Dead Run

CHAPTER 41

Monday, November 19

8:20 p.m.

Liz refused to say more until they had cleaned up and disposed of the rat. Rick urged her to leave it as it was and to call the police; she flatly refused. What would she tell them? she had demanded. That she had been harboring a wanted man? That cultists had crept into her apartment and abducted him while she napped, leaving this lovely package behind?

Oh sure, she had continued, Valentine Lopez would love to hear that story. He would have her locked up before she had even finished talking. The only question remaining would be whether he locked her in a cell or the loony bin.

Rick glanced at her, huddled on one edge of the couch, knees drawn to her chest. He had to choose, he acknowledged. Who did he give allegiance to? Val and the police department? Or Liz and her crazy story?

As if reading his thoughts, she looked at him. “I need you to believe me, Rick. I need you on my side.”

“Mark’s wanted by the police, Liz. For murder. They believe he may mean you harm. Considering all that, what in God’s name possessed you to harbor him here?”

“If I tell you everything, will you promise to keep an open mind?”

He hesitated a moment, then agreed. “But I can’t promise anything else. You understand that, don’t you? And you understand just how nuts this all seems to me?”

“Oh yeah, I understand. Half the time I think I’ve gone around the bend. Then someone leaves a bloody rat in my kitchen, and I snap right back to reality.”

“So talk to me.”

After taking a deep, fortifying breath, she began. She described how she had awakened to find Stephen in her apartment. He had led her to his quarters at Paradise Christian, where he had hidden Mark.

She met Rick’s eyes. “He found him in the walled garden, Rick. Unconscious.”

“The walled-”

“On the spot where Tara was found.”

“Jesus, Liz, that doesn’t look good. If the police had found him there-”

“They would have used it as further evidence against him. Which is exactly what they’d hoped would happen.”

Then her story got weird. She described Mark’s Horned Flower experience, how he had been blindfolded, drugged and driven to an unknown destination where many people waited. “He was given another drug, one he drank from a chalicelike cup. Only then did they remove his blindfold.”

Rick leaned forward. “And? Did he recognize any of the other teenagers?”

“They were masked.” She cleared her throat, then continued, relaying what Mark had shared with her, the sensation of being feasted upon, laid upon an altar and sexually devoured. Of continually orgasming.

“He was talking crazy, Rick. About good and evil. About the battle between the two. He spoke of the Beast.”

“The Beast?”

“The devil,” she murmured. “Mark’s thoughts have been consumed with the experience. He insisted they wanted to kill him. He kept saying they were inside his head. And that he couldn’t get the Beast out.”

She rested her forehead on her knees a moment, then looked at him. “I was frightened for him. Whatever drugs they gave him caused some sort of psychotic episode.”

“Did you get him medical treatment?”

“I suggested it but backed off when he became agitated. He said they would know, that they would find him.”

“What about the-”

“Police?” She shook her head. “He was afraid of going to the police. He figured they’d arrest him. Rightly so.”

Rick was silent a moment, absorbing what she had told him, weighing it in his mind. He met her eyes. “What’s your interpretation of his experience?”

She shifted, tucking her legs under her, expression pensive. “I believe Mark was given a powerful, mind-altering combination of drugs. I believe they influenced his perception of the experience. There are a number of drugs or combination of drugs that could have elicited those feelings. Ecstasy and cocaine are powerful sexual stimulants. LSD causes bizarre visual hallucinations and distorted physical perceptions. After an acid trip, the user may suffer acute anxiety or depression for a varying period of time.”

Rick pursed his lips. “Which could be what Mark’s been continuing to experience.”

“Exactly. In addition, because of its structural similarity to a chemical in the brain and its similarity to certain aspects of psychosis, LSD has been used as a research tool to study mental illness. The full spectrum of effects of peyote and mescaline have also served as a chemically induced model of mental illness.”

She met his eyes. “These people are toying with powerful, dangerous drugs. Chemicals with the ability to cause a psychic break in the right individual.”

They fell silent a moment. She pulled in a deep, fortifying breath. “This cult exists. They’re dangerous. And I believe one-or more than one-of them is a murderer.”

“A bold statement.”

“Yes.” She cocked up her chin. “What do you think, Rick? Something brought you to my door tonight and, call me cynical, but I don’t believe it was my sister’s Bible.”

“Something’s not right about this, Liz. About all of it. We’ve got two women brutally murdered in a manner nearly identical to the method used by a serial killer presently on death row. We’ve got another woman missing, now presumed murdered. Suspect number one is a twenty-year-old man from Texas. A young man who was in middle school during the height of Gavin Taft’s rein of terror. Yes, he could have studied the man’s crimes, but it seems unlikely. First off, there are details of the crimes difficult to come by, even with the Internet. The weapon, for one. The length and depth of the blows. The markings. The similarities are too damn close.

“That’s the key, Liz. I keep coming back to those similarities. Put everything else aside and look at how those women were killed. The way Taft killed. There’s a connection. And I don’t believe Val, or anybody else working the case, is looking hard enough at it. They’re so busy running around trying to find a suspect, they’re ignoring the biggest real clue they have.”

