“Timing’s convenient.” Rogan looked into his mug. “I’d also say it’s conspicuous enough to warrant dismissal.”
“By anyone but you.” At a sideways glance from Rogan, his companion made a gruff sound. “Okay, hell, anyone but me, too. I’ll dig,” he agreed.
“And bitch and complain while you’re doing it.” Rogan took a final drink. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep having all the fun.”
“Uh-huh. While we’re on the subject of fun, didn’t the first phone call Jasmine received promise that she’d suffer before she died?”
To quell a sudden spurt of fury, Rogan picked up and examined a broken black feather. “There’s more than one kind of suffering in this world. Killer could be playing psychological games, going with the ‘anytime, anyplace, you never know when or where I’ll show up’ angle. He’s given her one feather so far. He’ll ramp up the fear substantially if the number reaches two.”
“Seems more like when than if to me, but the magic number’s three in any case.”
Pulling out his gun, Rogan let it dangle out of sight between his knees. “You still working on connections?”
“That’s my job, isn’t it? Uh…” His companion used his mug to gesture at the weapon. “Did I miss or maybe say something that justifies you thinking I’m in league with the enemy?”
“Oh, nothing as byzantine as that, I’m sure.” Strolling out of the dark mist, Jasmine folded her arms and rested a shoulder on the trunk of a naked poplar. “He heard a sound and knew, because he sandpapers his senses in his sleep, that I’d followed him. … Therefore, it was me making the subtle racket that most people would think only a dog could hear. However, on the off chance he was wrong, and it was a murderer looking for his ninth and tenth victims…”
She nodded at the nearly invisible gun. Then pushing off, she beamed at the older man. “Good to see you again, Lieutenant Costello.”
Chapter Eleven
“I’ve got wine, white and red, aged brandy if you want your insides warmed, tequila for a kick or the whiskey paint thinner Rogan and I used to kill the taste of my coffee.”
Costello proudly displayed a collection of bottles in the rear of his camper van. Rogan looked them over before frowning into his mug.
“Real men only drink paint thinner,” Jasmine whispered and felt more than saw his eyes travel to her face.
“Got Pepsi and OJ,” Costello went on. “Milk, too, but it’s old and smelling a little questionable. As for food…”
“OJ’s good, Lieutenant, and food’s not necessary. We dined like royalty at the Crystal Birdcage tonight.” Her eyes twinkled as Rogan’s narrowed. “A certain blond male dancer and his mother own the place. They’re Blumes.”
Chuckling, Costello handed her a plastic bottle. “That can be said for most everyone in this town. Damned if I know why your ex-husband chose it for his new life.”
“He chose…?” Surprise sent her brows up. “Did I know that? Did you?” she asked Rogan.
“I sort of had to, love. Secondary contact,” he reminded at her protracted stare. “Ballard gave Daniel three options for state. Daniel went with Maine and requested Raven’s Cove. There was no objection, so the Witness Protection Agency approved his selection.”
“Why?”
Rogan stuffed his gun away. “I imagine the obscurity of the town and its remote location worked for them.”
“No, I mean why did Daniel pick Raven’s Cove? He’s never, and I repeat never, been a fan of obscurity.”
Costello scratched his shoulder, glanced at Rogan. “Lieutenant here wondered the same thing before, and more particularly after, he found Crocker’s body. That’s why we arranged to hook up.”
Of course he had. And of course they had. Depending on how she viewed it, Jasmine supposed she could either be annoyed that Rogan hadn’t told her any of this before dragging her up here, or flattered that he’d detoured to her place so he could drag her up here. Because whether she’d come to Raven’s Cove or remained in Salem, she figured the murderer had set his sights on her.
Feeling the need for movement, she wandered around the clearing, unscrewed the cap of her juice bottle and made a concerted effort not to twitch at the army of insects currently scuttling over her skin.
“Do you think he says that to all his victims?” She regarded both men. “That it’s all about them and no one else?”
“It’s possible,” Rogan allowed. “Confusion seems to be this guy’s approach.”
“Is that why he only sent feathers to Daniel and me?”
