Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan

by Intrigue Romance

  “Not a bad score,” Rogan remarked, “considering he was aiding and abetting a low-risk criminal.”

  “I didn’t…”

  “Use that word one more time,” Boxman invited, “and I’ll be sorely tempted to slug the truth out of you. Before you decide, it might interest you to know that I can bench-press your weight and the lieutenant’s combined.”

  Wesley must have bought the lie, because he lost any semblance of bluster. “Am I under arrest?”

  Rogan stared at Jasmine. “We can only recommend, not execute.”

  Wesley’s lips virtually disappeared. “I don’t know what happened to Chief Cutless. But maybe I did some of the other stuff.”

  “Very good answer,” Boxman congratulated. “What do you think, Lieutenant? Was it good for you, too?”

  “I’ll let you know.” Rogan’s eyes glittered as they landed on a bulge in Wesley’s shirt pocket. “After I take a look at Deputy Blume’s iPhone.”

  * * *

  “IT WAS A LONG SHOT,” ROGAN admitted to Jasmine later that afternoon. “I can’t really see him being more than peripherally involved in the threats on your life.”

  She wasn’t sure she could see even that much, but then she wouldn’t have thought Wesley capable of committing the crimes he had.

  The sheriff had come and gone from the old house. The murder scene was taped, Ian Cutless’s body had been removed to the county coroner’s office and the deputy’s marijuana plants had been collected from a green room in the cellar.

  Sitting on a tread next to Rogan halfway up the ax-damaged staircase, Jasmine reviewed what they’d learned so far that day. Although it added up to quite a lot, it didn’t make the big picture any clearer.

  “Staying with Wesley for the moment. Inasmuch as he shouldn’t have made it possible for a prisoner to escape, by doing so in his case, he might have saved Daniel’s life.”

  “‘Might have’ being the operative phrase.” Rogan thumbed a text message on his iPhone. “Daniel might be any number of things at this point. Alive, dead, injured, in the country, out of it—though I doubt the last thing.”

  “He could also be stalking the murderer.”

  “That would be suicide.”

  “Sorry to say, he wouldn’t see it that way.”

  “Then he’s a bigger idiot than I thought.”

  Choosing not to take the remark personally, Jasmine drummed restless palms on her knees. “I know you can’t answer definitively, but do you have any idea why Ian Cutless is dead?”

  “It could be as simple as a case of wrong place, wrong time.” After tucking his phone away, Rogan threaded his fingers through her hair and tipped her head back. “You give the impression of holding up well, Jasmine, but I know you can be a convincing actor when you want to be.”

  “Put it down to a case of good old-fashioned shock. Either that, or after spending so much time in a safe house, the grand finale being an attack by Wainwright’s gorillas, two deaths and a disappearance, I’m getting used to your world.” And her mother would be shaking hands with Bigfoot any day now.

  “Seeing dead people is like having your emotions tossed in a blender,” he told her. “It chops you up inside and out. Your lone saving grace? The more you see, the faster you learn to cope.”

  “You know that’s gross, right, verging on inhuman?”

  “It’s a mechanism,” Rogan corrected. “One you hope like hell doesn’t break down.”

  “What about guilt? Do you deal with that the same way?”

  The fingers touching her jaw slid to the base of her throat and the pulse that beat faster there than it should. “Are you blaming yourself for Cutless’s death now, too?”

  “Not entirely. But like Dukes’s, I feel partly responsible.”

  “The deputy doesn’t.”

  “It might surprise you to learn that Wesley’s not someone I want to emulate. I still can’t believe he used Daniel’s bribe money to buy high-end boots and a pricey watch. He might as well have worn a sign. As for his mini grow-op—abandoned house in a remote location—stupid and illegal, yes, but at least he thought that one through.” At Rogan’s doubtful look, she rocked her head. “Okay, thought part of it through. We’ll agree, brilliant’s not his middle name.”

  “We’ll agree he’s a jackass with local connections, and he should never have been given a badge. That was Cutless’s mistake and what can happen when decisions come from below the belt.” After checking the clip in his backup, he handed it to her. Then did the same with his primary weapon.