He stood and began to pace. “A killer driven to acts such as those committed by Taft is motivated by some internal compulsion, some mechanism inside that seeks release. That release can only be found through a specific and highly individual ritual, one acted out with each victim.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean by a ritual?”

“Everything about the crime. How the victims are chosen and why. The manner in which they’re killed. Where and how he disposes of the bodies. Whether or not they’re sexually assaulted. In some cases, even the geographic location of the crimes becomes part of the ritual.

“In Taft’s case, he established a cursory relationship with the women. For him, that was part of the thrill. He chose young, attractive women. The youngest in her late teens, the oldest her late twenties. He slit their throats, mutilated their genitalia and carved pseudo-religious symbols and verses on their torsos and thighs, postmortem. All were found naked, bodies arranged arms out, one foot on top of the other, as if they had been crucified.”

“So you’re saying it’s not killing the women that satisfies these monsters, but how they kill them?”

He met her eyes, saw the horror in them and wished he could protect her from the truth. “Exactly. Serial killers are a different breed of criminal. They don’t kill for the typical reasons, jealousy, greed, hatred or anger. And the way they kill is as individual as a fingerprint. Copycatting a killer to divert suspicion for a single crime, to get rid of a lover or business partner, for example, I could buy. But a serial adopting another psychopath’s fingerprint for a series, it doesn’t work that way.”

“So, what do the police have on Mark? It must be something more than the fact he knew both women and was at the scene the night of Tara’s murder. Don’t you need more than that to arrest someone?”

“Yeah, you do. My guess is they found something damn incriminating in his room.”

“The weapon?”

“No. Because now they’ve turned their attention to Stephen-”

“Who was in possession of a knife similar to the one used to kill Tara and Naomi Pearson,” she filled in for him. “If they already had the weapon, that wouldn’t be such a big deal.” She let out a long breath. “Do you think it’s possible Stephen’s the one?”

“Could Stephen go over the bend and kill someone, sure. Anyone can snap that way.” He stopped pacing and swung to face her. “Once again, I come back to the similarities to the Taft murders. Stephen’s lived on Key West his entire life and reads at maybe a second-grade level. A guy like Stephen doesn’t cruise the Internet. He doesn’t read the newspaper and he sure as hell didn’t work with the man. Any way I look at it, he had zero opportunity to study Taft.”

“Val asked me if Stephen and Mark knew each other.”

“They’re both suspects. He’s wondering if they could have done this together. At this point he’s exploring all possibilities.”

“I didn’t answer, but I think he knew. I had this feeling he could see right through me.”

Rick thought of his friend, of the way his mind worked. “Val’s smart. Real smart. And for as much as I believe he’s not handling this investigation correctly, he’s a good cop. Don’t ever underestimate him.”

“What about Pastor Tim?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“Mark told me that Tara didn’t like him. That he scared her. He suggested Pastor Tim might have planted the Bible and the knife. Geographically, he had as much opportunity as Stephen to kill Tara.”

“Tim?” Rick repeated, tone doubtful.

“You know him?”

“Sure. I played high-school ball with him, though he was two years older. So did Val.”

She made a sound of confusion. “He’s from Key West? I thought he only arrived after my sister disappeared.”

“No, Tim grew up here. In fact, he was pretty much a hero around here his senior year. He took the Fighting Conchs to the state football championship.”

Rick slipped his hands into his pockets. “He left to play ball for Florida State, then was drafted by the NFL. He only played a couple years, then dropped out to go to seminary. Said God called him. Could have knocked all of us over with a feather. I mean, who makes the NFL then voluntarily leaves? And to become a pastor?”

“What team?” she asked.

“Miami Dolphi…”

Rick’s voice trailed off. He did the math.

Tim had been in Miami about the time Gavin Taft had been on his killing spree.

He could tell by her expression that she had done the calculations, too. “He told me he didn’t know my sister. That he’d never met her.”

“That could be true, though it’s difficult to believe. His parents are members of the Paradise Christian congregation, or at least they used to be, and he visited quite often. However, your sister wasn’t on the island that long. He may have had an interim position somewhere that I’m not aware of.”

She glanced down at her hands, then back up at him. “There’s something I haven’t told you or anyone else.”

She held up her right hand. “See these bands? They were my mother’s. Eternity bands. Before she died, she gave one to me and one to Rachel. She asked that we never take them off-they would link the three of us for eternity.”

He drew his eyebrows together, confused. “Then how did you get Rachel’s?”

“Pastor Tim had it.” She drew in a deep breath. “I found it on the floor of his bedroom closet.”

“The floor of his…what were you…” His voice trailed off, realization dawning. “You broke into the parsonage?”

“Yes.” She tipped up her chin, expression defiant. “The parsonage was Rachel’s home, most probably the place she spent her last hours. I just had to see for myself that she-”

“Was really gone?”

She flushed. “I knew she wasn’t there, but I…I had to see for myself.”

