by Lisa Jackson
Still, she drove, eyeing the road ahead. This part of I-5 was a treacherous gray snake that curved and twisted through the steep, forested mountains of southern Oregon. Having been behind the wheel for over seven hours through most of Washington and Oregon, she stepped on the accelerator, her Volvo’s tires singing as she passed semis that crept up the hills, then barreled down steep inclines.
Her stomach was rumbling, her mood decidedly souring. Sleep had eluded her this week, the recurring nightmare of her father’s death creeping through her subconscious, images of Cooper Trent interspersed with the horror of blood seeping over the hardwood floor.
After popping a couple of headache pills with two cups of black coffee this morning, she’d only stopped for a burger and a Diet Coke from a drive-through outside Portland. No wonder her stomach was roiling.
She’d drunk most of the bottle of water she thought to pack, and her headache was back, inching its painful way through her skull.
In the past few days, she’d cleaned out her refrigerator, prepaid her rent, and settled Diablo in with her neighbor, Mrs. Dixon, who’d been delighted—actually clapping her hands—at the prospect of caring for her favorite cat. Jules had also squared things with Tony and Dora at the 101, left messages with Gerri and Erin that she would be “out of town” for a while, then offered up a flimsy excuse to Edie about a possible teaching job in Northern California.
Now, with her head throbbing, Jules had to look ahead to her ultimate goal. If Blue Rock Academy was all it was cracked up to be, then fine, Shay would have to do her time. But, if Jules’s suspicions that the school wasn’t the shining institution for youth it claimed to be turned out to be true, then Jules intended to spring her sister and let the whole world see the academy for the sham it was.
Edie would have to deal with her daughter and find Shay a day facility. Or, if that didn’t work, Shay would have to swallow her considerable pride and attitude and live with Jules.
As the miles sped away, doubts assailed her.
What if you’re wrong? What if everything down at Blue Rock is totally on the level? What if you ‘re, as your ex so often said, an alarmist, a person looking for a good conspiracy?
“I’m not,” she said aloud as the radio station she’d picked up around Eugene started to fade. Rick Springfield’s “Jessie’s Girl,” part of the station’s playlist from “the eighties biggest hits” was rapidly being replaced by crackling static.
She hit the SCAN button and heard the remnants of an old Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson tune about mamas not letting their babies grow up to become cowboys.
In her mind’s eye, she saw Cooper Trent’s rugged face: crow’s-feet fanning out from deep-set eyes that shifted from green to gold in the sunlight. Straight hair, forever mussed, streaked by hours in the sun. A nose that had been broken more than once and a jaw that could be set so hard a pit bull would be envious. Not Hollywood handsome by any means, but strong and sexy and a major pain in the rear.
“Damn it!” She clicked off the radio. “Go away,” she muttered, not allowing her mind to linger on that son of a bitch. What had she been thinking, falling in love with a bull rider and, as it turned out, a bullshitter? What was the saying? When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Yeah, well, that’s the way it had been with Trent, and she was ticked at herself for even having the tiniest thought of him.
“A long, long time ago,” she reminded herself, and flipped on her wipers. Rain mixed with snow had begun to fall.
She didn’t have a GPS, so she was using a map she’d pulled off the Internet. So far, the trip had been easy: Drive onto I-5 and head south for over four hundred miles. But now things were getting a little dicier, as snow was beginning to fall, fat flakes skittering over her windshield and gathering along the edges of the highway.
Great, just great.
She slowed down, though fifty felt like a crawl. With relief, she saw the sign to exit the interstate. She turned off the expressway onto a county highway, a narrow road that traveled a serpentine path through steep canyons. Her knuckles ached from gripping the steering wheel. The small towns wedged into the hills were little more than four-way stops in the road. Such a deserted, lonely stretch of road, now white with snow.
Her cell beeped from its spot in the unused cup holder. She answered but kept one wary eye on the road. “Hello?”
“Ms. Farentino?” a vaguely familiar voice asked. “This is Dr. Hammersley of Blue Rock Academy.”
