Dead Run Page 14

  Liz frowned. And why, when he’d professed to be in such a big hurry, had he spent the last ten minutes in the parsonage? Could it have had anything to do with her request to take a look inside?

  Her heart began to thump uncomfortably against the wall of her chest. By his own admission, he was the one who had packed her sister’s things. Perhaps he had found something incriminating, something he had decided to keep to himself.

  But what? And why would he? He had arrived on the island after her sister disappeared, hadn’t he?

  She needed to get inside the parsonage and take a look around.

  Liz glanced at the door, then moved toward it. Luckily, she stood in an alcove, mostly obscured from view. She peeked over her shoulder anyway, then reached out and grasped the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, she twisted.

  The door eased open. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she ducked inside, closing the door behind her.

  The interior was spartan. None of her sister’s homey sense of style remained. It looked like a watered-down version of a bachelor’s pad: big recliner across from the TV, books stacked on the shelves and coffee table, a few framed photos. No flowers, no pretty afghan tossed across the back of the couch, no profusion of throw pillows or cutesy knickknacks.

  It hurt to picture Rachel here, so Liz forced the comparisons from her mind. Fearing Pastor Tim would return before she could complete her search, she began looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything she recognized as having belonged to her sister. She made a quick but careful search of the living room, then moved on to the kitchen, then the bathroom.

  Nothing jumped out at her.

  From there she entered the bedroom. Again, the room was neat and spare. She glanced quickly at two framed photos on the dresser-one of Pastor Tim in full football gear, flanked by a couple of other uniformed players, the other at graduation from college, he in cap and gown, an older couple at his side, beaming.

  It crossed her mind that in both photos Pastor Tim wore a costume of sorts and that every Sunday he wore another.

  Would the real Pastor Tim please stand up.

  She shifted her attention away from the photographs and back to her mission. She slid open the top dresser drawer. It was filled with the pastor’s socks and Jockey shorts.

  Liz’s fingers froze. Lord help her, what was she doing? Going through someone’s personal things? Violating their privacy? How would she feel if the situation was reversed?

  Her own actions made her sick to her stomach. Shaking, she slid the drawer shut. She had to get a grip on herself, on her behavior. She had gone too far this time. Breaking and entering, for heaven’s sake.

  She grabbed the envelope from the top of the dresser, intent on getting out of the parsonage. She turned, then stopped, a scream rising to her throat.

  Stephen stood at the window, staring at her with his one good eye, disfigured mouth twisted into a grotesque grimace.

  The man inched closer to the window, mouth working. He lifted his hands; Liz saw that they were curved into fists. He meant to break the window, she realized. He meant her harm.

  Suddenly, he pivoted away from the glass, head cocked. In the next moment he was gone.

  Liz ran to the window and peered out, hoping to see which way he had disappeared. He had disappeared completely, the only evidence of his presence a broken palmetto.

  She released a strangled breath, then sucked in another. Something had frightened him off. Thank God. Something-

  Not something. Someone.

  Pastor Tim had returned.

  She heard him at the front door. Heard him insert the key into the lock. Imagined his expression as he realized it hadn’t been locked. Heard the door open, then close, heard him mutter something under his breath.

  Liz looked around, frantically searching for a place to hide. Her gaze landed on what she assumed was the closet. She darted toward it, yanked the door open and slipped inside.

  It was, indeed, a clothes closet, and she carefully inched her way to the very back corner. The closet was deep and jammed full with clothing, sports equipment, storage boxes and even some holiday decorations. It smelled stale, faintly of sweat, aftershave and dust.

  Pastor Tim entered the room. He let out a frustrated-sounding breath as he moved about. Liz’s heart beat so hard and fast her chest hurt. She pressed her lips together, struggling not to make a sound, to not even breathe.

  He reached the closet; she saw the shadow of his feet at the bottom of the door. She pressed herself farther into the corner. Something scurried on the wall by her ear, and a cry rose in her throat.

  The doorknob turned, a sliver of light spilled into the closet. The sliver grew. Liz caught a glimpse of the man. In that glimpse he bore little resemblance to the mild-mannered pastor she had come to expect-he looked angry. And determined. A man who would level anyone who dared cross him.

  Pastor Tim was not the man he professed to be.

  The anxiety attack came upon her without warning. Smothering in its intensity. The weight of it upon her chest crippling. She pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out and squeezed her eyes shut. In the next moment, he would find her out. How would she explain? He would almost certainly call the police. She could imagine Lieutenant Lopez’s disgust. His satisfaction.

  Both sisters, nutty as fruitcakes. And to think I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

  Not now, Lord, she prayed. Please, not now.

  The door opened a fraction wider, then snapped shut, leaving her in darkness once more. A moment later came the sound of his footsteps and the front door slamming closed.

  Liz curled her arms around her middle and sank to her knees. Her pent-up breath shuddered past her lips in shallow gasps. She fought to slow her breathing, to concentrate on the steady pull and push of oxygen in and out. She willed her heart and thoughts to slow to a gallop. She had nothing to fear, she told herself. She had not been discovered.

