About the Author

The author of twenty-five books, ERICA SPINDLER is best known for her spine-tingling thrillers. Her novels have been published all over the world, selling over six million copies, and critics have dubbed her stories “thrill-packed, page turners, white knuckle rides, and edge-of-your-seat whodunits.”

Erica is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. In 2002, her novel Bone Cold won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence.

Also by Erica Spindler

COPYCAT

SEE JANE DIE

IN SILENCE

SHOCKING PINK

ALL FALL DOWN

AUTHOR NOTE

Venturing into the unknown is one of the aspects of novel writing I find the most exciting. And the most frightening. For how does one authentically create that which they have never experienced? Dead Run presented me with several such challenges, ones involving both the corporeal and spiritual realms.

I surmounted these challenges only through the generous help of experts from various fields. These experts gave of their valuable time and expertise with patience and an enthusiasm I appreciated more than I can adequately express. Thank you, one and all. Any inaccuracies are mine alone. At times I bent fact to suit fiction; I hope these do not cause you consternation. To that end, I mixed historical Key West facts with fictional ones for the sake of this story. In addition, by the time this book is published, the Key West Police Department will most probably be housed in its new high-tech police complex. I will miss the charming, slightly dilapidated police headquarters depicted in Dead Run.

Gratitude to my experts in the corporeal realm: Lieutenant Mark Bascle, Louisiana State Police, Bureau of Investigations, Narcotics Division, for the sometimes daily answer to questions on drugs of abuse, police procedure, dynamics, protocol—the list goes on. Dr Douglas Walker, PhD, for information on drugs of abuse related to the psyche and psychosis. Chris Rush, international private investigator, Chris Rush Private Investigations, White Plains, New York for the video surveillance expertise, technical and anecdotal. Brian Osborne, youth director, Hosanna Lutheran Church, for bringing to life the approach of the clinical social worker. Local TV favourite Margaret Orr, WDSU TV, for her assistance with tropical storms and hurricanes.

A special thanks to Cynthia Edwards, Office of Public Information, Key West Police Department, for the tour, the explanations, the many returned phone calls. Everyone I met during my visit to the KWPD was professional, helpful and friendly—Key West style.

And to my experts in the spiritual realm: Brian Osborne again, for spiritual insight into today’s youth. Pastor Anton Kern, also of Hosanna Lutheran Church, for insights into the life and faith of a Christian pastor. The gang at CC’s Coffeehouse for the thought-provoking discussions on faith, Christ and his nemesis Satan. Particular thanks to Diane Cooper and her husband, Pastor Marvin Cooper, and to Adrienne Gilliland.

Finally, gratitude to friends and colleagues for their support and assistance: my editor Dianne Moggy and the entire MIRA® crew. My assistant Kellie Crosby-Bascle. My agent, Evan Marshall. My publicist, Lori Ames. Walton and Johnson, radio gods, whose names I jokingly promised to mention in each of my novels.

And last but never least, my husband and sons, for loving me—even when the words wouldn’t come.

Dead Run

Erica Spindler

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the many victims of the

September 11, 2001, terrorist attack upon the

United States of America.

And to all the heroes of that day and its aftermath:

the firefighters, police, emergency medical and

rescue personnel, Good Samaritan citizens and the

passengers of United Airlines Flight 93.

Thank you. God bless.

Be sober, be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.

—1 Peter 5:8

PROLOGUE

Key West, Florida Friday, July 13, 2001 11:00 p.m.

Pastor Rachel Howard peered out the bedroom’s rear window, struggling to see past the sheets of rain. Thunder shook the one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old parsonage, followed immediately by a flash of lightning so bright it stung her eyes.

She shrank back from the ground-floor window, retreating to the absolute darkness of the room once more. She didn’t want them, the ones who watched, to suspect what she was up to. They were coming for her. She didn’t know who they were, only that there were many of them.

He was more powerful than she had imagined. Craftier. More vile.

She had underestimated his reach. An error. A fatal one, she feared.

