Without Mercy (59 page)

But she wasn’t scared.

She could handle herself.

The truth was that nothing scared her.

Nothing ever had.

She stared out the window, watched a rainstorm coming in from the coast, the trees with their new leaves bending in the wind, the sky a dismal iron gray.

Another prison; no better than Blue Rock Academy.

Rock, rock, rock.

She pretended to swing.

Keep up the movement; let them think you’re lost in your own little world. Don’t let them guess for a minute you have any idea what’s really happening.

“Time for your pills,” an apple-cheeked nurse said. Jesus, she was a pain. Her name tag read: Amy Dryer, L.P.N., and she was an idiot who droned on and on about her fiancé. If Shay heard Merlin’s name one more time, she thought she might get sick.

Dressed in purple today, pants and matching V-neck top that didn’t disguise how soft her hips were, the nurse offered Shay her sickeningly plastic smile along with the cup of pills, all pre-measured, all precisely counted out.

Shay didn’t look away from the window, only saw Nurse Amy’s pale reflection in the glass as she noted the first splatters of rain drizzling down the panes.

“Shaylee?” the nurse said, her voice upping an octave as she was starting to get really agitated.

Perfect!

Swallowing a smile, Shay kept rocking while one of the aides adjusted the music that played from hidden speakers. Today: country. Taylor Swift. Again.

“Please, honey,” Nurse Amy said, “it’s time.”

Shay didn’t respond.

“Shay!” Her name was spat now, Apple-Cheeks was really pissed off. Shay slowly turned her head and looked into the consternation on Nurse Amy’s face. She kept her own eyes blank, didn’t let the fire of hatred burning deep in her soul shine through, even managed a bit of drool to show on the side of her mouth.

“Didn’t you hear me, honey?”

Oh, I heard you, you cretin, I just didn’t want to answer.

“It’s time for your meds.”

Trying to appear dull, Shay accepted the cup of pills and slowly pretended to take them as Apple-Cheeks, frowning now, moved off to the next imbecile of a patient.

Idiot!

Shay always pretended to take the pills, faking swallowing, then stuffing them into her shoes when no one was looking. She hid the pills, of course, couldn’t run around and mash them, but they were safely tucked away. Who knew when she might need them? The pills, a knife from the cafeteria, a small pair of scissors from craft time and the tiny screwdriver she’d lifted off the maintenance man’s tool belt he’d laid on the floor when he’d tried to fix the cable TV. All her precious items secreted away in a makeup bag, which was taped to the bottom of a rolling cart holding Connie’s belongings.

If the contraband was ever discovered, it would look like Connie, a forty-something real whack who had kleptomaniac tendencies, had stolen it. That’s right, folks, blame it on Connie the Klepto.

All in good time, Shay thought, forcing herself to be calm. She hated being locked up, but it wouldn’t be forever, and she knew exactly what she would do once she escaped.

She had some scores to settle: Edie was on the list, along with Cooper Trent, that rodeo-riding son of a bitch. But the one she really wanted to deal with was her sister: Jules.

Shaylee’s blood boiled at the thought of her sister. She’d counted on her and Jules, true to form, had let her down, mortified her, caused her to end up here in a hospital with maniacs and morons. Jules was the reason she was here. Make no mistake.

Yes, Shaylee thought, Jules would have to pay and pay with her life.

The Taylor Swift song ended with a familiar guitar chord, then faded into an advertisement for Blue Rock Academy. Her insides went stone cold as Shay listened hard to the ridiculous mother spouting her worries about her daughter, and finally, the daughter, in a younger, cheery voice saying something inane about the school turning her life around.

“Save me,” Shay muttered, one fist clenching.

“And now, I have my daughter back,” the mother assured the listeners in a bright, confident voice.

Shay remembered the campus, the mountains, the icy waters of Lake Superstition, and all of the people who had sworn to help her. They’d all only made things worse.

Even Jules.

Especially
Jules.

Idly, Shay wondered who was running the academy now.

Not that it mattered.

She was never going back.

Never!

