Rick was silent a moment, absorbing what she had told him, weighing it in his mind. He met her eyes. “What’s your interpretation of his experience?”

She shifted, tucking her legs under her, expression pensive. “I believe Mark was given a powerful, mind-altering combination of drugs. I believe they influenced his perception of the experience. There are a number of drugs or combination of drugs that could have elicited those feelings. Ecstasy and cocaine are powerful sexual stimulants. LSD causes bizarre visual hallucinations and distorted physical perceptions. After an acid trip, the user may suffer acute anxiety or depression for a varying period of time.”

Rick pursed his lips. “Which could be what Mark’s been continuing to experience.”

“Exactly. In addition, because of its structural similarity to a chemical in the brain and its similarity to certain aspects of psychosis, LSD has been used as a research tool to study mental illness. The full spectrum of effects of peyote and mescaline have also served as a chemically induced model of mental illness.”

She met his eyes. “These people are toying with powerful, dangerous drugs. Chemicals with the ability to cause a psychic break in the right individual.”

They fell silent a moment. She pulled in a deep, fortifying breath. “This cult exists. They’re dangerous. And I believe one-or more than one-of them is a murderer.”

“A bold statement.”

“Yes.” She cocked up her chin. “What do you think, Rick? Something brought you to my door tonight and, call me cynical, but I don’t believe it was my sister’s Bible.”

“Something’s not right about this, Liz. About all of it. We’ve got two women brutally murdered in a manner nearly identical to the method used by a serial killer presently on death row. We’ve got another woman missing, now presumed murdered. Suspect number one is a twenty-year-old man from Texas. A young man who was in middle school during the height of Gavin Taft’s rein of terror. Yes, he could have studied the man’s crimes, but it seems unlikely. First off, there are details of the crimes difficult to come by, even with the Internet. The weapon, for one. The length and depth of the blows. The markings. The similarities are too damn close.

“That’s the key, Liz. I keep coming back to those similarities. Put everything else aside and look at how those women were killed. The way Taft killed. There’s a connection. And I don’t believe Val, or anybody else working the case, is looking hard enough at it. They’re so busy running around trying to find a suspect, they’re ignoring the biggest real clue they have.”

He stood and began to pace. “A killer driven to acts such as those committed by Taft is motivated by some internal compulsion, some mechanism inside that seeks release. That release can only be found through a specific and highly individual ritual, one acted out with each victim.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean by a ritual?”

“Everything about the crime. How the victims are chosen and why. The manner in which they’re killed. Where and how he disposes of the bodies. Whether or not they’re sexually assaulted. In some cases, even the geographic location of the crimes becomes part of the ritual.

“In Taft’s case, he established a cursory relationship with the women. For him, that was part of the thrill. He chose young, attractive women. The youngest in her late teens, the oldest her late twenties. He slit their throats, mutilated their genitalia and carved pseudo-religious symbols and verses on their torsos and thighs, postmortem. All were found naked, bodies arranged arms out, one foot on top of the other, as if they had been crucified.”

“So you’re saying it’s not killing the women that satisfies these monsters, but how they kill them?”

He met her eyes, saw the horror in them and wished he could protect her from the truth. “Exactly. Serial killers are a different breed of criminal. They don’t kill for the typical reasons, jealousy, greed, hatred or anger. And the way they kill is as individual as a fingerprint. Copycatting a killer to divert suspicion for a single crime, to get rid of a lover or business partner, for example, I could buy. But a serial adopting another psychopath’s fingerprint for a series, it doesn’t work that way.”

“So, what do the police have on Mark? It must be something more than the fact he knew both women and was at the scene the night of Tara’s murder. Don’t you need more than that to arrest someone?”

“Yeah, you do. My guess is they found something damn incriminating in his room.”

“The weapon?”

“No. Because now they’ve turned their attention to Stephen-”

“Who was in possession of a knife similar to the one used to kill Tara and Naomi Pearson,” she filled in for him. “If they already had the weapon, that wouldn’t be such a big deal.” She let out a long breath. “Do you think it’s possible Stephen’s the one?”

“Could Stephen go over the bend and kill someone, sure. Anyone can snap that way.” He stopped pacing and swung to face her. “Once again, I come back to the similarities to the Taft murders. Stephen’s lived on Key West his entire life and reads at maybe a second-grade level. A guy like Stephen doesn’t cruise the Internet. He doesn’t read the newspaper and he sure as hell didn’t work with the man. Any way I look at it, he had zero opportunity to study Taft.”

“Val asked me if Stephen and Mark knew each other.”

“They’re both suspects. He’s wondering if they could have done this together. At this point he’s exploring all possibilities.”

“I didn’t answer, but I think he knew. I had this feeling he could see right through me.”

Rick thought of his friend, of the way his mind worked. “Val’s smart. Real smart. And for as much as I believe he’s not handling this investigation correctly, he’s a good cop. Don’t ever underestimate him.”

“What about Pastor Tim?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“Mark told me that Tara didn’t like him. That he scared her. He suggested Pastor Tim might have planted the Bible and the knife. Geographically, he had as much opportunity as Stephen to kill Tara.”

“Tim?” Rick repeated, tone doubtful.

“You know him?”

“Sure. I played high-school ball with him, though he was two years older. So did Val.”

She made a sound of confusion. “He’s from Key West? I thought he only arrived after my sister disappeared.”

“No, Tim grew up here. In fact, he was pretty much a hero around here his senior year. He took the Fighting Conchs to the state football championship.”

Rick slipped his hands into his pockets. “He left to play ball for Florida State, then was drafted by the NFL. He only played a couple years, then dropped out to go to seminary. Said God called him. Could have knocked all of us over with a feather. I mean, who makes the NFL then voluntarily leaves? And to become a pastor?”

“What team?” she asked.

“Miami Dolphi…”

Rick’s voice trailed off. He did the math.

Tim had been in Miami about the time Gavin Taft had been on his killing spree.

He could tell by her expression that she had done the calculations, too. “He told me he didn’t know my sister. That he’d never met her.”

“That could be true, though it’s difficult to believe. His parents are members of the Paradise Christian congregation, or at least they used to be, and he visited quite often. However, your sister wasn’t on the island that long. He may have had an interim position somewhere that I’m not aware of.”

She glanced down at her hands, then back up at him. “There’s something I haven’t told you or anyone else.”

She held up her right hand. “See these bands? They were my mother’s. Eternity bands. Before she died, she gave one to me and one to Rachel. She asked that we never take them off-they would link the three of us for eternity.”

He drew his eyebrows together, confused. “Then how did you get Rachel’s?”