Without Mercy

by Lisa Jackson

  For the time being, here in southern Oregon, travel was still impossible. Planes were grounded, trucks, cars, and buses stranded on the interstate, the local roads impassable. Drifting snow had closed the main gate to the school, and supplies were limited to what was held in the larders.

  So far, the electricity was still operational. If and when a transformer blew or a utility pole snapped, there were generators in place, though power would be limited.

  So he had to work fast.

  Deal with traitors.

  Julia Farentino was the first on his list.

  Why was it that the women he always found the most fascinating turned out to be the most deadly?

  The cell phone jangled in his hand, and he smiled as he clicked it on and lifted it to his ear. A frantic voice on the other end of the line hissed, “Jesus, Jules, what’re you doing here? Doesn’t it totally freak you out that students are dying here? I mean dying! As in dead! I … I thought you came down here to get me out of here—well, do it already. You have to! Whatever it takes, do it ASAP! Call Edie! Call Dad! Call the damned president! Just get me out! Oh, damn, I think someone’s coming….”

  The line went dead.

  He swore under his breath.

  Things were worse than he’d thought. Belatedly, he realized that his right-hand man was right. He had to act swiftly. Vengefully.

  There was no time for a meeting in the small church; it was too far away, would take away precious time from their purpose. But there was another place within the campus.

  It was more dangerous to meet there, but he had no choice.

  A gust of wind slammed against the building, shaking the timbers, rattling the windows.

  The Leader took it as a sign from God.

  Omen.

  The note had said Omen.

  And it had been.

  Maeve knew what she had to do, where she had to go.

  But she was afraid.

  She snapped the band on her wrist, the sting calming the frantic part of her mind so that she could think straight. Had Ethan sent her the note? The romantic part of her had hoped so, had prayed that he still loved her. Desperation tore at her heart. She so wanted to believe that he, her soul mate, had realized that they were meant to be together.

  Her dreams had shattered, though, after spotting him with Kaci. Flirting with her. Rubbing it in Maeve’s face.

  Maybe it was a test.

  To see just how deep her love was, her adoration.

  Didn’t he know that she would do anything for him, even if it meant sacrificing herself?

  Wasn’t that the way love worked?

  Maeve was no longer sure. She had gone to her group counseling session with Dean Williams and tried to participate, but the discussion about the strength of a woman in a relationship had cut too close to the bone tonight.

  And even though she was supposed to go with her partner back to the dorm, she’d ducked out. Her “security partner” hadn’t cared. That’s the way it was with Crystal; she didn’t really give a damn about anyone but herself.

  Which worked out just fine, because Maeve didn’t need any prying eyes or questions.

  She felt the knife tucked deep in her boot and smiled to herself. If things didn’t work out, there was always the comfort of the sharp little blade, a special glinting solace in seeing her own blood ooze in a perfect line against her skin.

  Her hand was cold, getting numb, because she had to push up her sleeve to snap the rubber band at her wrist. But she could wait. She let the sleeve fall down now, knowing there would be satisfaction.

  Either Ethan.

  Or the blade.

  She only hoped that he would prove himself tonight, that he would truly be Romeo to her Juliet. She remembered a quote, dark, jeweled words that touched her as she walked through the snow and thought of Ethan … perfect, handsome Ethan.

  “These violent delights have violent ends….”

  CHAPTER 34

  Run! Run! Run!

  Jules ran through the thick drifts of snow.

  She felt as if she was being chased, run to the ground, that someone knew.

  “That’s crazy,” she whispered to herself, but couldn’t help thinking Taggert or Takasumi or even Lynch might be on her trail.

  Did she hear footsteps behind her?

  Oh, God, please no!

  She propelled herself even faster, her boots slipping, the handle of the carrier cutting through her gloves.

  Skirting the pools of light cast by the security lamps, Jules, breathless, hauled the damned firewood carrier down the path as she raced toward Trent’s cabin. Briefly, scared out of her mind, she considered ditching the carrier, but the pages were still too hot to tuck under her jacket and might fly away in the gusting, screaming wind.

  So she took a chance, one hand curled in a death grip over the handle, the other stabilizing the top file so that she lost none of the precious, probably damning, pages.

  What would they reveal?

  What secrets did they hold that the director of the school had tried to destroy them?

  Keep moving! Don’t think about it.

  At every corner, she tensed, certain someone would leap out from behind a snow-covered hedge or up from beneath a bench where a deranged killer lay in wait. Or she would be accosted by one of the teams of security guards roving the grounds.

  Gun-shy after being confronted with Takasumi and Taggert, she was doubly careful as she threaded her way through the trees.

  Even so, she still felt as if someone was watching her, following her. Biting her lip, not giving in to the fear, she kept running and prayed that the harsh curtain of snow falling steadily from the heavens would conceal her.

  Crunch!

  Oh, God, she was certain she heard footsteps.

  She ran faster, plowing through the snow.

  If she could just get to Trent.

  She would be safe.

  Right?

  Crunch. Crunch.

  Oh, dear God …

  She flew by a thicket of pine trees and her heart raced ever faster as she thought about the murders. Why would anyone kill Nona and Drew?