  Gradually, her breathing and heart rate returned to normal. She stood cautiously, careful to make as little noise as possible. She eased toward the door, cracked it open and peered out. As she had thought it would be, the bedroom beyond was empty.

  Liz started through the door, then realized she had left the envelope behind. As she bent to retrieve it she caught the glint of metal on the floor of the closet. Curious, she bent closer. A ring, she realized. Peeking out from under a pair of work boots.

  She picked it up. Her hand trembled. She recognized the ring-a circle of gold studded with rubies-it had been her mother’s, one of a matched pair.

  Liz shifted her gaze slightly. She wore its mate on her right ring finger.

  And like Rachel, she never took it off.

  CHAPTER 25

  Monday, November 12

  5:00 p.m.

  Hours later, Liz sat alone in her office, evening shadows beginning to gather in the room’s corners. After finding the ring, she had fled the parsonage. She had made it to her office, gotten the door closed and locked behind her before she’d fallen apart.

  She lowered her gaze to her right hand and the twin eternity bands, nestled together on her ring finger. Her mother had given them to her and Rachel just months before she died. Liz remembered the day vividly, could recall the color of the sky, the smell of the flowers at her mother’s bedside, what both she and Rachel had been wearing.

  At their mother’s funeral several months ago, they’d vowed never to take the rings off. A silly kind of promise, Liz supposed. A vow either one of them could have broken without the other knowing. But she hadn’t. And she didn’t believe her sister had either.

  So how had the ring ended up at the bottom of that closet?

  The answer hurt. It was further proof that her sister was dead.

  Proof, unfortunately, that she couldn’t take to the police.

  Liz turned her gaze from the rings to her front window, to the constant stream of people passing. How could she? You see, Lieutenant Lopez, I found it when I was snea
king out of Pastor Tim’s bedroom closet.

  Right. She was already hanging on with him by a thread. One wrong move and he would have her tossed into a cell.

  Or into the loony bin.

  Her head hurt. She brought a hand to her temple, to the spot where the pain was most intense, and massaged it. The envelope with its mementos and cryptic drawings. The ring. The old caretaker at the window spying on her. Pastor Tim’s transformation from caring clergyman to angry accuser. Her sister’s disappearance. Tara ’s murder. How did all the pieces fit together?

  The phone rang and she reached for it. “Elizabeth Ames here.”

  “Is this Dr. Ames, the therapist?”

  Liz straightened. The voice on the other end of the line sounded deliberately muffled, and she frowned, straining to determine the caller’s age and gender. “This is Elizabeth Ames, the family counselor. I’m not a doctor, however.”

  Total silence ensued. “Hello?” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m a friend of Tara Mancuso’s. I need to talk to you.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t find her tongue. It was almost as if thoughts of the girl had conjured the caller. “Did you want to make an appointment? If so-”

  “I’m not calling for an appointment.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I have information about her death.”

  She caught her breath. “I’m in my office now. Do you know where it-”

  “No,” the caller said quickly. “Not there. I’m…I don’t want us to be seen together.”

  A male, Liz realized.

  She shifted her gaze to her front window and the gathering twilight. Something about this didn’t feel right. “You say you were a friend of Tara ’s?”

  “Yes, I…” The caller fell silent a moment. “Never mind. Calling you was a mistake-”

  “Wait! Where do you want to meet? I’ll be there.”

  For a split second, Liz feared the caller had hung up. Then he spoke, so softly Liz had to strain to hear. “ Mallory Square at sunset.”

  “But how will I know-”

  “I’ll find you. And Ms. Ames? I suggest you be…really careful.”

  The sunset celebration in Mallory Square was a nightly Key West event, and for many it served as a kickoff for the night’s revelry. Tourists and locals alike flocked to the square to watch the sun melt into the Gulf of Mexico. Placards all over town announced the exact time the fiery orb would make its descent. Today’s sunset, Liz learned, was expected at 5:42.

  When Liz arrived, the official celebration, which began an hour before sunset, was already under way. The crowd was immense, a mass of half-clothed, sunburned bodies. Street performers entertained the crowd, and every so often a roar would go up as one of the performers aced a particularly tricky move.

  Liz worked her way across the square, past a fire-eater, a stand-up comedian on stilts, several jugglers and all manner of mimes. The mood was part drunken bacchanal, part Sunday-worship service. Some had come to party, some to meditate and still others to simply witness it all.

  She had come for answers.

  Liz stopped at the edge of a group circled around a juggler. The man tossed a half-dozen blazing hoops into the air; the group murmured their appreciation as he caught each in rapid succession.

  She moved on. Minutes passed. She continued to wind her way through the crowd, studying each face, wondering which belonged to her caller. Her apprehension grew. The crowd, which she had considered a positive at first, became a negative. So many faces, she thought, a thread of panic racing through her. So many bodies. How would her caller find her?

  If the call had even been legitimate. It could have been a hoax. An attempt to scare her. An attempt to get her out on the street, alone in the crowd. For in a funny way, the density of the crowd made her as vulnerable as if she were waiting in a deserted parking lot.

