Dead Run (15 page)

And like Rachel, she never took it off.

Monday, November 12
5:00 p.m.

H
ours 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 sneaking 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 flooded 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.”

“Did she ever see it?”

He nodded. “The last time…she saw it the day before…she found out she was pregnant.”

“I'm sorry.”

With the main event over, the crowd quickly dispersed. Quiet and darkness settled over them. Liz shivered.

“Tara knew who you are.”

“Excuse me?”

“She knew who you really are.”

Liz called his bluff. “Really? And who am I?”

“You're Pastor Rachel's sister.” Liz caught her breath; he looked at her. “It's true, isn't it?”

Liz clasped her hands together. “How did she know?”

“Didn't ask.”

“Did she…say anything about that? Or about my sister?”

“She liked your sister a lot. She felt bad about what happened to her.”

Liz's heart beat hard against the wall of her chest. “Did she…know what happened to her?”

He shook his head and she held back a cry of disappointment, though it tasted sour against her tongue. “Why are you telling me all this?” she managed to say after a moment.

“The way I figure it, maybe your sister's disappearance and Tara's death are related.”

She could have wept with relief.
This kid thought the same way she did. She wasn't crazy.

And she wasn't alone, not anymore. “How do you figure that?” she asked.

“Tara was always so weird about your sister's disappearance,” he murmured. “Besides, it just kind of makes sense to me.”

“Me, too.” Silence fell between them. After several moments, she met his eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. I called you because I wanted someone…to know everything. In case something happens to me.”

“I don't understand,” she said, alarmed.

“Right now I only suspect that her friends killed her. I'm going to find out for sure.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “How?”

“I'm going to become one of them.”

“Bad idea. Very bad idea.”

“It's the only way.”

“Why not go to the police?”

He simply looked at her and she acknowledged the answer to her own question: as the father of Tara's baby, he would be a prime suspect. To make matters worse, by his own admission he had been there that night. And had run from the scene.

Most probably, if he went to the police, he would end up behind bars.

She let out a long breath. “You think these people are killers, for heaven's sake. If what you suspect is true, getting close to them will put you in harm's way, big-time. This is not a good idea.”

“You're not going to change my mind.” He glanced behind them at the nearly empty square, then stood. “I better go.”