Without Mercy (44 page)

Still … Didn’t she feel a hidden set of eyes watching her, squinting at her through the gloom of the stall?

Cut it out! No! There’s no one. Got it?

But she stopped. Squinted into the darkness, held her breath and listened. Hard.

Did she hear footsteps near the door? She swung her head in that direction. The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight on end.

“Ethan?” she whispered nervously.

Click!

A flame shot up in front of her eyes.

Gold, with a blue base, the flame from a barbecue lighter nearly singed her nose.

Maeve screamed, jumping back.

The horse snorted nervously. Hot breath streamed down her back.

“Ethan, this isn’t fun—”

But the cruel, gleeful eyes behind the flame didn’t belong to Ethan Slade.

Maeve whispered, “Oh, God. What the hell are you doing here?” Her heart beating like a drum, panic shot through her.

“Guess.” A hiss.

Oh, Jesus.
Fear curdled Maeve’s insides. She scrambled for the latch to the stall, fingers scraping the smooth wood, but the gate was jammed tight.

At that second, the lighter swept in a shimmering arc to the floor.

Whoosh!

Straw, strewn across the box stall and into the aisle, ignited. Crackling, bursting into a string of growing flames, the dry grass was quick tinder.

“What the hell are you doing?” Maeve squealed. She was stomping on the crawling, horrid flames like crazy, pulling wildly at the gate, trying to get out. “Are you freakin’ crazy? This place will go up in a flash!” She wrestled with the latch, but the gate was held tight by strong, determined fingers. “Stop this! Let me out!”

Flames sizzled.

The horse behind her went berserk. Screaming shrilly, Omen reared up, his front legs slicing the air, his eyes white, rimmed with fear.

Maeve slammed her body against the wall of the box. Scout, the paint, was going nuts on the other side of the stall.
Bam!
He kicked the stall and whinnied.

“Are you a lunatic?!” she cried, cowering away from the horse, then flinging herself to the rails and trying to climb over. Smoke was growing thick in the air. She would leap on her attacker if she had to.

Surely someone would come! Someone had to hear all this commotion!

But the whistle of the wind outside drowned the frantic noises from within.

“Get back!” Maeve tried to climb out.

Her attacker swung the lighter.

Flames brushed over her face, a whisper of heat searing her scalp. She shrieked. Wavering flames took hold in the bits of yarn of her stocking cap, racing through her hair.

“What are you doing?” Maeve screeched, pain searing her scalp as she dug at the cap, ripping it from her head and screaming. She fell back into the stall, landing hard, flames
burning in front of her face, the big horse kicking and rearing in terror.

Why was this happening?

Why, why, oh, God, why?

She forced herself to her feet, choking, the damned horse shrieking.

“Are you crazy?” she yelled, climbing the rails again. “Let me the fuck out of here, you freak!” Fear pounded through her skull.

“Don’t ever call me a freak!” Maeve’s tormentor’s face twisted cruelly.

Omen reared again, his nostrils wide, his black coat a sheen of nervous sweat.

Maeve cowered.

Steel-shod hooves slashed through the air. Close. So damned close! Smoke swirled and rose. Deadly flames crackled like Satan’s laugh.

Freaked and desperate, Maeve tried vainly to escape. She pushed and pounded on the gate, shoving into it, but the latch wouldn’t budge an inch. She climbed but was pushed back into the maniac horse’s box. “Oof!” She landed hard and scrambled away from the horse and the flames.

Crying from the smoke, choking, heat tingled up her legs as the hem of her pants caught fire.

“No! No! Let me out! Help! HEEELLLP! Oh, God, please, don’t do this!” Maeve begged on her hands and knees. She pulled herself up again.

Behind her, Omen shrieked wildly. Kicking. Trapped.

“Oh, God … Oh, God!”

Omen reared again.

From the corner of her eye, Maeve caught a glimpse of a horseshoe reflecting the fire’s shimmering light. “No!”

She lunged to one side.

Too late.

Bam!

A steel-shod hoof crashed into her back.

Crrraaack!

Bone splintered. Beneath her jacket, skin ripped away from flesh.

Pain, hot as fire, tore down her spine.

