Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [91]
Still, he had to be careful.
For now, he couldn’t risk being followed or exposed.
The snow on the ground would make tracking much too easy, though the more powder that was predicted to fall in the next few days, the harder for the dogs, horses, and vehicles to get around. Even the frantic parents wouldn’t be able to reach their darling delinquents.
He glanced to the sky, where opaque clouds blocked the stars. More snow was predicted, the pressure system bearing down in what newscasters were calling “the storm of the century.”
That, he liked.
If things got worse and the concern about Nona Vickers’s death died down, then he could get back to work. It depended upon Andrew Prescott, he supposed, whether he made it or not. He squinted into the night, not understanding how all of his plans, so well formulated, seemed to be unraveling.
Be patient. You can handle this.
The wind picked up again, whispering through the woods, slapping at his face, cooling his blood, forcing clarity to overcome passion. The flakes of snow had become tiny, icy pellets that indicated a blizzard on its way.
Good.
The more the campus was cut off from the rest of the world, the better.
Tonight, he would force himself to remain quiet. Tonight he would rein in his emotions. Soon there would be time for his ultimate goals.
He walked with purpose to his own quarters.
No one would think twice about him being out at this hour, as long as he was alone. Which was just the way he wanted it. Until he sorted things out.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Jules made her way to the den, where the flickering gray light of a television drew her like a magnet, pulling her closer. She knew that something was wrong in the room. It felt empty and cold, as if the dark spirit of bad luck had passed through.
The French doors were open, a breeze playing with the gauzy curtains. The red light for the VCR indicated the machine was playing, the clock stuck at two forty-seven.
Goose bumps pimpled her arms as she stared at the television screen, where muted images danced, a study of light and shadow.
And still the drip. Jules looked down at the knife in her hand. Beads of blood splashed onto her foot, pooled around her toes, trailed to the body of her father lying on the floor.
A scream ripped through the room, and she jerked up, saw Edie standing in the hallway, her face ashen.
“What have you done?” Edie cried.
Jules’s eyes flew open.
For a second she didn’t know where she was.
The school. That’s right. Blue Rock Academy. She glanced at the clock and her heart stopped.
Two forty-seven.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered, trying to calm her racing heart. Rolling onto her side, she took in deep calming breaths as the dream receded into the dark corners of her mind. She was sweating, her muscles cramped, though the room was as cold as death.
She heard a squeak on the stairs outside her door, and for a second she thought that someone had been in the room. Someone stealthily rifling through her things, standing over her as she slept.
A shudder ripped through her body, and she pulled the covers to her chin, curling into a ball. She was imagining things. The vestiges of the dream were still scraping at her, teasing her.
Her robe sat in a mound at the foot of the bed, just where she’d flung it. She wrapped it around her body, walked to the window, and opened the blinds.
Sometime during the night, the snow had stopped. The deputy’s cruiser was gone, tracks indicating that the car had driven away from the heart of the campus. There were mashed trails of snow on the paths to the various buildings, solitary tracks made