Rachel squeezed her eyes shut, words from the Twenty-third Psalm running through her head, comforting her. Drowning out the litany of other voices, ones no one but she could hear.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me.

She planned to escape tonight and head to the mainland. Once safe, she would decide her best course of action. If she made it.

A sense of calm came over her; a momentary peace. In death his glory awaited. No matter the outcome of this night, the darkness would not have her.

Rachel opened her eyes and inched toward the window once more, clutching the envelope in her hands more tightly. Her friend would come despite the storm. He wouldn’t let her down.

She prayed he wouldn’t.

And she prayed she hadn’t endangered his life by asking for his help.

She imagined their laughter, their tauntings. She amused them, she knew. Her Lord amused them.

Thunder boomed again, reverberating through her. In the flash of lightning she saw her friend dart across the garden, a shapeless figure in a rain-slicked poncho.

Moments later he appeared at the window. Gratitude and affection flooded her senses; tears stung her eyes. She lifted the window and handed him the envelope.

“Take it. Make sure my sister gets it.” He nodded but didn’t speak. “Now go, quickly.”

He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared into the storm.

Rachel wasted no time. She grabbed her raincoat and umbrella, purse and car keys, and slipped out into the night. Flower petals littered the path before her, torn from the canopy of branches above by the wind and rain, the bruised poinciana blossoms forming a kind of bloody carpet.

Her Toyota was parked around the back of the parsonage. She started for it, working to keep her pace leisurely enough not to call attention to herself. She didn’t want them to guess what she was up to.

The rain beat down on her umbrella, sluicing over the sides, splattering at her feet. Her lips moved as she silently spoke the words of the Apostles’ Creed:

I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth.

I believe in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord. I believe in—

She heard a sound from behind her. She stopped and turned, heart thundering in her chest. “Stephen?” she whispered, voice trembling. “Is that you?”

The rain stopped. The wind died. She felt the breath of death stir against her face, its stench as foul as the grave.

With a cry, Rachel broke into a run. The parking area in sight, she stumbled on a loose paver. Her car keys slipped from her fingers, clattering against the walkway. She scrambled to retrieve them.

She closed her fingers around the keys. The bushes rustled; she heard a soft laugh. She twisted her head, looking back. Lightning flashed; she caught the glint of metal as it arced through the darkness.

“No!” She leaped to her feet and ran, tripping once but righting herself.

She reached her car, curled her fingers around the door handle and yanked. The door popped open. She heard them following her. Without looking back, she scrambled behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. She hit the lock and attempted to insert the key into the ignition, her hands shaking so badly it took her three tries.

Finally the engine sputtered, then turned over. Sobbing with relief, she threw the car into Reverse and floored the accelerator. The vehicle shot backward, fish-tailing on the wet pavement.

Rachel shifted to Drive and gunned the engine. As the car leaped forward, she whispered a prayer of thanks. She had done it! She was going to make it.

Rachel dared a glance back, searching for her pursuers, unable to see past the wall of rain. She returned her gaze to the road. Her headlights fell across something blocking her way. A figure, she realized, standing in the middle of the road.

A scream ripping past her lips, Rachel simultaneously yanked the wheel to the right and jammed on the brakes. The car lurched sideways, sliding on the wet pavement, going into a three-sixty spin. Rachel fought to regain control of the vehicle, praying for a miracle. Knowing it was too late.

The vehicle jettisoned off the pavement. A tree rushed up to meet the car. Rachel threw up her arms to shield her face as the impact sent her flying forward.

CHAPTER 1

St. Louis, Missouri Monday, July 16 8:40 a.m.

Liz Ames watched as coffee dripped from the filter basket into the glass carafe. She yawned, cursing snooze buttons, red-eye flights and coffeemakers that brewed at a snail’s pace. She needed caffeine now, not five minutes from now.

She was going to be really late this morning, she acknowledged. What was with her? She used to be so punctual. So … perky. No matter how few hours of sleep she had gotten the night before.

Now she could barely drag herself out of bed.

Jared, her cheating weasel of an ex-husband, had happened to her, she thought, squinting against the light streaming in and around the edges of the closed blinds. And in response, her personal and professional life had taken a quick, sanity-stealing trip south.