Jules’s heart sank. The school had figured out that she was a fraud, and the dean was calling to say they would not be hiring her.
Hammersley went on. “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.”
Oh, God. As the windshield wipers slapped the snow away, Jules looked for a place to pull over, but the road was too narrow, no wide spots or driveways allowing her a space to park. “What is it?”
“There’s been an accident.”
Shay! Her heart stopped. You’re too late! Something horrible has happened to your sister!
“I don’t want to alarm you,” Hammersley went on.
Too late!
“But I was afraid you might hear it on the news, so I wanted to tell you that one of our students has died, and another is in critical condition at a nearby hospital.”
Jules let out a little squeak of protest.
“The doctors are not certain that he’ll make it.”
Not certain that he will make it, Hammersley had said, meaning a boy. Not Shaylee.
Hammersley cleared her throat as Jules’s mind raced with scenarios of horrid accidents befalling her sister and a friend. Boating, horseback riding, wilderness hikes, rock climbing—all dangerous. All potentially deadly.
“Who?” Jules forced the words out as she noticed a turnout for a logging road and pulled the car onto the frozen shoulder. Her tires slid to a stop, and she pushed the gearshift into park.
“I really can’t give out the information until next of kin has been notified. School policy.”
“But I’m on the staff,” Jules said, panic blooming in her chest, her heart thudding out of control. Not Shay, oh, please God, not Shay!
“Don’t worry, you’ll hear everything when you get here. You’re on your way?”
“Yes, not far … maybe twenty or thirty miles, but it just started snowing.”
“Yes, there’s a storm hanging over the mountains. Take it slow. Did you bring chains?”
“They’re in the back.” But Jules had never used them. She wasn’t even sure how to chain up.
“You’ll need to park in the lot near the gatehouse,” Hammersley said. “There’s an area marked for all staff vehicles. I’ll have someone meet you at the gate, get your name on the clearance list, and make sure you get in without any trouble.”
“Thank you,” Jules said weakly. She hung up and let her shoulders sag as she drew in several deep, calming breaths. The windows of the Volvo had fogged during the short conversation, the white hills closing in. Half an inch of snow already coated the hood of her car. Apprehension and isolation tugged at her, and she tasted fear, so bitter on the back of her tongue. Even if Shay wasn’t hurt, one student was dead, one was hurt; two families would be as frightened as she was now.
As frightened as Shay was to be shipped off to the academy?
With trembling hands, Jules pushed the gearshift lever into drive and pulled onto the road again, her tires sliding just a bit. What, she wondered, had she gotten herself into?
Rhonda Hammersley walked into the rec hall where the students had been asked to assemble. The detectives from the sheriff’s office wanted to talk to each of them, and while deputies did the first round of interviews, separating the wheat from the chaff, the rest waited.
The room was somber and ghastly quiet. No one cracked jokes. No one strummed a guitar. All the students sat with books open, though the dean suspected that no one was studying.
Who could blame them?
Beyond the windows, snow floated down
as it had all day. Big, fluffy flakes swirled lazily from the heavens, adding a serene blanket of white to the grounds, capping the trees, coating the walkways.
The campus looked idyllic and peaceful, though it was anything but calm. The students were freaked, and already, Charla King, the school secretary, reported that a few frantic parents had phoned. Someone had leaked the information. Perhaps it was an employee of the school, the sheriff’s department, or the hospital where Drew Prescott now lay in critical condition.
Whatever the source of the leak, the word was out. Hammersley had helped Reverend Lynch field a few calls from the media. One television van was parked at the main gates, and if the weather improved, helicopters would be buzzing overhead, trying to film the campus. In fact, the weather was the one thing staving off eager reporters, terrified parents, and scads of law enforcement agencies. Old tragedies like the Conway girl’s disappearance and Maris Howell’s alleged sexual involvement with a student would be revisited.
Dark times ahead for Blue Rock.