  She regarded the barrel and his face over the tip. “Tell me something. Do you believe there’s any chance at all that Wesley’s even remotely connected to the chief’s murder or the seven before it?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “He has no motive.”

  “None that we know of.”

  “I knew you’d say that.” She moved her lips into a smile. “Are cops allowed to be optimistic about anything?”

  To her surprise, he tucked a knuckle under her chin and drew her forward for a kiss that shouldn’t have stripped the air from her lungs but did. He didn’t release her right away, either, which not only heightened the dizzying effect, but almost sent her brain into a tailspin.

  “Okay, I’m lost. You want, you don’t want. You push, you pull. In terms of communication, Rogan, you’re completely bipolar.”

  He stroked a thumb across her lower lip. “My life’s not something you want to get mixed up in.”

  “Really? Any more decisions you want to make for me while we’re here?”

  The half smile appeared. “Only the ones that’ll send you running in the opposite direction.” A final kiss and his hand fell away. “Come on, love. There’s still some light outside, and I want to see the room behind that window you showed me earlier.”

  Bipolar, she reminded herself and stood. “It’s on the third floor. Should be a fun climb, given the condition of these stairs. Deputy’s gone, no ravens in sight. Take Boris or not?”

  Rogan glanced at the foyer, where the dog looked to be playing hide-and-seek with a mouse. “Let him have some fun. We’ve got weapons.”

  And she sincerely hoped, more cautious trigger fingers than Wesley.

  They’d almost reached the second floor, when her cell phone rang. Her first response was to delete the call without looking. Her second was to be annoyed. The killer had her jumping at her own ring tone.

  Removing the phone from her jacket pocket, she regarded the screen. And swore.

  Rogan, who’d been several steps ahead, came back down. “Something?”

  “Not sure.” She couldn’t drag her eyes away, or force her mind past the worst-case scenario because…

  As it had the night before, the name on the screen read Colleen Ellis.

  * * *

  “OKAY, SPOOKED,” JASMINE admitted. “I’m good with witches and ghosts. Ravens and creepy phone voices, not so much. It could have been the killer masquerading as my mother again.”

  Thankfully, though, it hadn’t.

  “She’s gotten lost three times so far, but thinks she might have spotted a footprint as she was winding her way back down a mountain. She says I should forget the long weekend and take my vacation now. She wants me to spend the next three weeks exploring the Olympics with her and some buffalo-size man who, like her, wants to make the discovery of a lifetime before they scatter his ashes in a Tennessee bog. God, it was great to hear her voice.”

  Rogan cast her a slow and knowing grin. “Seems to me you did a lot of hearing and not much talking.”

  “Thought you’d notice that.”

  “She’d be fascinated.”

  “She’d be horrified.” Jasmine poked both index fingers at her chest. “Only child, Rogan. Back under threat of death and, no offence to your protection skills, but sans safe house this time.”

  “That said, the faster we relegate this case to the Solved pile, the sooner we can get on with our lives. Ready?”
>
  “As I ever am.”

  Keeping to the inside wall, they tested the treads for strength before putting their full weight on them. To Jasmine’s relief, the upper landing felt more solid. She ran her flashlight over worn planks and along dirt-streaked walls to a ceiling coated with filthy webs.

  “These must have been the maids’ rooms. Oh, God, ick.” She ducked under a hanging spider. “Why would anyone use a room up here to do whatever it was he or she was doing last night?”

  “Good question.” Rogan shone his beam to the end of the corridor before bringing it partway back. “This is the door.” He glanced at her. “Wanna do it Hollywood style?”

  “You mean, break it down with your shoulder?”

  “Nothing quite that dramatic.”

  Standing back, he used his foot.

  The hinges gave the anticipated screech, but beyond that, nothing happened. No terrified body launched itself at them. No bullets flew past their heads. No lights burned inside.

