Dead Run Read online

  She fought the guilt. The urge to fall apart. She had completed the application process that validated her license to practice clinical social work in Florida. She had closed her St. Louis practice, rented out her house, stored all but the most essential of her belongings and moved with the rest down here. Ready or not, she had to do this.

  Liz crossed the office, stopping at the front window. She stared blindly out at the street, thoughts filled with Rachel.

  Where are you, sis? What happened to you?

  And where was I when you needed me?

  The last cut her to the quick, and Liz swallowed hard, struggling to focus on the facts as she knew them. Sunday, July 15, Rachel had failed to show up for church. Concerned, one of the congregation had gone to the parsonage to look for her. They had found the door unlocked, the house empty.

  The police had been called. They had found no evidence suggesting foul play. No body. No blood, overturned chairs or other signs of a struggle. Her car had been missing, but her clothes, toiletries and other personal items had remained.

  Because of the lack of evidence, they believed Rachel had either fallen victim to a bizarre accident or suffered a mental breakdown that caused her to run off.

  The authorities leaned toward the latter explanation. For if Rachel had been involved in an accident, why hadn’t it been reported? Where was her car? Her plate and license number had been faxed to every law enforcement agency in the state. Every hospital and morgue in south Florida had been sent her picture. Nothing had turned up.

  She had been acting strangely, they said. The members of her congregation had reported that suddenly the tone of her sermons had changed from gentle and forgiving to fire and brimstone, all sin and no redemption. The messages had become so frightening that families with small children had stayed away, fearful their children would suffer nightmares.

  Liz didn’t buy it. Rachel was the most stable person she had ever known. Even as a kid, her sister hadn’t been affected by life’s ups and downs, not the way Liz had been. Rachel had remained centered no matter the crisis she encountered: a new school, a broken relationship, a failing grade, their parents’ constant bickering.

  Not only had Rachel been able to put it all into perspective and move on, she had been there for Liz. Supporting and encouraging her. Shoring her up when fear or uncertainty had overwhelmed her.

  Liz had asked once how she did it. She’d answered that her absolute faith in God protected her. She believed in his divine plan. And with believing, with faith, came peace.

  So, what had happened to turn her sister from a gentle preacher, one who believed in sharing the story of God’s great love and forgiveness, into the person the police described?

  Liz suspected she knew the answer to that. The illegal activities Rachel had spoken of in her message. She had been frightened. She had warned Liz that “they” could be listening. That “they” meant her harm. That she was going for help.

  Liz feared the “they” Rachel had spoken of had killed her.

  She fisted her fingers. She had shared her sister’s message and her suspicions with the police. Instead of convincing them to reopen their investigation, the information had validated their own belief that Rachel had suffered a mental breakdown.

  A burst of laughter jarred her out of her thoughts. A group of teenagers had congregated outside her storefront. They appeared to range in age from early to late teens; one of them carried a baby in a papoose on her back. Unkempt, dressed in ragged jeans and tie-dyed T-shirts, they looked like street kids. Throwbacks to the hippies of the 1960s.

  The Rainbow Nation kids, Liz realized. Her sister had told her about them. Unlike sixties-era hippies, however, the Rainbow Nation was a highly organized, international network that even boasted a Web site. They traveled from one warm climate to another, panhandling for a living. Here, they had claimed Christmas Tree Island-an uninhabited spoil island created by dredging refuse and covered with pine trees-as their own. Rachel had wanted to minister to them, had promised herself that bringing them the Word would be one of her missions.

  Had Rachel acted on that promise? Liz wondered, moving her gaze over the group, settling on the broad shoulders and back of the tallest of them. Or had her ministry on Key West ended before she’d had a chance?

  As if the young man felt her scrutiny, he turned and looked directly at her, his dark gaze uncomfortably intense. A slow smile crept across his face, one that conveyed both amusement and malevolence.

  Liz told herself to laugh or shoot him back a cocky smile. She found herself unable to do so. Instead, she stood frozen, heart thumping so hard against the wall of her chest that it hurt.

  A moment later he broke the connection, turned and left with his friends.

  Liz released a shaky breath and rubbed her arms, chilled. Why had he looked at her that way? What about her had earned his contempt?

  She shifted her gaze slightly, taking in her own reflection in the glass. Thin, pale face. Medium-brown hair, green eyes, mouth slightly too wide for her face.

  She used to be attractive, she thought. She had possessed one of those bold smiles, the kind that both inspired confidence and put others at ease. People had been drawn to her. They had liked her.

  Where had that bold smile gone? she wondered. The self-assurance that had sometimes bordered on cockiness? When had she become so fearful?

  No. Liz lifted her chin and gazed defiantly at her own reflection. She wasn’t afraid. She had come to Key West for Rachel. She would discover what had happened to her, with or without the help of the police.

  She would do it no matter the cost to herself.

  CHAPTER 3

  Thursday, November 1

  11:35 p.m.

  Larry Bernhardt gasped with pleasure as the girls made love to him. Two girls. Both young and agile, their skin creamy smooth and unmarked by time.

  Both so young his being with them was a crime.

