Without Mercy (50 page)

Shaylee could use Nell’s idea to her own advantage, if that was what it took. She stepped around the corner of the building again, past the rhododendron with its snowy leaves. “Let me see.” She was still trying to wrap her mind around what Nell’s real agenda was. “So you were going out riding in subzero temperatures without a jacket?”

Wait a minute!

That didn’t make any sense!

Oh, crap! Could Nell be part of some kind of a—?

She felt hot breath on the back of her neck.
Oh, God! NO!
Fear spurted through her bloodstream. Instinctively, she started to run. Rough, strong arms clamped around her from behind, nearly knocking her down.

Oh, Jesus, please no!

He smelled like sweat. A pig.

Panic shot through her brain.

She twisted, started to scream, tried to round on this huge, burly maniac holding her. Too late! One steely arm forced her upper body and shoulders against him, a gloved hand over her mouth.

Shay bit. Tasted leather!

She felt the cold muzzle of a gun pressed hard against her temple. Instantly, she stopped moving.

“One move, one little sound,” he snarled against her ear, his breath foul and warm. “I swear, bitch, I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.”

CHAPTER 41

Her captor yanked Shay’s arms back, angrily forcing her hands behind her.

Click!
A pair of handcuffs were locked over her wrists. Cold, hard steel bit into her wrists.

“How does it feel, bitch?” he growled against her ear again, and then, just because he could, he twisted the handcuffs a bit. She nearly fell to her knees. Pain burned up Shay’s arms, screamed through her shoulders, ground into her spine. She gasped, the agony excruciating, then wrenched herself away, desperate for a look at his face.

Moonlight washed against his handsome, cruel features.

Eric Rolfe!

Satan incarnate.

His eyes glittered with a deep-seated, evil glee that twisted his lips into a cruel grin. “Gotcha.”

Screaming wouldn’t work. He’d kill her before anyone noticed and then claim he’d thought she was the killer.

Hell!

If only she could get out of these restraints! All she needed was a little room to spin, gain some momentum, and she’d kick that sick smile off the bastard’s face. He’d go
down cold. She could take care of him, she could. She only needed a few feet of space.

But the monster knew what she planned and held her fast.

“I’m sorry,” Nell whispered, tears running down her face as she shivered with the cold.

What a wimp!

“They said …” Her teeth were chattering crazily, not so much from the cold but from the fear that was eating her up inside. “… They said that if I did this, I would be safe.” She was sobbing now as Missy Albright, part of the security patrol with Eric, showed up and snatched the keys from Nell’s shaking fingers.

Missy pocketed the keys.

Nell mewled forlornly.

“Shhh!” Shay couldn’t believe what a weakling Nell was. But she also couldn’t believe that she herself had been stupid enough to be caught off guard, to be lured into this ridiculous trap. And the fact that Eric Rolfe had caught her only made it worse.

“Let’s go,” Missy said, nodding to Eric. “Before anyone else shows up.” She glanced up at Stanton House, where a few lights were burning as Eric pushed Shay forward and Nell, sobbing, was herded by Missy.

Shay was nudged along, the barrel of Eric’s gun now placed firmly against her spine, reminding her that he’d gladly shoot through her spinal cord and leave her dead or paralyzed. “Don’t trip,” he whispered softly, “or make any sudden moves, or I promise you, you’ll never get off another round kick or any of that tae kwon do shit again.”

The backup power had returned, but Jules wasn’t about to sleep.

Not after Maeve’s murder.

She’d allowed Trent to walk her, first to the chapel, where he’d kissed her gently enough to break her stupid heart, then here, to Stanton House, to what? Wait for the damned dawn? Well, that wasn’t going to happen.

She paced from one side of her suite of rooms to the other and all the while, the image of Maeve, lying in a puddle of her own dark blood, burned through her mind. It was the same kind of mental picture of her father that she’d carried with her since the night he died.

