The Raven Master

by Diana Whitney

  “I couldn’t stay as a pariah, disowned by my family, snubbed by my friends.” A weak smile turned into a twitching cheek. She cleared her throat and shrugged. “Someday I’ll go back.”

  “To make amends with your family?”

  She frowned. “No, I don’t think so. My feelings for them have changed.”

  “That’s understandable.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “They’ve hurt you. There’s no reason for you to trust them again. The important thing is how you feel about yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you still blame yourself for what happened?”

  “I never blamed myself.” But her annoyance melted as the truth sank in. She looked up in surprise and awe. “I did blame myself, didn’t I? Maybe I thought that if I’d been a better person, Charles would have wanted to father my children.”

  “Is that what you believe now?”

  “No.” She shook her head vehemently. “In all the ways that count, Charles was a child himself. He took no responsibility for his own actions, and now that I think about it, he never could cope with a situation in which he was not the center of attention.”

  “Then leaving him was vital to your own survival. If you’d have stayed, part of you would have died and your dreams for the future would have been destroyed.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, amazed. “It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?”

  He smiled. “What do you think?”

  “There you go again.” She swatted his arm and laughed. “Honestly, I’m going to have to wear an emotional flak jacket when you’re around. I can’t believe that I’ve told you all this…this stuff.”

  He released her hand, folded his arms and leaned back. “The first step in healing is to recognize the wound. You didn’t say anything that you weren’t ready to reveal.”

  A cold breeze chilled her unprotected palm. Without his touch, she felt oddly vulnerable and exposed. “Yes…well, thanks for listen—Ow!” Her hand flew to her head as she spun around and stared into Edgar’s beady yellow eyes. Several strands of brown hair hung from his beak and when he again advanced toward her sore scalp, she shook her finger. “Don’t even think about it.”

  The raven tilted his head, then hopped across the table and laid the wispy prize on his master’s shoulder. Quinn pinched the hairs between his thumb and forefinger and held them up for examination. “Ah. Just what I need for my voodoo doll.”

  “Very funny.” Janine rubbed her head. “Is he nesting or something?”

  “Actually I believe this is supposed to be a gift.”

  “Edgar has a crush on you? How sweet.”

  She chuckled and Quinn couldn’t help smiling in response. “You have a delightful laugh.”

  A pink glow spread over her cheeks along with a shy expression he found most appealing. Odd, he mused, how this gentle woman could affect him. As the thought crossed his mind, he glanced down at the strands in his palm and felt a peculiar warmth crawl up his arm. Janine Taylor was a very special person, and he was unaccountably angry at those who had hurt and betrayed her.

  As he’d listened to her story, a strange thing had happened. Quinn had identified with Janine’s suffering, recognizing the self-imposed stigma, the bonds of guilt that strangled a person’s soul. He’d felt sympathy, yes, but he’d also felt something deeper, something that had struck a sensitive chord deep inside him.

  Before he could ponder that unexpected development, a noise caught his attention. He looked toward the walkway just as Jules strode into view. Without so much as a glance in their direction, the young man climbed into his grand-mother’s car and drove away.

  Quinn tensed but forced a casual tone. “I didn’t realize Edna’s shift ended so early today.”

  Janine shrugged. “As far as I know, she won’t be off until late this afternoon.”

  “Really?” He slowly gathered the bird into his arms, preparing to make a move. “Jules seemed to be in quite a hurry. I hope nothing is wrong.”

  “I doubt it. He frequently gets bored and drives into Eugene for the afternoon.”

  “Does he?” As Quinn posed the bland question, he glanced idly around the yard to indicate that he neither expected nor was interested in a reply. He stretched, then stood without rushing. “I’d better put Edgar away while you still have some hair left.”

  “Of course.” Janine stood, too, smiling awkwardly. “I have to finish weeding.”

  Quinn hesitated. “I enjoyed our talk.”

  Her smile relaxed. “So did I.”

