Erica Spindler - Dead Run

Wordlessly, she moved into his arms. They made love again, slowly, with a kind of intensity that had been missing before. Each thrust brought them closer. In the final moments, they laced fingers and held tightly to one another.

Afterward, Rick held her. She snuggled against him and yawned. “Go to sleep,” he murmured, exhaustion pulling at him. “It’s really late.”

“Mmm.”

She had drifted off already, he realized, gazing at her face, soft and vulnerable in sleep. He breathed deeply through his nose, the urge to protect her rising up in him. To keep her safe and warm and close.

As he drifted off, he thought of Jill. He imagined her smiling.

Rick awakened to the smell of coffee. He opened his eyes to find Liz standing beside the bed, two steaming mugs in her hands. “I hope you take it black,” she murmured. “There’re lumps in the milk.”

He sat up. “Black’s good, thanks.”

She handed him a mug, but kept her distance. He eyed her warily. “What’s up? Did I sprout horns or is it my breath?”

Her lips lifted. “Just being careful. Are you a morning person? Or the other kind?”

“The other kind?”

“The ones who growl, grouse and generally curse the sun for having risen.”

“You’re safe.” He made room for her beside him. “What time is it?”

“Late. After nine.”

He groaned. There’d be no catching Carla before she went in to work.

“Hungry?”

“Starved. We could go out?”

“I have Frosted Flakes.”

“But the milk has lumps.”

“I forgot.” She sipped her coffee. “How about toast?”

“Any strawberry jam?”

“Of course.”

“Bring it on.”

Thirty minutes later, they were dressed, fed and lingering over coffee. Rick brought up the day’s schedule first. “I think I should go see Carla alone. Are you going to be okay?”

“Absolutely. I want to pay a visit on Father Paul.”

He frowned. “Father Paul? That old priest you told me about?”

“Yes.” Her expression dared him to challenge her decision. “I’m going to show him the sketch of the flower, see if he recognizes it.”

“You’re not going to let this satanist thing go, are you?”

“No.” She looked down at her coffee, then back up at him. “I understand why it’s so hard for you to accept.”

“Liz-”

She laid a finger against his lips. “Let’s just see how this plays out, okay? I promise I won’t say the S word to anyone.”

He hesitated, then stood. He bent and kissed her. “Be careful today. Really careful.”

“You, too.”

He searched her gaze. “I’m not kidding, Ms. Ames.”

“Neither am I, Mr. Wells.”

“I’ll be at the Hideaway later. Meet me there.”

This time, she kissed him. “It’s a date.”

Wednesday, November 21

10:30 a.m.

Rick checked in at the Hideaway, found that Margo had left everything in good order, then made his call to Florida State University. The call took less than three minutes; he confirmed that Tim Collins had graduated the spring of 1987.

He dialed Carla’s cell phone. She answered on the second ring. “Carla, it’s Rick. Where are you?”

“Headquarters. Been here since six.”

“What’s going on?”

“Stephen’s gone. He unhooked himself and walked out of the hospital.”

“On his own?” Rick whistled. “Val must be pissed.”

“He’s way beyond pissed. Heads are rolling. I’m just thankful I wasn’t anywhere near the hospital when it happened.”

“No joke.” Rick glanced at his watch. “Is he there?”

“No. He’s with the chief. Why?”

“I need to talk with you. Can you meet me somewhere?”

“Not anytime soon. I’ve got orders to stay put. Hold on.” She called out a coffee order to someone, then returned to their conversation. “Between Stephen disappearing and this damn tropical storm, it’s a little intense around here.”

“I could be there in ten minutes, would that work?”

“I suppose. Rick-”

He heard the question in her voice and cut her off. “See you soon, Carla. And thanks.”

He found Carla in her office at the KWPD. She suggested they talk out on the smoking porch, a small balcony area off the south side of the second floor of the building.

Neither of them sat. Carla looked at him, gaze direct. “You’re usually opening the Hideaway about now. This must be pretty important.”

“It is.” He looked at her just as directly. “I need to know what evidence you have on Mark Morgan.”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Cut the shit, Carla. You know how screwed up this investigation is. None of it is adding up.”

“We’re just missing something, that’s all. Some link.”

“Ever heard of a group called the Horned Flower?”

She shook her head.

“Tara was a member. We think they might have had something to do with her death.”

“We?”

“Liz Ames and I.”

She flinched. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

She made a move to pass by him and he caught her arm. “This group’s into some intense stuff. Heavy-duty drugs. Sex, some of it weird, ritualistic. They threatened Tara Mancuso. Warned her that they would hurt her if she attempted to leave the group.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to-”

“I have reason to believe Pastor Tim murdered Tara Mancuso and Naomi Pearson.” He saw that he had her attention and pressed his advantage. “I share with you, you share with me. Agreed?”

“No way.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared him down. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll think about it.”

Carla had changed, Rick acknowledged, proud of her. She was turning into the cop he had always believed she could be.

“Good enough,” Rick said, then began, telling her about Liz’s suspicions, their trip to Miami and what his friend told him. “Turns out Taft and Collins were both students at Florida State University the spring of 1987.”

“FSU’s a big school, Rick. Student population probably exceeds-”

“That’s just coincidence number one. You may not know this, but Tim Collins played pro football for two years, then left to go into the seminary. He played for the Miami Dolphins.”

“And?”

“And one of Taft’s victims was a Dolphins’ cheerleader.”

Carla sat. For a long moment she said nothing, then she met Rick’s gaze. “Collins was the one who called me about Stephen.”

“I know.”

“Stephen…maybe the knife wasn’t even his. Maybe Collins engineered it all to look-” She bit the words back and brought a hand to her temple. “I shot him, Rick. I nearly killed a man who may only have been trying to defend himself.”

Rick glanced at his watch, aware of time passing. “What do you have on Mark Morgan?”

“What I say goes no farther. Agreed?” He nodded. “Bloody clothes found in his rented room. Blood type matches Tara’s. DNA’s not back yet, but we expect it to confirm our suspicions.”

“He never denied being at the scene,” Rick said. “You stumble upon your girlfriend who’s been hacked up, you tend to get a little bloody.”

“But he ran, Rick. If he wasn’t guilty, why didn’t he call us?”

“How about he’s young, scared and knew he would look guilty as hell?” She let out a sharp-sounding breath; he ignored it and went on. “Why try to link Stephen and Mark?”

“A witness thought he saw them together.”

“Who, Carla?”

She looked toward the closed balcony door, then back at him. “You want to guess?”

“Pastor Tim.”

“Bingo. He-”

The door burst open and Val stepped through, face white with rage. Carla turned, paling. “Val! Rick and I were just-”