fisted her fingers. She had shared her sister’s message and her suspicions with the police. Instead of convincing them to reopen their investigation, the information had validated their own belief that Rachel had suffered a mental breakdown.
A burst of laughter jarred her out of her thoughts. A group of teenagers had congregated outside her storefront. They appeared to range in age from early to late teens; one of them carried a baby in a papoose on her back. Unkempt, dressed in ragged jeans and tie-dyed T-shirts, they looked like street kids. Throwbacks to the hippies of the 1960s.
The Rainbow Nation kids, Liz realized. Her sister had told her about them. Unlike sixties-era hippies, however, the Rainbow Nation was a highly organized, international network that even boasted a Web site. They traveled from one warm climate to another, panhandling for a living. Here, they had claimed Christmas Tree Island—an uninhabited spoil island created by dredging refuse and covered with pine trees—as their own. Rachel had wanted to minister to them, had promised herself that bringing them the Word would be one of her missions.
Had Rachel acted on that promise? Liz wondered, moving her gaze over the group, settling on the broad shoulders and back of the tallest of them. Or had her ministry on Key West ended before she’d had a chance?
As if the young man felt her scrutiny, he turned and looked directly at her, his dark gaze uncomfortably intense. A slow smile crept across his face, one that conveyed both amusement and malevolence.
Liz told herself to laugh or shoot him back a cocky smile. She found herself unable to do so. Instead, she stood frozen, heart thumping so hard against the wall of her chest that it hurt.
A moment later he broke the connection, turned and left with his friends.
Liz released a shaky breath and rubbed her arms, chilled. Why had he looked at her that way? What about her had earned his contempt?
She shifted her gaze slightly, taking in her own reflection in the glass. Thin, pale face. Medium-brown hair, green eyes, mouth slightly too wide for her face.
She used to be attractive, she thought. She had possessed one of those bold smiles, the kind that both inspired confidence and put others at ease. People had been drawn to her. They had liked her.
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