Even Rachel had gone south, Liz thought, thinking of her older sister who had accepted the call from a small non-denominational Christian church on Key West right in the middle of the crisis. She shifted her gaze to her answering machine and its frantically flashing message-waiting light.

She really should call her. They hadn’t spoken in nearly a month, and their last conversation had been troubling for many reasons, including the fact they had argued.

Simultaneously, the coffeemaker gurgled, signaling it was in its final throes of brewing, and the phone rang. Liz grabbed her mug with one hand, the phone with the other. “H’lo?”

“Elizabeth Ames?”

The voice on the other end of the line was a man’s. Liz recognized his official tone from the many calls she had made and received in her capacity as a licensed clinical social worker and family counselor.

“Yes,” she responded. “Could you hold a moment?”

Without waiting for a reply, she set down the receiver, filled her coffee mug then added a splash of cream. She opened the cabinet above the sink and took out the vial of antidepressants her doctor had prescribed. Modern medicine’s answer to a cloudy day. She shook one onto her palm, then downed it with the scalding coffee.

Wincing, she brought the phone back to her ear. “Now, how can I help you?”

“This is Lieutenant Detective Valentine Lopez, Key West Police Department. Are you Rachel Howard’s sister?”

Liz froze. Finally, she pulled one of the kitchen chairs away from the table and sank heavily onto it.

“Ms. Ames?” the detective said again. “You are Pastor Rachel Howard’s sister, aren’t you? Pastor Howard from Paradise Christian Church on Key West? She listed you as her next of kin.”

Next of kin. Dear Lord, no. “I am,” Liz managed to say. “What’s … Is Rachel all right?”

“I’m calling because we’re concerned about your sister. Have you seen her recently?”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Not since she … since she left for Key West.”

“And that was about six months ago?”

“Yes.”

“When did you last speak with her?”

Liz closed her eyes, remembering. Rachel had been subdued and evasive. When Liz had confronted her, she had denied anything was wrong. She had claimed her pastoral duties had kept her from calling. “It’s been a while. A month or so. We argued. I was angry.”

“May I ask why?”

“It’s personal, Detective.”

“It’s important, Ms. Ames.”

“I’m going through … was going through a divorce. And one of my patients … I needed my sister and she wasn’t available. I was angry.” Her words sounded childish to her own ears and she felt herself flush. “What’s happened? Is Rachel—”

“And that’s the last time you talked with her?”

“Yes, but I don’t understa—”

“So, you haven’t heard from her in the past seventy-two hours? Not by phone, e-mail or post?”

“No, but—” She brought a hand to her pounding head and glanced at the machine’s blinking message light once more. “I’ve been out of town since last Thursday. I planned to get caught up on messages this morning.”

“I’ll need you to contact me after you do.”

The blood rushed to Liz’s head. She tightened her grip on the receiver, suddenly terrified. “I don’t think so, Lieutenant. Not until you tell me what’s going on. Is something wrong with Rachel?”

“Your sister has disappeared, Ms. Ames. We’d hoped you might be able to offer us a clue as to her whereabouts.”

CHAPTER 2

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

Liz 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 di 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 possessed 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.

CHAPTER 3

Thursday, November 1 11:35 p.m.

Larry 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 glittered 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.

CHAPTER 4

Saturday, November 3 9:30 a.m.

Rick’s Island Hideaway was the quintessential Key West bar: Jimmy Buffet on the sound system; killer frozen margaritas; a friendly clientele whose attire never veered far from shorts and Hawaiian-print shirts; walls hung with maritime paraphernalia, including a stuffed sailfish and a signed photo of Key West’s most famous onetime resident, Ernest Hemingway. It was the same photo that could be found in about ninety percent of the Duval Street drinking establishments.

And last but certainly not least, a bartender who could charm the skin off a snake.

The ability to do just that came as naturally to Rick Wells as breathing. It was an ability, a gift, really, that Rick depended on but didn’t pride himself in. There were many ways to hide from life, he knew. On a bar stool was one way. Behind a killer smile was another.

