Erica Spindler - Dead Run

“Liz, it’s Rick.” He heard the panic in his own voice and tried to temper it. “We need to talk. Call me right away, no matter the time.”

He left her his cell-phone number, then hung up.

She was fine. Sleeping. It was the middle of the night, the time when normal people were in bed. Rick stood and clipped his phone to his belt, then began the last tasks he needed to complete before he could go home.

Those done, he flipped off all but the bar’s safety lights, set the alarm and slipped out into the night. If she needed him, she knew how to reach him. He would head home and catch some much-needed shut-eye.

Rick ended up at Liz’s place instead. He pulled his Nighthawk up in front of her storefront apartment. He cut off the engine and gazed up at her windows. A single light glowed from somewhere deep inside the dwelling. The front window stood open-an invitation to every passing maniac to break in.

Or a way for one particular maniac to get in.

He swore, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. That she was in immediate danger.

Calling himself the lunatic he would look like when he awakened her from a deep sleep, he swung off the motorcycle and strode to her door. He rang the bell, then pounded, fear becoming panic.

“Liz!” he shouted. “It’s Rick.”

Several seconds passed. Finally, the dead bolt slid back; the door cracked open.

Liz peeked around the door frame. Rick went weak with relief. “I was sick with worry. I called and you didn’t answer.”

A strange expression crossed her face. “I turned off the ringer.”

Of course, it was something simple. Logical.

He was a lunatic.

“We have to talk. Can I come in?”

She didn’t move. “Now’s not a great time.”

“It’s important.”

She hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “If it’s about what happened earlier-”

“It’s about Mark.”

Wordlessly, she swung the door wider.

Rick stepped into the foyer. She shut the door behind him, but didn’t lead him upstairs. She faced him, arms across her middle in an almost defensive stance.

Something had changed in the few hours since they parted. Something that had caused her to distance herself from him.

Thoughts of Val and Mark and Tara’s murder fled his mind. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked.

“Not at all.” She dragged a hand through her already tousled hair. “You said you had information about Mark.”

He ignored her pointed attempt to shift the conversation away from their relationship. “Would you have let me in if I said it was about what happened earlier?”

“I don’t expect anything from you, Rick. You don’t have to-”

“Dammit, Liz, maybe I expect something.”

She searched his gaze, expression altering subtly. “Oh. I…I don’t know what to say.”

He looked at the ceiling, frustrated by her response. After a moment, he met her eyes again. “Say anything, Liz. I’m dying here.”

A hint of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “All right. What do you expect…do you have any idea what that might be?”

“Not yet.” He closed the distance between them and cupped her face in his palms. “I like you, Liz. Being with you tonight…it wasn’t…I’ve been with women since Jill. But never in a meaningful way. It’s going to take me a little time to deal with this. Are you okay with that?”

“More than okay.”

He returned her smile, bent and pressed his mouth against hers in a quick, possessive kiss. When he released her, he saw that she looked dazed.

He liked that, he decided. He liked it a lot.

“Val and Carla paid me a visit at the bar tonight.”

She became instantly alert. “What did they want?”

“There’s a warrant out for Mark’s arrest. They think he killed Tara.”

“Same old song, Rick. They’re obviously desperate, trying to convince-”

“They believe he killed Naomi Pearson as well. They have evidence against him, Liz. Strong enough to issue a warrant.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“There’s more, Liz. They think you may be his next target.”

For the space of a heartbeat she didn’t even seem to breathe. Then she shook her head. “That’s crazy.”

“That’s what I told them. But-”

“But what, Rick?” She hugged herself, as if in protection against his words. “Why are you selling Mark out this way?”

“Just listen, please. I don’t want to believe he did it either, but I know enough about police work to understand that it takes real evidence to issue a warrant. The clock starts ticking the minute an arrest is made. The police have to be able to convince the D.A. that they’ll be able to prove guilt. And that’s tougher than you think.”

“Then why are the newspapers filled with stories about new evidence surfacing that exonerates some poor guy serving time for a crime he didn’t commit?”

“The system’s not perfect, Liz. Mistakes happen. They’re the exception, not the rule.”

“So what is this strong evidence?”

“They wouldn’t tell me.”

“Great.” She let out a long breath. “I’m tired. It’s been a long night. I think I’d like you to leave now.”

He ignored her. “Serials killers work in a couple different ways. Most begin their killing career with a person close to them, a neighbor, friend or co-worker, then they move on to strangers.”

“Stop trying to scare me.”

“But some serials select their stranger, then forge a minimal relationship with them before killing them.”

“You’re leaving now.”

She crossed to the door and began to open it. He stopped her. “The relationship, the trust is a stimulant for these killers. It increases their thrill in the kill. Gavin Taft operated that way. Ultimately, it was his undoing. Most probably it will be Mark’s as well. If he’s the one.”

She didn’t make a move, so he forged ahead.

“Naomi and Mark knew each other through their church. They were in Bible study. That would inspire a deep element of trust.”

She looked shaken. “I don’t want to hear any more. Please leave.”

“Now he’s forging a relationship with you. The frightened boy. The victim. You respond to that. You trust him because he needs you.”

“Stop it.”

He caught her arm. “But you do trust him. Isn’t that right, Liz?”

“Why are you doing this!” She wrenched her arm free of his grasp. “Why are you trying to frighten me this way!”

“Because I don’t want anything to happen to you, dammit!”

Her expression softened. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I know things you don’t.”

He caught his breath. “He’s contacted you, hasn’t he?”

She hesitated, but only a fraction of a second. And in that moment Rick knew. “He’s wanted by the police, Liz. On a murder charge, for God’s sake.”

“I haven’t heard from him.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then that’s your problem, isn’t it?”

He swore and swung away from her, frustrated. She didn’t get it. Her blind trust in this kid could get her dead.

She came up behind him and laid a hand on his arm. He looked at it, then at her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For caring what happens to me.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t.” He stepped away from her hand. “Because with your reckless attitude, you may not be around that long.”

Monday, November 19

Noon

Carla parked her cruiser in front of Paradise Christian. Pastor Tim waited in front of the church for her, expression panicked.

She shook her head and climbed out of her car. A popular pastor disappears. A serial killer is slicing up young women. A prominent citizen bilks a million bucks from his employer then kills himself. Now a depression had formed in the western Caribbean, a depression with the potential to become a full-fledged hurricane. It seemed to her that paradise was going to hell in a handbasket.