What was it her shrink had said? That she had the unique ability to block out impressions she didn’t want to face, but also to dwell on those that were the most repulsive. He’d been fascinated by her case and had told her that she’d locked Trent away from her life because she was afraid that if she trusted him too much, he’d leave. Just as her father had left her the first time Rip and Edie had divorced. Just as her stepfather, Max Stillman, had after his short marriage to her mother. Then her father, after remarrying Edie, dying as he had … Rip’s death had been the ultimate abandonment.

He hadn’t wanted to leave, though, had he, Jules?

He left because someone took his life.

You pushed Trent away because you were afraid of loving him too much, of being hurt, of him leaving you … You were a coward.

“Stop!” she ordered, her voice ringing louder than she’d expected. Too bad. She wouldn’t listen to the arguments that raged in her mind, the stressful battles that always brought with them pounding, merciless headaches. Just like the one that was forming behind her eyes right now.

Think, Jules, think. Figure this out, damn it!

Before something happens to Shay!

She walked into the bathroom, found her bottle of Excedrin and tossed back four pills before dipping her head under the faucet for a swallow of water. Standing, wiping
her mouth with the back of her hand, she caught her reflection in the mirror, witnessed her own fear, her own frustration in her own eyes.

Who was behind these murders, the brutal killings, all with separate MOs? She and Shaylee had spent night after night watching
CSI
and
Law and Order
and anything forensic on what was then Court TV. She knew how things worked, and it seemed odd, out of character, for the murderer to kill Drew with an ax or hatchet, to strangle Nona and dangle her from the rafters, and then to slit Maeve’s wrists, after burning her hair. Nona and Drew had been naked, Maeve fully clothed, but then Nona and Drew had taken their own clothes off presumably while having sex.

The killer hadn’t undressed them.

There had to be a connection between the killings, one she was missing. One that was deeper than the fact that the killings had been committed in the stable.

Or was that just a line from TV? She stared at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Who was killing off students? And why those particular students? Were the killings random, the victims’ deaths a matter of opportunity, or had the murders been meticulously planned, the victims chosen and stalked? That seemed more likely, considering the methods of death.

Or was that, too, something she’d learned from watching too much television crime?

She threw cold water on her face, willing the headache to subside, then yanked the hand towel from her face and patted her skin dry.

How had the killer known Maeve would be in the stable?

Because he’d lured her there with his note. Remember? The piece of paper with OMEN scrawled upon it?

She glanced at her reflection one more time, and confirmation parked in her mirrored gaze.

There was only one reason Maeve would go out in the
middle of the night: to meet Ethan Slade. Hadn’t she said as much to Trent earlier?

Snapping off the bathroom light on the fly, Jules walked into the living area and stopped at her desk. She rifled through a few papers stacked haphazardly in the corner near her computer and found the schedule for the security patrols. Her eyes skimmed down the list of assignments, stopping when she came to the guards listed for the time span when she assumed Maeve had been killed.

“You guys are toast,” she said aloud, reading that Ethan Slade and Roberto Ortega, under the guidance of Salvatore DeMarco, had been on security duty early in the night.

Jules didn’t doubt for a second that Ethan made plans to meet up with Maeve after his shift ended.

She checked further, running her finger down the security detail. After Ethan and Roberto, Missy Albright and Eric Rolfe were up. Bert Flannagan was supposed to have been their supervisor. Except Flannagan was alone when he’d appeared at the stables. He’d gotten caught up in dealing with the aftermath of the fire and Maeve’s murder.

Which conveniently left Missy and Eric to their own devices …

Was it possible? Had he been covering for them? Or had they given him the slip earlier to do their horrific deed? Or, more likely, had he been the killer and had only returned to the scene of the crime to make it appear that he knew nothing about it? Could he be that good of an actor? His reaction to Maeve’s body had seemed legit.

Jules’s skin crinkled at the thought of that particular security team, the mercenary guiding smart but secretive Missy and hothead Eric. Hadn’t Flannagan appeared in the stables carrying a rifle? For protection on the security detail or to lead a group of TAs on a murderous rampage? Ice collected in her soul.

Nothing was making sense, all the pieces of this horrific
jigsaw puzzle not quite fitting, the edges and corners close together but refusing to snap together. What was she missing?