Not even when she escaped, she thought, smiling inside, her watery reflection leering back at her in the glass, because she knew that her escape would happen very, very soon …

Dear Reader,

I can’t tell you how much fun I had writing WITHOUT MERCY with its whole set of new characters and the setting of Blue Rock Academy deep in the mountains of Southern Oregon. Such a beautiful place, even if the academy is all in my imagination. I originally wrote the book as a stand-alone novel with no plans for a sequel, but, after reading so many letters, e-mails, and Facebook postings from readers, I’m wondering if, perhaps, there is another book to be written about Blue Rock and some of the characters you met in the story. What do you say?

For now, though, I’ve got another couple of books coming out. The first is DEVIOUS, my next Montoya/Bentz novel set in New Orleans! It’s a hardcover that will be out in April 2011. This time there’s a killer who’s targeting young, novice nuns at St. Marguerite’s Cathedral. The first victim, Sister Camille, is the sister of Valerie Renard Houston, an ex-cop who’s going through a messy divorce from her husband, Slade Houston. Slade is a sexy rancher who just doesn’t seem to get it that Valerie wants out. He, who has a history with Camille, shows up on Val’s doorstep the very night Camille is killed. Coincidence? Valerie doesn’t think so. Nor can she stand to sit around and let Detectives Rick Bentz and Reuben Montoya try and hunt down her sister’s killer. Despite everyone’s warnings and her mixed emotions for Slade, Valerie gets involved, more deeply than she should and before she knows it, she becomes the next target of a twisted psychopath.

It was great returning to New Orleans and catching up with Rick Bentz and Reuben Montoya—there’s even a new character, Cruz, who is Montoya’s younger and oh, so sexy, motorcycle-riding brother. I think you’ll like him.

Hot on the heels of DEVIOUS is my next book written with my sister, Nancy Bush. WICKED LIES is the sequel to WICKED GAME and yes, you’ll visit the creepy “cult” known as The Colony again, where everyone has a secret worth dying for. You’ll also catch up with the killer from WICKED GAME whose mission of destruction is stronger than ever. WICKED LIES will be available in June 2011, so look for it!

Then, finally in August of 2011, it will be time to check in on Detectives Pescoli and Alvarez in BORN TO DIE, the next book in the Montana series. If you read LEFT TO DIE and CHOSEN TO DIE, or even if you haven’t, you’ll want to return to Grizzly Falls where the colorful locals are as plentiful as blueberries in the pies served up at Shorty’s Diner! There’s a whole new mystery unfolding in the Bitterroot Mountains, and bodies are piling up around Dr. Acacia “Kacey” St. Lucien. From L.A. to Grizzly Falls, the killer spares no one in his path. Once again Pescoli and Alvarez have their hands full with a killer darker and more evil than anyone could ever imagine. Again, I’m sure you’ll love this one.

So you see, I’ve been busy doing what I love. You can find out more about all these books (and more!) on my website www.lisajackson.com and I’ve got some fun interactive things happening there as well as on Facebook where I’ve got a fan page up and running. For now, for a sneak peek of DEVIOUS, just turn the page….

Lisa Jackson

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Lisa Jackson’s newest Rick Bentz/Reuben Montoya thriller, DEVIOUS!

“I
t’s time.” The voice was clear.

Smiling to herself, Camille felt a sublime relief as she finished pushing the last small button through its loop. She stared at herself in the tiny mirror and adjusted her veil.

“You’re a vision in white,” her father said … but he wasn’t here, was he? He wasn’t walking her down the aisle. No, no, of course not. He’d died, years before. At least that was what she thought. But then her father wasn’t her father … only by law. Right? She blinked hard. Woozy, she tried to clear her brain, wash away the feeling of disembodiment that assailed her.

It’s because it’s your wedding day; your nerves are playing tricks on your brain.

“Your groom awaits.” Again, the voice propelled her, and she wondered if someone was actually speaking to her or if she was imagining it.

Silly, of course it’s real!

She left the small room where she’d dressed and walked unsteadily along the shadowed corridor, lit by only a few wavering sconces. Dark, yet the hallway seemed to glisten.

Down a wide staircase with steps polished from thousands of feet scurrying up and down, she headed toward the smaller chapel where she knew he was waiting.

Her heart pounded with excitement.

Her blood sang through her veins.

What a glorious, glorious night!