Worry consumed her as she walked across the open area with the conversation pit and stone fireplace, where a fire was burning low, hissing softly in the grate. Despite Blue Rock’s faults, she loved this place; she believed in its mission. Over the past few years, she had seen much good come of the counseling and positive leadership provided to the kids who came here. They arrived jaded and burned out, some so lost it was hard to see a glimmer of hope in their eyes. Turning these kids around was not an easy task, but she’d always believed that nothing worthwhile came easily. They needed help, and by the grace of God, she was here to give it.
Keeping watch over the students, pod leaders pretended to work quietly, their books and notes scattered around them. Which pod leader should she send to pick up the new teacher at the gate? She scanned the group and decided on Cooper Trent, who had already been questioned by deputies and detectives. In his absence Wade Taggert and the other pod leaders, Adele Burdette and Tyeesha Williams, could ride herd over this dejected group. Besides, those three had also already given their statements.
Reverend Lynch had retreated to his office, where he juggled complaints and inquiries from the sheriff’s department, students, staff, and parents. Rhonda was relieved that it had fallen on Lynch’s shoulders to handle Nona Vickers’s grief-riddled father, as well as the parents of Drew Prescott, who were driving to Medford to join their son. If it weren’t for the beast of a storm, parents would be pulling their kids out or demanding they be flown out, which was impossible in this snow. The seaplane was grounded until the snowstorm lifted, although Lynch was so intent on getting Cora Sue on campus that he’d booked her on a commercial airliner and sent Spurrier to retrieve her in the school’s Jeep, once she landed in Medford.
With all of the impending scandal and media attention, the reverend was desperate to have his lovely, dedicated wife at his side for comfort and, of course, for appearances in front of the media.
Again, Hammersley glanced outside. The weather service had predicted that this would be the mother of all storms, up to three feet of snow to be dumped in the next two days. That meant isolation. The school had generators and snowplows, but even so, the roads would be treacherous if not impassable for a while. Lack of access would certainly stymie the homicide investigation and exacerbate the isolation of the campus.
It was a wonder that Julia Farentino was still ready to take the job, though no one would want to turn back through that storm in the mountains.
Cooper Trent sat on a bench near the fire, his hands clasped between his knees. He looked up as Hammersley approached. “Any word on Drew?” he asked.
She shook her head, then sat on the bench next to him. “I don’t know anything more than before—surgery, then, if he pulls through, he’ll be in ICU. His parents have been notified; his mother and stepfather are driving to Medford from Bakersfield, California. Reverend Lynch left a message for the biological father in Las Vegas, but that’s all I know.”
Trent nodded, his thoughtful scowl intact.
She asked, “How about doing me a favor?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“I’ve got the new teacher coming in, and I haven’t been interviewed yet. Could you pick her up? I think it would be better than having her wait in the guardhouse for the supply van.”
“You finally hired someone?” Trent asked, obviously surprised. Lowering his voice, he asked, “You’re bringing someone into this hornet’s nest?”
Hammersley shrugged. “She was already on her way, though I warned her that there’s been an accident.”
“An accident?” Trent frowned as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Hell, that’s really whitewashing it, don’t you think?”
“I couldn’t really say anything until I was certain that the next of kin had been notified.”
“Nona’s dad?”
Hammersley nodded. Whit Vickers was a single parent, Nona’s mom long out of the picture. An only child, Nona wasn’t a bad kid, just offtrack. Poor girl.
“You just didn’t want to lose the new recruit,” he said, eyes accusing. “If I pick her up, I’ll tell her the truth.”
Of course he would. He never sugarcoated anything. He usually wasn’t harsh, just a straight shooter. Even so, Hammersley thought something about him didn’t ring quite true; she wouldn’t be surprised if Trent had a skeleton or two hidden away in his own closet.
So join the club.
“I’m not keeping secrets,” he said, as if reading her mind.
