>
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
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.