  Because of what they knew.

  And maybe what you ‘re carrying in these files might shed some light on the killer’s motive. Keep running! For God’s sake, keep running!

  Her lungs burned, arctic cold searing her airways. What if the files told her nothing? What if Nona and Drew had been killed for revenge? It was possible. Drew could have thrown someone over to be with Nona. The jilted girlfriend, a troubled teen who had a history of violence, could have snapped. Or had Nona Vickers really pissed someone off? Had they both been targets, or had one gotten in the way of the other, been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  Nona’s body had been obviously staged to gain attention. Drew’s had been almost tossed aside. Except for that small, smeared bloodstain away from the pool from his head wound. Something about that tiny puddle, smeared as it was, bothered her.

  Don’t go there! Don’t even think about it. Just run as you’ve never run before. Maybe the files will have the answer.

  “Hey!” a deep male voice yelled.

  Oh, no! She kept running.

  “Jules! Slow down!”

  She whirled, ready to swing the carrier at her attacker’s face, only to spy Trent, hands buried deep in the pockets of his sheepskin jacket, collar turned up to the wind as he jogged through the blizzard to catch up to her.

  “You scared the liver out of me!” she cried, relieved nonetheless to see his sharp features. “For the love of God, what were you thinking? I nearly clocked you with this!” She held up the wood carrier with its fragile contents. “You bastard, you’ve been following me!” She was instantly hot.

  “Just keep walking. And don’t yell, okay?”

  “But I was scared to death.”

  “Good, you should be.” He grabbed her by the arm and propelled her forward. His breath fogged in the night, and snow had collected on the
shoulders of his jacket. The strands of hair that had escaped from beneath his hat were frozen, icy and white. “What the hell have you got?”

  “Lynch’s files. He was starting to burn them.”

  “What?” He glanced at her as if she’d gone mad. “So you, what, stole them?”

  “Yep.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “I said he was burning them,” she said as they trod through the heavy snow. “I figured I just saved him the trouble of disposing of them.”

  “He won’t like it.”

  “Definitely not. I thought we were meeting at your place.”

  “We were,” he agreed, his free hand digging in his pocket as he retrieved a small key chain. “But I didn’t think it was smart to let you walk in the dark all by yourself, so I waited outside Stanton House, then saw you cut into the chapel after being accosted by Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

  She smiled, thinking of Takasumi and Taggert.

  “So I had to wait outside, damned near freezing to death, until I saw you sneak out the back. Here, let me take that.” He grabbed the carrier with his free hand. His jaw was set stubbornly, his muscles tense as he surveyed the ice-crusted shrubbery flanking the buildings as if he expected the killer to leap out from the shadows at any second.

  “What has the sheriff’s department found out?”

  “Nothing new.”

  “Damn.” They rushed past the stables, and she thought of the murder scene, the hayloft and floor of the stable where Drew Prescott had lost his life and so much blood. Again, she flashed on the secondary stain, the smaller indication of blood. It bothered her, pulled at her conscience, and she felt there was something to it that she should understand, but the thought drifted away again. “What about the bloodstains?”

  “Still working on them.”

  They were jogging together, slogging through the snow, bending their bodies against a wind so harsh it froze her skin. She glanced up, noting the tense lines of Trent’s face, the unforgiving line of his jaw, and a long-forgotten memory flashed, a ridiculous recollection of warmth and love in this frigid February night.

  Like tonight, they had been running through the woods, but it was summer and warm, sun dappling the dried grass under their feet, a startled rabbit leaping into the scrub oaks and pine. Trent had grabbed her hand then, strong fingers twining with hers as he’d pulled her toward a hidden spot near a river, where the water eddied into a clear pool and the branches of a willow formed a canopy over the banks. Dragonflies had snapped over the surface of the water while trout had flashed silver in the depths. An osprey had circled high overhead in a sky as blue as all of June.

  They’d skinny-dipped in the water, splashing and laughing. Afterward, they made love on the banks while the sun baked the dry earth and cast shimmering sparkles over the water.

  For a few precious months, she’d felt alive and in love and assured that the future was golden.

  And then Rip Delaney’s life had been cut short and everything had changed.

  And now she was running for her life through a frigid winter, Trent’s gloved hand urging her along a darkened path that had once been shoveled but now was thick with new snow. Her ears were frozen, her nose running as the blizzard just kept whistling through the mountains.

  And, on top of everything else, a murderer was in their midst. A killer holed up here, beyond the reach of any arm of the law.

  A far cry from that long-ago idyllic summer.

  Trent hurried her along the edge of a building that held equipment, to the row of old, ramshackle cottages that were home to some of the teachers at the school.

  Wade Taggert resided in one. Kirk Spurrier, when he was on campus, lived in another, and Salvatore DeMarco in a third. Bert Flannagan had his own quarters in a loft of the tack room near the stable. Charla King, too, had her own place while most of the other members of the staff lived in suites at Stanton House.

  As snowflakes stung her face, she thought of those who had elected to become a part of Blue Rock Academy. Teachers, counselors, and administrators who had supposedly been recruited by Reverend Lynch for their leadership and scholarly capabilities.

