No One Left To Tell no-2

by Jordan Dane

  He struggled to control his anger. It was hard to let go of the past. But for Raven and Fiona's sake, he had to get beyond it. Self-pity wasn't an option.

  "I was h-hoping y-you'd say that. Thank you." The wounded detective grimaced. "Now I gotta heal up. I'm gonna eat everything. Anything they put in fr-front of me, even if the f-food kills me. That's my plan."

  "If that's the best you can come up with, you must be hurting." Christian reached for Tony's wrist, giving it a gentle shake. "Take care, man."

  After leaving the ICU room, he quietly walked down the corridor toward the waiting room with Raven by his side. Numb to his surroundings, he was steeped in thought. He'd spent his whole life building a foundation of resentment toward the police. And in a matter of days, he had come to grips with the frailty of that cornerstone. Dread gnawed at his belly.

  So hard to let go of the hatred. He'd nurtured it for so long, believing it fortified him. But perhaps his changed feelings toward the police and Raven Mackenzie would serve a purpose, to help him search for the truth alongside a very unexpected ally. Someone sinister had risked a great deal to stir up the past, killing a man to make a very public point. None of it made sense.

  Who had passed judgment on Mickey? And why bad they picked Christian to bring the truth to light? Time to find the answers.

  The jet engine droned, making it easy to block out the world. He stared out the small window, his eyes not fixed on anything in particular. Night settled upon him as he left France, embracing him in black velvet, only a dress rehearsal for the real thing. With the time difference, he'd gain hours, landing on American soil to experience sunset in its finality, like opening night at the theater when little else remained but to raise the curtain. Feathery tufts drifted by, weightless. He felt lost in them.

  The world had grown smaller—and he had been the cause.

  Nicholas Charboneau replayed his long-awaited confrontation with Fiona in his mind. The woman held firm to her secrets. He knew when she was avoiding the truth. At least, he thought he could tell. So much time had been squandered between them, dulling his understanding of the only woman who'd made him vulnerable to love.

  The steady vibration of his cell phone pulled him from his self-inflicted misery. He considered not answering the call, but his better judgment forced him to reach for his tether to the present.

  "Speak."

  "I thought you should know." Without greeting, the woman got down to business.

  The sensual voice of Mantis prickled his ear. Normally, her lusty tone conjured up delightful images of his lethal flower. But only one woman plagued him now, lurking in the shadows of his memory.

  "Yes, Jasmine, what is it?" His curt tone would be noticed. The young woman was most sensitive to his needs. The prolonged silence on the other end of the line confirmed it. Finally, she spoke.

  "You should have let me come with you," she admonished tenderly. "Are you okay, Nicky?"

  Rarely had he ever heard such doubt in her voice. The unexpected quiver of blame troubled him. He didn't like this sign of weakness in himself, nipping at his potency. It came much too naturally, and without warning. Was he suddenly developing a conscience? Briefly, he shut his eyes, dismissing the thought.

  "I will be. Where are you?"

  "Perilously lost in suburbia, counting my blessings that I met you. How do people live like this? I doubt I will ever understand the endearing qualities of the minivan." The disgust in her tone had returned. Jasmine was never sentimental for long. "You were right. Our ravenous predator is hunting. And as you predicted, he lacks subtlety and any semblance of discretion."

  Under the surface of her sulking, childlike voice slithered the menace of death that he found most appealing. Sensuality and murderous intent wrapped in one tantalizing package. Nicholas had assigned his bodyguard to discreetly tail Logan McBride, suspecting the man would tempt fate by disregarding his not-so-subtle warning at their last rendezvous. Yet, he had to admit, the vulgar man had been right—an animal does remain true to its nature.

  "He's marking his territory, pissing where he doesn't belong," she warned, her femininity neatly disguised by her crude choice of words, a delicious paradox.

  Even using a high-tech secured phone, Mantis always avoided any incriminating references. A gesture he appreciated. She cautioned that McBride had escalated his interest in the fair detective who was investigating Blair's murder. He had dangled the detective as incentive to McBride, for a job well done, not realizing the bonus would be more like tossing blood in shark-infested waters. Perhaps the man wasn't as predictable as he'd once imagined.