“Fine, tell her.” Why not? The minute Julia Farentino drove into the parking lot by the main gate and saw the television van and county vehicles, she’d know that the incident was something more than just an “accident.” Hammersley handed Trent the keys to one of the school’s Jeeps. “Normally, Reverend Lynch would want to handle the details, but all things considered …”
Trent glanced at the room where the kids were being interviewed, nearly a hundred of them, all in the reverend’s charge. “Looks like he’ll be busy for a while.”
“That’s why you’ve got the job. Tell her.”
Trent stood, stretched his shoulders. “She here yet?”
“Not quite, but she’s on her way, should be arriving within the next half hour or so.”
“She got a name?”
She appreciated Trent’s sense of humor, considering the grim circumstances. “That she does: Julia Farentino, from Portland.” Was it her imagination or did the corner of Trent’s mouth tighten a bit? Hammersley added, “Julia’s young, not quite twenty-five, so she should relate to the kids. I feel, if things ever calm down around here, she’s going to fit in just fine and be a real asset to the academy.”
“I hope so,” Trent said, but for some reason, his words held more than a trace of sarcasm. He snagged the keys from Hammersley’s hand and added, “I can’t wait to meet her.”
CHAPTER 16
Hammersley had to be kidding or mistaken, right?
But Trent didn’t see one glimmer of levity in the woman’s eyes. She was dead serious. And, of course, she had no idea that Trent and Jules Delaney, aka Jules Farentino, had once been lovers.
Right?
For the love of Christ, what the hell did that mean?
Nothing good.
Not one damned thing!
Every muscle in his back tightened, but somehow he kept his face impassive, snagged the keys, and headed to the garage where the Jeep was parked. Instead of cooling off, with each step he grew more infuriated, more incredulous. Jules? Here? Less than a week after her sister had become a student at Blue Rock?
Nuts, that’s what it was. Goddamned, frickin’ nuts!
He reached the garage but found the Jeep parked outside. With one of his gloves, he swiped snow from the windshield, worked on the ice, then slid inside.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled as he jabbed the key into the ignition, and wheeled onto the long road leading to the main gate. “Son of a goddamned bitch!”
W
hy Jules? Why now?
The last time he’d seen her, she’d been falling into a million pieces. When he’d stupidly tried to help her pull herself together, she’d broken it off. Quick. Simple. Her parting words had been, Don’t touch me. Don’t call. Just get the hell out of my life! Got it, Cowboy? Leave me the hell alone. Then tears had filled her eyes. I never want to see you again.
He hadn’t believed her. He’d even gone so far as to take a step forward, and she’d slammed the door in his face before twisting the dead bolt shut.
That resolute click had echoed through his brain.
He’d pounded. Yelled. Told her that she was making a mistake, that she shouldn’t shut him out, that he loved her, damn it, but she hadn’t responded.
Burned, his pride trampled to a pulp, he gave up. He’d gotten the message.
Loud and clear.
Much as he sometimes wanted to, he never picked up the phone or drove by her house again. If that was the way she wanted to play it, damn it, he wasn’t going to grovel. He wasn’t the send-flowers-after-a-spat kind of man, and she knew it. The next thing he’d heard, she was engaged, then quickly married. A divorce had eventually followed, or at least according to B.J. Crosby, who, after a few beers somehow always needed to impart whatever he’d learned about Jules from his sister, Erin.
So now Trent was going to face her again?
What a frickin’ disaster.
Snow was falling steadily, keeping the wipers busy as he drove.
Trent had spent most of the day trying to figure out what had happened in the hayloft, what had created the gruesome scene. His hands tightened on the wheel as he thought about Nona Vickers’s naked body swaying from the rafters.
Suicide?
He wouldn’t bet on it. If Nona had wanted to off herself, swallowing a bottle of pills would have been a whole lot easier, and though all prescriptions were carefully monitored, there was a black market on campus, just as there was in most prisons. If someone wanted something badly enough and was willing to pay, trade, or barter, they could get it. Despite what all the glossy literature about Blue Rock Academy claimed about being drug-free, there were cracks in the shiny veneer.