Maeve howled and tried again to thrust herself over the gate. She surged forward, but her legs gave way, crumpling beneath her. Her arms clung to the gate as flames crawled over her, engulfed her. “Help me,” she begged, her throat raw, tears streaming down her face. “Please, please … Oh, God!”

But her tormentor only smiled.

The panicked horse ran in circles, trying to escape. He lunged forward, another hoof grazing her shoulder.

The pain … It was all too much. Her world started to go black.

Maeve slid down the gate, her weight dragging her into the flames. Sheer terror streaked through her. “You’ve got to help me, please!” But her voice was just a dry whisper.

“Why not?”

What?
Her attacker had experienced a change of heart?

The latch clicked and the gate opened.

Maeve dropped like a stone to the floor. Maybe now, oh, God, please, she was going to be helped.

Omen shrieked again.

He bolted for the open gate.

She braced herself.

Omen soared, trying to leap over Maeve. His body scraped one side of the stall.

Bam!
A heavy, deadly hoof caught her head.

Maeve hit the floor. Pain exploded behind her eyes. For a second, everything went black, only to come back in clear, sharp focus.

Instinctively, she tried to get up.

Nothing happened.

Her legs wouldn’t move, not an inch.

Paralyzed? She was paralyzed?

No, oh … no …

She tried to turn to see her tormentor, but couldn’t; the smoke was too thick. She felt herself being lifted by her shoulders. A moan tore from her throat. It felt as if she were being ripped in two.

“Call someone,” she said, her mind fuzzy. Was her attacker really trying to save her? “An ambulance …”

“Shut up!” The voice was guttural, feral, as she was dragged past the stalls of frightened, terrorized horses.

Through pain-glazed eyes, Maeve looked down the aisle. She was being dragged away from the fiery stall, and through the smoke, at the far end of the stable, the black horse was pacing, quivering, pawing at the big door to the rear.

I’m sorry,
she thought, knowing she was responsible for his impending death … and her own.

Where the hell were the sprinklers? Why wasn’t water raining down on the stalls? And the smoke detectors, why weren’t they shrieking more loudly than the terrified horses?

Not working.

Her assailant had seen to that.

Maeve thought of Ethan as she was dropped unceremoniously into a heap. Maybe he would come and save her. She tried to whisper his name, but her voice failed her.

In a surreal moment, she watched from the floor as her tormentor calmly located a fire extinguisher, pulled it from its hook, and with expert precision sprayed the flames with a foaming retardant.

Then, just when Maeve thought she might be saved, her attacker threw down the canister, returned, bent over Maeve’s broken body, and reached into her boot to extract the hunting knife.

The knife … Oh, God. No.

“You’re left-handed, right?”

The rubber band at her wrist was snapped, then sliced cleanly. Coughing, smoke still heavy in the air, Maeve watched in mesmerized fascination as the blade was drawn across each of her wrists several times. Her heart raced, the pain throbbing through her body fading as blood began to flow, slowly seeping out of the neat lines.

The knife was shoved into her left hand, her fingers curled over its hilt.

“You know, Maeve, Ethan isn’t worth it.” The voice was casual now.

Warm blood oozed, dripping to the floor.

Maeve mewled, helpless, and she could do nothing but watch her brutal killer take her wrist and hold it aloft, moving it ever so slowly as drops of blood fell to the floor in what appeared to be a precise pattern. Then her arm was dropped, the blood smeared with the toe of a boot, and her killer walked calmly out the door.

Maeve tried to push herself to her feet, but her body wouldn’t work, her legs leaden, as if her spine had been severed. It was over. She swallowed a small sob, knowing she was going to die.

Words from the last hymn she’d ever sung slid through her mind.
Let gods and kindred go, this mortal life also; the body
they may kill …

Light-headed, she felt herself crashing, the bluish lights wavering in front of her eyes. “Ethan,” she whispered as darkness overcame her, “Oh, love …”

CHAPTER 37

Jules couldn’t look at the damning evidence another second. She scooted her chair back and walked into the living room. Something was in the air tonight.

She shivered inside, feeling as if a ghost had just passed through her soul. “I should really check on Shay,” she said, frustrated that her cell phone was missing.

