Dead Run

by Erica Spindler

  She darted toward the garden. She heard screaming. A shout for help. A child began to cry.

  She burst through the gate. Stephen was running back and forth, knife clutched in his hand, sounds more animal than human spilling from his misshapen mouth.

  She shouted for the civilians to get back. From the corner of her eyes she saw her backup storm the garden from the other entrance, weapons drawn. From Duval Street came the sound of more sirens.

  “Freeze, Stephen!” He swung toward her, his expression desperate. Then he charged. She lifted her gun, ordered him to stop, once, then again.

  He was nearly on top of her when she fired. The bullet caught him square in the chest. His body jerked slightly at the impact, though it didn’t halt his forward momentum.

  He slammed into her and sent her sprawling. Her life flashed before her, a series of brightly colored disappointments.

  A moment after hitting the ground, the other officers were at her side. They eased the caretaker off her.

  “You okay, Chapman?” Val asked.

  She had to think a moment about that. She realized that other than having had the wind knocked out of her and being scared senseless, she was okay. She told Val so, then motioned to the caretaker.

  “Is he-”

  An officer at his side looked up at her. “He’s alive.”

  “Get an ambulance,” Val shouted. “Now!”

  The next minutes were a blur. The ambulance arrived. A news crew. The evidence team, even the chief of police. The man congratulated her, then made his way to where the reporters waited eagerly for a statement.

  “You did good, Carla,” Val murmured. “Real good.”

  That wasn’t the way she felt, though she didn’t say so. She’d never discharged her weapon in the line of duty before, let alone shot another human being.

  She glanced down at herself and choked back a sound of revulsion. She was covered with Stephen’s blood. She went to wipe at it and realized she still wore the latex gloves she’d put on what seemed like hours ago now.

  “What do you say we take a look around inside?”

  She nodded and followed Val because she knew it was what he expected of her. She was shaken but unharmed. She had a job to do.

  The evidence guys had already begun to do their thing. One of them was carefully combing the bedding for trace material, another was busy photographing the scene.

  Val looked at her. “What happened?”

  Carla filled Val in. “I was on my way to lunch when I received the call from dispatch. Pastor Tim had called in. There was a situation, he’d said. He feared someone had been hurt. He was pretty shaken up.

  “I arrived at the church at approximately noon. Pastor Tim was waiting. As I had been warned, he was upset.”

  “How upset?”

  She thought a moment. “Rattled. Shaky.”

  Val nodded and she continued. “He hadn’t seen Stephen, the church caretaker, in a couple of days and was worried about him. He had gone to his quarters looking for him and found the bed bloodied. That’s when he called us.”

  “He have a key to the place?”

  “It was unlocked.” Carla let out a breath. “He led me here. Upon a brief inspection of the bed, I noticed a trail of blood leading to what I assumed was a closet.” She pointed. “I saw the handprint and feared we had a perp hiding in the closet. I advised the pastor to wait outside and I called for backup.”

  Val drew his eyebrows together. “But you didn’t wait for backup to arrive.”

  “No.” She met his eyes. “I screwed up. When I heard him moan, I reacted. I figured we had a victim in need of medical attention.”

  “Go on.” Val crossed to the door and peered into the space.

  “At first I thought I had been right. The caretaker was bloodied and appeared to be having some sort of seizure.”

  “A seizure?” Val murmured, frowning. “What indications-”

  “His eyes were rolled back in his head.” She shuddered, remembering. “When Pastor Tim cried out the man’s name and asked if he was hurt, it was if they snapped back in place. Really creepy.”

  Her superior looked annoyed at her editorializing and she refocused on the facts. “That’s when I saw the knife. I went for my weapon, but I was too late. He charged us and headed out to the garden. The rest I think you know.”

  Val moved into the narrow room. He squatted in front of the cot, careful not to disturb anything. “Bible pages,” he murmured, indicating the papers that littered the cot and floor around it. “That’s curious.”

  He tilted his head to read one. “This one’s from the Gospel of Peter. This one from Luke. Looks like mostly New Testament stuff.”

  He looked at her. “You read much Scripture, Carla?”

  “I grew up Catholic.” She rubbed her arms, at the chill bumps that dotted them. “Went to mass and confessed my sins regularly. Said my share of novenas, but that’s about it. Why?”

  “Don’t know.” His expression grew pensive. “Just trying to figure out what it all means.”

  He drew his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. Using it to prevent possible contamination of the evidence, he carefully tipped the Bible over. The breath hissed past his lips.

  “Carla, you might want to take a look at this.”

  Carla crossed to her superior and peered over his shoulder at the book. Imprinted in gold on the cream-colored leather cover was the name Rachel Howard.

  CHAPTER 38

  Monday, November 19

  3:00 p.m.

  Liz opened her door a crack. Valentine Lopez and Carla Chapman stood on the other side, their expressions grim. Her heart leaped to her throat. They knew Mark was here. Rick had seen through her subterfuge; he had gone to the police.

  What did she do now?

  She worked to hide her thoughts. “Yes, Officers?”

  “There’s been a development in your sister’s case,” Lieutenant Lopez said. “May we come in?”