  Larry arched and grunted, his orgasm building. The girls were bold, uninhibited. They writhed against and around him, their movements clever and quick. Mouths and hands stroked, sucked and fondled. Wet sounds filled his head as did the pungent smell of sex. The satin sheets rustled, slipping and sliding against their damp flesh.

  Larry Bernhardt was a lucky man. King of the world.

  As the senior VP of lending for Island National Bank, Larry lived like royalty-no earthly pleasure was beyond his reach. His palatial, oceanfront home sat on Sunset Key-a spoil island metamorphosed by developers into Key West’s newest high-priced resort and living community. From his bedroom balcony he could watch the sun, a majestic ball of fire, sink into the ocean.

  His sun. His ocean view. One only money could buy. An unholy amount of money. More than even a king such as himself could legitimately acquire.

  His orgasm rushed up, overpowering him. Time stopped, the earth ceased to rotate on its axis; for that moment the sun, moon and stars belonged to him.

  He exploded with a great cry, jerking and shuddering. His head filled with light, then darkness. And in the darkness, the creature waited, one of unimaginable evil. One that had come to devour him whole.

  Larry screamed. He bolted upright in bed, the sound of his scream ricocheting off his bedroom walls. Frantic, choking on his fear, he looked around the room. He was alone. No girls. No party. He tore at the sheet, which was wrapped around his legs like a satin shackle.

  Freed, he grabbed the half-drunk bottle of champagne from the nightstand, scrambled off the bed and raced to the master bath. He jerked open a drawer and frantically searched through the rows of medication vials for the one he sought. He found it and shook out a handful of the Quaaludes, then downed them with the wine.

  Feeling a measure of instant relief, he wandered out of the bathroom and across to the balcony doors. Tucking the wine under an arm, he yanked the doors open. The ocean breeze engulfed him. He sucked in the moist, salty air. It cleared his head, chasing away the darkness and its waiting beast. Three stories bel
ow, the pool glittered in the moonlight. Beyond his walled compound, the ocean called. Larry shifted his gaze to the tile patio.

  He was in too deep. He had allowed his addiction to grow into a monster. One with a demanding, insatiable appetite. One he was too weak to deny. He had forsaken everything decent to feed the monster, had partaken of every sin available to man.

  He had allowed them to feed it. To grow it into the monster it was today. One he would never be free of.

  One they would never allow him to escape.

  Tears welled in his eyes, then spilled over. Tears of self-pity. Of a pathetic, lost soul. Of a man who had nowhere to turn, who knew that only hell awaited him.

  Hell would be better than this prison he had created for himself. Better a puppet in hell than one here on earth.

  His tears dried. A sense of strength, of purpose filled him. No more. He should have ended it long ago. He had wanted to, but he had allowed himself to be seduced.

  Because he was weak. A small, weak and pathetic man.

  No more, Larry thought again. He popped the vial’s top, shook the remaining tablets into his mouth, then tossed the container over the balcony rail. Bringing the bottle to his lips, he took a long swig. Then another. And another.

  Damn but he enjoyed good wine. He would miss it.

  Setting the bottle at his feet, he crawled clumsily onto the balcony rail, palms sweating, heart thundering. Squatting, he held tightly to the metal, working to get his balance.

  For once, he would not succumb. For once, he would be strong.

  Let them continue without him. Let them face the mess; he hoped they all fried.

  The darkness, its unholy creature, spoke to him. It soothed and cajoled, though Larry heard the edge of desperation in its plea. Don’t do it. Conquer your foes. You are king of the world. You can do anything.

  A giggle slipped past Larry’s lips, high and girlish. He could do anything.

  He could do this.

  Larry released the rail and straightened. Lifting his arms, he fell forward. For a split second he imagined himself flying, his arms becoming wings, imagined the ocean breeze catching under those wings and carrying him away. Far away from this moment and himself. From his sickness and the creature who had fed it.

  In the next second, Larry Bernhardt imagined nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 4

  Saturday, November 3

  9:30 a.m.

  Rick’s Island Hideaway was the quintessential Key West bar: Jimmy Buffet on the sound system; killer frozen margaritas; a friendly clientele whose attire never veered far from shorts and Hawaiian-print shirts; walls hung with maritime paraphernalia, including a stuffed sailfish and a signed photo of Key West’s most famous onetime resident, Ernest Hemingway. It was the same photo that could be found in about ninety percent of the Duval Street drinking establishments.

  And last but certainly not least, a bartender who could charm the skin off a snake.

  The ability to do just that came as naturally to Rick Wells as breathing. It was an ability, a gift, really, that Rick depended on but didn’t pride himself in. There were many ways to hide from life, he knew. On a bar stool was one way. Behind a killer smile was another.

  “What can I get you?” Rick asked the man who slid onto the stool in front of him. Judging by his starched and pressed shirt and obvious hangover, he was a tourist. And not one who had stopped in for a cup of coffee.

  “Uncle Jack, black. Straight up.”

  Jack Daniel’s, black label. At only 9:30 a.m., the coffee would have been a better choice, Rick thought. But he wasn’t this guy’s mother, wife or pastor. Rick poured the shot and slid it across the bar. “Big night last night?”