“Shay is safe. She’s in the dorm, with her roommate and security guards.”

“As if that’s any consolation. The security around here is about as solid as a sieve. Kids come and go at will. Escape artists and sociopaths—no wonder there’s a killer on the loose.”

There was an underlying sense of panic among the students. Dormitories had been fitted with new locks, and staff members were taking turns sleeping in extra rooms in each of the buildings housing students. Security teams had been formed under the guidance of Deputy Meeker, who had deputized Bert Flannagan, Wade Taggert, and Rhonda Hammersley, but now that she’d read Lynch’s files, Jules worried that one of those faculty security groups could be harboring the killer.

“Do you want me to call over to the dorm?” Trent offered. “Ask someone to check on Shay?”

“Yes … no. That would draw attention to her, and she’s already under suspicion, with her hat being found at the crime scene.” She twisted her hair into a knot at the base of her skull and held it there for a second. “What set the killer off? Why now?”

“I don’t know.”

“We need to talk to Meeker or the sheriff. Or maybe we should confront Lynch ourselves.”

“We’re not confronting anyone, but I can track Meeker down,” Trent decided. “The problem is, once I tell him you broke into Lynch’s office and took the files, we’re opening a new can of worms.”

“Technically I didn’t break in,” she argued, frustrated and edgy. “But I’m not sure I’m ready to have my cover blown. Once it gets out that I’m Shay’s sister …” She walked to the window but didn’t dare peek outside, so she ended up pacing back toward the fire. “Oh, God, they might know who I am already. Someone stole my cell today. If they get into my directory, it won’t take long for them to start piecing relationships together.”

“Someone stole it?” Trent was bending low, working on the fire again.

Letting her hair fall to her shoulders, she watched as Trent poked at the hissing logs, somehow soothed by it. “I think maybe it was Missy Albright or Roberto Ortega. They both had access.” She explained what had happened earlier in the day. How she’d found Missy in her classroom, how she’d run into Roberto while trying to help Maeve. “If someone looks through the phone, they could put two and two together and realize that I know Shay. Her name would come up on my contact list.”

“That’s a lot of assuming, but it gets worse,” he admitted as the fire began to sizzle and pop again. “I left you a message
earlier, before I knew you’d be sleuthing around Lynch’s office. In my message I said I’d be waiting outside Stanton House.”

“No one picked up?”

“No. But it doesn’t mean they didn’t see that you had a missed call from me. Or they might have accessed your voice mail.”

“I’ve got a security code—”

“That probably wouldn’t be too hard to break. These kids are smart, and some of them have been working with cell phones and iPods and computers from the time they could walk and talk.”

“Damn.” But it was true. The teachers, too. Hadn’t she, herself, been at a computer keyboard from the time she could sit in her father’s lap and pretend to type?

He leaned a shoulder against the mantel. “Why do I feel things are gonna get a whole lot worse before they get better?”

“Because you’re psychic?” she teased, though she didn’t know why she was making light of the tense situation.

“If only.”

Outside, the wind continued to batter the house while inside the fire crackled and the electricity winked. They talked about the message she’d received and the one she’d seen in Maeve’s possession. “I want to talk to Nell Cousineau. She was on duty at Stanton House the night someone left me the note. If she left the note, I’m wondering how she wanted me to help her.”

Trent nodded. “Right. The note was vague.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s frustrating when an investigation hits a wall like this. The snow hasn’t helped.”

“But the sheriff’s department collected all that forensic evidence before the snowstorm. Haven’t they heard anything?”

“Nothing new, at least not that I know of. There’s a lot of
pressure on the state crime lab to produce. We’re hoping to glean something from the analysis that will lead to the killer. But it takes weeks for DNA evidence to be deciphered, despite what they show on television. No murder weapon was found, but the ME says the wound on Drew’s head was consistent with some kind of hatchet or ax, none of which has been located.”

“Maybe the killer still has it,” she said, her stomach twisting a bit. “Maybe he plans to use it again.”

“So why not on Nona? Why go to all the trouble of trussing her up? Hanging her body?”

“Final revenge of a sort? To debase her? Part of the cult’s sick rituals?”