  “And Ms. Ames? I suggest you be…really careful.”

  Sweat beaded her upper lip. The crowd closed in on her. She brought a hand to her chest; her heart beat wildly under her palm.

  Not now, Liz. Stay calm. Focus.

  She became aware of someone behind her, standing too close. She inched forward but found herself trapped in a sea of bodies.

  “Hello, Ms. Ames.”

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  The young man behind her wore dark sunglasses, a baseball cap and a pair of tattered cutoffs. He was shirtless. There his resemblance to the other young men on Mallory Square ended. This boy was both totally sober and as watchful as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.

  He caught her arm. “Come with me.”

  She nodded and allowed him to lead her through the throng to the bulkhead at the water’s edge. The party was behind them, and it occurred to her that this boy could ever so casually push her over the side and no one would even notice.

  “Sit,” he murmured. “Don’t look at me. Only the sunset.”

  She did as he requested. Several moments passed and she dared a glance at him from the corner of her eyes. He stared out at the water, expression intent.

  She cleared her throat. “Why did you contact me? Why the secrecy?”

  “Not yet. I need a minute.”

  Although difficult, she swallowed both her questions and her nerves, and focused on the constantly shifting water.

  “Tara and I were in love,” he began finally. “We were going to run away together.”

  The boyfriend, Liz realized. Tara ’s baby’s father.

  “I went to meet her. That night.”

  Liz looked at him, chilled. He removed his sunglasses and met her eyes. His were bloodshot.

  “I found her,” he said. “Like…that. I-”

  Her first reaction to his declaration was pity. Her next was fear.

  This young man could be Tara ’s killer.

  And he had sought her out.

  “The police are looking for me, I’m sure. Because Tara was…pregnant.” His voice grew thick and he cleared it. “But they don’t know who I am. We were very careful.”

  Liz glanced quickly to her left, then right. If she screamed, would anyone hear her? And if they did, would they react in time?

  She doubted it but decided to push him anyway. “But I know who you are. I know your name. That’s why you came looking for me, isn’t it?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Am I a loose end?”

  She saw her meaning sink in, saw disbelief and horror creep into his eyes. And realized she had nothing to fear from him.

  “ Tara didn’t tell you about us. She was absolutely set on secrecy.”

  “Why so secretive?”

  “Because she was afraid.” He looked away, then back, features twisted with grief. “She led me to believe it was her parents she feared. They were strict, she said. They would break us up. Now I realize the truth. It was her friends’ wrath she feared, not her parents’.”

  Liz frowned. “When you say she was afraid her friends would do her harm, what exactly are you talking about? Social alienation? Surely not bodily harm? I mean…you’re not suggesting that her friends…that they-”

  “Killed her,” he whispered. “I think they did.”

  Liz shook her head, thinking of the implausibility of it, recalling what Rick Wells had told her about the killing. “Look, this isn’t common knowledge, but someone close to the investigation told me that Tara’s murder resembled the style of a serial killer who operated out of Miami a number of years ago. That killer is sitting on death row, but they believe an accomplice or copycat killed Tara.”

  “That’s not right, I know it’s not.”

  She leaned toward him. “How do you know?”

  For a long moment, he sat silent. She sensed that he was struggling to collect himself, his thoughts. “We were going to run away together. That night. Tara was afraid. Of them. Her friends. They had threatened her.”

  “In what way?”

  Tears f
looded his eyes. He looked away. “ Tara belonged to this group. They were very possessive of one another, very jealous. Members were not allowed to associate with those not a part of the Flower-”

  “The Flower?” she interrupted.

  “The Horned Flower. That’s the name of the group.”

  A chill raced up her spine. The drawings in her sister’s notes. Could they represent this group?

  “Tara and I had dated a few times when she told me about her friends,” he continued. “‘Her family,’ she called them. She asked if I wanted to join.”

  “And you said no.”

  “I’m a Christian, Ms. Ames. And these kids…they were into some bad stuff. Things that I couldn’t…wouldn’t be a part of, even though I really liked Tara.”

  “What kind of bad stuff?”

  “Drugs. And sex.” He cleared his throat. “But it was more than that. It’s what they believed. And what they didn’t believe.”

  She waited, sensing he needed time.

  “They didn’t believe in God. Not in heaven or hell. Only the here and now. In earthly pleasures. They believed they owed allegiance to no one but themselves and their Horned Flower family.”

  Liz thought of the things Tara had said during their sessions, the comments she’d made about the devil, heaven and hell. No wonder Tara had sounded so conflicted.

  “I told her I couldn’t see her anymore, not if she was going to be a part of that group.”

  “And she chose you.”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed, shifting his gaze to the horizon and the rapidly setting sun. She, too, turned her gaze to the gulf. In the exact moment the sun sank from sight, a flash of green light appeared. A cheer rose up from the crowd.

  “Dear Lord.”

  She looked at her young companion in question.

  He met her eyes. “Did you see it? The green light?” She nodded and he continued. “It’s rare. Tara used to say…” His throat seemed to close over the words and he cleared it. “She used to say if you saw the flash of green you were destined for something big.”