Erica Spindler - Dead Run

Liz realized that for the moment he had forgotten about her. She turned and darted toward the back of the house, praying her sister was on the first floor, not the second. She checked each room she passed. Each was as beautifully appointed as the last, like something out of Architectural Digest.

But each was empty. She made it to the back of the house. She stepped out onto the back gallery. It faced an inground pool, created to resemble a natural spa complete with a rock waterfall. Beyond the pool lay a greenhouse and equipment shed.

Liz caught her breath, remembering her dream of the other night. Rachel locked in a hot box, dying.

The equipment shed. Rachel was there.

She ran toward it. The door was padlocked, the windows boarded over. Liz look wildly around. Her gaze fell on a shovel propped against a tree several feet away. She retrieved it. Lifting it high, she brought it down on the padlock and hinge, again and again. The metal hinge began to give; Liz hoisted the shovel once more and brought it crashing down. The hinge gave. She tore open the door.

For a fraction of a second, Liz was blinded by the absolute darkness of the shed’s interior. She took a step inside. Hot and foul-smelling, like decay or human waste.

Lightning flashed. Liz saw her. Her sister huddled in the corner, hands and feet bound, head lolling to the side.

“Rachel!” she cried.

She rushed to her sister’s side. She knelt beside her, cupping her face in her palms. Her skin was hot. Another flash of lightning illuminated the interior. A sound of horror rose in Liz’s throat. Her sister’s lips were blistered from the heat, her arms and neck peppered with cuts, bruises and burns. Liz inched aside her filthy, ripped shirt and found her back and torso in the same condition.

It looked as if her sister had been tortured. Beaten, burned. And starved. There was little to her but skin and bones.

Tears blinded her. Dear Jesus, who could have done this?

But she knew. In her heart she knew.

Heather.

Liz tore at the rope that bound her sister’s wrists, freeing them, then her ankles. She got an arm around her. “I’m getting you out of here, Rachel.”

“Think again, hero,” a woman said softly from behind her.

Liz froze, recognizing Heather’s voice.

As if the woman could read her mind, she laughed. “Surprise, Liz.”

She looked over her shoulder at the other woman, not hiding the depth of her hatred for her. “Not a surprise,” she spat. “I talked to your mother.”

“A loose end to be dealt with. Eventually.”

“You helped Taft kill your own sister.”

“No, he helped me kill her,” she replied, expression serene. “He was my most devoted disciple.”

Liz swallowed against the bile that rose in her throat. How could something so beautiful on the outside be so ugly inside? She shook her head in growing horror. “What kind of monster are you?”

“I’m the monster, Liz. I would have thought you’d have figured that out by now.” She glanced behind her. “Ah, here comes my darling Valentine. Different than Gavin but just as devoted.”

In the time since she last saw him, his mood seemed to have changed from furious to subdued. Liz wondered what had occurred between the two to cause the shift.

Again, as if she could read Liz’s mind, Heather murmured, “He follows me. All that he now has, I’ve given him. I can just as easily take it all away. Isn’t that right, my pet?”

“Fuck you, whore.”

Instead of being angry, it was as if his obscenity excited her. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, openmouthed, her tongue spearing in and out, quick and snakelike. She brought her hand to his crotch and squeezed. He responded by grabbing her hair in his fist and yanking her head violently backward.

She laughed and released him. “Let’s get this thing done.”

“Rick knows about you,” Liz said quickly, bringing Rachel closer to her side. “After I talked to your mother, I called him. By now he’s contacted the sheriff, the State Bureau of Investigation, the FBI. You won’t get away with-”

“She’s lying,” Val murmured. “Rick’s under police guard down at the department. Held under suspicion of murder. Most recently, that of Detective Carla Chapman.”

Rick? Under arrest?

Carla Chapman, dead?

“That’s right,” Heather said, responding to her unspoken questions. “Valentine has been amassing quite a lot of evidence against Rick Wells. Before this night is through, the man responsible for the Key West murders will be dead. Unfortunately, not before two more innocent women are slaughtered.”

“How?” Liz asked, fear gripping her like an icy hand. “How are you going to do it?”

Heather ignored her and glanced at Val. “What about Collins?”

“Dead by now. No doubt bled to death.”

Liz caught her breath. Pastor Tim hadn’t been dead when she’d left him.

“You’ll summon Wells?”

“As soon as we’re ready for him.”

“Are you certain he’ll come?”

“Absolutely.” The man smiled coldly at Liz. “We have his little girlfriend.” Val drew out his gun. “Time to go, ladies.”

Rachel moaned and shuddered. Liz fought her rising panic. She had to get her sister medical attention. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Paradise Christian.”

The church? But wh-

Then she knew. It made a twisted kind of sense. Paradise Christian Church stood on holy ground. The site of a true miracle. She closed her eyes, recalling Father Paul’s words:

“For in the desecration of the holy, evil extends its putrid grasp.”

Wednesday, November 21

9:50 p.m.

Mark battled his way up Duval Street. A downed tree three blocks back had forced him to abandon his car and make his way to Liz’s on foot.

The rain blinded him. The wind made forward progress nearly impossible. He prayed. For the Lord’s help. His guidance and strength.

His friends were in great danger. He had to warn them.

Rachel was alive.

He had left Liz’s that day after Lieutenant Lopez’s visit and gone to the hospital. He had seen what the police had been up to. They needed a murderer. Who better than a monster? Who better to single out as a mad killer than a modern-day Quasimodo? The public would buy it without a murmur. They would whisper, “Yes, it makes sense. Just look at him.”

Stephen was a good, gentle creature. One incapable of cruelty. Mark had not been about to sit back and allow his friend to be framed.

He had posed as an orderly to get past the police guard. Pastor Tim had been there, praying over Stephen. He had been white as a sheet. The pastor had recognized Mark immediately and caught his hand. “We have to get him away from here,” he had whispered. “They mean him harm.”

And Mark’s suspicions of the man had melted away.

The pastor had told him what he had learned in the past hours: that Rachel was alive. The night she had disappeared, Stephen had seen a woman on the church grounds-the woman from the boutique across the street. He had seen Pastor Howard crash into a tree and had seen the woman and others pull her from her car after it crashed.

He had been frightened. Pastor Rachel had warned him of the evil ones. She had warned him to stay away from them. She had given him the package for her sister, but he had forgotten how she’d said to get it to her.

From photos, Stephen had recognized Liz, but when he had approached her at the church, he had been chased away by the evil woman. So he had left the envelope for Pastor Tim to find. Stephen had figured that he would know what to do with it.

Together, Mark and the pastor had prayed. And planned. Pastor Tim had friends in Miami. One, a doctor and fellow pastor, would care for Stephen. Mark would stay with Stephen while Tim did a little snooping.