“Stop trying to scare me.”

“But some serials select their stranger, then forge a minimal relationship with them before killing them.”

“You’re leaving now.”

She crossed to the door and began to open it. He stopped her. “The relationship, the trust is a stimulant for these killers. It increases their thrill in the kill. Gavin Taft operated that way. Ultimately, it was his undoing. Most probably it will be Mark’s as well. If he’s the one.”

She didn’t make a move, so he forged ahead.

“Naomi and Mark knew each other through their church. They were in Bible study. That would inspire a deep element of trust.”

She looked shaken. “I don’t want to hear any more. Please leave.”

“Now he’s forging a relationship with you. The frightened boy. The victim. You respond to that. You trust him because he needs you.”

“Stop it.”

He caught her arm. “But you do trust him. Isn’t that right, Liz?”

“Why are you doing this!” She wrenched her arm free of his grasp. “Why are you trying to frighten me this way!”

“Because I don’t want anything to happen to you, dammit!”

Her expression softened. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I know things you don’t.”

He caught his breath. “He’s contacted you, hasn’t he?”

She hesitated, but only a fraction of a second. And in that moment Rick knew. “He’s wanted by the police, Liz. On a murder charge, for God’s sake.”

“I haven’t heard from him.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then that’s your problem, isn’t it?”

He swore and swung away from her, frustrated. She didn’t get it. Her blind trust in this kid could get her dead.

She came up behind him and laid a hand on his arm. He looked at it, then at her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For caring what happens to me.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t.” He stepped away from her hand. “Because with your reckless attitude, you may not be around that long.”

CHAPTER 37

Monday, November 19

Noon

Carla parked her cruiser in front of Paradise Christian. Pastor Tim waited in front of the church for her, expression panicked.

She shook her head and climbed out of her car. A popular pastor disappears. A serial killer is slicing up young women. A prominent citizen bilks a million bucks from his employer then kills himself. Now a depression had formed in the western Caribbean, a depression with the potential to become a full-fledged hurricane. It seemed to her that paradise was going to hell in a handbasket.

The pastor rushed to meet her. “Thanks for coming, Detective. It’s Stephen, the church caretaker…I didn’t know what to do, so I called the police.”

“Slow down,” she murmured. “Tell me what happened.”

He nodded and clasped his hands together. “I hadn’t seen Stephen in a day or two, so I grew concerned. I went to his quarters to check on him. And I found-”

His voice broke. “Come, let me show you.”

They hurried around the side of the church, bypassing the garden. Carla saw the parsonage, then a smaller building behind it.

“That’s where Stephen lives,” Pastor Tim said as if reading her mind. “Originally it was the buggy barn, then an equipment shed. It was converted to living quarters after Stephen returned from the sanatorium in Miami. He didn’t do well there, and the church decided to accept responsibility for his full-time care.”

They reached the dwelling’s entrance. The door stood slightly ajar. “Was the door open before you went in?” she asked.

The pastor hung back slightly, expression queasy. “No. I knocked, then tried the knob. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone in, but I was worried.”

Carla didn’t comment. She crossed to the door and tapped on it. “Police! Anybody home?” No one responded and she tried again. When she got the same response, she pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside. The interior was neat, its furnishings basic.

Pastor Tim came up beside her. “There-” he pointed “-on the bed.”

The twin bed was pushed up against the right wall, under a small, curtainless window. The baby-blue chenille spread looked worn. Ditto for the pastel, floral sheets. Carla crossed to the bed.

Pastel, floral sheets smeared with blood. Carla gazed at the unmistakable puddles, spots and swirls, her vision blurring for a fraction of a second.

To hell in a handbasket, no doubt about it.

So much for paradise.

“Is that what I thought it-”

“Yes,” Carla replied grimly. “Please stand back, Pastor. Did you touch anything earlier?”

“No, I-”

“Good.”

“Do you think Stephen is-” The clergyman’s voice shook. “I mean, that seems like an awful lot of blood. Is it an awful lot, Detective?”

It wasn’t a little.

Carla thought of Tara. But she had seen more. A lot more.

“You say you haven’t seen Stephen in a couple days?”

“That’s right.”

Carla fitted on a pair of rubber gloves. Bending, she carefully examined the bedding, pulling the top sheet away from the fitted. The blood appeared fairly fresh. She touched a large irregular-shaped spot and found it was still damp.

She shifted her gaze to the floor by the bed. A bloody trail led away from the bed and toward the back of the room and a door set into the wall. A bloody handprint stood out in bold relief on the pale yellow paint.

Carla’s heart jumped to her throat. She swallowed past it. “That a closet?”

“I think so but I’m not sure.”

She unclipped her cell phone, punched in the number for headquarters number and requested backup, ASAP. Possible homicide, she informed the dispatcher, then flipped the phone closed. She glanced at the pastor. “I think you’d better wait outside.”

“But Stephen may need-”

A moan from the other side of the door interrupted his words. Carla sprang toward the door and yanked it open. Not a closet, she realized in the same instant she registered the condition of the room’s occupant.

He was naked save for a pair of bloodied boxer shorts. His limbs, torso and hands were also stained red. A Bible was open on the cot beside him; pages that had been ripped from it littered the cot and floor. His face was tipped heavenward and Carla saw that his eyes were rolled back in his head.

“Stephen,” Pastor Tim cried, alarmed. “Are you all right?”

The caretaker’s head snapped down. For the space of a heartbeat he stared at them, his good eye wide, expression terrified. Then he opened his mouth and a terrible sound came out, the sound of a wild animal in pain. The sound tripped along Carla’s nerve endings and sent shudders racing up her arms.

She saw the knife clutched in his hand. The kind a hunter might use, with an edge that was both serrated and smooth. Its four-inch blade was covered with blood.

Dammit. Carla went for her weapon. But not fast enough. With a bloodcurdling howl, the caretaker launched to his feet and charged her.

“Watch out, Pastor!” she called, lunging sideways in an attempt to protect them both.

She didn’t completely elude the caretaker. He caught her shoulder and sent her crashing into the opposite wall. Pain shot through her side, and even as she righted herself and took off after him, she wondered if he had managed to cut her.

“Freeze!” she shouted. “Freeze or I’ll shoot.”

He didn’t acknowledge her command with the slightest pause in his flight. Carla was vaguely aware of a group of tourists in the distance, of their frightened squeals. And of the sound of sirens. The cavalry. Thank God.

She darted toward the garden. She heard screaming. A shout for help. A child began to cry.

She burst through the gate. Stephen was running back and forth, knife clutched in his hand, sounds more animal than human spilling from his misshapen mouth.

She shouted for the civilians to get back. From the corner of her eyes she saw her backup storm the garden from the other entrance, weapons drawn. From Duval Street came the sound of more sirens.