Erica Spindler - Dead Run

Something was wrong. Liz darted a quick glance at her silent phone, then yanked her gaze back to the road as a gust of wind nearly forced her off. Something had happened.

A murderer was on the loose. A killer storm threatened. And she thought something had happened. She laughed, the sound high and nervous-sounding. Some premonition.

She was getting punchy, she admitted. She was running on adrenaline, caffeine and nerves.

When she reached Key West, the overseas highway became Roosevelt Boulevard, then Truman Avenue. Liz took a right from Truman onto Duval and eased slowly down the street. The usually bustling Duval was deserted, the windows of all but a few of the shops either boarded over or shuttered. Branches and other debris littered the way; an inverted umbrella flew past her windshield; the lid of a garbage can rolled down the sidewalk, then spun crazily on its edge before crashing into a telephone pole.

For weeks after, the bodies washed ashore. Entire families, lashed together.

She must have been crazy to come back here. To be on the road. If she had any good sense she would be inside, kitchen stocked with emergency provisions: things like a flashlight and batteries, drinking water, canned food.

Her heart sank when she saw the Hideaway. The windows were boarded over, no light shone from within. Like every other responsible citizen of Key West, it looked as if Rick had closed shop and headed for home-or drier climes.

She had counted on his being here, she realized. She hadn’t thought it through. Of course he wasn’t here. Of course he wasn’t open for business during the height of a tropical storm.

She stopped the car in front of the Hideaway anyway. Taking a deep breath, she flung the door open and darted for the bar’s front entrance. The force of the wind was incredible, it tore at her and she had to fight her way to the sidewalk. There, she pounded, praying she was wrong, that Rick was here. She didn’t even know where he lived, she realized. If he wasn’t here, she might be unable to find him.

“Rick!” she shouted. “Rick! It’s Liz, open up!” She waited, then pounded again. “Rick, please! It’s Liz!”

A cry rose in her throat, and she choked it back through sheer force of will. She wasn’t going to fall apart now. She had come this far. With or without Rick, she was going to get what she had learned to the police.

She fought her way back to her car and climbed in. She fitted the key in the ignition and twisted it. The engine sputtered but didn’t turn over. Heart thundering, she tried again with the same results.

Near tears, she tried a third time. The engine came to life.

Liz made it one block before the engine began to cough. A moment later it died and she drifted to a stop in front of Paradise Christian.

Many had taken refuge in the church; they were swept out to sea.

With a feeling of predestination, she looked toward the church. The structure stood solidly against the storm, its white exterior almost brilliant against the backdrop of the dark, turbulent sky. Light glowed from within, beckoning. Seeming to call her name.

She resisted the call. Pastor Tim would be there. She suspected him of being a part of the Horned Flower, of being an accessory to murder.

She could make her way the half block to her home, she acknowledged. Wait out the storm, pray for the best. Keep trying to reach Rick and the authorities.

But she had been led here. The same as she had been the night of Tara’s murder. She believed that.

Without giving herself time to reconsider, she threw the car door open and climbed out. A gust of wind caught her, propelling her forward. The driving rain stung her face and plastered her light clothes to her skin.

A loud crack rent the air. Sparks flew. She smelled smoke. A transformer had blown, she realized. One close by.

She stumbled up the church’s front steps. The doors were unlocked. She inched one open and slipped through.

Quiet engulfed her. A feeling of serenity. The eternal candle burned in the sanctuary, bathing its surrounding area in a warm, reassuring light. “Is anyone here?” she called. “Pastor Tim?”

Silence answered. Frowning, she started down the hall toward Pastor Tim’s office, inching her way in the dark. “Hello,” she called again. “Anybody here?”

She reached the pastor’s study. The door was partly open. She thought she heard a sound from within. A kind of snuffling sound. Soft. Sinister.

Someone hiding there in the dark. Waiting.

Fear caught her in a choke hold. She took a step back from the door. The sound came again, this time accompanied by a moan.

Liz eased the door open. The lights flickered, then came on. A scream rose in her throat. Pastor Tim lay on his back on the floor, his shirt red with his blood.

She ran to him and knelt by his side. She saw the wound then and realized he had been shot. She brought a shaking hand to her mouth and glanced frantically around.

Her gaze landed on the phone. Call 911, of course. She jumped to her feet, got to the phone. And found it dead.

She had left her cell phone in the car.

Pastor Tim moaned, and Liz returned to his side. His eyelids fluttered, then lifted.

She covered his hand with hers. “I’ll go for help. Just lie still, you’re going to be okay.”

He blinked, his gaze seeming to focus on her. His fingers moved, curling around hers. “Y…our…si-”

She quieted him. “Don’t talk. Save your strength. The phone’s dead, but I have a cell phone in my-”

“N…n…don…your…sis-”

She struggled to make out what he was saying. He coughed, the sound weak and wet. “Shh… Please, I have to call for help.

He tightened his fingers on hers. “Sis…ter-”

“Sister?” she repeated. “My sister?”

He squeezed her fingers. Her heart stopped. “What about Rachel? What are you trying to tell me, Pastor Tim?”

His mouth began to move. Liz bent her head closer; his breath stirred weakly against her ear.

“Your…she’s…alive…”

A cry passed her lips. Alive? Could it be true?

She began to tremble, twin emotions of joy and disbelief rocketing through her. She fought to find her breath. “How can that…Where, Pastor? You have to help me find her.”

“Po…po-” He moved their joined hands and she realized what he meant. She freed her hand from his and slipped it into his pocket. She closed her fingers over a folded paper and drew it out.

The lights flashed, then went off. A beam of light fell over them. She twisted around. Valentine Lopez stood in the doorway, his dark rain slicker dripping wet.

“Lieutenant Lopez!” she cried. “Thank God! Pastor Tim’s been shot!”

He stepped into the room. “I got here as soon as I could.”

“I don’t understand. How did you-”

He motioned with the flashlight. “Move away from the body, please.”

She stood and backed away. “You don’t understand, he’s alive.”

The detective didn’t reply. He squatted beside the pastor, checked his wound and pulse.

“He’s gone,” he murmured.

“That can’t be! Just a moment ago-”

“With a wound like this, it only takes a moment. He lost a lot of blood.”

“I don’t understand.” She began to tremble. “He can’t be gone.”

“What’s that in your hand?”

Numbly, she shifted her gaze from the pastor’s frozen face to the piece of paper clutched in her hand. Her sister’s image flooded her head. She held it out. “He said…my sister’s alive, Lieutenant. He gave me…this.”

He took the paper, opened and read it, his features tightening. “It’s a Key West address.”

“Do you think that’s where…do you think it’s true?” Her voice shook. “Could my sister really be alive?”