Erica Spindler - Dead Run

Then, when the guard had gone for coffee, they had unplugged Stephen and stolen him away.

A gust of wind knocked Mark back. He dug in and clawed his way forward.

But he hadn’t stayed in Miami. When he’d seen that Stephen was safe, he had returned to Key West. He’d felt strongly that the Lord wanted him here, right this moment, in the midst of the storm. From the beginning, he’d believed the Lord had called him to Key West. He’d thought Tara had been the reason, but he had been wrong.

This was it. He was here to do battle for God. Against evil. Against those who would seduce and contaminate girls like Tara, those who would murder and expect to get away with it by framing the innocent. He didn’t think of himself as heroic, just obedient. He hadn’t a clue how he would help, what might be expected of him. But he wasn’t afraid. It came down to a matter of what was worth living for-and what was worth dying for.

Mark reached Liz’s storefront first. He peered in the darkened window-nothing looked out of order. Just to be certain, he tried the door. And found it locked.

Mark tipped his head back. The blinds on Liz’s apartment windows were drawn, closed tight. He made his way to her door. He tried the knob and twisted. The door blew open, slamming against the side wall.

Trembling, he ducked inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

He called for her, once. Then again.

She didn’t respond and he jogged up the stairs. Nothing appeared out of order in her living room. A quick search revealed the same in the rest of the rooms.

She wasn’t here. And judging by the presence of her toothbrush and other toiletries in the bathroom, she hadn’t left the island.

Please, Lord, let me not be too late.

Mark made his way back out into the storm. The rain had temporarily slowed to a drizzle. Taking advantage of that, he sprinted toward the Hideaway. Rick had boarded over the windows; both the front and service doors were locked.

Mark pounded and called for the man. After several moments had passed, growing desperate, he turned-and saw Liz’s car. A white Ford Taurus with a Missouri tag. It sat slightly left of the center of Duval Street, driver-side door open. Mark’s knees went weak with dread.

He closed his eyes and forced a deep breath into his lungs. When he expelled the breath, he expelled the fear with it. Darting into the street, he closed the distance to the car. The keys were in the ignition, her cell phone on the center console.

This was bad, very bad. Mark straightened and scanned the area. Boarded-up stores, all dark. A few automobiles, all empty. Paradise Christian, also dark.

He snatched up the cell phone and pressed the power button. The display came to life, the greenish glow the most welcoming he had ever known. Until it displayed the no service message.

With a sound of frustration, he tossed it onto the seat. The rain began again, with a vengeance. Thunder rumbled. Lord, help me. I can’t do this on my own. What now?

And then, he had his answer. Mark turned and stared at the church’s darkened facade.

This was where the Lord wanted him to be.

Grabbing both Liz’s keys and car phone, he slammed the door and battled his way to the church’s front doors.

He found them unlocked and slipped inside. Obviously the power had been out some time; the interior of the church was humid and warm. Other than the sound of the rain, the church was silent.

“Liz?” he called. “It’s Mark. Are you here?”

He made his way to the sanctuary. The flame from the eternal candle cast a soft circle of light. He called out for Liz again, then Pastor Tim. His words echoed back at him, bouncing off the wooden pews, the crucifix of Christ. The large stained-glass window behind the altar alternately brightened and darkened with the flashes of lightning outside. He lifted his face. The choir loft was located above him to the right. And, like the rest of the church, was dark. Empty.

Liz wasn’t here.

He didn’t know why he was so certain of that but he was. He took a candle from the altar, lit it and continued his search, first through the rest of the sanctuary, then of the other rooms. The nursery and fellowship hall. The Sunday-school classrooms. The office.

He found all empty. He reached the pastor’s study. The door was open. He stepped inside. And found Pastor Tim sprawled on the floor in front of his desk, the front of his light-colored shirt marred by an ominous, dark stain.

Mark gasped and rushed to his friend’s side.

Wednesday, November 21

10:00 p.m.

Heart in her throat, Liz pounded on the locked sacristy door. “Let us out of here!” she cried. “My sister needs help! Please, someone hear me!”

Val had locked them in the sacristy, a room located in proximity to the pulpit and used by priests to physically and spiritually prepare themselves for mass.

Liz looked over her shoulder at her sister, lying motionless on the floor. Her breath came in shallow pulls. Her alarmingly pale skin stretched tightly over her bones, giving her the appearance of something out of a house of horrors. Her lips and the inside of her mouth were covered with fever blisters. During the ride to the church, she had opened her eyes once. The color had been dull; she had looked at Liz without recognition.

Rachel was dying.

Panic rose up in her. She pounded on the door again.

“Someone, please! Help us!”

Only the howling wind answered her, and Liz hurried back to Rachel’s side. She would have to do what she could to help her. She searched her memory, trying to figure out how by assessing what was wrong with her.

Dehydration, most certainly. She had been locked in that stifling hot box for some time, deprived of water. Malnourished, obviously. She had fever. That meant she had an infection. Or…heatstroke. A friend from college had suffered a heatstroke running in sweats in August. When they’d found her, she’d been barely conscious. Burning up with fever. At the hospital they’d iced her down and administered fluids.

Heatstroke, she had learned, could lead to kidney failure, which led to death.

She needed to bring her temperature down and hydrate her.

Liz tore off her soaked shirt and went to Rachel’s side. She knelt beside her, positioning herself by her head. Carefully, Liz twisted a small area of the fabric, wringing out several drops of water. They fell into Rachel’s mouth. Her lips moved.

Encouraged, Liz repeated the process until she had wrung out the entire shirt. Then she folded the garment into a neat rectangle and laid the damp, cool cloth against her sister’s fevered forehead.

It hurt to look at her. When she did, she imagined the hell Rachel had endured over the past months. Hell delivered at the hands of Heather Ferguson.

Liz squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears. Why had she done it? How could one human being exact such cruelty on another? She shuddered with the force of holding back her tears. Of restraining her impotent fury. She lifted her face toward heaven, as if by doing so she would suddenly understand the why. As if somehow she would find a way to let go of her anger before it ate her alive.

“Don’t cry.”

Liz caught her breath and looked at her sister. Her eyes were open. And she was looking at Liz with that funny, perplexed expression Liz knew so well.

“Hi, sweetie.” Liz caught her hands, a broken laugh passing her lips. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Her sister’s mouth curved up. “I…prayed…you’d come.”

Liz’s lips trembled and she pressed them together, working to steady herself. “Of course I came. I love you, sis.”

“Lov’ you…too.”

“Save your strength,” Liz said quickly, seeing her sister’s fragile grip on consciousness slipping.