  He allowed his gaze to linger a moment before moving casually toward the back porch. Once inside the kitchen, he glanced out the window, and after reassuring himself that Janine had gone back to her gardening, he hurried upstairs and returned the raven to its perch.

  Five minutes later, Quinn was driving on the winding road away from Darby Ridge. He pushed the speed limit, scanning the road ahead. Once Jules hit the Highway 58 cutoff, there wouldn’t be much chance of catching up with him. The last thing Quinn wanted was another wasted opportunity, so when he finally spotted the faded blue sedan in the distance, he breathed a sigh of relief and eased off the accelerator. All he had to do now was hang back and keep the car in sight, as he’d done since arriving in Darby Ridge. So far his clandestine surveillance had provided little information.

  A search of the guest rooms, however, had been more interesting. As expected, Althea’s closet had been stuffed with tacky, sexy clothing more appropriate for a svelte twenty-year-old than a middle-aged woman. Edna, bless her, had converted her bureau into a religious shrine flanked by a large family Bible complete with inscriptions that had been enlightening, if not surprising.

  In Jules’s room, however, Quinn had stumbled onto a hidden cache of pornography that had given him a real jolt. The magazines hadn’t been locker-room stuff or the run-of-the-mill nudies favored by hormone-pickled adolescents. The stuff Jules had tucked away could only be described as hard-core, with scenes that had literally turned Quinn’s stomach.

  Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he continued his furtive pursuit to the Eugene city limits, following the blue sedan past the train yard and through crowded downtown streets into the parking lot of the Lane County Mental Health Clinic.

  When Quinn watched Jules enter the building, an icy numbness settled into the pit of his stomach. No amount of psychiatric help could cure the perverted bastard who kept such pornographic filth. As far as Quinn was concerned, the gesture was too little, too late.

  Jules’s fate had already been sealed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Slumped on the overstuffed leather sofa, Jules contemplated the abstract shapes littering the faded Oriental carpet. His jaw ached from constant clenching. His fingers twitched into a constant blur of scratching, plucking and picking. An uncomfortable dampness coated his skin. He felt sticky. Unclean.

  Across the plushly appointed room, Dr. Aaron Orbach watched quietly from an armless French Provincial intimately situated beside a gleaming cherry desk. On the desktop sat a small black machine. The doctor pressed a button, and when the recording tape whirred softly, he steepled his hands. “You sounded upset on the telephone, Jules.”

  Without responding, Jules stared at his manicured hands and was horrified. One of his fingernails was chipped, uneven. It looked like the claw of an animal. He was disfigured, flawed, unworthy. He panicked, desperate to repair the damage immediately. Clutching his wrist, he brought the offending hand to his mouth and gnawed at the broken nail.

  Dr. Orbach crossed his legs and maintained an impassive expression. “Tell me what has happened since our last appointment.”

  Jules bit off a nail sliver, spit it on the floor, then held up his hand to inspect the ragged repairs. This wouldn’t do at all. He trembled violently, eyes darting like trapped prey. The doctor silently reached into his desk drawer and extracted an emery board. Jules snatched it eagerly and roughly sawed at the jagged fingernail.

  Dr. Orbach
watched quietly for a moment before resuming the annoying inquiry. “Are you still upset about Miss Barker’s death?”

  “I dream about her sometimes,” Jules mumbled, still engrossed in his vital task.

  “What happens in those dreams?”

  “She cries.”

  “Why does she cry?”

  “Because I won’t have sex with her.” Holding up his hand, Jules noted an unacceptable imperfection on an adjacent nail and used the emery board to effect repairs. “My mother used to cry, too.”

  The doctor leaned forward. “And why did your mother cry, Jules? Did she want to have sex with you?”

  The emery board slipped from Jules’s rigid fingers. He was too outraged to reply.

  “Did my question upset you, Jules?”

  “How dare you imply something so vulgar?” he snapped, glaring at the doctor with undisguised revulsion.

  Dr. Orbach offered a conciliatory gesture. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  But Jules would not be mollified. He leaped to his feet and paced the spacious office, fearing he might explode from the heat of righteous fury.

