Dead Run (7 page)

Tuesday, November 6
3:00 p.m.

P
aradise Christian Church rose up from the sidewalk, a stark, blistering white against the flat blue sky. Its bell tower and crucifix broke the sky, as if stamped from the field of blue by a baker wielding a giant cookie cutter.

Several types of palms dotted the churchyard; a royal poinciana tree with its brilliant red blossoms draped itself over the walkway.

Liz passed through the open iron gate and climbed the tile stairs to the church's front doors. They stood open, welcoming the faithful, bidding them an invitation to enter. And be saved.

She thought of Rachel and a lump formed in her throat. Liz paused to collect herself. She couldn't let emotionalism get in the way of what she had to do here.
This was her next step. The last place Rachel had been seen. The place she had loved most in the world.

If there were clues to be found, surely she would find them here.

She had made an appointment with Pastor Tim Collins, her sister's replacement. She had rehearsed what she would say to him, none of which included the whole truth. She feared that if she announced her real reason for being on Key West, he would clam up. She feared everyone would.

Liz entered the church narthex, becoming immediately aware of the stillness, the absolute quiet. She breathed deeply, registering the scent of lemon polish and candle wax.

Liz glanced around, realizing immediately why her sister had fallen in love with this church. It was old, lovely and imbued with the feeling of God's presence, one not every church possessed. Perhaps it was the stained-glass windows—of which there were an abundance—or simply the echoes of more than one hundred years of prayers.

“Are you here for the tour?” a young woman asked from the hallway to Liz's right. “You're early.”

“No, not for the tour.” She moved her gaze over the interior. “Though I'd love to take it.” She returned her gaze to the teenager, a pretty girl of about sixteen. Liz wondered what the teenager would say if she asked her about Rachel. Would she remember her? Could she be the girl Rachel had been counseling? The one mentioned in the police report? “I have an appointment with Pastor Collins. Do you know where I could find him?”

“Pastor Tim? Sure.” She smiled widely and pointed down the hallway behind her. “He's in his office. I was just talking to him.”

“Thanks.” Liz started past the girl, then stopped. “What time's the tour? I might try to join up after my visit with Pastor Collins.”

“Three-thirty. I'll look for you.”

Liz continued down the hallway, one side lined with shuttered windows that faced Duval Street, the other with what appeared to be classrooms and the nursery. She found the church office and pastor's study at the end of the hall.

The receptionist's desk was empty so Liz moved on to the study and tapped on the half-open door. “Pastor Collins? Liz Ames.”

“Ms. Ames, hello.” He smiled warmly, stood and waved her inside. Liz realized with some surprise that he was quite tall, over six feet, and built more like a professional football player than a preacher. “And please, call me Pastor Tim. Everybody else does.”

“I will. And call me Liz.” She returned his smile and crossed the room. After shaking his hand, she took the seat across from his. “Your church is lovely.”

“Thank you.” He swept his gaze over the study, his expression one of pure pleasure. “Paradise Christian is the oldest church on the island. It was actually St. Stephen's until 1936, when the Catholic archdiocese sold the property to build a larger facility on the other side of the island.”

“It's amazing it's survived,” she murmured, recalling the things Rachel had told her about the church. “Didn't I hear that it was destroyed by a hurricane and had to be rebuilt?”

“Partially rebuilt, twice actually. The first after the hurricane of 1846, then again after the one in 1935. The present building dates from 1940.”

“I love old buildings. I might try to hook up with the tour later.”

“If you miss today's, we offer them every day but Sunday.”

“Have you been with Paradise Christian long?”

“Just a few months. My predecessor left rather suddenly and after only a short time with the congregation.”

Liz's heart skipped a beat. She fought to keep her reaction from showing. “How strange. I can't imagine just up and leaving a place as beautiful as this.”

“Not everyone is cut out for island life,” he murmured, then changed the subject. “You said on the phone that you're a family counselor?”

“Yes.” She straightened. “As I explained then, I'm a licensed clinical social worker, which is a fancy way of saying I'm a social worker who is certified for private practice. I specialize in adolescent counseling and, as you know, am new to Key West. I'm trying to get the word out that I'm here.”

She dug several business cards out of her wallet and handed them to him. “I thought you might know of some within your congregation in need of counseling and that you might send them my way.”

He paused as if searching for the right words. “My congregation isn't a wealthy one, Liz. Yes, there are people of great wealth on the island, but many more of moderate means. Our main industry is tourism and the majority of the island's year-round inhabitants service that industry.”

He stood and crossed to his window. Sun spilled through, drenching him in golden light, making him look younger than the thirty-five she had originally guessed him to be. “As I'm sure you've already discovered, Key West is a very expensive place to live. Cost
of living here exceeds that of Miami and is, in fact, one of the most expensive places to live in the continental United States.”

“That surprises me.”

He turned and met her eyes. “We're so isolated here. Three and a half hours from Miami, with only one road leading out. Everything has to be shipped in. Power, most food, tap water and nearly anything else you can think of. We're landlocked, so property, even rentals, go for a premium.” His mouth lifted. “Not many of my flock can afford fifty to ninety dollars an hour for counseling, no matter how much they may need it.”

The pastor had a rich, melodious voice and a way of looking at her when he spoke that made her think he really did care about her. That he really was a man of God.

“Which is why,” she responded, “I'm willing to waive or reduce my fees for those in need. I believe that it's often the ones who need help the most who can least afford to get it.”

He glanced at her business card, then back up at her, eyebrows arched. “And exactly how are
you
going to pay your rent? This address doesn't come cheap, that I know.”

“As best I can,” she answered evasively, then smiled. “I don't live lavishly, Pastor. As far as I'm concerned, there are things much more important than fancy cars and designer clothing.”

