Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [162]
“Let me get this straight. You two were together when the fire broke out, is that what went down?” Flannagan asked as he stepped out of Scout’s stall, his harsh gaze riveted to Jules, as if he wanted her to feel that she might be wearing some kind of scarlet letter.
“That’s right,” she said.
“In the middle of the frickin’ night?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t backing down an inch. Let Flannagan think what he damned well wanted.
Trent nodded as he latched the gate to Arizona’s box, then scratched the mare’s nose as she shoved it over the top rail. “We were working on a project for my pod when the power went out.”
“Were ya, now?” Flannagan’s smile was a humorless white slash in the semidarkness, his sneer audible as he repeated, “A project?”
“That’s what I said.”
“After lights-out?” Flannagan said. “I’ll remember that one.”
“Do. In the meantime, just find Lynch and Meeker. You got walkie-talkies, Flannagan?” Trent double-checked the latch on Nova’s stall.
Flannagan nodded. “Back at my place.”
“Bring them,” Trent instructed. “We need to be in contact. I’ve got a set that I’ll pick up later.”
Flannagan pointed out, “The security patrols are already using them.” He glanced around the stable. “What the hell happened to the back up generator?”
“Don’t know. Bring that up with Lynch as well. And leave the lantern. You can have this.” Trent tossed Flannagan his flashlight, and the rumored ex-mercenary snagged it easily out of the air. “Let’s move.”
“You got it.” Flannagan left the lantern with its harsh light washing the area in white light on the floor near one of the stalls.
Jules watched him leave, his rifle still slung over his back, as quickly as he’d strode in. She didn’t trust him one little bit. After all, he was rumored to be a mercenary, a soldier who sold his loyalty to the highest bidder. Could he have done the same here? Was it possible that he was one of Lynch’s henchmen, hired to fulfill the reverend’s fanatical need to kill?
But why would Lynch want to kill off another student? That didn’t make any sense!
Didn’t Lynch have the ultimate say as to who was enrolled? If he made a mistake, taking in the wrong kid, why not just expel the student on a trumped up charge? Why sink to murder?
For the thrill?
To make a point?
To make certain the victim never talked?
Quivering inside, Jules looked at the dead girl again. Propped up against the wall, her wrists slit, her hair burned, scrapes on her body, Maeve, like the horses, had been terrorized. Threatened. Burned. Someone was sick enough to have gotten off on her fear.
“What happened to you?” Jules whispered, then, hearing Trent’s boots, snapped out of her reverie and helped him drag two huge battery powered heaters from storage. They placed the heat sources about twenty feet apart in the aisle, then switched them on to bathe the center aisle of the stable in a weird, unworldly glow.
“That should do it for now,” Trent said, looking around one last time.
Jules couldn’t take her eyes off the dead girl. “You know, I think Maeve was here to meet Ethan Slade,” she confided, then explained about the note she’d witnessed spilling from Maeve’s bag and how distraught the girl had been earlier: “…she was really upset, nearly incoherent and crying her eyes out.” Guilt tore through Jules at the memory. “I should have insisted she see a counselor. If I had, she might be alive now.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it; this isn’t your fault.”
“But I should have stepped in,” Jules said. “I had a feeling that something was wrong.”
“We all knew she had a thing for Slade, that she was obsessed. She’d been counseled by Dr. Williams and Lynch, too, I think.” He touched Jules on the shoulder gently, his gaze holding hers. “We don’t have time for this—no blame game, okay?”
“But—”
“I know what you’re going to say, but we have to work past it. For Maeve. To find out what happened to her. So, now, tell me, do you think Ethan’s a suspect?”
“I think everyone