Dead Run

by Erica Spindler

  “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.”

  “Wait!” She followed him to his feet. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Mark. Mark Morgan.”

  “Don’t go yet.” She held out a hand. “Let’s talk about this before you-”

  He cut her off. “There’s nothing to talk about. Besides, it’s too late. I already contacted a couple of Tara ’s friends.” A smile touched his mouth. “Thanks though, for…caring.”

  She made a sound of frustration. “But how will I know if you need help?”

  “You won’t hear from me,” he said simply. “If that happens, go to Rick Wells. He’s a friend. I trust him.”

  “Rick Wells?” she repeated, surprised.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I…we met.”

  He nodded and started off, then stopped and looked back at her. “Remember me in your prayers, okay? I think I’m going to need them.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Friday, November 16

  10:20 p.m.

  Mark waited for Sarah, his Horned Flower connection. While he waited, he prayed. For guidance and protection. For strength.

  Tonight he would be initiated into the Horned Flower.

  He was afraid.

  Mark lifted his gaze to the sky. Dense cloud cover obliterated the full moon. This time of night Southernmost Beach -so named because it was literally the southernmost beach in the country-was deserted. From behind came the sound of traffic from Whitehead and South Streets. A Jimmy Buffet tune poured from a car’s open window.

  “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”

  Paradise. He had thought of Key West that way. Had thought her a sparkling, perfect jewel of a place.

  Now he saw that her beauty masked an ugliness without compare.

  Mark glanced at his watch, then toward the beach entrance. They had agreed to meet at ten-fifteen. He frowned. She was late.

  Sarah, where are you?

  Sarah had been the friend Tara had talked about most, the one, he knew, who had campaigned for Tara to invite him into their group. The night he met Tara for the first time, she had been with Sarah.

  Mark had lied to the girl. Tara had told him about the Horned Flower and foolishly he had believed he didn’t need their family. Tara had broken up with him because he wouldn’t join, now she was dead.

  Life seemed pointless, he’d told Sarah. He was drifting, alone without an anchor. He had always believed in God, but now he saw he had been wrong. To deny earthly pleasures for a life in heaven was wrong. Life was short. It was meant to be enjoyed.

  He wanted to be a part of their family.

  When Sarah resisted, he had begged her. He needed the Horned Flower. Tara had been ready to invite him into the family; she had gotten the okay. He would do anything she asked, he promised. Anything the family required of him.

  In the end she had agreed to vouch for him. She had set up tonight’s meeting. He was to come alone, she had instructed him. He was to wait on the bench nearest the burned-out utility light.

  She had accepted him, his story, so easily.

  Maybe too easily, he thought. Maybe she had no intention of meeting him here, of bringing him to the Horned Flower. Maybe she-and the others-had discovered his true purpose for contacting her.

  If that was true, he was a sitting duck.

  Another scenario occurred to him, one much worse. Perhaps, by convincing her to help him, he had put her in jeopardy?

  An image of Sarah lying in a pool of blood, her throat slit as Tara ’s had been, filled his head, and his stomach rose to his throat.

  He swallowed the sickness back and thought of Liz. He had called and left a message on her machine. Tonight was the night, he’d told her. He would call her tomorrow. If he didn’t, she was to call Rick.

  A part of him had been glad Liz hadn’t been home-she would have tried to talk him out of this.

  She very well might have succeeded. He could turn himself in to the police. Let them deal with this. It was their job.

  It wasn’t too late.

  Momentarily, the clouds cleared and he saw her. She started toward him. Twin emotions of relief and fear trembled through him.

  Lord be with me now and at the hour of my death.

  Amen.

  He didn’t know why that prayer had leaped into his head but he was glad it had. No matter the outcome of the night, he knew the Lord would be with him.

  Mark stood and forced a smile. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

  She didn’t return his smile. She held out a strip of dark fabric. “Until you’re fully a part of the Flower, our total anonymity has to be maintained. Turn around, Mark.”

  A blindfold. He did as she requested, though his every instinct shouted he not.

  She fixed the fabric across his eyes, then tied it. The fit was snug but not uncomfortable. The dark fabric completely blinded him.

  “Face me.” When he did, she cupped his face in her palms. He sensed her gaze boring into his. “Remember your promise to do anything I asked?” she murmured. “Anything, without hesitation. Do you remember?”

  He nodded and she stood on tiptoe. She pressed her mouth to his, and with her tongue, deposited something on
his, then drew her tongue out but kept her lips pressed tightly to his.

