Dead Run. Erica Spindler
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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