  Or for other unknown reasons?

  Then there was the group of teachers’ assistants, kids who had elected to stay on and be a part of the Blue Rock Academy college program, smart students who Shaylee was certain were part of some kind of dark, secret cult. Their faces flashed before her eyes. Missy Albright, Zach Bernsen, and Kaci Donahue, members of a deadly secret society? What about Eric Rolfe? Ethan Slade? Half a dozen others? Who among them possessed the qualities of a coldblooded killer?

  What about the students who were trapped here? Could one of them be the murderer, a sociopath? Every one of the students at the academy had psychological problems, some worse than others, some with streaks of violence.

  Maybe the answer lay in the files she’d rescued from being incinerated. Maybe not.

  Who?

  Why?

  She shuddered as Trent guided her along the back side of the houses, along what could loosely have been called an alley. Lights glowed in the windows of several homes. Others, unoccupied and in various states of disrepair, were dark, windows boarded over, snow and ice accumulating over rusted spouts and porches.

  Trent’s cottage was the last in the row, a single-level bungalow that looked as if it had been constructed in the thirties or forties and was in serious need of renovation. The back steps were atilt, and the roof sagged in spots.

  “Welcome to the Ritz,” he muttered under his breath as he unlocked the door. Once they were inside, he threw the bolt behind them and snapped on a few lights. Even though the temperature inside the cabin couldn’t have been much more than sixty-five degrees, the air felt warm, a distinct difference from the frigid outdoors.

  “You okay?” he asked, and set the carrier on the short bench in the enclosed porch.

  “Just great,” she said sarcastically. “Couldn’t be better. Cut off from the world in the worst snowstorm of the decade, maybe the century, and trapped with a homicidal maniac on the loose. Seriously, could things get any worse?”

  “I’m here,” he reminded her.

  “My point exactly,” she shot back, then caught his slow-spreading smile. “This has to be as bad as it gets.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Absolutely!” She tossed him a don’t-mess-with-me look. “So don’t you dare think of yourself as some kind of Western-type hero, okay? You can peddle, but I’m definitely not buying.”

  He grinned, a devilish twinkle in his eye. “Aw, shucks, ma’am, and here I was givin’ it my best damned shot.”

  “Not good enough, Cowboy.” But she couldn’t help smiling, some of the tension broken. He was right, she thought as they both kicked off their boots, leaving them under the bench on the porch; she felt safer with him, somehow sensing she could trust him—despite the fact that she’d sworn years ago to never see him again.

  Fool. You knew better. Even when you married Sebastian. Inwardly cringing, she watched as Trent hung his hat on a peg, then peeled off his coat.

  A pistol was tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

  “Wait a second,” she said. “You’re carrying a gun?”

  He hooked his jacket over a free peg. “I figured it might be a good idea.”

  “I guess, considering.”

  “Yeah. It’s legal. Meeker and O’Donnell know. They’re okay with it.”

  “And Lynch?”

  He snorted. “Trust me, Jules, there are enough weapons locked in gun closets around this campus to arm a small country.”

  “Really?” she said. “So much for peace, love, dove.”

  “Not the motto of Blue Rock,” he said. “Flannagan’s team alone could take a stand at the Alamo.”

  “His ‘team’?”

  “Almost like special-ops, only no one ever says anything like that, of course. However, Flannagan’s team could be construed as an elite force; you’ll re
member they were the first that Lynch asked to help tighten up security around here.”

  “I guess I didn’t catch that,” she said. “So they work as internal vigilantes?”

  “Sometimes.” He eyed her jacket. “You keeping that on?”

  “For now, yeah.” Though the temperature was warmer in the cottage, Jules was still cold to the bone, her toes tingling as they warmed deep in her socks.

  “Let’s see what I can do about that.” He retrieved the carrier from the mudroom, and she followed him into the attached kitchen, little more than a nook with a sink, a tiny refrigerator, a two-burner stove, and a few cupboards that had seen better days. The floor was cracked linoleum and stopped at the edge of an archway that opened to the dining room and living area to be replaced by scuffed hardwood. He paused for a second at the thermostat and cranked it up.

  “So who gets to play with guns?” she asked as he set down the carrier on the counter. She reached into the charred remnants of the files, the first of which had lost its tab. She flipped open the seared manila folder and saw the first document with the name Slade, Ethan visible in bold type.

  “All the usual suspects are legal, have permits. You know, Eric Rolfe and Missy Albright, Ethan Slade, Zach Bernsen.”

  He drew the shades throughout the house, then went through the motions of making coffee, tossing old grounds into a trash can under the sink, then filling the pot with water.

  “All TAs?”

  “Nah. Mostly, though, I suppose.” He paused as he measured coffee into a new filter. “I think Drew Prescott was being considered.”

  “Really?”

  “Only Flannagan knows for sure.”

  She leaned against the short bank of cabinets. Ideas were gelling in her mind as she thought of everything she’d learned recently. “You know, Shay told me she thought that there was a secret cult among the TAs. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Really? A secret cult that does what?”

  “I don’t know, but Shay thinks they might be tied to the murders of Nona and Drew.”