Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [108]
“So it’s official.” It seemed to underline the feeling of safety she had near Trent, physical safety, even if her emotions scattered wildly when he was close by. “Does Lynch know?”
“We haven’t talked about it, but I’m sure O’Donnell has.”
“Tell me about our fearless leader,” she suggested.
“Lynch? All I know is that he’s been here from the get-go and has a vision of this school being an example for others; he sees Blue Rock as his mission.”
“What about his wife?”
“Cora Sue?” He shook his head. “Piece of work, that one. I’m not sure she shares her husband’s vision. Avoids this place like the plague.”
“She’s here now.”
“Well, Cora Sue comes when she’s called.” He leaned over the rail of one of the stalls and patted the head of a dark horse with a burst of jagged white on its forehead. “She makes it very clear that she’d rather be anywhere else, but she comes and he shows her off, they’re together, but if you read her body language, she’s just doing her duty.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t pretend to understand marriages, but if I had to guess, I’d say they stay together because of the money, or their vows.”
“They don’t love each other?”
“Who knows?” he said as the dark horse turned away from him.
“You think he cheated on her?”
“Possibly, or maybe the other way around,” he thought aloud. “But don’t ask me; I’m not exactly batting a thousand when it comes to relationships, but he’s definitely got some kind of influence on her. As I said, when he calls, she comes running.”
“Like a dog to her master,” she said, remembering the conversation she’d heard while eavesdropping on the reverend’s porch.
“Who knows what goes on in people’s relationships,” he said, his gaze touching hers.
For a second, she remembered how much she’d loved him. Thought you loved him. Remember? It didn’t work out.
The conversation was taking a dangerous path, so she said, “I take it, this”—she motioned to the stained floor beneath the opening to the hayloft—“is where Drew Prescott was found? I heard he suffered from a head wound.” Her stomach curdled as she imagined the boy lying on the dusty floor.
“That’s right.”
She leaned down, studying the discoloration, though what she thought she’d find, she didn’t know. She wasn’t an investigator and knew nothing about blood spatter or body position or anything that dealt with murder.
About an arm’s length from the large blotch was another stain about the size of her spread hand. “What’s this?”
“Blood. Smeared,” he admitted. “The crime scene investigators took samples and pictures.”
“That stain happened the night of the murder?” He was nodding as she rocked back on her heels and stared at the small stain. “Odd.”
“Any theories?”
She shook her head and looked up at him. “Sorry. Fresh out.” But it was strange. Had the blood come from Andrew? Nona? Or someone else? She glanced up, through the opening to the darkened hayloft. Dear God, what had happened up there?
Trent said, “You can go up if you want.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” she admitted, but was already walking to the ladder, avoiding stepping on the bloodstain and trying like crazy to ignore the trepidation chilling her soul.
Gripping the steel rungs, knowing she was following the same path that Nona had taken only nights before, she ascended into the loft. From below, Trent snapped on the lights, bare bulbs mounted high overhead. They added an unworldly glow to the old crossbeams and soaring, drafty ceiling rising high over the loft, where hundreds, maybe thousands, of bales had been stacked.
Jules heard Trent climbing to the loft as she walked along a wide path between fat, cubed bales, some of which were strewn haphazardly, others split open, spilling dry stalks, obviously torn apart during the investigation.
Near the far wall, Jules paused and looked up at the single window, high overhead, snow lining the glass. It was cracked a bit, and evidence of an owl drizzled down the plank walls.
In her mind’s eye, Jules saw the nude body of a girl hanging from one of the crossbeams. Swinging slowly. Skin a