Erica Spindler - Dead Run

The pastor rushed to meet her. “Thanks for coming, Detective. It’s Stephen, the church caretaker…I didn’t know what to do, so I called the police.”

“Slow down,” she murmured. “Tell me what happened.”

He nodded and clasped his hands together. “I hadn’t seen Stephen in a day or two, so I grew concerned. I went to his quarters to check on him. And I found-”

His voice broke. “Come, let me show you.”

They hurried around the side of the church, bypassing the garden. Carla saw the parsonage, then a smaller building behind it.

“That’s where Stephen lives,” Pastor Tim said as if reading her mind. “Originally it was the buggy barn, then an equipment shed. It was converted to living quarters after Stephen returned from the sanatorium in Miami. He didn’t do well there, and the church decided to accept responsibility for his full-time care.”

They reached the dwelling’s entrance. The door stood slightly ajar. “Was the door open before you went in?” she asked.

The pastor hung back slightly, expression queasy. “No. I knocked, then tried the knob. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone in, but I was worried.”

Carla didn’t comment. She crossed to the door and tapped on it. “Police! Anybody home?” No one responded and she tried again. When she got the same response, she pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside. The interior was neat, its furnishings basic.

Pastor Tim came up beside her. “There-” he pointed “-on the bed.”

The twin bed was pushed up against the right wall, under a small, curtainless window. The baby-blue chenille spread looked worn. Ditto for the pastel, floral sheets. Carla crossed to the bed.

Pastel, floral sheets smeared with blood. Carla gazed at the unmistakable puddles, spots and swirls, her vision blurring for a fraction of a second.

To hell in a handbasket, no doubt about it.

So much for paradise.

“Is that what I thought it-”

“Yes,” Carla replied grimly. “Please stand back, Pastor. Did you touch anything earlier?”

“No, I-”

“Good.”

“Do you think Stephen is-” The clergyman’s voice shook. “I mean, that seems like an awful lot of blood. Is it an awful lot, Detective?”

It wasn’t a little.

Carla thought of Tara. But she had seen more. A lot more.

“You say you haven’t seen Stephen in a couple days?”

“That’s right.”

Carla fitted on a pair of rubber gloves. Bending, she carefully examined the bedding, pulling the top sheet away from the fitted. The blood appeared fairly fresh. She touched a large irregular-shaped spot and found it was still damp.

She shifted her gaze to the floor by the bed. A bloody trail led away from the bed and toward the back of the room and a door set into the wall. A bloody handprint stood out in bold relief on the pale yellow paint.

Carla’s heart jumped to her throat. She swallowed past it. “That a closet?”

“I think so but I’m not sure.”

She unclipped her cell phone, punched in the number for headquarters number and requested backup, ASAP. Possible homicide, she informed the dispatcher, then flipped the phone closed. She glanced at the pastor. “I think you’d better wait outside.”

“But Stephen may need-”

A moan from the other side of the door interrupted his words. Carla sprang toward the door and yanked it open. Not a closet, she realized in the same instant she registered the condition of the room’s occupant.

He was naked save for a pair of bloodied boxer shorts. His limbs, torso and hands were also stained red. A Bible was open on the cot beside him; pages that had been ripped from it littered the cot and floor. His face was tipped heavenward and Carla saw that his eyes were rolled back in his head.

“Stephen,” Pastor Tim cried, alarmed. “Are you all right?”

The caretaker’s head snapped down. For the space of a heartbeat he stared at them, his good eye wide, expression terrified. Then he opened his mouth and a terrible sound came out, the sound of a wild animal in pain. The sound tripped along Carla’s nerve endings and sent shudders racing up her arms.

She saw the knife clutched in his hand. The kind a hunter might use, with an edge that was both serrated and smooth. Its four-inch blade was covered with blood.

Dammit. Carla went for her weapon. But not fast enough. With a bloodcurdling howl, the caretaker launched to his feet and charged her.

“Watch out, Pastor!” she called, lunging sideways in an attempt to protect them both.

She didn’t completely elude the caretaker. He caught her shoulder and sent her crashing into the opposite wall. Pain shot through her side, and even as she righted herself and took off after him, she wondered if he had managed to cut her.

“Freeze!” she shouted. “Freeze or I’ll shoot.”

He didn’t acknowledge her command with the slightest pause in his flight. Carla was vaguely aware of a group of tourists in the distance, of their frightened squeals. And of the sound of sirens. The cavalry. Thank God.

She darted toward the garden. She heard screaming. A shout for help. A child began to cry.

She burst through the gate. Stephen was running back and forth, knife clutched in his hand, sounds more animal than human spilling from his misshapen mouth.

She shouted for the civilians to get back. From the corner of her eyes she saw her backup storm the garden from the other entrance, weapons drawn. From Duval Street came the sound of more sirens.

“Freeze, Stephen!” He swung toward her, his expression desperate. Then he charged. She lifted her gun, ordered him to stop, once, then again.

He was nearly on top of her when she fired. The bullet caught him square in the chest. His body jerked slightly at the impact, though it didn’t halt his forward momentum.

He slammed into her and sent her sprawling. Her life flashed before her, a series of brightly colored disappointments.

A moment after hitting the ground, the other officers were at her side. They eased the caretaker off her.

“You okay, Chapman?” Val asked.

She had to think a moment about that. She realized that other than having had the wind knocked out of her and being scared senseless, she was okay. She told Val so, then motioned to the caretaker.

“Is he-”

An officer at his side looked up at her. “He’s alive.”

“Get an ambulance,” Val shouted. “Now!”

The next minutes were a blur. The ambulance arrived. A news crew. The evidence team, even the chief of police. The man congratulated her, then made his way to where the reporters waited eagerly for a statement.

“You did good, Carla,” Val murmured. “Real good.”

That wasn’t the way she felt, though she didn’t say so. She’d never discharged her weapon in the line of duty before, let alone shot another human being.

She glanced down at herself and choked back a sound of revulsion. She was covered with Stephen’s blood. She went to wipe at it and realized she still wore the latex gloves she’d put on what seemed like hours ago now.

“What do you say we take a look around inside?”

She nodded and followed Val because she knew it was what he expected of her. She was shaken but unharmed. She had a job to do.

The evidence guys had already begun to do their thing. One of them was carefully combing the bedding for trace material, another was busy photographing the scene.

Val looked at her. “What happened?”

Carla filled Val in. “I was on my way to lunch when I received the call from dispatch. Pastor Tim had called in. There was a situation, he’d said. He feared someone had been hurt. He was pretty shaken up.

“I arrived at the church at approximately noon. Pastor Tim was waiting. As I had been warned, he was upset.”