoo could have been of a daisy or rose, for heaven’s sake.

But it hadn’t been. He knew that for sure.

And there was only one person who could confirm that for him.

“What’s wrong?”

He looked up. Liz stood in the doorway. She had changed into a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. She looked scared.

“Change of plans,” he murmured. “I need to make a call.”

Ten minutes later, Rick thanked his old friend and hung up the phone. The medical examiner had not been happy about Rick waking him in the middle of the night. He’d made it clear it had better not happen again.

But he had told Rick what he wanted to know.

“What did he say?” Liz asked, tone almost painfully anxious. “Did Tara have a flower tattooed on her thigh?”

“Yup. Inner left. Daniel couldn’t recall exactly what it looked like.”

She clasped her hands together. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Only inconvenient.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Inconvenient because my old buddy made a sketch of it, but the only way I’m going to get a look at it is to drive to Marathon. I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

“And if Tara ’s tattoo matches the drawing from my sister’s journal, what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Sunday, November 18

1:00 p.m.

Liz paced. The night before, she had agreed that Rick would drive to Marathon and she would stay behind, just in case Mark called. She had agreed they would wait until after he had seen the medical examiner’s sketch of Tara ’s tattoo to decide what their next step would be. They had agreed what they both needed was some sleep.

Now Liz wondered what she had been thinking. She hated this uncertainty. She hated waiting here-with nothing to do but worry-while Rick took action. She had never been one to sit back and wait for others to solve her problems.

As for sleep, that had been a joke. After Rick left, she had crawled into bed-and proceeded to stare at the ceiling for the next three hours, mind racing. She’d agonized about Mark’s whereabouts, about her sister and Tara ’s fate, about the factual or real existence of the Horned Flower.

When she had exhausted topics, she had focused on Rick. What was his story? He was a smart guy, that was clear. He had a passion for police work, that too was clear. She wondered why he had left it. The pay? Had he been hurt in the line of duty or become disillusioned by the legal system? She wondered, too, about the photographs she had seen in his office, the one of the pretty blonde and the cute little boy.

Finally, as the sun tipped over the horizon, totally disgusted with herself, she had climbed out of bed and headed to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee. That had been a half-dozen cups ago. Her stomach burned and her head ached. She felt each of the sleepless hours of the night before. Thirty-three was too old to pull an all-nighter, she decided.

Liz stopped pacing. Anxious, she crossed to the front windows and looked out at the clear, bright day. What was happening? she wondered. Rick had promised to call the minute he had seen the ME’s sketch of Tara ’s tattoo. She glanced at her watch and made a sound of disgust. He might not even have arrived yet. Marathon was a good two-hour drive from Key West and she was uncertain what time he’d left.

The scream of a horn dragged her back to the moment. She looked at the street. Heather was darting across, a foil-covered plate in her hands. Liz threw up her window. “Hey, you! You have a death wish or something?”

“Hey to you, too!” She held up the plate. “I come bearing gifts. Key lime cookies.”

“Be right down.”

A moment later Liz swung open the door. Heather held out the plate. “I made them myself.”

“You’re beautiful, successful and you bake?” Liz said, taking the plate. “Excuse me while I turn pea green.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I hit the kitchen. Baking is one of those things I resort to when I’m upset about something.”