Without Mercy (Mercy 1)

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 gray-white, eyes fixed.

Jules shook her head to shake off the image. God, she didn’t need more death in her psyche. But the girl’s ghost had touched her now and would probably haunt her forever.

“What the hell happened here?” she whispered, suddenly cold to the bone.

Trent was beside her, shaking his head, raking stiff fingers through his hair. He stared up at the rafters, as if he, too, could see her. “Two kids meet in the stables.” He nodded toward the corner of the loft. “They had sort of a love nest built out of bales over there. Apparently it was set up in advance, though for how long I don’t know. Flannagan doesn’t take any shit from these kids.”

“Rumor has it they were found naked,” she said, and he nodded. “So they were attacked while they were having sex … or possibly afterward?”

“Yeah. Prescott gave a statement to the detectives. He claims he and Nona were going at it, about finished, he on top, when the world exploded. He can’t even remember a

ny pain, just that one minute he was having sex, the next he found himself waking up in a hospital.”

Jules thought aloud, “So someone came in, hit him, kicked him through the hole in the floor, and then hung her? Really?” That didn’t sound right.

“No weapon was found. The cut on the back of Andrew’s head was deep, probably from a sharp rock, but the police haven’t found it yet. Until the storm breaks, they might never.” He glanced down at her. “For all anyone knows, it could be at the bottom of the lake or buried under two feet of snow.” He squinted upward to the wooden ceiling. “As for Nona, she was probably already dead when the killer strung her up.” He glanced down at Jules, his eyes dark in the watery light, his jaw set. “The details are ugly.”

“I can deal with ugly.” Painful memories flashed through her mind: her parents’ vile fights, nights spent huddled in her bed, wishing it would just stop, and then, ultimately, discovering her father’s body in a pool of blood. Yes, she had endured the ugly, worked beyond it, or at least tried. “What I can’t take is being blindsided.”

He hesitated, as if unsure how much he should divulge.

“I’m a big girl,” she reminded him.

“This I know,” he said, nodding. “I suppose if you’re going to stay here, you should be armed with the truth.” He told her about the severity of the attack, about how the coroner found that Nona’s hyoid bone was crushed, her larynx damaged, her vagina showing signs of rough sex. Hers had been a violent, painful death, and from the bruises on her neck, it was obvious that she’d been face-to-face with the person who had taken her life, had watched and struggled as he’d cut off her air, then, using a winch usually used in stacking the bales and a rope Flannagan had for the horses, he’d strung Nona’s nude corpse high above.

“What kind of sick mind would do that?” she asked, almost wishing she didn’t know the truth.

“Someone extremely disturbed.” Trent let his boot scrape at a wad of hay, and they both watched as golden strands of straw tumbled through the opening and fluttered down to the floor far below. “Someone here at the school.”

“So does the sheriff’s department think this is an isolated case?” she asked. “That Nona and maybe Drew were targets, that there’s a motive for the killings?”