“What can I get you?” Rick asked the man who slid onto the stool in front of him. Judging by his starched and pressed shirt and obvious hangover, he was a tourist. And not one who had stopped in for a cup of coffee.

“Uncle Jack, black. Straight up.”

Jack Daniel’s, black label. At only 9:30 a.m., the coffee would have been a better choice, Rick thought. But he wasn’t this guy’s mother, wife or pastor. Rick poured the shot and slid it across the bar. “Big night last night?”

The man nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “This place is all right.” He brought the glass to his lips. “You don’t happen to have a New York Times I could buy?”

“Tough to get the current Times here. They sell out fast for an exorbitant price. It’s a matter of geography, my friend.”

The tourist swore. “Great. My wife’s going to be more pissed at me than she already is.” He shook his head. “The older wives get, the less of a sense of humor they have.”

“Couldn’t say, my friend. That’s not my area.”

The man shot him an envious glance. “Not married, huh?”

“Not anymore,” Rick responded, forcing a light tone, cursing the sudden tightness in his chest.

“Well, take it from me, it’s true.” The man downed the shot, then nudged the glass back to Rick for a refill. “No Times. Imagine that.” He shook his head, his expression a cross between disbelief and bemusement. “You seem like a pretty with-it guy, how do you manage?”

“I don’t mind giving up a few conveniences to live in paradise.” Rick refilled the glass, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, the news isn’t going to change if I don’t read it today. It’ll be just as screwed up tomorrow. Or the day after.”

“You’ve got a point, man. September eleventh fucked everything up.”

“If you want news, I suggest the Miami Herald.”

The tourist downed the second shot. “You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?”

“Sure do.” Rick reached under the bar for his copy, which he had already read, cover to cover. He laid it on the counter. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks, I—

“Marty,” a woman called from the bar’s open doorway, her tone disgusted, “I thought you were finding me a paper?”

The man rolled his eyes at Rick and stood. “Got it, sweetheart.” He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar, scooped up the papers, then hurried toward the door.

“Nice talking to you,” Rick called after him, then smiled as Valentine Lopez strolled through the bar entry. Valentine—Val to everyone but his mother and the priest who had baptized him—was Rick’s oldest friend.

“Well, if it isn’t Key West’s own version of Dick Tracy. I’m honored.”

“You should be, buddy,” Val responded, crossing to Rick. “Still wasting away in Margaritaville, I see.”

“Everybody’s got to have a talent.” Rick grinned and motioned to the stool in front of him. “Take a load off.”

The two men were “conchs,” the tag given to Key West natives, though they came from very different backgrounds. Rick’s family was a Key West import, his father a doctor, his mother a socialite from West Palm Beach. On a vacation to the island, his parents had caught what the locals called the “Key West disease.” Before their week-long vacation ended, they had decided they never wanted to leave. His father had sold his Tampa practice and opened one on the island.

Val’s family, on the other hand, descended from some of the original Cuban inhabitants of the island. His ancestors had been involved in both the cigar-making and sponging industries. Val’s father—now deceased—had been a shrimper. A noble occupation though not a particularly lucrative one.

The two boys would probably never have met, let alone become as close as brothers, if they had grown up anywhere else. But despite their disparate means and backgrounds Rick and Val had fallen into an unshakable friendship. A friendship tested only once: when Rick married the girl of Val’s dreams.

Val sat. “Got any coffee back there?”

“The best café con leche on the island.”

“My mother would argue with that.”

“Second best, then. No way I’m getting into a pissing match with that little woman. She’s tough.”

Rick went about preparing the Cuban espresso and hot milk. “How are things down at the department?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the espresso machine.

“Let me put it this way, when you decide to grow up, let me know. I could use you.”

The Key West Police Department consisted of eighty-one sworn officers and twenty-two civilian personnel. Val was the ranking detective on the force and one of five officers who reported directly to the chief of police.

“Use me? Geez, things must really suck.”

