Dead Run

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.”