Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [94]
“Got it. But I take it they’re not here now?”
“No, and they won’t be up today. The roads were treacherous when we cut out last night. Good thing the crime scene crew handled everything yesterday, got what they needed.” Trent remembered the techs who had taken pictures, dusted for fingerprints, collected trace evidence, searched for footprints, and scoured the stable and surrounding area while the interrogations had been going on.
O’Donnell was saying, “I understand no one can make it up to Blue Rock until the snow lets up. My detectives will get back up there just as soon as Mother Nature gives us a break. For now, you’ll deal with Meeker. He’s on campus, sort of trapped up there.”
“Along with the rest of us.”
“The storm will let up soon,” the sheriff said, though they both knew the weather service predicted more snow.
“How’s the Prescott kid doing?” Trent asked, dropping his towel and using it to wipe up the puddle that had formed around his feet.
“Still critical. The docs were real positive when he came to, had that burst of consciousness, talking with everyone, but it seems he’s lapsed back into a coma again.”
Trent hated to hear it. “Too bad.”
“Yeah. The hospital is supposed to call the minute he wakes up again, but he’s still in the ICU. They’re talking about brain and spine injury.” After a brief pause, during which Trent hoped to God for a miracle, the sheriff wrapped things up. “I gotta roll. If you have any more questions, talk to Meeker, or call Baines or Jalinsky.” O’Donnell hung up, giving Trent the green light to investigate what had happened in the stable.
About time. He kicked his towel into a corner and added the sheriff’s number along with those for Jalinsky and Baines into his phone, then got dressed in heavy layers and headed to the stable. He had a couple of hours before he was expected in the gym for the group of kids who played pickup basketball or worked out on the equipment on the weekends, and he wanted to see the crime scene again.
Most of the stable had been off-limits while the sheriff’s department worked the scene. Since the crime scene investigators and the detectives were finished, Trent ignored the yellow crime scene tape that was already broken and flapping in the breeze and let himself into the stable.
He found Flannagan leading Omen, a black gelding, through the back door and into his stall. Omen was pulling on his lead, prancing and tossing his head, his black coat gleaming under the lights. The other horses had already returned to their boxes.
Trent reached into a stall to pat Arizona’s gray muzzle, and the gelding in the next stall snorted impatiently.
“Take it easy, Scout,” he said, scratching the paint behind his ears. He turned to Flannagan. “Need help?”
Dressed in camouflage pants and a Blue Rock down jacket, Flannagan shook his head. “Nah. This is the last one. Besides, I got extra hands today, the three from yesterday’s tussle. The new girl, Stillman, Lucy Yang, and Eric Rolfe. They’ve been assigned to muck out the stalls this weekend—that is, when they’re not shoveling snow.” His lips twisted in a smile that was more menacing than amused. “Guess that’s the start of their punishment for their little spat yesterday.”
“Start?”
“Hmm.” He locked Omen in his stall, then unclipped the lead from the gelding’s halter. “Usually the two involved would be left out in the wilderness for a day or two, separately, of course, just to give each of ’em time to think about what they’ve done, how they disrespected the school and all that.” Slipping through the door to the stall, he walked to the area where the feed was kept. While the horses nickered and whinnied impatiently, Flannagan twisted off the top of a barrel of oats. “Because of the blizzard, Reverend Lynch is raining down a little mercy on the sinners’ dark souls.”
“So they’re sinners?” Trent asked.
“Isn’t everybody?