Val sobered. “I mean it, Rick. You’re a cop. One of the best I’ve ever—”

“Was a cop,” Rick corrected. He set the con leche in front of his friend. “A long time ago.”

“Are a cop,” Val repeated. “It’s in your blood. It’s what you—”

“Joke’s over, Val,” Rick muttered. “I suggest you not go there.”

“It’s been more than three years. You need to let them go.”

Emotion rose up in Rick, nearly strangling him. “Don’t tell me what I need. Don’t you … dare tell me that I need to do that. I’ll never let them go. Never.”

Silence fell between the two men. Until three years ago, Rick had been a detective with the Key West Police Department and before that with the Miami-Dade force. He’d had the reputation for being smart and fearless, a seasoned hotshot with a killer instinct and an unwillingness to say die.

Tragedy forced Rick out of Miami. His wife had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and only a handful of months later, he found himself a widower. And single father to a grief-stricken five-year-old son. Despondent, in need of friends, family and a better place to raise Sam, he’d returned to Key West.

Val had quickly gotten him a spot on his team at the KWPD. Although it had been a big adjustment to go from lead detective on complex and high-profile murder cases to investigating open-and-shut burglary and assault cases, Rick had been grateful for the opportunity. And for the small-town pace.

His peace had been shattered only a matter of months later: two armed men had broken into Rick’s home in the middle of the night. Shots had broken out and Sam, awakened by the commotion, had gotten caught in the cross fire.

Ballistics had proved that Sam had been killed by one of Rick’s bullets.

Val pushed his coffee away and stood. “I’ve worn out my welcome this morning.”

“Don’t be a jerk.” Rick scowled at the other man. “Drink your coffee or I’ll have to kick your ass.”

Val sat, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Kick my ass? You wish. You’re out of shape, my friend.”

The truth was, the two men were as different physically as they were genetically. Val was small, with a wiry build and the coloring of his Cuban ancestors. Rick was big—six foot three—with blue eyes and fair hair.

“You think?” Rick looked down at his gut. “Can’t pinch an inch.”

“It’s all about training, my friend. My body’s a lethal instrument, while yours—”

Rick burst out laughing. “By any chance, is that the line you use with the ladies? Because, well … I think I should warn you, it’s pretty cheesy.”

Val, still single and a self-avowed playboy, grinned. “To you, maybe. But to the ladies, pure nectar.”

“Excuse me while I puke.”

“I know it’s hard to take. But it’s true, I’m a chick magnet. I could fix you up.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “We could double-date, like we did when we were in high school.”

“Pass on that, buddy. Thanks anyway.”

“Jill’s gone,” Val murmured. “Almost four years now.”

Rick averted his gaze, staring at the open doorway and the brilliant rectangle of light beyond. “That guy who was leaving when you walked in, he was complaining about his wife. Envying my single state. And all I could think was how not a day goes by that I don’t wish she’d lived long enough to make my life a living hell.”

Val swore softly. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it. It’s my problem.”

Several moments of strained silence passed between them. Val drained his cup. “Gotta go, crime calls.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Missing person.”

“As in poof, gone?”

“Don’t know for sure.” Val stood. “The supervisor of Island National Bank’s processing center didn’t show up for work yesterday. A friend and co-worker tried to reach her and couldn’t. When she didn’t show up for their morning run this morning, her friend called us.”

Rick frowned. “That’s Naomi Pearson, right?”

“Yeah. You know her?”

“I’m a bartender. I know almost everybody on the island.” He searched his memory for how or when he had first met her. “I financed the Hideaway through Island National. I think I met her one time when I was up there. I hope she’s okay.”

“I’m sure she is. Probably met some guy and took off.” Val saluted. “Give me a call sometime. I’m in the book.”

CHAPTER 5

Saturday, November 3 4:30 p.m.

“Hey, boss man,” twenty-year-old Mark Morgan called as he entered Rick’s Island Hideaway. “What’s shakin’?”

Rick sat with his back to the door, head angled toward the television mounted from the ceiling behind the bar. He was watching the five-o’clock local news.