The truth was, she had sold her parents' home to finance this endeavor. They had left it to her and Rachel when they passed away last year, and she believed her parents would have supported her decision.

He grinned. “Luckily, neither of those things fit in
here on Key West. A pair of cutoffs and a moped and you're all set.”

She liked him, Liz decided. As much as she could under the circumstances. “Don't forget sunglasses and a baseball cap. Very important, I've learned that already.”

“Smart lady.” He glanced at his watch. “I tell you what, I'll put some feelers out. There are many confused teenagers on Key West. They run the gamut from runaways and the Rainbow Nation kids, to kids of great privilege.”

He paused a moment, as if carefully considering his next words. “However, there's one girl who comes to mind immediately. Nice girl, but troubled. Her parents are frantic… She was seeing the previous pastor but refused to allow me to counsel her.”

Liz caught her breath. “The previous pastor was counseling her?”

“Yes, Pastor Howard. But when she left—”

“Disappeared, wasn't it?” Liz dropped her shaking hands into her lap, praying she didn't overplay her hand. “I overheard someone talking about it. They said it was kind of a freaky thing.”

“Talking about it? Really?” He frowned. “I'm surprised to hear that.”

“Was it…freaky, like they said?”

He returned to his chair and sat, expression pensive. “I never met Pastor Howard, but I had to…box up her things when I took over. It was an uncomfortable task.”

Liz remembered getting the boxes. Remembered looking at them and falling apart. When she had finally found the strength to go through them, she'd seen nothing to indicate her sister had been in a crisis. Or in danger.

But maybe the pastor had.

“Was there anything…in her things that suggested what happened to her?” she asked, hoping she came across as simply curious. “Anything at all?”

For a second, as the pastor stared at her, Liz was certain she had given herself away. Then he shook his head. “The police feel she suffered a mental breakdown and ran off. Everything I've heard seems to support that.”

“What do you mean?” She wondered if she sounded as upset as she felt. From his expression she feared she did.

He leaned forward. “Look, I don't feel comfortable talking about this. The Ninth Commandment warns us against bearing false witness against another. In today's vernacular, that translates to not talking about others, not gossiping or spreading rumors. If I knew the facts, I would share them—”

“I understand,” she said quickly. “But if there's a possibility I'm going to counsel the teenager you mentioned, or anyone else whose life was touched by Pastor Howard and her disappearance, I feel I should be informed.”

“The police…” He let the thought trail off, then began again. “Pastor Howard was liked quite well by the congregation…at first. As time passed, her behavior became erratic. Or so many in the congregation told me.”

He looked down at his hands, folded on the desk in front of him. Big hands, Liz noted. Callused and strong. Not the soft hands of an academician or scholar.

He returned his gaze to hers, the expression in his troubled. “She'd let her pastoral duties slip. Calls to the sick and elderly weren't made, appointments weren't kept. When I came on, I found the church office in chaos. A similar situation existed in the parsonage. So
you see why I agree with the police department's belief that she suffered a mental breakdown?”

Liz struggled to keep from revealing how much his words upset her. She tried to speak but found she couldn't.

“I feel for her family,” he said softly. “I can only imagine how they must be suffering.”

A prickle of apprehension moved up her spine. Did he know? she wondered. Had he figured out who she really was?

And if he had, could she trust anything he had just said to her?

But how could he have figured it out?

And if he somehow had, why not confront her? He didn't seem the kind of man who would practice that kind of duplicity.

Uncertain what to do, she decided to play this out as she had begun it. She stood. “I'm sure they are.” She held out her hand. “I've taken enough of your time, Pastor. Thank you for seeing me.”

He followed her to her feet and took her hand. “You're welcome. I will definitely speak to the teenager's parents. I suspect you'll hear from them. They're good people, Liz. I hope you can help them.”

“Me, too.” She thanked him again, then walked to the door. There, she looked back at him. “How long does that tour last?”

He glanced at his watch. “You should be able to catch the tail end. They'll be in the walled garden.”

He gave her directions and, sure enough, she found the group in the garden and joined them. The church, parsonage and grounds, she discovered, occupied two full blocks of valuable Key West land. The Catholic archdiocese had sold the church property after the dev
astating hurricane of 1935 destroyed Henry Flagler's railroad, and the city of Key West, once the wealthiest city in America, went bankrupt. No doubt they were kicking themselves now.

Liz moved her gaze over the lush garden, awed, a feeling of peace settling over her. Although the church structures had been destroyed twice, the garden had been spared. The ancient banyan trees, with their vertical roots that grew from the branches to the ground, created a kind of organic jail. Liz felt as if she had fallen through the rabbit hole and landed in a surreal fantasy land of bars, flowers and foliage.

The teenage guide discussed various pieces of statuary, one of the Blessed Virgin that dated back to the original days of the church and another of St. Francis. She pointed out the church parsonage, located at the back left of the church grounds and the small cemetery at the right. The burial ground, with its stacked tombs, Liz learned, housed the remains of a number of Key West's early, influential citizens and religious leaders.

At the conclusion of the tour, the guide showed the group out, using the entrance that faced Duval Street. As Liz exited, she spied Bikinis & Things across the street and started toward it. She had wanted to stop in and thank the woman again for coming to her aid.

Liz stepped into the shop, realizing quickly that it was one of those trendy little boutiques, the kind that carried the latest and most fashionable. She saw immediately that the store catered to young people and wealthy tourists: the bathing suits were skimpy, the prices outrageous. Other than beachwear, the shop carried the work of Key West artists and artisans, including some beautiful silver and stone jewelry.

The shop was empty save for several teenagers flip
ping through the Just Arrived rack and exclaiming at what they saw.

“Hi, can I help you?”

Liz turned. Her Good Samaritan stood behind her, mouth curved into a warm smile. Liz returned the smile. “Heather, right?”