Dead Run

They agreed it was and made an introductory appointment for their daughter for later that afternoon.

That first meeting with the teenager had gone much as Liz had expected. Tara Mancuso had barely made eye contact, let alone spoken. She’d been sullen, angry and resentful.

No surprises there: adolescents were the most difficult age group to work with, especially when they were unwilling participants in the process.

Liz had determined that she’d need to see Tara twice a week, but she knew it would be difficult to get her into the office that often. She decided to take it one session at a time, starting with this afternoon.

That had been three days ago. She hoped today’s session would prove more productive.

If the girl showed up.

She did, though fifteen minutes late. Liz greeted her and ushered her into the office. “How are you today, Tara?”

The teenager looked away, lips pressed tightly together. The sun filtered through the window and fell across the girl’s face, making her appear even paler than she was. In contrast, the dark circles under her eyes stood out like fresh bruises.

She could be using, Liz acknowledged. She had the look of someone strung out on drugs. Although her appearance could be a reflection of extreme emotional distress as well.

Liz tried a different tack. “Are you eating?”

The question must have surprised the girl because she looked directly at Liz. “What?”

She repeated her question.

“Why do you care?”

“Because you look sick.”

Tara hugged herself, expression transforming from defiant to miserable. Almost guilty. “I haven’t been feeling well, that’s all. I can’t sleep and food, it makes me … “

She let the last trail off, though Liz had a good idea of what she had been about to say—that food made her ill.

“Is it something I can help with?”

A brittle-sounding laugh slipped past her lips. “I don’t think so.”

“Your parents are very worried about you.”

Her throat worked. She glanced over her shoulder at Liz’s closed door then back at her. “I know. I’m sorry about that. I’m—”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and lowered her gaze to her lap.

“You’re what, Tara?”

The girl drew in a shuddering breath. “I … I don’t want to talk about that.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk to you at all.” Liz folded her hands in her lap. “We could just sit here, but it seems like a waste.” “Of my parents’ money?” “Of both our time.”

“What do you care? I don’t even know you.”

“I heard you talked with Pastor Rachel.”

Her already pale face went ashen. “I don’t want to talk about her!”

“I can help you, Tara. Trust me.”

“No!” The teenager leaped to her feet. “You can’t help me. Nobody can!”

Liz followed her to her feet, hand out in supplication. “Let me try. You let Pastor Rachel try.”

“And look what happened to her!”

Liz’s heartbeat quickened. “What do you mean? What happened to her?”

“She’s gone now. Gone! And I’m here. I’m—”

She brought her hands to her face. Her shoulders shook with what Liz thought were tears, but when she dropped her hands Liz saw that her eyes were dry.

She looked at Liz, expression curiously neutral. “Do you believe in God?” she asked. “Do you believe in heaven and hell? In the devil and eternal damnation?”

Startled, Liz replied that she did. “Do you, Tara?” she asked.

“Pastor Rachel did. She warned me against the devil.”

For a moment, Liz couldn’t find her voice. She wondered what her sister had told this impressionable and troubled young woman.

“And what did she say when she warned you, Tara?”

“That the Evil One masks himself and his army of the damned in beauty. He is seductive, his pleasures earthly and immediate. But beneath, his stench is more foul than any known to man. She warned that the price of succumbing was the eternal fires of hell.”

Liz hid her dismay. Her sister couldn’t have said that. The woman she had known never would have. Never.

Liz tilted her head, studying the teenager. The fanatical light in the girl’s eyes troubled her. Liz suspected she had found the source of imbalance in the girl’s life. She made a mental note to speak with Pastor Tim about the family’s religious beliefs.

“Can I tell you a story?” the teenager asked suddenly. “It’s about a miracle.”

“If you’d like.”

Tara inched back to her chair and sank onto it, never breaking eye contact with Liz. Liz followed suit, then waited, hands folded in her lap.

After a moment, Tara began. “In 1846, back when Paradise Christian still belonged to the Catholic church, the Blessed Virgin appeared to children playing in the churchyard. Twenty-four hours later blood ran from the hands of the statue of Christ, in the church’s sanctuary.”

Tara began to tremble. “Fourteen days later a hurricane hit Key West. It devastated the island and destroyed the church. A third of the island’s inhabitants were killed.”

Tara lowered her voice to a strained whisper. “The Catholic archdiocese decided the visions had been the work of demons and struck all accounting of them from their official records.”

Liz cleared her throat. “So how did you learn the story?”