He glanced over his shoulder at him and smiled. “Not much. There was an anthrax scare up in Homestead. A jealous husband sent his soon-to-be ex a letter containing a powdery substance.”

“Which turned out to be?” Mark asked.

“Cornstarch. But the hoax closed the entire office building where the woman works. What’s with these people?” “No joke. Sick.”

Rick glanced back at the tube. “It’s official. Fantasy-Fest attendance was way down this year. No surprise there.”

Fantasy Fest, a nine-day adult Halloween celebration that culminated in a huge costume party on Duval Street, was the wildest thing Mark had ever seen. “If attendance was down this year, I’d hate to be around when it’s up.”

Rick snapped off the TV. “Libby called. She’s running late.”

“No problem. I’ll clock in.”

Libby, one of the nighttime bartenders, was consistently late. The original party girl, she stayed up all night and slept most of the day. In anticipation, Rick had begun scheduling her an hour before he needed her.

Mark smiled to himself, crossed to the time clock and punched in. That’s the kind of guy Rick was. Flexible but demanding; a laid-back perfectionist, if such a thing was possible. He wanted what he wanted but wasn’t averse to finding a roundabout way to get it.

Mark liked that about his boss. He enjoyed working for him. He figured God had been looking out for him big time when he sent Rick Wells his way.

Like a lot of folks on the island, Mark was relatively new to Key West. Two years before, he had graduated from high school in Humble, Texas, concluded much to his family’s dismay that he’d had enough of school for a while and set off to see a bit of the world. After bumming around the Southeast, he landed in south Florida, then Key West.

He had found Rick’s Island Hideaway by chance. A Help Wanted sign in the window had propelled him inside. Rick had hired him on the spot. Mark wasn’t sure if Rick had given him the job because they’d hit it off right away—which they had—or because Mark didn’t touch alcohol, a rare commodity on this island.

“How was your day?” Rick asked from the doorway.

Mark thought of Tara, his girlfriend of three months. He had beeped her half a dozen times throughout the day, but she hadn’t responded.

Had she tired of him already?

He lifted a shoulder, feigning indifference. “It was pretty cool. How about yours?”

“Good. Business was steady, but not nuts. Val stopped by.”

“Great.” Mark slipped on an apron and headed out to the bar. Florida law required a person to be twenty-one to serve alcohol, but he did just about everything else around the Hideaway, from washing glasses and replenishing stock, to mopping behind the bar and sweeping the walk in front of the Hideaway. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but then Mark wasn’t qualified for glamorous.

“Anything in particular you want done first?” he asked Rick, who had followed him out front.

“Glasses, then straighten up for the rush. Wipe all the tables and chairs, sweep the floor.”

“You got it, boss.”

Mark worked in silence, his thoughts turning to Tara once more. They’d met shortly after he’d gotten the job at Rick’s. He’d been working; she’d been out partying with her friends. They had looked at each other and something had happened—it had been instant and electrifying.

Love at first sight.

Problem was, she was only seventeen and still in high school. A senior, she would graduate in May. Worse than her age, however, were her friends. She was part of a closely knit group, more a club than simply a clique of friends. They partied, used drugs and were sexually active. They espoused ideas that went against Mark’s upbringing, materialistic ones about the existence of only the here and now, about living for today not tomorrow, about enjoying the moment and all it had to offer.

Once he had learned what she was a part of, he’d told her it was over between them. But she had begged him to see her again. She loved him; she would break away from her friends, distance herself from their beliefs.

So far, she hadn’t been too successful at doing that. But then, it didn’t seem to him that she had tried all that hard.

Is that where she had been all day? he wondered, hoisting a tray of clean glasses onto his shoulder and heading out to the bar. Running around with her friends? Seeing other guys? Partying the way she used to?

Anger rose up in him, swift and white-hot. He fought to get a grip on it. Anger was a powerful, destructive force. One of the seven deadly sins. The one he had to battle often. The one that had gotten him into trouble before—big trouble.

Tara had changed, he told himself. He had to believe in her, he had to trust. He loved her.