  “Well, that was anticlimactic.” Jasmine inspected the floor. “So far so good. And the planks look sound. Except…” Kneeling, she swept experimental fingers over the old wood. “Pretty sure these should be dusty.”

  “You get a gold star, love.”

  “Call me Columbo.” Turning as she went, Jasmine walked into the empty room. “What now? Do we set a trap and see who springs it?” When he didn’t respond, she shone her flashlight on him. “Rogan, why are you fixated on that window?”

  “I can see Blume House.”

  “And I can see this place from Blume House. What’s your— Damn!” She spun from the glass. “I saw his window, and he saw mine. That’s not good.”

  “Depends which window you’re looking through.”

  But Jasmine had no time for humor. Had she changed into her sleep cami in the bathroom or simply thought to hell with it, there were no neighbors, and stripped off in the bedroom?

  She balled her hands into fists. “Oh, crap.”

  Rogan examined the scarred sill. “I’d echo that, except I don’t think last night’s visitor was your usual voyeur.”

  “What then?” Another thought struck, this one like a dagger in her chest. “You think he was going to shoot me?”

  Kissing her cheek, Rogan replied simply, “Just one feather, love.”

  The sensation that shivered through her was only partly rooted in fear. Which was sick, she reflected, and went to prove that insanity was contagious. God help her if she couldn’t find an antidote.

  In the yard, lingering patches of twilight filtered through the fog and tall trees. As it had been that morning, the woods remained eerily hushed. High above, Jasmine heard a rustle of pine needles and saw a raven take flight. On the path below, two small animals scurried toward the underbrush.

  Her breath rushed out on a bemused laugh. “I’m going insane. I really am. My mind’s painting pictures of Snow White even though there’s a better-than-even chance that a peeping killer was standing at this very window last night, in a house where an innocent man’s throat was slashed a few short hours ago.”

  “Best guess for the murder’s between 5:00 and 7:00 a.m.,” Rogan revealed. “I’d put it closer to seven, myself. Morning was cold, but the dining room where Cutless died is directly over the deputy’s hot room. Floor was warmish,” he added, then stepped in front of her and raised his gun. “Someone’s out there.”

  “I thought I saw a shadow.” She looked over his shoulder. “I hoped it was a deer.”

  “Deer don’t wear gray leather.”

  Lowering his gun, he slid his fingers around her neck and covered her mouth with his. “Stay away from the window and don’t make any noise.”

  Momentarily mesmerized, she shook herself free. “What? No. Are you crazy? What if gray leather turns out to be a Düsseldorf college student, and peeping killer materializes out of a hidden passageway while you’re gone?”

  “Boris—”

  “Is downstairs.” She waved his backup piece. “Maybe still in the house, maybe not. Screw waiting in the spider’s parlor. You taught me to shoot at the safe house. How and where to hit, how and when to miss.”

  “I had a feeling those lessons would come back to haunt me. Okay, together, but we find Boris, and he watches your back.”

  Once a cop, she thought, but nodded and let him lead the way.

  They descended quickly and extinguished their flashlights in the foyer. Jasmine relied more on prayer than sight to cross the floor without breaking an ankle.

  Boris responded to her quiet call. Rogan got the door.

  The rusty hinges couldn’t be helped. Her pounding heart? Well, she was the only one hearing that sound, so she’d have to live with it, breathe through the fear that fueled it and, please God, help Rogan catch the person responsible for so many deaths.

  Tendrils of fog curled like snakes around the porch and wound up the trunks of nearby trees. Skeletal fingers probed the higher limbs. An owl hooted, and somewhere behind them, water plopped from the roof to the ground.

  All in all, the perfect setting for an evil spirit on the prowl for a lost soul. As for the more corporeal man in gray leather, did he realize he’d been spotted, or was he still lurking on the grounds?

  At a cue from Rogan, Jasmine knelt beside Boris. “Intruder,” she told him and indicated the deep woods. “Show us where.”

  The dog’s ears pricked. He sniffed the air for several seconds, then caught a scent and growled softly.

  “Keep him close to you,” Rogan cautioned, “in case we get separated.”

