Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [0]
Books by Lisa Jackson
See How She Dies
Final Scream
Running Scared
Whispers
Twice Kissed
Unspoken
If She Only Knew
Hot Blooded
Cold Blooded
The Night Before
The Morning After
Deep Freeze
Fatal Burn
Shiver
Most Likely to Die
Absolute Fear
Almost Dead
Lost Souls
Left to Die
Wicked Game
Malice
Chosen to Die
Without Mercy
Published by Kensington Books
LISA JACKSON
WITHOUT MERCY
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
For Hannah
Always in my heart
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is a team project and I would like to thank some of the members of my team who worked hard on this book. Rosalind Noonan and John Scognamiglio both gave hours of their expertise on the novel. Everyone at Kensington Publishing has been incredible and of course, I would like to thank Nancy Bush, Ken Bush, Alex Craft, Matthew Crose, Niki Crose, Michael Crose, Kelly Foster, Darren Foster, Ken Melum, and my agent, Robin Rue. There are others, of course, but these people come to mind.
Author’s Note
There is no Blue Rock Academy, nor a sheriff’s department whose jurisdiction included the academy. But there is an incredibly beautiful stretch of country in the mountains of Southern Oregon, so while the institution isn’t real, the landscape is and let me tell you, it’s phenomenal!
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
“Help me…Oh, God, please someone help me….” The voice was a desperate plea, barely audible over the sounds of a familiar song and the steady drip of liquid splashing, like a single drop of rainwater hitting the ground. Over and over again.
Her heartbeat pounding in her eardrums, Jules Farentino, barefoot and wearing only a nightgown, made her way toward the den where a fluttering blue light was barely visible through the sheers on the French doors.
“Hurry…there isn’t much time….”
She wanted to call out but held her tongue. The feeling that something was wrong here—something dark and evil—caused her to creep silently along the icy floors.
Slowly, she pushed open the door to the den and peered inside. The L-shaped couch and a recliner were illuminated by the weird, flickering light of the muted television.
Michael Jackson’s voice sang about Billie Jean through the speakers.
Above the melody:
Drip. Drip. Drip.
So loud.
Like rolling thunder in her aching head.
Liquid warmth splashed on the tops of her bare feet, and she looked down quickly. Her eyes rounded as she saw the blood dripping from the long blade of the knife in her hand, the red stain spreading into a pool.
What!
No!
She tried to scream but couldn’t, and as she looked toward the open French doors, she saw her father lying on the floor near the coffee table. “Help me, Jules,” he said, lips barely moving. He stared up at her, eyes unblinking, a jagged gash on his forehead, a stain spreading on the front of his rumpled white shirt.
Blood gurgled from the corner of Rip Delaney’s mouth as he stared up at her, whispering in a wet rasp, “Why?”
Transfixed, her hand now sticky with blood, she started to scream—
“Seven forty-five in the morning. It’s a chilly thirty-seven now. That’s only five degrees above freezing, you know, but temperatures will climb until midafternoon, topping out near fifty. It’s going to be a cold, wet one today, a major storm expected to roll in later this morning. Now for the traffic report…”
Jules awoke with a jerk.
Her heart was pounding, her head splitting, the radio announcer’s voice an irritant. She slapped off the alarm and shivered.