Erica Spindler - Dead Run

They let themselves out. For long moments, she stared at the closed door, then slowly stood, crossed to it and twisted the dead bolt. Exhaustion pulled at her. Her hands and limbs shook and she felt as if her nerves were frayed to the breaking point.

She wanted to climb into bed, pull the covers over her head and sleep. For as long as it would take for this nightmare to end. When she woke up, Rachel would be alive and all that would be left of this would be a vague, unpleasant memory.

Swallowing hard, she turned.

Mark stood at the top of the stairs. Their eyes met. A shiver of fear moved over her.

“There’s a warrant out for Mark’s arrest. They think he killed Tara. And they think you may be his next target.”

“As far as you know, did Mark Morgan and Stephen St. John know one another?”

“I heard them.” He fisted his fingers. “And it’s not true. Stephen wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s gentle. The most gentle person I’ve ever met.”

Who should she believe? Who should she trust?

He frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not…I-” She shook her head and started up the stairs. “I’m exhausted, Mark. I can’t talk about this right now.”

“They knew exactly what they were doing to you!” he cried. “They were trying to break you down. Trying to make you question yourself and what you believe.”

She reached the top of the stairs and looked him dead in the eyes. “Who should I believe, Mark? You? Or the police?”

“Me.” His expression became pleading. “You can trust me. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

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

“Please, Liz,” he begged. “Stephen’s my friend. He has this innocence, like a child. Look into his eyes, you’ll see it. He couldn’t even conceive the actions they’re accusing him of.”

“How do you know!” She jerked her arm free and faced him, furious. Hurting. “I’m a family counselor, I work with the walking wounded every day. The kind of abuse Stephen suffered damages a person. Sometimes in awful, frightening ways. Ways that sometimes make them turn that anger and pain on others.”

“Not Stephen.”

Liz brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. A headache jackknifed against her skull. “He had my sister’s Bible.”

“What does that prove? Maybe she gave it to him.”

“You didn’t see it! It was smeared with blood. It-They said he had a knife, Mark. A knife like the one used to kill Tara.”

“What about Pastor Tim? He could have planted the knife.”

She started past him; he grabbed her arm. A shiver raced up her spine. “Tara didn’t like Pastor Tim. She said there was something creepy about him. That she had caught him in a lie. That he looked at her funny sometimes. In a way that scared her.”

“Let me go.”

“He could have planted the knife, Liz. He could have planted the Bible, to frame Stephen. To divert suspicion from him. He lives there, too. He has unlimited access to the garden, parsonage and Stephen’s quarters.”

“I said, let me go!” Confused, head pounding, she broke free of his grasp. “He attacked a detective, Mark. Can you explain that away? Can you?”

His defiance seemed to evaporate, leaving him looking young and vulnerable.

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it all out, Mark. I promise. But first, I have to take some Advil and lie down. Please?”

He nodded but didn’t meet her eyes.

She squeezed his shoulder, then headed to her bedroom, acutely aware of his presence. She entered her bedroom, closed the door behind her and started toward the bed. There, she stopped, turned and looked at the door.

After a moment’s hesitation, she hurried back and locked it.

Monday, November 19

5:00 p.m.

Carla paused outside Rick’s Island Hideaway. She hoped Rick was here. She needed to talk to him. She needed him to tell her everything was going to be all right. That she had done the right thing.

She felt for all the world that she hadn’t.

She glanced quickly behind her, looking, no doubt, as guilty as she felt, then stepped out of the blazing heat and into the bar’s cool, dim interior. A half-dozen patrons were scattered throughout the room: lovers at a table in the corner, a couple of singles at either end of the bar, a group of tourists who were obviously feeling no pain.

Rick straightened when he saw her. He’d already heard. She wasn’t surprised. News spread fast on this tiny island, and in his line of work Rick missed little of it.

Of course, the official news had been limited to the basics. The caretaker of Paradise Christian Church had freaked out, threatened a group of tourists with a knife and Key West officer Carla Chapman had been forced to shoot. The caretaker was in critical condition.

Val and the chief had managed to keep everything else under wraps. For now.

“Are you okay?” Rick asked as she sank onto the stool across from him.

“If you call feeling like total shit okay, then I’m it.”

He set a draft in front of her. “No matter the circumstances, shooting another human being never feels right.”

She smiled weakly and took a sip of the beer, though technically she was still on duty. “All afternoon people from the chief down have been patting me on the back and congratulating me. It feels like such a lie.”

He arched an eyebrow, and Carla felt herself flush. She looked away. She’d been unable to get the image of Stephen’s face as he lunged at her out of her head. Something about his expression nagged at her. Had his intent been murderous? Had he been attacking her? Or had his actions been those of a terrified, cornered animal attempting to flee?

“You want to talk about it?”

She should say no. She should sit, sip her beer and simply let his presence soothe her. If Val knew she was here, he would be furious.

She squeezed her eyes shut as Stephen’s image filled her head once more. Murderous rage, she told herself. That’s what she’d seen in his eyes. He’d come at her like a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth, eyes lit with blood fever. Not with helpless fear. Not with desperation.

She met Rick’s concerned gaze. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I think I would.”

She spoke softly, starting with her call from Pastor Tim, finishing with the moment she pulled the trigger, eliminating any details that linked Stephen to Tara’s and Naomi’s murders.

“Sounds like a good shooting. Everything by the book.”

“I’m not so-” She shook her head, biting back what she had been about to say, that she wasn’t so sure. That she wondered if she could have wrestled him down. That she had second thoughts about whether he had meant her harm.

“You grew up here,” she said. “What do you know about him?”

“Not a lot. That he was the victim of child abuse. That the church takes care of him. As kids we used to tell stories about him because he was different. Because he looked frightening.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Ones about how he murdered his entire family but the police couldn’t prove it cause they never found the bodies. Rumor was, one night he chopped them all up into little pieces then tossed them into the ocean. Stupid kid stuff.”

“Was it just kid stuff?” She leaned forward. “As far as you know, did he ever threaten anyone?”

“As far as I know, no, he didn’t. Why?”

She didn’t answer right away. Revealing the details of this investigation would be cause for suspension.

The way she felt right now, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.