Rick passed a hand over his face, recalling what Val had said about Liz. “She has issues, my friend. Serious emotional issues. That she’s not playing with a full deck right now makes her a little scary.”

“Why didn’t you just explain to Tim who you were and why you wanted to look around? That would seem the most rational approach.”

“I felt like he was lying to me. That he knew more about my sister than he was saying. There was something about his demeanor…something about him that wasn’t adding up. I had to do it, Rick. And just as I’d thought I would, I found something.”

Rick acknowledged that he wanted to believe her. On some emotional level he did. Her answers made sense, even when they shouldn’t.

“Desperate people do desperate things. They lie. They manufacture evidence. And they can be pretty goddamned convincing.”

“Rachel could have taken the ring off.”

“She never took it off.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I knew Rachel.”

“It could have slipped off one day while she was dressing. By the time she realized it was gone, she wouldn’t have had a clue where she had lost it.”

Liz met his gaze. “Or, Tim Collins is the killer and the ring’s a trophy. I read that serial killers do that, take some memento of each victim. Often a piece of jewelry.”

“Dammit, Liz! Slow down.”

“He lived in Miami during the time Gavin Taft was butchering those women. He’s the right age, he had my sister’s ring. Things he said are questionable. He’s the one who called the police about Stephen.”

Rick swung away from her and strode to the windows. He inched up one of the slats and peered out at the street. The typical Monday crowd made their way along Duval. Every night was party night in paradise.

He frowned. Why did she make so much sense? Everything she proposed was the stuff of blockbuster fiction, far from the open-and-shut reality of most murder investigations.

And entirely too possible.

Sometimes, fact proved more far out than fiction.

He turned to face her, resigned. “And how does the Horned Flower fit in?”

“Pastor Tim is one of them. Maybe the leader. Who better to attract young and impressionable people? Who better to woo adults in search of life’s meaning? A former football star, a big, handsome charismatic man. And from a church pulpit, no less.”

Motive. Means. Opportunity. Son-of-a-bitch. “And why did they leave the rat?”

“As a warning. If I don’t cease and desist, I’m going to end up like that rodent.”

“A gruesome thought,” he muttered.

“It doesn’t make my day, I’ll tell you that.”

The image of Tara filled his head, with it the stats associated with her murder. Throat slit. Postmortem mutilation of genitalia, torso and thighs. Abdomen split wide open; fetus taken.

He had to tell her.

“There’s something I haven’t shared with you. About Tara’s death.” He paused. “It’s really bad.”

She went stone still. “What is it?”

“The killer cut open her womb. And took the baby she was carrying.”

The blood drained from her face. She looked at him, expression anguished. “You don’t mean…took.”

“I do. The fetus…it wasn’t at the scene, Liz.”

She brought a hand to her mouth. He saw that it shook. “But why…I don’t understand…why would he do…”

Her words trailed off. He crossed to the couch and squatted in front of her. “Tomorrow, I take you to Miami. You catch a plane home to St. Louis. I sort this out and keep you apprised of the situation. Agreed?”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“I’m trying to play it smart. And keep you safe.”

“You’re starting to believe me, aren’t you?”

God help him, he was. He drew her up and into his arms. “Go back to St. Louis, Liz.”

“I can’t do that.” She tipped her face up to his. “I won’t let Rachel down again. And I won’t let Tara, Mark or their unborn baby down. You’ll just have to keep me safe right here on Key West.”

Rick thought of Jill. Of how it had felt to bury her. He bent and pressed his mouth to Liz’s. She melted against him, fingers curling into his pullover.

With a groan, he broke the kiss. “How early can you clear the sheets in the morning?”

“Pretty darn early when I’m motivated.”

He bent and rested his forehead against hers. “I worked with a guy on the Miami-Dade force…He was one of the lead detectives on the Taft investigation. He lived, ate and slept that case. Was obsessed with it. I think I’ll give him a call, see if I can pay him a visit, pick his brain a little.”

She wound her arms around his neck. “While you’re with him I’ll go to the library. Do a little research on Taft. I might find something everyone’s forgotten. Or overlooked.”

“Mmm.” He kissed her again, deeply, acknowledging that he didn’t want to stop. He did anyway, with a sound of regret. “And when we get back, I’m going to find out what Val has on Mark.”

“All this romantic talk. It could sweep a girl off her feet.”

He sobered. “I’m afraid for you to be alone, Liz.”

“Then don’t leave me.”

Rick searched her expression, an ache of arousal in his gut. It was an invitation, he knew. They were already lovers, it would be easy to be together. Easy to fall into her bed and arms and to forget, even if only for a time, that a murderer walked the streets of Key West, mutilating young women and taking unborn babies. That he might have chosen Liz to be his next victim.

But to be with her in the shadow of the day’s events felt wrong. As if the darkness around them might infect what was growing between them. He didn’t want that to happen.

He told her so.

Her expression became impossibly soft. She stood on tiptoe, cupped his face in her hands and kissed him softly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll make up the couch.”