Erica Spindler - Dead Run

The view changed again and Carla’s eyes widened. Tara, she realized with a sense of shock. The girl on her hands and knees was Tara Mancuso.

Having seen all she could take, she shut off the player, popped out the tape and jumped down. She unclipped her phone from its holster and dialed Rick.

He picked up right away. The connection crackled. “Rick!” She raised her voice to be heard above the static. “It’s Carla. I found tapes. Bernhardt was into young girls and he taped them. The night he died, Tara was with him. Another teenager, too, one I didn’t recognize.” She paused to gulp in air. “And so was Heather Ferguson.”

Rick whistled and Carla continued. “From what I could tell, she was a kind of pimp. She wasn’t involved in the action, she just observed it. She also administered some sort of drug.”

“Did she know they were being taped?” he asked.

“I’m positive she didn’t.” Carla glanced toward the mirrors. “If she had, no way would she have allowed this tape to be-”

She bit back the word. “Hold on, I thought I heard something.” She crossed to the bedroom door and stepped out into the empty hallway. Heart pounding, she went to the top of the stairs and peered down. “Hello, anyone down there?”

“Just me.”

The Sunset Key Realty office girl appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She was dripping wet and looked miserable. “Are you almost done? My boss told me to retrieve the key and lock up. They’re getting ready to stop ferry service because of the wind.”

Realizing that she had been holding her breath, Carla let it out and smiled. “All finished. I’ll be down in one minute.”

When Carla was certain the woman was out of earshot, she continued her conversation with Rick. “No way Heather Ferguson would have allowed the tape to be found.”

He was silent a moment; the connection crackled. “A pattern’s emerging here, Carla. Everyone associated with Larry Bernhardt is turning up dead.”

“So how did Pastor Howard fit into this twisted little scenario?”

“My guess? Tara told her what was going on and she was killed because of it.”

A thought occurred to Carla and a chill washed over her. “We’ve got to locate the other girl in this video before it’s too late. Where are you?”

“At the Hideaway. I’m storm-proofing the bar, just in case. When I’m done, I’m checking on Liz. I went by before, but she wasn’t there. I haven’t been able to reach her by phone either.”

Carla heard the worry in his voice and hastened to reassure him. “Maybe she evacuated because of the storm.”

“Maybe, but I just don’t think so.”

“I tell you what-” Carla glanced at her watch “-I’m heading back now. Finish there, collect Liz, then meet me at my place as soon as you can.”

Wednesday, November 21

5:10 p.m.

Liz reached Islamorada in just under three hours. Not bad considering both the traffic and the rain. The phone book listed Martha Ferguson’s address as Citrus Drive. Having no clue where that might be, she turned into the first minimart she came upon, hoping the attendant would know.

“Sure, honey,” the woman at the register said. She squinted at Liz through a haze of cigarette smoke. Her brown, leathery skin spoke of a lifetime spent in the brutal Florida sun. “Who you looking for?”

“Martha Ferguson. You know her?”

“Sure do. I know everybody on the island.” She stamped out her cigarette. “You certain you want to visit her? She’s a bit prickly, that one.”

“Absolutely certain. I need to ask her a few questions about her daughter.”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “Must be pretty important questions to bring you out in this weather.”

Liz didn’t take the bait. She tossed out one of her own. “Have you met her daughter Heather?”

The woman frowned. “Didn’t know Martha had a daughter. Never seen one come around. And I’ve seen almost everybody on this chunk of mud.”

Interesting, Liz thought as she climbed into her car moments later, armed not only with directions to the trailer park where Martha Ferguson lived, but with her trailer number as well.

Less than five minutes later, Liz pulled up in front of a neat-looking double-wide. Light glowed from the home’s interior, indicating Martha Ferguson was probably there. Liz shifted her gaze. From the darkened state of most of her neighbors’ homes, it looked as if she was one of the few who hadn’t evacuated.

Not so smart. Liz knew that a trailer wouldn’t be the safest dwelling in forty-five-mile-an-hour winds. But she had also learned, her short time living in the keys, that Floridians were both a hardy and stubborn lot, not easily sent packing by the threat of a little wind and rain.

She opened her car door and stepped out, umbrella up. A gust of wind slammed into her, ripping both her umbrella and the door handle from her hands. Immediately drenched, Liz managed to get the car door shut, then sprinted through the rain to the woman’s front door.

She knocked, and a moment later the door eased open and a woman peered out at her. “Yes?” she asked, openly suspicious.

“My name’s Elizabeth Ames,” Liz said, teeth beginning to chatter. “I’m with The Keys magazine. I’m doing an article on your daughter-”

“I have no daughter.”

She began to close the door. Liz shot her hand out to stop her. “Wait! Aren’t you Heather Ferguson’s mother? She’s recently been named Key West businesswoman of the yea-”

“I told you, I have no daughter!”

She slammed the door in Liz’s face. Startled by the woman’s violent reaction to the mention of her daughter’s name, Liz stood frozen to the spot, the rain pouring down on her, plastering her clothes to her skin.

She had come all this way, she wasn’t about to give up. She lifted her fist and pounded on the door. “I know she’s your daughter!” she cried. “Why won’t you talk to me? What are you trying to hide?”

“Go away!”

She pounded again. “Women are dying, Mrs. Ferguson. Please talk to me!”

For a moment Liz thought coming here had been a waste of her time, then the door cracked open. “What did you say?”

Liz took a deep breath, deciding on the truth. “That young women are dying. I’m trying to help.”

“What does Heather have to do with that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. That’s why I’m here.”

“Heather is dead to me,” she said, voice heavy with pain. “She has been for a long time.”

“Can I come in? Please, Mrs. Ferguson.”

The woman hesitated a moment more, then nodded and allowed Liz in. She retrieved a bath towel and offered her a cup of hot tea.

Liz thanked her, and while she toweled off, the woman brewed the tea.

That done, they sat across from each other at the woman’s small kitchen table. “I’m afraid I’m getting your seat cushions wet,” Liz murmured.

“A little water’s not going to hurt this place,” the woman replied, not looking up from her tea. “Besides, if the forecasters’ worst-case scenarios come to pass, a tornado will more than likely toss me into the Atlantic.”

“You’re not afraid?”

“I stayed for Andrew and for George. I’m not about to turn tail and run now.”

They fell silent. Liz sipped her tea. The woman studied her.

“You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“How did you-”

“No tablet or recorder. They always have one or the other. Nosey bloodsuckers.”

“You must have had experiences with the press.”

An expression of intense pain crossed her features and she looked away.

“When’s the last time you saw your daughter?”