  "And he paid a visit to the other. I believe we should send flowers to the hospital—or the mortuary," she added in a grim tone. "The outcome hasn't been decided."

  Silence. His once useful contractor knew better than to lead police to his door. But the man had launched his own campaign of retribution, without regard to his warning. Anger surged deep inside his chest. To a point, McBride's vile nature had been custom-made for his little endeavor. Now, the man had outgrown his usefulness. Tension set his jaw, but his voice remained steady.

  "I will be landing later this evening. Keep in contact if there are any further developments. By the time I arrive, I shall have a plan to remedy the situation."

  "I look forward to it," she purred. "And Nicky, when I see you, I will have a remedy of my own concoction." Her purposeful diction and the intimacy of her voice pierced the distance between them. "Guaranteed to make you forget your troubles."

  "Until then, Mantis."

  He ended the call, turning his attention once more to the clouds spiraling by his window. On the horizon, the sea of soft texture held substance, backlit by the fire of a waning sun. Light gained its fleeting stronghold, spearing its tendrils through holes in the sky. The constant struggle between light and dark was a battle doomed to failure from both sides. A winner would never be declared. Considering himself a poet with an appreciation for bloodlust, he appreciated the analogy.

  "If only it were that simple, my dear. If only—" he whispered.

  She thought the day would never end. Her eyes felt thick with exhaustion; an ache overwhelmed her muscles.

  As Raven drove up to her house, accompanied by the two squad cars assigned to her, darkness settled. A trace chill of violation still lingered in her memory. Her safe haven had been forever tainted by the break-in. Turning the key to the side entrance off the carport, she glanced overhead, remembering her intruder had pulled the bulb from her security light. It would have to be replaced.

  Uncharacteristically, she drew her weapon to walk into her dark kitchen, Lieutenant Sam Winters at her side. Though pitch-black, the room echoed its emptiness. She knew they were alone. As she flipped on the lights, the aftermath of her ruined dinner with Christian doused her with melancholy. The tainted aroma of spaghetti sauce hung in the air, its remains still splattered on the stovetop. The image forged its imprint on her mind.

  Backing up Lieutenant Winters, she conducted a search of her home before lowering her dock. Her fellow officer and family friend had volunteered to oversee the night shift. Close to retirement, he had partnered with Raven's father and visited her house on many occasions. Her first night under police protection would be strained enough, but she felt reassured having Sam watch over her.

  "We'll be setting up in front and back. You know the drill. The last of the cowboys went out with John Wayne. You're no gunslinger. So call us if you hear anything."

  Sam's face had been shaped by his years. Deeply furrowed laugh lines branded him a character. Red hair infused with gray stood on end, defying gravity. She had seen his stern grimace whenever he glowered at a suspect, but that expression melted away completely when he relaxed amidst friends. Like a stubborn cowlick unwilling to behave, his face sprang routinely into a crooked smirk. She knew firsthand that his scowl took much more effort. Sam's warm smile comforted her now, reminding her how much the man made her father laugh.

  "I'v
e got a thermos or two. How about I make some coffee for you and the troops." She grinned, not wanting to be alone so soon. "You can keep me company while it's brewing. We can talk while I clean up this mess."

  "Whoa, what happened to your old man's photo?" He reached for the framed memento ruined by dried tomato sauce. "You trying a new recipe?"

  "Not me. The bastard that broke in here added his own special ingredient." Working around the mess, Raven busied herself with the coffee prep as she spoke, filling the pot with water from the sink.

  "But I'm glad we can talk about this, Sam. When you and Dad partnered, were there any hard cases that come to mind that could do such a thing?"

  After prying open the lid to the coffee, she scooped out the dark, rich-smelling granules. Raven restrained a smile. Ever since associating Christian Delacorte with the pungent aroma of freshly brewed coffee, she couldn't think of Java without conjuring sensual images of him. Truth be told, everything reminded her of Delacorte these days. She had it bad.

  "From the message on my bathroom mirror, the guy's connected to the Blair murder, too. My gut tells me the SOB knew my dad."