  She gestured for Boris to bring up the rear.

  The darkness moved in sync with the fog, swirling into clouds that blotted out everything. It twined around the trees and created monsters grotesquely enhanced by the deepening shadows.

  Hansel and Gretel sprang to mind now. But only until a twig snapped and a large bird shot out of the underbrush.

  Boris’s ears went flat. Rogan glanced right as more twigs cracked and the bushes shifted noisily.

  “Stay here,” he said to Jasmine. “I’m serious. I don’t want to fire at the wrong person.”

  She had no chance to respond. The bushes that had trembled briefly shuddered as someone, presumably the man in gray, took off.

  One blink and Rogan was after him.

  Jasmine heard the man thrashing through the underbrush. She considered running to Blume House because she knew Boxman would be there snoring like a grizzly bear by now. But leaving Rogan out here alone seemed wrong somehow.

  As the thrashing receded, woodsier sounds took over. A chipmunk darted from one side of the path to the other. A larger animal followed. At her side, Boris emitted a long growl.

  “Not our problem,” Jasmine said. But the racket that ensued when the animals decided to have it out didn’t exactly calm her nerves.

  A gunshot two hundred yards away stopped everything, including her heart. A cry of pain preceded another shot.

  The dog looked up at her. Someone shouted. Two more shots thwacked off or burrowed into something.

  Jasmine glanced at the trees, then at Boris. “Go,” she ordered. “Help Rogan.”

  He bounded off, leaving her alone in the dark and wishing she had four legs herself.

  No more sounds reached her, no cries or gunshots or barks. Even the animals had gone quiet.

  Reaching for her phone, she punched Boxman’s number. Of course, he didn’t answer. The man snored like a bear and slept like one, as well.

  She was dropping the cell back into her pocket when it signaled an incoming text.

  Her skin went cold. Her brain and her pulse blipped.

  Answer it, she ordered herself. They’re words, not bullets.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she opened the anonymous message. A single short question appeared.

  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?

  She stared at the words for a long moment. Only one name made sense. Daniel…

  She got no further than that. Where there�
��d been nothing, the fog and the darkness suddenly exploded. A man concealed within them reached her before she could react. With a guttural sound rumbling in his throat, he rammed her face-first into the trunk of a large spruce tree.

  Chapter Ten

  Astonishment, fear and confusion jumbled together, momentarily paralyzing her. But only until her survival instinct kicked in and allowed her to respond as Rogan had taught her at the safe house.

  Her cell phone flew into the night. Didn’t matter. Jasmine used her elbow on the man’s midsection, then twisted around before he could get a proper grip.

  There wasn’t much to see, but she knew from his outline where all his vulnerable body parts resided.

  She aimed for the crotch, felt him prepare to deflect her knee, then switched it up and planted the heel of her hand in his Adam’s apple.

  Choking out a curse, he stumbled back. She whipped up her gun.

  “Don’t!” His voice was a raw bullet of sound.

  One hand came into view, then the other. Both were empty.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. Swear. I saw you move and thought you were someone else. Don’t shoot.”

  Did she recognize his voice? She wasn’t sure. Her breath heaved in and out. “Who are you?”

  He stepped toward her, just close enough for her to make out a familiar set of features.

  Her arms dropped. “Well, God.” Unfortunately, that was all she got out. A swish of leaves preceded a foggy black blur as Boris leaped for his throat.

  The attack seemed like a signal for chaos to erupt. Arms flailing, the man staggered sideways and fell. Boxman crashed in from the rear with Riese several strides behind him.

  “Boris, no!” Jasmine ran past Boxman, who’d missed his tackle. “It’s Victor. It’s only Victor.”

  Clearly juiced, Riese shouldered a heavy baseball bat. “Are you hurt?” she demanded while Jasmine hooked her fingers through the dog’s collar. “Rogan called Boxman and said he should come up here because the guy shooting at him turned out to be a student who scared himself so badly when he saw Rogan that he tripped over a log, put a bullet in his friend’s arm and broke his own foot.”