Mark sighed. Tara didn’t understand his religious convictions; he didn’t understand her lack of them. Raised in a strict Southern Baptist family, the church had played a major part in his childhood. In fact, in first grade he had announced that when he grew up, he was going to be a preacher. His conviction to do so hadn’t wavered until just months before his high-school graduation.

Suddenly, he had felt called in another direction.

His change of heart had both shocked and dismayed his family. They’d begged him to reconsider, had asked their pastor to intervene. But Mark had held fast to his decision. He had argued that he needed to experience sin firsthand before he preached against it. After all, how could he counsel others on spiritual strength if his had never been tested?

Mark loaded the glasses onto the shelves behind the bar, aware of Rick at the other end, chatting with a pair of tourists about the area’s best bone fishing and where to hire a guide. He swallowed hard and acknowledged the irony of it all: he was knee-deep in sin and spiritual warfare, and most days, not faring so well in the battle.

Glasses done, Mark moved on to the tables and chairs, aware of time passing, and that the trickle of customers entering the bar would soon be a surge. Libby had arrived and was flirting with a pair of guys drinking shots and beer. Locals, Mark recognized. They came in a couple times a week, always together and always wearing matching Miami Dolphins caps.

So, where had Tara been all day? Why hadn’t she returned his pages?

She had been acting strangely of late, jumpy and distracted, crying a lot. She’d lost weight and looked tired all the time, with dark circles under her eyes.

Maybe she didn’t really love him. Maybe she loved her friends and their wild lifestyle more.

Business grew brisk, and Mark managed to put all thoughts of Tara aside until a lull offered him the opportunity to call her.

Using Rick’s office phone, he dialed. At the sound of her voice, twin emotions of relief and anger cascaded over him. “Where have you been?”

“Nowhere,” she answered immediately, tone defensive.

“I paged you five times today. You didn’t call me back.”

“The battery’s dead. Geez.”

A twinge of guilt speared through him. He quashed it by mustering indignation. After all, she could have called him. “Did you do it today? Like you promised? Did you tell your friends you didn’t want to see them anymore?”

“Why are you acting this way!” she cried. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I didn’t even see my friends today.”

He let out a sharp breath, wishing not for the first time that he had broken it off with her when he discovered who her friends were. “You made a promise to me, Tara. You haven’t kept it.”

“It’s not that easy! You don’t understand.”

“Is it me you don’t want to be with anymore, Tara? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“No! I love you, you know that.” Her voice broke. “But today … I—”

She bit the words back and emotion balled in his chest, part frustration and part despair. Another of her excuses. Why of all the girls in the world, had he fallen in love with her?

“I’m so tired of this conversation, Tara. So tired of you claiming you love me then turning around and—”

“I have to go.”

“Don’t do this to me, Tara. All day I worried and now—”

Rick popped his head into the office. “Need you out front, Mark. Wrap it up.”

Mark nodded and held up one finger, indicating he needed just a moment more.

When the other man had exited the office, he returned to Tara. “Please, babe, talk to me.”

“Meet me later.” He heard her parents in the background calling to her. “Our regular place.”

He fought frustration. “Are you sure you can get away? Last time you didn’t show.”

“I’ll be there. I—” her voice cracked “—I love you, Mark.”

Before he could respond, she had hung up. Mark held the silent receiver to his ear a moment, conflicting emotions roiling inside him. Finally, he hung up and hurried back out to the bar area. Rick looked at him, brow furrowed with concern. “Everything okay?” he asked.

Mark hesitated. Rick was his friend. He was a smart guy. He would be able to help. Offer advice, support.

Mark opened his mouth to respond, the whole story—of how he and Tara had met, her wild friends, his doubts about her—springing to his tongue. From the corners of his eyes he saw Libby glance their way, obviously curious.

Mark thought forward, to the possible consequences of unburdening himself to Rick. Tara was underage. He didn’t think Rick would go to her parents, but if he did … anything could happen. He could be arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

Her parents would tear the two of them apart.

