“No, it’s not. I feel the same way.”

They stared at each other a moment, something passing between them, something strong. Rick jerked his gaze away, uncomfortable with the connection.

“What did you mean about recognizing the killer’s style?”

He returned his gaze to hers, choosing his words carefully. “A number of years ago a serial killer was operating in the Miami area. He killed young women in the same fashion Tara was killed.”

Rick saw that his words shook her, but she met his gaze evenly anyway. He noticed that her eyes were a clear, light green. “How did…I saw a lot of blood, but I didn’t…The paper said her throat was slit.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what wasn’t in the paper.” When he hesitated, she leaned toward him, expression earnest. “I was there, Rick. I know there’s more.”

So he told her, quietly, without drama, excluding only the most gruesome details.

Liz paled. She struggled, he saw, not to cry. “And that’s how…that killer in Miami -”

“Gavin Taft. Yes.”

“And he was never caught?”

“He was,” Rick corrected. “And convicted. At present, his address is death row at the Florida State Prison in Starke.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand. If these killings mirror those others and that murderer is behind bars, who…”

Her words trailed away. He picked up the thought where she had left off. “I don’t understand either. Not yet anyway. Could be a copycat. Or an accomplice the police didn’t know about.”

Silence fell between them. She broke it first. “Have you ever heard of an old priest named Father Paul?”

Rick thought a moment, then shook his head. “I’m not Catholic.”

“ Tara said he knew the story about the appearance of the Blessed Virgin. I thought…if I could talk to him, maybe-”

“This might make sense?”

“Something like that.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, expression anguished. “I can’t stop thinking that I should have been able to do…something. That somehow I could have stopped this terrible thing from happening.”

“She was murdered, Liz. You were her counselor, not her bodyguard.”

“But she was my patient. Even though we only met twice, it was my job to help her.” Liz clasped her hands together. “You said she knew her attacker. That means she put herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was my job to try to stop her from that kind of destructive behavior.”

Rick felt for her. He understood. He thought of Sam, his senseless death. His own part in it. Yes, he understood. Only too well.

“Call the Catholic archdiocese. Or Our Lady Star of the Sea Catholic Church. I bet they’ll be able to help you.”

She looked away, then back. “How can I help you, Rick?”

He leaned toward her. “I wondered if there was anything you could tell me about the other night that would be helpful. Something you might not have thought was important at first. A noise? A smell? A sense of something being out of place or wrong?”

She tipped her hands up. “I told the police everything.”

“Would you tell me what you told them?”

She agreed and recounted the events of early Saturday morning-she had been unable to sleep and had gone for a run. A block past Paradise Christian Church, she had felt compelled to turn toward the church. A noise had drawn her to the garden door. It had been unlocked. When she’d pushed it open, a cat had leaped out at her. She had entered the garden. And found Tara.

“And that’s it? You’re certain? Sometimes, in the shock of the moment, a witness can overlook something small, something that seems inconsequential. Sometimes it’s that very thing that cracks a case.”

Liz shook her head. “I can’t-”

“Think. Carefully go over the events of that night, the sessions you had with Tara, the things she said. Your impressions.”

“As I said, I only met with her twice. Her parents were worried about her…she was obviously troubled. Frightened about somethi-”

“Frightened? Of what?”

She looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know. She seemed to have a bizarre view of religion. A fanatical view of heaven, hell, the devil. That’s another reason I wanted to talk to Father Paul.”

He thought a moment, working to put the pieces together. “Did you know who the baby’s father was?”

“Excuse me?”

“The baby’s father,” he repeated. “ Tara knew her killer. Aspects of the crime indicate the killer was aware of her pregnancy.”

The blood had drained from her face and Rick realized his mistake. She hadn’t known.

He held a hand out. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

“A baby?” She stood. He saw that she shook. “ Tara was…pregnant?”

He followed her to her feet. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I thought you-”

She started to cry, softly, the sound heartbreaking and helpless.

Rick crossed to her and took her awkwardly in his arms. She leaned into him, the tears becoming sobs that racked her thin frame.

He didn’t know what to do, so he simply held her.

After a time, Liz’s tears stopped and she eased away from him, obviously embarrassed. “I’m…that was so…uncalled-for.” She looked at him, then away. “I just…this has been hard.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets, uncertain how to respond. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ve made a total fool of myself.”

“Not at all.” He smiled. “Trust me, okay? I’m a bartender, I see lots of people making fools of themselves.”

She returned his smile, hers weak. “Thanks. I wish I could have helped you more.”

“If you think of anything about that night, you’ll call me at the Hideaway?”

“I promise.”

They crossed to the stairs that led to the first floor and started down them, stopping when they reached the front door. Liz met his eyes. “It makes sense now, how she looked. Ill, like she wasn’t sleeping or eating. I thought she might be using but never that she might be pregnant.”

“It could even explain why she was frightened,” he murmured. “Still in high school, unmarried and pregnant. It doesn’t get too much bigger than that, does it?”

CHAPTER 23

Sunday, November 11

2:00 p.m.

Liz had taken Rick Wells’s suggestion and called Our Lady Star of the Sea Catholic Church. To Liz’s amazement the woman who answered the phone had known not only who Father Paul was but where Liz could find him: the old priest resided at St. Catherine’s, a local nursing home subsidized by the Catholic church.

The woman had assured her that Father Paul would be delighted to have a visitor, even if she wasn’t a Catholic.

Liz swept her gaze over the front of the building, a one-story, flamingo-pink stuccoed structure surrounded by palm trees and palmettos. Liz guessed it had been built in the late sixties or early seventies, a period of architecture better forgotten.

She entered the residence. She had been in many such homes over the years and although relatively small, this one wasn’t much different. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old age. Straight ahead lay the nurses’ station; to her right, a large community area, outfitted with a console television, several game tables and three sofas. The game tables were empty this afternoon, the couches full. In addition, a half-dozen residents in wheelchairs clustered around the TV, much to the irritation of a loudly complaining few whose view of the movie-Charlton Heston’s The Ten Commandments-was obstructed.

Liz crossed to the information desk. As she did, a small dust mop of a dog darted toward her. He came to a stop at her feet, whined and assumed the “feed me” position-weight on back haunches, front paws up. Judging by his rotund appearance, he received plenty of treats. Liz squatted and scratched him behind the ears. “You’re a cute little guy,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to give you.”

He cocked his head, as if deciding whether she was being straight with him, then dropped to all fours and waddled off. She watched him go, then stood.