Think, think, think! You’re running out of time.
Again, she swept her gaze over the security roster. After Missy and Eric, Zach Bernsen and Kaci Donahue were on patrol with Kirk Spurrier as their guide. What had Lynch mentioned about Spurrier in his files? That he’d been in the Air Force and was passive-aggressive? Again, a man who was in his element around weaponry. Just the kind of guy you wanted teaching the kids a few theology classes. Bernsen, Donahue, and Spurrier. Another suspect group, if there ever was one. Zach Bernsen was a know-it-all to the nth degree and Kaci seemed to be a follower, with little mind of her own. Then there was Spurrier, a handsome, athletic man who didn’t say much, who held his cards close to his vest.

And he wasn’t the only one who was suspected.

Everyone in the damned school seemed to possess a serious psychological dysfunction. As if Lynch had chosen them for their flaws, rather than their attributes.

And it’s worse than just a case of dysfunction; at least one of them is homicidal.

Too bad there hadn’t been a file on Lynch himself, she thought. No doubt he was the headmaster of death and destruction in what so many people believed was an idyllic institution of rehabilitation, education, and hope.

“Such BS.” Jules muttered, frustrated. “A total load of bull.”

Feeling as if sand was slipping far too quickly through the hourglass, she walked to the window and peered outside to the calm night. In the center of Lake Superstition, the waters were dark as obsidian. Closer to the shoreline, the edges of the lake were glazed with ice and snow. The seaplane was still moored, cast in ice. She remembered spying Spurrier on the dock earlier in the day. God, it
seemed a lifetime ago when she’d last cast a glance in his direction and watched as he, along with help from some of the students, had brushed and shoveled snow from the wings, fuselage, and floats. Several of the TAs had been called into duty: Tim Takasumi, Ethan Slade, and Zach Bernsen had been the last crew she’d witnessed working on the plane. Now it sat unmoving, shackled in the ice.

She looked to the center of the lake again and wondered if the weapon that had killed Drew Prescott was lying deep in its dark waters.

Worse yet, was it possible Lauren Conway’s body was hidden deep in those still, dark waters? Reduced to bones, weighed down by anchors or cement blocks or any damned thing, was her corpse lying upon the lake’s bottom?

God only knew.

Jules rubbed at her temples, forcing the headache back as she squinted into the night. With the main source of power out, the campus was darker than usual, but the snow, cast silver by moon glow, helped illuminate the grounds.

Where was Trent?

Her heart twisted at the thought he might be in danger, outside alone, looking for a killer. “Be safe,” she whispered and tried to convince herself he would be careful, that he had police training, that he would be all right. And then there was Shay. At least Shaylee was secure in her dorm room.

Right?

Something felt wrong about that.

If only Jules could get in touch with her, confirm that she was okay. The damned cells were out, but there had to be a way to find out that Shay was safe.

Of course the sane thing to do was to wait it out, until dawn when the sun chased away the shadows and the doors on the campus were unlocked.

The less sane thing to do was to chance it; go outside,
cross the expansive, snow-covered lawn that separated the buildings and pound on the door of Shay’s dorm until someone let her inside. Or, Jules supposed, she could chase down Adele Burdette, headmistress for the girls. Surely Burdette would allow Jules to see Shay, but if so, she’d have to tip her hand, admit that they were sisters.

For God’s sake, who cares? People are dying! Being murdered! You have to do something. Anything.

Jules couldn’t just sit here, safe and sound, while those she loved—Trent and Shay—could possibly be in danger.

Without a second thought, she found her snow gear and didn’t consider how easily she’d put Trent into the category of loved ones as she stepped into insulated pants and zipped her jacket.

It wasn’t really a surprise.

Hadn’t her ex-husband, Sebastian, accused her of that fact over and over, for the short period of her marriage? Hadn’t his perception of her “never getting over that damned bull rider” given Sebastian an excuse for his affair with Peri? Hadn’t her best friend thrown that very fact in her face when Jules had found them in her marriage bed?

“Oh, hell,” she said. This was no time to dwell on ancient history. Pocketing Trent’s pistol, she left her room and hurried down the stairs. She was out the front door, flashlight in her hand, when she stopped to catch her breath.