One hand trailed down the long smooth banister, fingertips gliding along the polished rail.

“Hurry,” a harsh voice ordered against her ear, and she nearly stumbled over the dress’s hem. “You must not keep him waiting!”

“I won’t,” she promised, her voice reverberating from a distance, as if echoing through a tunnel. Or only in her own head.

She picked up her skirt to move more quickly, her feet skimming along the floor. She felt light, as if floating, anticipation urging her forward.

Moonlight washed through the tall tracery windows, spilling shadowed, colored patterns on the floor, and as she reached the chapel, her legs wobbled, as if she were wearing heels.

But her feet were bare, the cold stone floor penetrating through her soles.

Poverty, chastity, obedience.

The words swirled through her brain as the door to the chapel was opened and she stepped inside. She heard music in her head, the voices of angels rising upward through the spires of St. Marguerite’s Cathedral on this, her wedding day.

Night … it’s night.

Candles flickered at the altar and overhead a massive crucifix soared, reminding her of Christ’s suffering. She made the sign of the cross as she genuflected, then slowly moved forward.

Poverty. Chastity. Obedience.

Her fingers wound around the smooth beads of her rosary as the music in her head swelled.

As she reached the altar, the church bell began to toll and she knelt before the presence of God. She was ready to take her vows, to give her life to the one she loved.

“Good … good … perfect.”

Camille bowed her head in prayer, then, on her knees, looked up at the crucifix, saw the wounds on Christ’s emaciated body, witnessed his sacrifice for her own worldly sins.

Oh, yes, she had sinned.

Over and over.

Now, she would be absolved.

Loved.

Forever.

Closing her eyes, she bent her head with difficulty … it seemed suddenly heavy, her hands clumsy. The chapel shifted and darkened, and the statuary, the Madonna and angels near the baptismal basin, suddenly stared at her with accusing eyes.

She heard the scrape of a shoe on the stone floor and her lightheartedness and joy gave way to anxiety.

Don’t give in. Not tonight …

But even her wedding dress no longer seemed silky and light; the fabric was suddenly scratchy and rough, a musty smell wafting from it.

The skin on the back of her neck, beneath the cloying veil, crinkled with anxiety.

No, no, no … this is wrong.

“So now you know,” the voice so near her ear reprimanded, and she shrank away from the hiss. “For the wages of sin are …”

“Death,” she whispered.

Sheer terror curdled her blood. Oh, God! Scared out of her mind, Camille tried to scramble to her feet.

In that instant Fate struck.

The rosary was stripped from her hands, beads ripping over her fingers and flesh, only to scatter and bounce on the floor.

Camille tried to force her feet beneath her, but her knees were weak, her legs suddenly like rubber. She tried to stand, pushing herself upright, but it was too late.

A thick cord circled her throat and was pulled tight.

NO! What was this?

Needle-sharp shards cut deep into her flesh.

Panic surged through her.

No, no, no! This was all wrong.

Help me!

White hot pain screamed through her body. She jerked forward, trying to throw off her attacker as her airway was cut off. She tried to gasp, but couldn’t draw a breath. Her lungs, dear Jesus, her lungs strained with the pressure.

Oh, God, what was happening?

Why?

The nave seemed to spin, high-domed ceiling reeling, the monster behind her back drawing the deadly cord tighter.

Terror clawed through her brain. Desperately, Camille tried to free herself, to kick and twist again, but her body wouldn’t respond as it should have. The weight against her back was crushing, the cord at her throat slitting deep.

Blood pounded behind her eyes, echoed through her ears.

Her fingers scrabbled at the cord around her neck, a fingernail ripping.

Her back bowed as she strained.

She fought wildly, but it was useless.

Please, please, please! Dear Father, spare me! I have sinned, but please …

Her feet slipped from beneath her.

Weakly she flailed, her strength failing her.

No, Camille. Fight! Don’t give up! Do not! Someone will save you.

Her eyes focused on the crucifix again, her vision of Christ’s haggard face blurring.
I’m sorry …

She was suddenly so weak, her attempts frail and futile.

Her strong body grew limp.

“Please,” she tried to beg but the sound was only garbled and soft, unrecognizable.