  "Give me some time to think about that, baby girl. I can dig through some old case files, too." The man ridged his brow in irritation. "I hate it that this psycho has singled you out. The world sure has gotten twisted."

  He pulled back a chair from the breakfast table and flipped it around, straddling the seat and resting his meaty forearms across the back. Shoving his glasses down the bridge of his ample nose, he lowered his chin to gaze over the top of the frames, his mustache animating his upper lip.

  "You know, back when your daddy and I rode together, we didn't have all these high-tech laptops in our patrol cars and GPS for the dispatchers to know where we were every friggin' pee break."

  With coffee gurgling, Raven sprayed down her countertops and waged war on the tomato splatter. She'd heard this commentary from Sam many times before. And if she closed her eyes, her father's memory rang clear. It felt good to remember him.

  "Hell, these days, every cop has got a video cam in the dash, and a triple-encrypted communication system more like the CIA. We even got our own TV show and theme song." He shook his head and grinned, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

  "And don't you dare start singing it, LT." She pointed a threatening finger in his direction, like it was loaded. "It sounds like you miss the good old days."

  "I'm not complainin', mind you. We need all that shit just to keep up. And the world keeps churning out sick bastards for us to clean up after. Talk about job security. And your guy is no exception. What he did to Tony really chaps my hairy butt. Pardon my French."

  Raven stopped working with the mention of her partner's name, remembering how much Tony enjoyed the man's company. He'd often egg him on, trying to bait him for a rowdy discussion on the "good old days." But Sam was the most politically incorrect person she knew, from his chauvinistic terms of endearment to his colorfully inventive curses. It tickled her to think he was now asking her forgiveness for his "French." After being a cop for so long, she'd heard it all. Most probably, he only wanted permission to embellish.

  "I find it ironic that we got ourselves a war on drugs funded in part by seized drug money. Which comes first, the whoppin' big golden egg or the tight-ass chicken? All I know is, that's gotta hurt. You know what I mean?"

  She'd been right. He saved the best for last, mixing fables and old sayings in typical Sam fashion. Staring him straight in the eye, she nodded her head as if she agreed, then said, "No. Have no clue. And it scares me to think you do. But I love you anyway."

  Fighting a grin, she poured hot coffee into two thermoses. As he stood, she shoved the containers in a crook of his arm.

  "Draw the drapes and stay away from the windows." He smirked, drumming a knuckle on her forehead with affection to make his point. "And start leaving a light on inside."

  "Why? I'm not afraid of the dark." Reacting too quickly, Raven lied about her fear of the dark, afraid to show her sign of weakness.

  "Oh, it's not for you, darlin'. I call it target acquisition. If I have to come in here, gun drawn, I wanna see what I'm aimin' at."

  "Okay, I'll concede the point."

  "And just in case you hear any noises outside, I'm gonna have our guys take regular walks around the perimeter. It'll keep 'em sharp. You know what they say— the brains can only take what the tail end can stand." With a wink, he cheered her with a grin. "Thanks for the coffee, sweetness. And I'll get back to you on those old case files."

  Before he walked out the door, he turned back, a serious expression on his face. "I probably don't say this enough, Raven, but your old man would have been proud."

  She rubbed his shoulder, squeezing it gently.

  "Thanks, Sam. For everything."

  Down the block, well out of sight, Logan sat behind the wheel in the dark, clenching his jaw until it ached. The damned police thought a couple of cruisers would deter him. Nothing could be further from the truth. His men were well-trained and loyal to his command. To get at Raven Mackenzie, he was certain—nothing could stop him. And bloodying a few more blue uniforms held no significance. Retrieving his cell phone, he punched a speed-dial number. A man answered on the second ring. "Yeah, Vinnie. Call the party off for tonight. She's got visitors," Logan ordered. Earlier, he'd thought about sending someone else to do reconnaissance, but after seeing the young detective in the shower, he decided to do the job himself. He wouldn't share her with anyone.

  "Krueger's gonna be disappointed. What now?" Vinnie asked.

  Logan took a deep breath, then smirked to himself.

