Dead Run

“I grew up on the island,” she murmured. “Some stories can’t be hushed.” She fell silent a moment, expression far away. “There are those who believe the Blessed Mother appeared to warn the faithful of the disaster to come. That like the Great Flood, the hurricane was delivered by the Lord to punish the wicked. To make them pay for their sins.”

Liz swallowed hard. “Is that what you believe, Tara?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

“Yes, it does. It—”

“I have to go now.” The girl stood so abruptly she sent her chair sailing backward. She hurried toward the door.

“Wait!” Liz jumped to her feet. “Is that what Pastor Rachel believed? Did you tell her that story? Did you—”

“Ask Father Paul, he’ll tell you. He believes.” Tara yanked open the door and dashed out to the waiting room.

Liz took off after her, heart racing. “Tara, please! Don’t leave like this. We have to talk. We—”

She bit the last back. She was too late. Liz watched helplessly as the young woman darted across Duval Street, earning the blare of several horns as she was nearly struck by a moped.

When the teenager disappeared around the corner, Liz stepped back into her office, thoughts racing. Tara knew what had happened to Rachel; Liz was certain of it. The girl was frightened. Frightened that the same was going to happen to her.

That, Liz deduced, was why she wasn’t eating or sleeping. It explained the haunted look in her eyes.

As she shut the door and turned, her gaze landed on a sheet of folded paper on the floor by her feet. She bent, picked it up and opened it. A simple message had been typed on the first line of the notebook paper:

They know. You’re in danger here. Go before it’s too late.

CHAPTER 13

Friday, November 9 5:25 p.m.

Mark stood behind the bar, drying glasses that came out of the washer still wet. His thoughts raced forward, to the next hours, to the promise he had made. To Tara. To their unborn child.

Dear Lord, am I doing the right thing?

“Mark?”

He glanced toward Rick, standing at the cash register, the drawer open. Mark glanced at the drawer, then back at Rick, a catch in his chest. “Problem, boss?”

“I need to make a few phone calls. You think you can hold down the fort for a few minutes?”

Mark smiled, relieved. What? Did he think the man could read his mind? “This crush? Are you kidding?”

The last of the afternoon boozers had trickled out a minute ago. The evening crowd would soon begin cruising in.

Rick laughed. “Stay out of the Jack.” “No worries there, boss.”

“Call me if—”

Mark shooed him toward the office. “You worry too much. Make your calls, already.”

Chuckling, Rick disappeared through the doorway that led to the storage room and his office. Mark watched him go, counted to twenty once, then twice. Taking a deep breath, he inched his way to the cash register. There, he eased the drawer open.

It chimed and he froze, looking over his shoulder.

From the recesses of the bar, he heard Rick talking.

He was on the phone; he hadn’t heard.

Guilt swamped him. As did a feeling of falling, of spiraling down to the devil’s dark pit.

He had to do this. For Tara. For their baby.

Tonight he and Tara were running away together. They had planned to meet in the garden of Paradise Christian at 2:00 a.m. Everything was set. About an hour before closing, Mark was going to claim illness and leave early. He would be long gone before Rick closed—and discovered what Mark had done.

Quickly, Mark scrawled an IOU to Rick, lifted the cash drawer, slid the IOU under some checks, then extracted six hundred dollars.

Hands shaking, he pocketed the money and closed the drawer. He was scared senseless. How was he going to support a wife and child? He could hardly support himself.

This decision would be easier if Tara hadn’t been acting so funny. Distant and … unhappy. He had wondered if she was having second thoughts about him, about the prospect of spending her life with a humble preacher. He had wondered, God help him, if the baby wasn’t his.

How could they begin their lives together with that hanging over their relationship?

Let it go, Mark. That’s over. That part of her life is over.

He fisted his fingers. Tara was frightened. And not just of what their future would hold. Of her friends. They had threatened her. If she tried to leave their group, they had promised they would hurt her.

Tara feared they would kill her or the baby.

Mark didn’t believe that. These were a group of spoiled rich kids, not inner-city gangbangers. They were angry and not above using intimidation to terrorize Tara.

Mark couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t. Lord help him, he would do whatever it took to protect his own.

He figured they’d head to Texas, back home to Humble. His parents wouldn’t be happy, but they would support his decision because of the baby.

Mark sidled back down the bar and resumed his work. Rick appeared at the same moment a group of tourists entered the place, their raucous laughter the signal that Friday night had officially begun.

Rick smiled at Mark. Mark returned the smile, feeling lower than a snake’s belly. He wasn’t stealing, he reminded himself. He was only borrowing the money. He would pay Rick back someday, when he and Tara were settled, far away from Key West.

CHAPTER 14

Saturday, November 10 3:00 a.m.

Liz paced, her mind racing, sleep a million miles away. Thoughts of Tara and the note that had been slipped under her office door had stolen both her peace of mind and any hope of rest.

Rest? How could she rest when she was a hairsbreadth from a full-fledged panic attack?

Liz stopped pacing, closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose, focusing on the oxygen flowing into her, filling her lungs, then being expelled. When her heart rate slowed and the pressure in her chest lessened, she opened her eyes.

And found that she stood before her shuttered window. Light from the full moon slipped through the spaces between the slats. She unlatched the shutter and folded it open. The moonlight washed the night milky black. Below, Duval Street slept. A lone figure darted across the street.