  “My sister’s case?” she repeated, moving her gaze between the two detectives. “What-”

  “May we?”

  “Yes, of course.” Liz opened the door wider and stepped aside so they could enter. Her hands shook as she shut and locked the door behind them.

  “Do you have company, Ms. Ames?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” She moved her gaze between the two officers. “You said you had information concerning my sister?”

  The man looked at the other detective. “Carla?”

  She nodded and drew a book out of the canvas tote she carried. Even housed in a plastic bag, Liz recognized Rachel’s Bible immediately.

  Carla handed it to her. The plastic crackled. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  Liz stared at the book, the leather cover marred by fingerprints. Bloody fingerprints. Tears choked her. “It was my sister’s.” She ran a finger over the letters of Rachel’s name, stamped in gold at the bottom of the book’s cover. “I gave this to her when she…” Liz lifted her gaze, vision blurred. “How…where did you…find it?”

  “Do you know Stephen St. John? The old caretaker of Paradise Christian?”

  “Yes, but what does he-”

  “We have reason to believe he may have been involved in your sister’s disappearance.”

  A chill washed over her. “I don’t understand.”

  “Detective Chapman answered a routine call to Paradise Christian this afternoon. The caretaker attacked her with a knife that fits the M.E.’s description of the one used to murder Tara Mancuso and Naomi Pearson. Among other things, we found your sister’s Bible in his quarters.”

  Liz couldn’t breathe. “Excuse me, I need to sit down.”

  She pushed past the two and sank heavily onto one of the stairs. She lowered her head to her knees and breathed slowly and deeply, in her nose and out her mouth.

  More proof that her sister was dead. Another nail in her coffin.

  “In any of your conversations with your
sister, did she ever mention Stephen St. John to you? Either by name or title of church caretaker?”

  She shook her head but didn’t look up.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her face then. “You might talk to the owner of Bikinis & Things. She was friends with Rachel and she…she told me Rachel was frightened of him. That Rachel had caught him peeping in her windows.”

  The two detectives exchanged glances. “Do you know her name?” Carla asked, removing a spiral notepad from her tote.

  “Heather Ferguson.”

  Carla jotted down the name. “In your sessions with Tara Mancuso, did she ever mention the church caretaker?”

  “No, never.”

  “Do you have any idea how Stephen St. John could have come into possession of your sister’s Bible?”

  She shook her head.

  “When did you first meet the church caretaker?” Val asked.

  She struggled to collect her thoughts and put them into words. “On one of my visits to Paradise Christian. I’d just met with Pastor Tim and Stephen…blocked my path. He startled me by grabbing my wrist. Luckily, Heather Ferguson happened along. She scolded him and he ran off. Isn’t he…harmless?”

  “That’s what we all thought,” Carla said, closing the notebook.

  Liz rubbed her arms. “Are you saying…You think Stephen murdered Tara and-”

  Val cut her off. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Ames.”

  Carla crossed to where she sat. She held a hand out, expression apologetic. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to keep your sister’s Bible for the time being. It’s evidence.”

  She handed the book back, feeling light-headed. “Evidence?” She looked from Carla to her superior. “Then you think Rachel…that Stephen…”

  Her voice trailed off. The lieutenant’s expression softened. “In light of these new developments, I’ve decided to reopen the investigation into your sister’s disappearance. Looks like you might have been right. We’re fearful Pastor Howard may have met with foul play.”

  She uttered a sound of despair. She didn’t want to be right. She wanted her sister.

  “Ms. Ames?”

  She lifted her watery gaze. “Yes?”

  “As far as you know, did Mark Morgan and Stephen St. John know one another?”

  “What?”

  “Mark Morgan and Stephen St. John, did they know one another?”

  “I don’t…I’m not…” She looked helplessly at them, struggling to come to grips with all they had said, the implications of it. With her own conflicting thoughts and emotions. Who should she believe? Who could she trust?

  “It seems like this isn’t a good time,” Val murmured. “If you think of anything that might help us, give me a call.”

  They let themselves out. For long moments, she stared at the closed door, then slowly stood, crossed to it and twisted the dead bolt. Exhaustion pulled at her. Her hands and limbs shook and she felt as if her nerves were frayed to the breaking point.

  She wanted to climb into bed, pull the covers over her head and sleep. For as long as it would take for this nightmare to end. When she woke up, Rachel would be alive and all that would be left of this would be a vague, unpleasant memory.

  Swallowing hard, she turned.

  Mark stood at the top of the stairs. Their eyes met. A shiver of fear moved over her.

  “There’s a warrant out for Mark’s arrest. They think he killed Tara. And they think you may be his next target.”

  “As far as you know, did Mark Morgan and Stephen St. John know one another?”

  “I heard them.” He fisted his fingers. “And it’s not true. Stephen wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s gentle. The most gentle person I’ve ever met.”

  Who should she believe? Who should she trust?

  He frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I’m not…I-” She shook her head and started up the stairs. “I’m exhausted, Mark. I can’t talk about this right now.”