  "I'm stickin' 'round here for a while longer, get a look at their setup. When I come home, I'll lay out a plan."

  Short of formality, he ended the call. With the help of night-vision binoculars, he scoped out the area. Logan knew police protocols. He welcomed the challenge and thrived on the adrenaline rush. It wasn't just a question of making the hit, then finding a safe egress. It was all about the thrill of the hunt, the fear of his prey. And given his recent canvassing of the neighborhood, he'd already begun to formulate a game plan.

  Taking Raven Mackenzie out of play was only a matter of time.

  Raven's eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. Even though her bedroom was nearly pitch-black, the night light from the living room poured beneath her door, giving her comfort. A dim glow from an outside streetlight outlined the curtains, casting shadows into corners. All she had to do was close her eyes, but frustration got the better of her, manifesting in a heavy sigh.

  Throwing the comforter off, she got out of bed and made her way toward the large window in her bedroom. Clad only in a large CPD tee, she pulled back the drapery and stared into the void. Immediately, her eyes trailed to the heavens, their attention stolen by the brilliant moon. Nearer the horizon, the lights of the city robbed the sky of its own brilliance, their beauty obscured by man's cheap imitation.

  Outside her window, the hiss of brittle winter grass crunched under foot. Her body reacted to the implied threat. Raven peered though the darkness, careful not to jostle the drapes. Her eyes darted across the backyard. She held her breath, ruling out every familiar sound from in and around her old house, listening for the exception. Just then, a shadow moved to her right.

  She remembered what Sam had told her earlier. Just in case you hear any noises outside, I 'm gonna have our guys take regular walks around the perimeter. She breathed a sigh of relief when the shape became clearer. The shadow was one of her watchdogs. Leaning against the window frame, she rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  Heaving a breath, she expelled tension from her lungs. The earlier home invasion had spooked her more than she realized. She closed her eyes, calming her heart. She was a prisoner in her own home. Resentment colored her attitude—until her thoughts turned to Christian.

  She wondered what he was doing this very second. Outside the city, at the Dunhill Estate, the night sky would be glorious. Perhaps
one day, when the nightmare of this ordeal was over, they'd share its beauty. The hope of that moment soothed her beyond measure.

  Christian spent the afternoon digging through Fiona's life. Her delicate perfume still in the air, it reminded him of her absence. He'd grown melancholy with the futility of his effort. Searching the study and her bedroom took longer than he'd expected. Tomorrow, he'd tackle the attic, not knowing what he'd find there.

  Hours ago, darkness had crept across the bedroom in lengthening shadows, forcing him to flip on several of the lamps nearby. He'd become so engrossed, he hadn't been affected by the gloom closing in. Any other day, the impending darkness would have captured his attention, like holding a snarling beast at bay. But today, he was on a mission.

  Letters faded with age and old photographs lay cluttered across the carpet of Fiona's bedroom. Sitting cross-legged in the midst of it all, Christian realized he knew so little about her. Many of the mementos he'd never seen before. But then again, he'd been so defined by the violence in his life, he hadn't reached out to Fiona except to eventually take the lifeline she offered. Her life was more of a mystery than he cared to admit.

  And something peculiar troubled him. No newborn baby pictures. Gaps existed in his early life. Some of that could be explained away. His childhood had not been normal. For the most part, his mind was a blank slate. Post-traumatic stress had destroyed much of his memory.

  The one constant in his life, since that tragic day, had been Fiona. And now, he felt like such a voyeur, delving into her past. But he was certain the answers would be there, if he only knew where to look. Or, perhaps, how to look—

  Slowly, he reached for a photo of Fiona and Charles, flipping it over. One word was written across the back, along with a date. Honeymoon. He recognized Fiona's script. Something in the photo gnawed at him. His eyes had been drawn to the image several times during the course of his search. Yet he couldn't put his finger on the reason for this. Dressed in summer attire, the honeymooners squinted into the bright sun, standing at a harbor dock. Charles was beaming, his arm around the beautiful woman he'd married. And a young Fiona graced the scene, barely out of her teens. On the surface, an idyllic moment captured by the photographer.