  The man nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “This place is all right.” He brought the glass to his lips. “You don’t happen to have a New York Times I could buy?”

  “Tough to get the current Times here. They sell out fast for an exorbitant price. It’s a matter of geography, my friend.”

  The tourist swore. “Great. My wife’s going to be more pissed at me than she already is.” He shook his head. “The older wives get, the less of a sense of humor they have.”

  “Couldn’t say, my friend. That’s not my area.”

  The man shot him an envious glance. “Not married, huh?”

  “Not anymore,” Rick responded, forcing a light tone, cursing the sudden tightness in his chest.

  “Well, take it from me, it’s true.” The man downed the shot, then nudged the glass back to Rick for a refill. “No Times. Imagine that.” He shook his head, his expression a cross between disbelief and bemusement. “You seem like a pretty with-it guy, how do you manage?”

  “I don’t mind giving up a few conveniences to live in paradise.” Rick refilled the glass, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, the news isn’t going to change if I don’t read it today. It’ll be just as screwed up tomorrow. Or the day after.”

  “You’ve got a point, man. September eleventh fucked everything up.”

  “If you want news, I suggest the Miami Herald.”

  The tourist downed the second shot. “You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?”

  “Sure do.” Rick reached under the bar for his copy, which he had already read, cover to cover. He laid it on the counter. “Enjoy.”

  “Thanks, I-

  “Marty,” a woman called from the bar’s open doorway, her tone disgusted, “I thought you were finding me a paper?”

  The man rolled his eyes at Rick and stood. “Got it, sweetheart.” He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar, scooped up the papers, then hurried toward the door.

  “Nice talking to you,” Rick called after him, then smiled as Valentine Lopez strolled through the bar entry. Valentine-Val to everyone but his mother and the priest who had baptized him-was Rick’s oldest friend.

  “Well, if it isn’t Key West ’s own version of Dick Tracy. I’m honored.”

  “You should be, buddy,” Val responded, crossing to Rick. “Still wasting away in Margaritaville, I see.”

  “Everybody’s got to have a talent.” Rick grinned and motioned to the stool in front of him. “Take a load off.”

  The two men were “conchs,” the tag given to Key West natives, though they came from very different backgrounds. Rick’s family was a Key West import, his father a doctor, his mother a socialite from West Palm Beach. On a vacation to the island, his parents had caught what the locals called the “ Key West disease.” Before their week-long vacation ended, they had decided they never wanted to leave. His father had sold his Tampa practice and opened one on the island.

  Val’s family, on the other hand, descended from some of the original Cuban inhabitants of the island. His ancestors had been involved in both the cigar-making and sponging industries. Val’s father-now deceased-had been a shrimper. A noble occupation though not a particularly lucrative one.

  The two boys would probably never have met, let alone become as close as brothers, if they had grown up anywhere else. But despite their disparate means and backgrounds Rick and Val had fallen into an unshakable friendship. A friendship tested only once: when Rick married the girl of Val’s dreams.

  Val sat. “Got any coffee back there?”

  “The best café con leche on the island.”

  “My mother would argue with that.”

  “Second best, then. No way I’m getting into a pissing match with that little woman. She’s tough.”

  Rick went about preparing the Cuban espresso and hot milk. “How are things down at the department?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the espresso machine.

  “Let me put it this way, when you decide to grow up, let me know. I could use you.”

  The Key West Police Department consisted of eighty-one sworn officers and twenty-two civilian personnel. Val was the ranking detective on the force and one of five officers who reported directly to the chief of police.

  “Use me? Geez, thing
s must really suck.”

  Val sobered. “I mean it, Rick. You’re a cop. One of the best I’ve ever-”

  “Was a cop,” Rick corrected. He set the con leche in front of his friend. “A long time ago.”

  “Are a cop,” Val repeated. “It’s in your blood. It’s what you-”

  “Joke’s over, Val,” Rick muttered. “I suggest you not go there.”

  “It’s been more than three years. You need to let them go.”

  Emotion rose up in Rick, nearly strangling him. “Don’t tell me what I need. Don’t you…dare tell me that I need to do that. I’ll never let them go. Never.”

  Silence fell between the two men. Until three years ago, Rick had been a detective with the Key West Police Department and before that with the Miami-Dade force. He’d had the reputation for being smart and fearless, a seasoned hotshot with a killer instinct and an unwillingness to say die.

  Tragedy forced Rick out of Miami. His wife had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and only a handful of months later, he found himself a widower. And single father to a grief-stricken five-year-old son. Despondent, in need of friends, family and a better place to raise Sam, he’d returned to Key West.

  Val had quickly gotten him a spot on his team at the KWPD. Although it had been a big adjustment to go from lead detective on complex and high-profile murder cases to investigating open-and-shut burglary and assault cases, Rick had been grateful for the opportunity. And for the small-town pace.

  His peace had been shattered only a matter of months later: two armed men had broken into Rick’s home in the middle of the night. Shots had broken out and Sam, awakened by the commotion, had gotten caught in the cross fire.

  Ballistics had proved that Sam had been killed by one of Rick’s bullets.