  A pill, he realized with alarm. She was drugging him! He gagged but she stood fast, her mouth against his, sealing it, forcing him to swallow.

  He did and she smiled. “Good baby. Just let me make sure.” She kissed him again, this time with abandon. With a passion that took him as much by surprise as her drugging him had. She moved her body against his in time to the movement of her tongue in his mouth.

  With a throaty laugh she brought her right hand from his face to his shoulder, then chest, across his abdomen to his crotch. She cupped him, massaging with alternating pressure.

  His body responded and guilty tears stung his eyes. How could his body betray him that way? How could he betray Tara that way?

  “It will be wonderful,” Sarah whispered against his ear, as if sensing his distress. “The most perfect experience ever. Just trust me.”

  She caught his hand again and led him slowly forward. After a few moments they stepped from sand to pavement. They took eight steps, then stopped.

  A car door opened. Footsteps came around the car. Mark strained to hear, to pick up anything that would reveal the other person’s identity. He couldn’t even determine whether the other person was male or female.

  The footsteps ceased. “He took it,” Sarah said to the other’s unspoken question. “I think it’s starting to kick in.”

  She was right, Mark realized. His limbs had grown heavy, his head light. Pinpricks of colored light danced before his blindfolded eyes. He attempted to blink them away but couldn’t.

  The sensations were unnatural but not unpleasant. They sucked all fear and uncertainty from him.

  The two helped him into a vehicle and he slumped against the seat, a smile curving his lips, his thoughts sailing-over lakes and mountains, past his life’s events, people he had known and loved waving as he flew by. Buoyant as a cloud on a summer breeze, he returned their greeting, wishing he could stop and talk, frustrated that he couldn’t.

  Mark became aware of the vehicle moving. He fought to focus, to determine travel time and direction. His effort was wasted. Instead, his head filled with sexual images. With Sarah’s mouth and touch, her voice in his ear.

  “You want me, don’t you?”

  With a shock he realized she was beside him in the car, her mouth close to his ear, her hand in his lap. Kneading. Freeing. Stroking.

  He groaned. She replaced her hand with her mouth, circling him, sucking, stroking with her tongue.

  “Save it, my sweet. We’re here.”

  The voice came as if from a great distance, echoing strangely. A man’s? he wondered. Or a woman’s?

  The two helped him from the car. Mark didn’t feel his feet touch the ground. He was levitating, he realized. Floating, like a Macy’s New Year’s Day balloon, being anchored by his companions’ hands.

  If not for them, he would float away.

  He became aware of a thousand breaths being expelled, of a murmur rippling through a sea of people. They were gathered around him, he realized. Hungry.

  They meant to feed on him. On his soul.

  He should fight. Scream for help. Deny the unholy cravings of these walking cadavers. Instead, anticipation rippled along his nerve endings, so strong it felt as if his flesh was undulating.

  Greedy hands stripped away his garments. Sarah murmured, “Drink,” and brought a large vessel to his lips. He did. The liquid was warm and slightly salty.

  A roar of approval rose from the gathering. Heat radiated from his lips, spreading to every nook and cranny of his being. With it came a heightened awareness, a crackling energy.

  “Feed on the heat of the Flower!” someone shouted. “It opens to all possibilities. To pleasures that are its birthright.”

  Those assembled began to chant. “Let him see! Let him see!”

  Sarah removed the blindfold. Creatures surrounded him, ones in human form. Wild animals. Exotic birds. Horrific monsters.

  A scream rose in his throat. The creatures moved closer. They touched and stroked him; they whispered encouraging, loving words against his skin. Sounds of excitement slipped from their lips, of approval.

  Or were those sounds slipping from his?

  It was as if they were worshiping him. The physical sensations were incredible, more exciting than any sexual experience he’d ever had. Not of this world. He was infused with power. He was a god. All-knowing. All-powerful.

  This was what Tara had meant, he thought. What Sarah had promised. The most perfect experience ever. If he chose the Horned Flower family, this power, this exaltation, could be his forever.

  Mark felt himself levitating above the floor, floating, enraptured. He found himself upon an altar. Lips and mouths consumed him, arms enfolded, hands explored. He orgasmed, how many times he didn’t know, for the spasming was all but continual.

  Suddenly, light exploded in his head. Blinding. Burning like white fire. The light was followed by darkness, as black and impenetrable as hell. A darkness more frightening than anything Hollywood could fathom, more frightening than his darkest nightmare.