  “They knew exactly what they were doing to you!” he cried. “They were trying to break you down. Trying to make you question yourself and what you believe.”

  She reached the top of the stairs and looked him dead in the eyes. “Who should I believe, Mark? You? Or the police?”

  “Me.” His expression became pleading. “You can trust me. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “Now he’s forging a relationship with you. The frightened boy. The victim. You respond to that. You trust him because he needs you.”

  “Please, Liz,” he begged. “Stephen’s my friend. He has this innocence, like a child. Look into his eyes, you’ll see it. He couldn’t even conceive the actions they’re accusing him of.”

  “How do you know!” She jerked her arm free and faced him, furious. Hurting. “I’m a family counselor, I work with the walking wounded every day. The kind of abuse Stephen suffered damages a person. Sometimes in awful, frightening ways. Ways that sometimes make them turn that anger and pain on others.”

  “Not Stephen.”

  Liz brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. A headache jackknifed against her skull. “He had my sister’s Bible.”

  “What does that prove? Maybe she gave it to him.”

  “You didn’t see it! It was smeared with blood. It-They said he had a knife, Mark. A knife like the one used to kill Tara.”

  “What about Pastor Tim? He could have planted the knife.”

  She started past him; he grabbed her arm. A shiver raced up her spine. “Tara didn’t like Pastor Tim. She said there was something creepy about him. That she had caught him in a lie. That he looked at her funny sometimes. In a way that scared her.”

  “Let me go.”

  “He could have planted the knife, Liz. He could have planted the Bible, to frame Stephen. To divert suspicion from him. He lives there, too. He has unlimited access to the garden, parsonage and Stephen’s quarters.”

  “I said, let me go!” Confused, head pounding, she broke free of his grasp. “He attacked a detective, Mark. Can you explain that away? Can you?”

  His defiance seemed to evaporate, leaving him looking young and vulnerable.

  She laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it all out, Mark. I promise. But first, I have to take some Advil and lie down. Please?”

  He nodded but didn’t meet her eyes.

  She squeezed his shoulder, then headed to her bedroom, acutely aware of his presence. She entered her bedroom, closed the door behind her and started toward the bed. There, she stopped, turned and looked at the door.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she hurried back and locked it.

  CHAPTER 39

  Monday, November 19

  5:00 p.m.

  Carla paused outside Rick’s Island Hideaway. She hoped Rick was here. She needed to talk to him. She needed him to tell her everything was going to be all right. That she had done the right thing.

  She felt for all the world that she hadn’t.

  She glanced quickly behind her, looking, no doubt, as guilty as she felt, then stepped out of the blazing heat and into the bar’s cool, dim interior. A half-dozen patrons were scattered throughout the room: lovers at a table in the corner, a couple of singles at either end of the bar, a group of tourists who were obviously feeling no pain.

  Rick straightened when he saw her. He’d already heard. She wasn’t surprised. News spread fast on this tiny island, and in his line of work Rick missed little of it.

  Of course, the official news had been limited to the basics. The caretaker of Paradise Christian Church had freaked out, threatened a group of tourists with a knife and Key West officer Carla Chapman had been forced to shoot. The caretaker was in critical condition.

  Val and the chief had managed to keep everything else under wraps. For now.

  “Are you okay?” Rick asked as she sank onto the stool across from him.

  “If you call feeling like total shit okay, then I’m it.”

  He set a draft in
front of her. “No matter the circumstances, shooting another human being never feels right.”

  She smiled weakly and took a sip of the beer, though technically she was still on duty. “All afternoon people from the chief down have been patting me on the back and congratulating me. It feels like such a lie.”

  He arched an eyebrow, and Carla felt herself flush. She looked away. She’d been unable to get the image of Stephen’s face as he lunged at her out of her head. Something about his expression nagged at her. Had his intent been murderous? Had he been attacking her? Or had his actions been those of a terrified, cornered animal attempting to flee?

  “You want to talk about it?”

  She should say no. She should sit, sip her beer and simply let his presence soothe her. If Val knew she was here, he would be furious.

  She squeezed her eyes shut as Stephen’s image filled her head once more. Murderous rage, she told herself. That’s what she’d seen in his eyes. He’d come at her like a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth, eyes lit with blood fever. Not with helpless fear. Not with desperation.

  She met Rick’s concerned gaze. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I think I would.”

  She spoke softly, starting with her call from Pastor Tim, finishing with the moment she pulled the trigger, eliminating any details that linked Stephen to Tara’s and Naomi’s murders.

  “Sounds like a good shooting. Everything by the book.”

  “I’m not so-” She shook her head, biting back what she had been about to say, that she wasn’t so sure. That she wondered if she could have wrestled him down. That she had second thoughts about whether he had meant her harm.

  “You grew up here,” she said. “What do you know about him?”

  “Not a lot. That he was the victim of child abuse. That the church takes care of him. As kids we used to tell stories about him because he was different. Because he looked frightening.”

  “What kind of stories?”

  “Ones about how he murdered his entire family but the police couldn’t prove it cause they never found the bodies. Rumor was, one night he chopped them all up into little pieces then tossed them into the ocean. Stupid kid stuff.”