  “Did you love your mother?” Orbach asked.

  Jules stopped pacing as an image floated through his mind, the memory of being a small boy nestled on his mother’s lap. Her dark eyes had been filled with love as she’d rocked him gently, crooning the sweet lullaby that he still hummed when surrounded by frightening darkness. Deep inside, his heart still ached for her tender touch, the comfort of her soft, maternal bosom—

  “Jules?”

  He blinked numbly.

  Orbach leaned back in his chair. “I asked if you loved your mother.”

  Turning away, Jules blinked back tears. “She was a wicked woman,” he whispered. “It would have been wrong to love her.”

  Nodding dispassionately, the doctor casually rearranged his spectacles and peered over the shiny brass frames. “Why do you believe your mother was wicked, Jules?”

  Jerking to a stop, Jules looked up in disbelief. “Because she did disgusting things.”

  “With men?”

  “Yes,” Jules whispered. “When the men came to see her, she made me go outside but I looked in the window and saw the things they did. It…made me sick.”

  “Did you ever discuss those feelings with your mother?”

  “No.” Jules pinched the crease of his trousers to eliminate a bothersome flaw in the otherwise perfect edge. “She wouldn’t have cared.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because if she’d really loved me, she wouldn’t have gone away and left me all alone.”

  “You weren’t completely alone, were you? You still had your grandmother.”

  Grand’mère. A cold anger settled in the pit of his stomach every time Jules thought about his grandmother and the horrible day that he’d been called to the principal’s office at Boston High. His grandmother had been there, eyes bright with phony grief, barely suppressing a smile as she informed Jules that his mother had run away.

  Jules hadn’t been surprised—he couldn’t remember why—but he had been terribly upset, particularly when his grandmother told him he couldn’t go back to Boston High, nor was he allowed to retrieve his possessions or even return to the apartment he and his mother had shared. Grand’mère had told Jules that his things were tainted by evil. Jules had hated her for that. Seven years later, he still did.

  But Jules hadn’t revealed any of those feelings to his psychiatrist, fearing Grand’mère would find out. The thought of incurring his grandmother’s wrath—and subsequent punishment—was frightening enough but the fear of being abandoned again was more terrifying than death itself. Jules didn’t know what he would do without Grand’mère. She was all he had; he needed her desperately.

  Shuddering, Jules returned to his seat and wiped his moist brow, vaguely aware that the doctor was speaking again. “Excuse me?”

  Dr. Orbach propped his chin on his hand. “I asked what you meant when you telephoned this morning and said that the devil was chasing you.”

  “Yes, the devil,” Jules repeated in a dull monotone. “He calls himself Coulliard.”

  “Ah. The new tenant you told me about last week. What has he done to frighten you, Jules?”

  Frighten. The word circled his brain. A man must never be frightened. Charles Bronson was never frightened. Clint Eastwood was never frightened. Closing his eyes, Jules envisioned the movie he’d watched last night and how the hero had stood tall in the face of his enemies. As the images sharpened, his shoulders automatically squared and his chin rose defiantly.

  And while the pitiful Jules Delacourt watched from a distant corner of his own mind, the essence of Charles Bronson suddenly spoke with harsh clarity. “Coulliard said that my mother is dead.”

  The doctor’s eyes widened slightly. “Why do you believe he said that?”

  Slipping one hand into his pocket, Jules swaggered across the room and slouched casually on the couch. “The reason is obvious.” He smiled coldly. “Coulliard must have killed her.”

  That evening Althea made the rounds of Darby Ridge nightspots—two beer joints and a bowling alley—and Edna dragged her grandson to an evening church function. Quinn left without comment shortly thereafter.

  Now, with the strains of her favorite symphony floating through the parlor, Janine settled onto the sofa to reread a Dickens classic and enjoy the rare evening of solitude. Except for the moaning wind announcing a coming storm, the boardinghouse was deliciously quiet.