Mark hadn’t even met them yet. Tara had been almost rabid on the subject, growing hysterical the couple of times he had tried to push the issue. They were strict, she said. They wouldn’t want her to date an outsider, an older boy. Fearful word would get back to them, Tara had insisted they keep the seriousness of their relationship a secret from everybody, even her friends.

Mark swallowed the words and forced a smile. “Everything’s just great, boss man. Thanks for asking.”

The lush, walled garden at Paradise Christian Church had become Mark and Tara’s personal Garden of Eden. Although the garden entrance was locked at sundown, Tara, as one of the church’s volunteer tour guides, had a key.

The first time they’d made love had been in the garden, the thick grass soft beneath them, the fragrant scent of the night jasmine, sweet olive and ginger filling their heads. The experience had been so perfect, so incredibly sweet, Mark had almost been able to forget that it had been a sin.

They weren’t husband and wife. She was underage. For all intents and purposes, they were breaking into God’s backyard. Sinning under his nose.

But was it a sin when they loved each other? When they had vowed to stay together forever?

Suppressing a twinge of guilt, Mark approached the garden door. The night was still; nearly 3:00 a.m., the street deserted. He saw that the latch was open. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he sidled up to the door then ducked inside.

“Tara,” he called softly, securing the door behind him. Something scurried through the underbrush. A bird roosting in one of the trees screamed protest at the noise.

Mark jumped at the sound, then moved farther into the garden. “Tara,” he called again, annoyed, “I’m not in the mood to play this game tonight.”

One moment became several. A sudden unease rippled over him. He opened his mouth to call out again, when she stepped out from behind one of the banyan trees at the back of the garden, a petite figure dressed in white.

Joy at seeing her warred with irritation. He felt as if she was toying with him, with his emotions. “What was that all about?” he demanded when he reached her. “For a moment I thought … something had happened to you. That you weren’t here.”

He saw then that she had been crying. He brought a hand to her damp cheek. “What’s wrong?”

She covered her face with her hands and bent her head, her long dark hair spilling over her fingers.

“Talk to me, babe.” He caught her hands and drew them away from her face. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Her big, dark eyes filled with tears. “I’m pregnant!” she cried. “I went to the doctor today and he … he—”

She burst into tears. The anger and jealousy he had battled all day evaporated. He struggled to find his voice. When he did, it came out strangled. “But I thought we … weren’t we … careful?”

The force of her sobs increased. He kicked himself for his lack of tact. Obviously, they hadn’t been careful enough.

“I’m sorry, Tara. Don’t cry. I love you. It’s going to be okay.”

“How? What are we going to do? An abortion costs—”

“Never,” he retorted fiercely. He caught her hands again, squeezing them tightly. “I love you. You love me. This is our baby, our child.” A feeling of certainty flowed over him, easing his fear. “We’ll get married. We’ll be a family.”

“But … how? We’re … I’m afraid, Mark,” she finished helplessly.

“I’ll take care of you, Tara. I promise you that.”

“And we’ll be happy,” she murmured, voice cracking. “Really happy, right?”

She sounded young and frightened. Too young to become a wife and mother.

They were both too young. They were not ready for the responsibility of raising a child. Neither emotionally nor financially.

Sudden and total panic washed over him. What was he doing? Tara had been involved in things that went against everything he believed in. What kind of pastor’s wife would she make? What kind of role model for their children?

It was too late to worry about that now. They were going to have a baby. He was going to be a father.

He needed to be strong for her, he realized. He needed to be strong for them both. Spiritually and emotionally. If he showed her the way, she would follow. Because she believed in him. She loved him.

And he loved her.

He drew her into his arms. “Babe, remember when I told you that I felt I was being called to Key West? Remember when I said I thought God had led me here, but I didn’t know why? That I thought He had a special plan for me?”

“Yes,” she replied weakly. “But what—”

“I think this is it, Tara. I think He led me to you. I think He meant for us to make this baby. For us to be a family.”

She tipped her head back and met his eyes. “You do? Really?” The hopefulness in her voice made him ache.

“I do,” he repeated, tone strong now, certain. “Let Him lead you, Tara. If you do, if we do, everything will be fine. This was meant to be. We were meant to be.”

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