So why was Jules here?
To spy? To get her sister, under court order, out of here?
To expose him?
The Leader’s heart went cold as stone. Lauren Conway’s face shot through his mind, and he touched his pocket, reassuring himself that the small flash drive with its incriminating pictures and information was still safely tucked away. She, too, had thought she would expose him, and she’d
found out the hard way that it was impossible to thwart God’s will.
It had been the last time his followers had met him at the old church, a forgotten building going to ruin. Adjacent to a cemetery, tucked into the forest near the Blue Rock caves, the nearly dilapidated church had provided much-needed secrecy and had been a perfect, secure place to hold his meetings, to praise God, to gather and mold the minds of those most ready to serve the Lord, or so he’d thought.
But as he’d orated, he’d caught a glimpse of her face in the watery panes of a narrow window and had realized then that she’d been spying on him.
A traitor.
Just like the first woman he’d ever truly loved. That first one, she would soon see her mistake, would soon know as he rose in power what a fool she’d been, but Lauren had been another matter.
That night, he’d pretended that he hadn’t caught a glimpse of her, that he hadn’t known of her lies, but she’d found out. Before any real damage had been done.
Again, he touched the small lump in his pocket, reassured himself that the information was secure and reminded himself that he could trust no one. The flash drive was a silent, constant reminder.
He had to be vigilant. He bit on the corner of his lip. As the Lord’s soldier, he needed to take care of any threat to his mission, to make this school the best in the country. He saw himself being elevated, lauded for his good deeds. Blue Rock would be the first of many like academies whose purpose was to aid the disenchanted youth, to turn them to Christ, to mold them into soldiers, an army for God. He thought of his mission much like the kings and emperors of Europe who had organized the Crusades to the Holy Lands, considered himself a warrior like King Richard I of England, the Lionheart.
Yes, blood had been spilled.
But it was necessary in the fight for God’s word to be spread.
In his mind’s eye, he saw himself in the house on the shores of Lake Washington, so much like a castle. Perfect. But he was getting ahead of himself. There was much to do here first, and his soldier was right—the storm provided perfect cover to get rid of the traitors who had infiltrated the academy.
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.