Dead Run (2 page)

Key West, Florida
Wednesday, October 31
1:30 p.m.

L
iz stood in front of the Old Town storefront she had rented to serve as both her office and her living quarters. As she watched, the building's maintenance engineer hung her shingle above the door.

Elizabeth Ames. LCSW. Family Counseling.

She drew in a deep breath, working to quell her sudden attack of nerves. Duval Street, for heaven's sake. What had she been thinking when she had leased this property? The location was totally inappropriate for a counselor's office, the rent exorbitant.

The number-one tourist destination on Key West, Duval Street was often described as the longest street in America because it stretched from the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico. Liz glanced to her right, then
left. People streamed around her, most wearing shorts and sandals, their exposed skin as pink as a well-boiled shrimp. Obviously, sunglasses, baseball caps and fanny packs were de rigueur here. As was transportation by bicycle or motor scooter.

She shifted her gaze to the street. Choked with a mix of bicycles, scooters, automobiles and the occasional Harley, traffic moved with the rhythm of a school of shiny kingfish. They had all come to enjoy paradise, to sample Duval Street's spicy gumbo of shops, bars, restaurants and art galleries.

Ironically, Duval Street was also home to the oldest church on Key West, Paradise Christian. Rachel's church. The last place Rachel had been seen alive.

Liz glanced to her right. She could see Paradise Christian's startlingly white bell towers over the tops of the banyan and cabbage palm trees. A bar called Rick's Island Hideaway separated her storefront from the church.

A lump formed in her throat. This was the closest she had been to Rachel in nearly a year. She missed her so much it hurt.

“Okay, yes?”

It took a moment to realize the maintenance man had spoken. When she looked at him, he grinned down at her, his teeth bright against the backdrop of his dark, leathery complexion. She guessed he was of Cuban descent, not a huge stretch of logic as Key West was actually closer to Havana than Miami.

“Yes,” she replied, forcing a smile. “Perfect.”

He climbed down the ladder. “Key West, she is like a mysterious woman, she gets in your blood and won't let you go.” He flashed his startlingly white smile. “Or for you, a potent man. You will be happy here.”

Liz let out a shaky breath and murmured her agreement, feeling like a complete fraud. She hated Key West already. It had taken her sister from her.

He closed the stepladder and hoisted it onto his broad shoulder. “Have a beautiful day!”

Liz watched him walk away, then wandered into the office and busied herself unpacking books and office supplies, filling drawers and shelves, trying to achieve organization out of chaos. Difficult to do when her emotions were more of a jumble than the contents of her moving boxes. One moment found her near tears, the next fueled by an awesome determination.

Her therapist had warned that she might feel this way. He had begged her not to come to Key West. She wasn't ready, he had insisted. She had suffered a nervous breakdown; she was emotionally fragile. Too fragile to be reliving Rachel's last days in an effort to discover what happened to her.

Guilt swamped Liz. If only she hadn't attended that convention. Rachel
had
called; she had left a panicked, crazy-sounding message. One about having uncovered illegal activities on the island, one that involved a teenager in her flock. She had been threatened. They were watching her, how many of them she didn't know. She was going for help and would contact Liz soon. She had ended the message by begging Liz to pray for her—and to stay away from Key West.

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 pos
sessed 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.

Thursday, November 1
11:35 p.m.

L
arry 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 below, the pool glit
tered 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.