  In it, the beast waited.

  CHAPTER 27

  Saturday, November 17

  9:45 p.m.

  Rick’s Island Hideaway looked nothing as Liz had imagined. She supposed that because of the movie Casablanca she had expected lots of tropical plants, slowly whirling ceiling fans, women in sleek sundresses accompanied by modern-day Bogies.

  Nothing could be further from reality. No plants. No sleek sundresses or Humphrey Bogart look-alikes. And instead of Sam “playing it again” at the piano, a sound system pumped out reggae music, its decibel only a notch below ear numbing.

  The level needed to be heard above the raucous crowd.

  She hesitated in the doorway, uncertain what to do. Obviously, her timing sucked, big time. The crowd at the bar was six deep. Rick and another bartender, a sexy-looking twenty-something woman with a wild mane of sun-streaked hair, worked the bar-each managing to fill drink orders, run the register and socialize in what seemed to be one fluid movement.

  Rick would not be happy to see her now.

  Liz hung back, considering her options. According to the message Mark had left on her machine the previous evening, he expected to be initiated into the Horned Flower last night. He had been meeting his contact at ten-fifteen.

  If you don’t hear from me, go to Rick Wells. He’ll know what to do.

  She hadn’t heard from him. She feared every minute could mean the difference between life and death.

  If he wasn’t dead already.

  “Goin’ in, babe?”

  Liz glanced over her shoulder. She had been blocking the doorway. “Sure, sorry.”

  Decision made, she stepped through. A moment later, she found herself in the middle of the Saturday-night crowd, elbowing her way toward the bar. She got within shouting distance and did just that.

  Rick heard his name on her first try and looked her way. A smile creased his face. “Hey, Liz Ames. What brings you in on this busy night?”

  “I need to talk to you,” she shouted. “It’s important.”

  “Yeah?” He flashed her damn near the sexiest smile she had ever seen, then shifted his attention to a man sitting at the bar directly in front of him, nursing a beer. “Hey, Pete, be a gentleman. Make room for the lady.”

  The other man glanced over his shoulder at her. She saw immediately that he was inebriated. “You wan’ to sit?”

  “Thank you, but I don’t mean to-”

  “S’ okay.” He slid off the stool, landing unsteadily on his feet. “Pete g’home now.”

  She put a hand on his elbow to steady him. He smiled at her, then wobbled off, the crowd seeming to part for the old drunk.

  Liz climbed onto the stool. “You didn’t have to chase him off. I could have-”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He cleared away Pete’s glass and beer bottle, wiped the spot then replaced them with a fresh drink coast
er. “Old Pete’s been keeping that spot warm since just after lunch. Time to cut him off.”

  “Since noon?” She glanced in the direction the man had gone, amazed. “I hope he’s not driving.”

  “Nope. Used to bicycle but landed in the ditch one too many times. Val impounded his bike.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at the way he said the other man’s name, with real affection. “You and Lieutenant Lopez are good friends, aren’t you?”

  “Pretty much the best of friends. We go way back.” He nodded at a couple other patrons, then returned his gaze to hers. “What can I get you?”

  She really didn’t want anything, but felt guilty taking up both his time and space at the bar and not ordering. “How are your frozen margaritas?”

  “Killer, if I do say so myself. With salt or without?”

  “With, of course.”

  He told her he would be right back and worked his way down the bar, taking several other orders as he did, all the while calling out humorous one-liners and greetings.

  Liz dragged her gaze away, mouth going dry. She trailed her finger through a bead of moisture on the bar. Rick Wells was just one of those guys who had it all: looks, charm, personality, brains, bod. The complete, woman-eating package. No doubt he had been an athlete in high school and had had a bevy of adoring cheerleader types buzzing around him all the time.

  One of those guys a smart, serious girl like her should avoid at all costs.

  Her ex-husband had been one of those. But Jared had been shallow, too. A quality she hadn’t noticed until too late. Liz returned her gaze to Rick and found him conversing with another patron while he shook the thick, frozen mixture into a glass.

  He looked at her then, and smiled. She experienced the tickle of sexual awareness and jerked her gaze away. Don’t be stupid, Liz, she told herself.

  A moment later he set the drink in front of her. “One killer frozen margarita. With salt.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured, then sipped. She had to admit, it was the best margarita she had ever tasted. She told him so.

  He grinned and leaned toward her. “It’s a secret recipe. My very own.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Not in the same league as curing cancer, but on a steamy Key West night, it’ll do the trick.”