  Since a cozy fire would perfect the ambience, she gazed longingly at the massive river-stone fireplace, then at the book in her hand. The book won. With a contented sigh, she parted the pages and indulged herself by reading the first line aloud: “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”’ God, she loved this story. It never failed to bring tears to her eyes.

  She kicked off her sneakers, tucked her feet under her thighs and had barely finished the first page when the front door opened. Her heart sank as she hurriedly removed her feet from the cushions and sat like a lady.

  Quinn leaned against the parlor doorjamb. “It’s only me,” he said pleasantly. “You can get comfortable again.”

  She smiled and laid her book on the table. “I didn’t expect anyone back so soon.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Of course not,” she murmured and was surprised to realize that it was true. “Would you like some coffee?”

  He sat on the other end of the short sofa. “Is there some made?”

  “There will be in a minute.”

  When she started to stand, he laid a restraining hand on her arm. “You don’t have to wait on me. Sit down. Enjoy your book.”

  “But—”

  “I can make coffee.”

  The image widened her smile. “Perhaps, but would it be drinkable?”

  “Possibly.” He released her arm and leaned back against the sofa cushion. “Actually it’s too late for coffee, anyway. Caffeine keeps me awake.”

  “Well, how about some chamomile tea? It’s wonderfully soothing.” When he politely refused, Janine smiled. “Another time,” she murmured, then stood and absently smoothed her wrinkled skirt.

  Quinn frowned. “Where are you going?”

  “To turn down the stereo.” She shrugged nervously. “I have a tendency to hike the volume past most people’s comfort level.”

  “It’s fine.” Quinn cocked his head. “Brahms’s Fourth Symphony, isn’t it?”

  She brightened. “Yes. Allegro non troppo.”

  He listened another moment. “No, I believe it’s Andante moderato.”

  “You like classical music?” She sat down, instantly enthused. “Who is your favorite composer? I love Mahler myself, and Mussorgsky—I adore Pictures at an Exhibition—and Stravinsky and Brahms, of course and…” Suddenly aware that she was babbling, she clamped her lips together and studied her hands. “Sorry. I so rarely have the opportunity to discuss music that I g
uess I got carried away.”

  He didn’t bother to disguise his amusement. “It’s a shame you can’t muster more enthusiasm.”

  She smiled, unembarrassed. “You never answered my question.”

  He feigned surprise. “There was a question buried in that verbal barrage?”

  This time she laughed out right. “Do you have a favorite composer?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He regarded her pensively. “Liszt.”

  Her smile faded. “Franz Liszt?”

  “Are you familiar with his work?”

  “Of course. The Mephisto Waltz.” She swallowed hard, remembering the wild, pagan beat of the Faust-inspired score. Somehow it seemed an eerie irony that Quinn would admire Liszt, the mesmerizing virtuoso rumored to have had a sorcerous power over the hearts of women.

  As though sensing her discomfort, Quinn added, “I also enjoy Ravel and Tchaikovsky. Is their work more to your liking?”

  Feeling a bit silly to have read so much into a man’s choice of music, Janine laughed at herself. “Yes, I’ll admit that it is. As a matter of fact, I have a complete collection of Tchaikovsky including his Sixth Symphony, the Pathétique.”

  “Really?” Quinn sat forward, eyes glowing. “I haven’t heard that in years.”

  He seemed lost in thought, his wistful smile offering an unexpected glimpse behind the barrier he’d so diligently erected to hide his emotions. Janine was delighted by the tantalizing peek and intrigued to have made yet another exhilarating discovery about this provocative, mysterious man. “Would you like me to play it for you?”

  He looked up eagerly. “If it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  After assuring him that it was no trouble at all, she crossed the room and knelt beside one of her many CD carousels, acutely aware that Quinn had followed. Her heart raced as he sat on the floor beside her. She tried to focus on each title and forced a light tone. “Actually I don’t play the Pathétique often. It’s such a somber, moody piece.”

  “That’s what makes it so memorable,” Quinn murmured, close enough that his breath lifted the fine hair around her ears. “It’s the master’s final symphony, an ode to the spiritual hunger of man.”