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 s
afe,” 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.
First things first; she’d connect with Trent, no matter how pissed he was that she hadn’t sat still. Lord, he should have known her better than that! If she and her sister had anything in common, it was that they never sat idly by.
She started for his cabin, took two steps, then stopped as if yanked by invisible reins.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. In that split second, she realized she wasn’t alone in the darkness. She slid backward, into the shadows, her gaze fastened on the knot of people heading in the opposite direction. Huddled against the cold, their faces in shadow, their breaths mingling in the arctic air, they trudged through the snow to the chapel.
Not a word was spoken.
The silence was like an unheard knell of death.
Her fingers tightened over the pistol. Was this a security patrol?
She didn’t think so.
There were too many of them. Five? No, four! All walking as rapidly as they could, as if they were bound by a single purpose. Which was what? Murder?
Her heart stone cold, she inched forward. For a second, she thought she recognized Shay in the group. One of the members was the right size, and moved in the same manner Shay did … but that was impossible. Right? Two of the others were taller, dressed in thick, dark clothes, pressed shoulder to shoulder, the smaller ones in front. The fourth member of the group was different, though. She was walking in front of the larger ones and appeared to be a girl, her long hair visible, her figure slim, not bulked up by thick clothing. Bareheaded and vulnerable, she stumbled forward, her shoulders shaking. From the cold? Or was she sobbing?
She, and the person who resembled Shaylee, were being prodded forward, urged onward. The bareheaded girl tripped.
Jules stepped forward, opening her mouth to yell out, when one of the taller ones yanked the girl to her feet as they passed under one of the few lights that glowed in the darkness. A glint of silver flashed in the bigger person’s hand, the man behind the girl who looked like Shay.
Jules’s heart nearly stopped as she recognized a pistol.
Of course, for the security detail. But …
The bareheaded girl, stumbling but on her feet again, her arm now held firmly by the tall, thin member, turned and looked over her shoulder. Her face was pale, her eyes round with panic.
Oh, God, it was Nell Cousineau!
The girl who had left Jules the note.
The student who had pleaded for her help.
In that moment, Jules realized that the two larger people were not members of the security patrol, but killers. She didn’t doubt for a second that the larger, stronger people were marching these girls to their ultimate doom.
In the bluish light, she caught a glimpse of the girl with the gun pressed against her back.
Jules felt sick inside as she recognized her sister.
Her worst nightmare had come true: The killers had Shay!
Crackkkkk!
Somewhere glass shattered.
Trent froze in his tracks. He turned, straining to listen, trying to figure out from which direction the sound of cracking glass had come.
He’d been running back to the stable to meet with Lynch and Meeker when he’d heard the distinctive sound of glass breaking, the sound echoing through the stillness.
“What the devil?” he whispered under his breath.
Of course, it was quiet again. Deathly quiet. Not a noise to break the silence.
Even with Maeve’s murder, there was a deceptive serenity and calm over the white-blanketed buildings of Blue Rock Academy.
That was changing, of course. Though Lynch had decided to withhold information from the students until the morning, hoping to contact Maeve’s family first, the word was getting out.
Some of it came from the staff, most of whom Lynch and Flannagan had contacted while Meeker guarded Maeve’s grisly death scene. Then there were the patrols of students who also knew what was going on. Trent had noticed lights in dorm rooms flickering to life. Yeah, the word was getting around that the killer had struck again.
And so why the sound of shattering glass?
Thud!
He spun, turning quickly toward the direction of the sound. And his house. Running now, he was certain that the noise emanated from the direction of the row of cottages.
Who would be breaking windows in the middle of the damned night? In a second, he flashed on the table in his house and Lynch’s private files, spread out and open.
If someone stole them …
“Hell!”
Speeding through the thick snow, he cut across the back of the admin building and along a thicket of pines to the alley behind the row of cabins where darkness prevailed, still no backup power reaching this string of old cottages.
All the houses were dark, no signs of life visible.
All except his.
Through the drawn shades of his cabin he saw firelight shifting, brightness illuminating the interior.
His insides clenched. The fire he’d left smoldering in the grate should have died by now, and all the lanterns had been turned down. His house, too, should appear nearly dark but now offered up an eerie orange glow behind the shades.
Silently, he reached for his pistol before remembering he’d given his weapon to Jules.
He rounded to the back of the house without making a sound. Sure enough, the window in the back door was broken, jagged shards of glass visible in its frame, the door itself hanging ajar, the smell of burning oil escaping with a thick cloud of smoke.
Damn it!
Through the broken glass, he spied a wall of flames. Hot and wild, crackling hungrily, they ran through his home. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, flicking on his walkie-talkie as he climbed the short flight of stairs to the back porch.
“Yeah?” Bert Flannagan said.
“It’s Trent.” He kept his voice low but firm. “I need backup. ASAP. I’ve got a fire in my cabin. You hear me, ASAP!” Trent clicked off, wondering if he’d just alerted the enemy. Not really giving a damn, he picked up a piece of oak from the back porch,
the only weapon at hand.
It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out why his cabin had been broken into: Someone was dead set on destroying Lynch’s damning files.
Who?
Had Tobias Lynch figured out the files hadn’t been burned the first time?
So much for being the man of God and faith.
He burst through the door to the kitchen.
A wave of heat assaulted him. Black smoke stung his nostrils as he crossed the kitchen floor.
Bang!
Through the archway to the living room, he witnessed a shower of flame exploding as another window shattered. Sparks rained. Heat billowed.
No damned way would he let this happen!
Through the kitchen he propelled himself, expecting someone to leap out at him and knock him flat. His gloved fingers dug into the chunk of oak, his makeshift weapon.
No assailant sprang from the shadows.
No dark figure pointed a gun at him.
Without thinking twice, he yanked the fire extinguisher from the wall in the hallway.
Still no assailant.
Maybe he’d gotten lucky.
Trent dropped the chunk of wood to free his right hand. Deftly, he engaged the extinguisher, setting off a fume of CO2 throughout the hallway and living area.
As black smoke billowed and coiled around him, dancing crazily and searing his lungs, he headed farther into the shambles that had been his house. Fire was crawling along the living room floor, catching in the upholstery. Eagerly, the flames ate through a blanket that had been spread from the fireplace to the mattress he’d left in the middle of the floor. Clearly someone had worked to make it look as if the fire were a careless accident.
Heat swelled and shimmered as he sprayed the fire.
Another window popped, glass spraying.
The dining room table was a pyre. Already blackened pages were turned to ash, once legible files burning wildly. A broken kerosene lantern, the source of the blaze, lay in the middle, shards of glass glinting bloodred.
It was all destroyed. All of Lynch’s damning notes. All the proof Jules had risked her life procuring. All up in smoke!