Costello’s sudden interest in his flask gave her the answer she hadn’t wanted to hear. “Oh, God.” Casting her eyes skyward, she laughed. Then marched over to grab Rogan’s hair and tug. Hard.
“They all got feathers, didn’t they? All seven victims. You knew he was using the raven’s tale to kill people and you hid that information from the public, from the press. You didn’t do anything.” She altered the inflection. “You didn’t do anything.”
Rogan absorbed her stare. “Give me a for instance, Jasmine. What were we supposed to do?”
“For starters, assume the murderer knew where Daniel was living.”
“We did assume that—once we discovered the feathers and researched all the potential implications. Unfortunately, finding them didn’t happen right away with the first few victims. There were corpses, and there was Malcolm Wainwright’s trial. His escape, his death, possible vendettas, the fact that, in small ways and large, all the dead people were tied to him. You start with the obvious, the logical. You search, you discover. When feathers began appearing victim after victim, that layered in a new element. Once we determined that all the victims were in possession of three black feathers—and that included Crocker—we knew we had to get Daniel out of Raven’s Cove.”
“But you didn’t get him out.”
“No, we didn’t. Because he’d already disappeared. Cutless knew the score. Costello contacted him and told him to pick Daniel up.”
“So Cutless arrested Daniel on a false charge.”
“He would have,” Costello inserted, “if Daniel had been around to be arrested. But like Rogan said, he’d already flown.”
Jasmine felt as though she’d been sucker punched. She let Rogan go, swung away and looked heavenward once again. “He ran, but he came back. He wanted information. Cutless almost caught him at the police station when Daniel broke in the first time. No cigar then, but Daniel being Daniel pushed his luck to the edge and beyond. He broke in a second time. Worth the risk in his opinion. Cop computer—gotta have more details in it than his. Cutless got him on the second try. Then he went to Portland.” She brought her head down and around. “Why?”
“Storm,” Rogan reminded her. “It knocked out every form of communication this town has to offer. Cutless got in his SUV and drove as far as he had to in order to reestablish a connection.”
“I was his only contact.” Costello tugged on his ear. “I was also en route and probably close to town by the time the chief took off. When I arrived, I checked Daniel’s cottage, but he wasn’t home. Checked the police station, but it was locked up tighter than a drum. Little did I know there was a snoring deputy in the chief’s office and a prisoner—Daniel—on the loose.”
“That must be when he contacted me.” Jasmine took a calming drink. “And when you magically appeared inside my home.”
She spied Rogan’s half grin before he wisely hid it. “You can slug me later, Jasmine. I tried to get hold of Daniel after I discovered Crocker’s body. Costello did the same thing even before he got to Raven’s Cove. For whatever reason, Daniel didn’t want to be reached. Storm moved in. Cutless did what he thought was best. Be nice if your best always succeeded, but more often than not, the gods of screw-you-pal toss every nasty obstacle from their seemingly endless supply of nasty obstacles in your path, and surprise, surprise, you wind up screwed.”
“Tell me about it,” she muttered. “So, to sum up, Daniel’s off somewhere doing Daniel
things, Costello’s pretending to be James Bond by way of the Shadow, Boxman’s just plain here and Cyrus, also here, is attempting to pass himself off as his twin brother, Victor, because he intercepted a suspicious message.” She thought for a moment, then asked, “What am I doing here—exactly?”
“You’re here because I am,” Rogan replied. “I can’t watch what I can’t see. He wants you. Gut feeling? He wants you more than the others. Maybe you’re the only one he’s ever wanted.”
“Wanted to kill.”
“Sorry, love, but yes, wanted to kill.”
“That,” she decided with a shudder she couldn’t disguise or walk off, “is just plain terrifying. And inexplicable. Other than the Wainwright trial and my by-association connection to its star witness, I haven’t done anything to justify a death threat. And an all-about-you threat? Even more out there… Unless I accidentally desecrated someone’s tomb.”
Rogan hid another grin. “You go artifact hunting in cemeteries?”
“You’d be surprised where I go hunting, although graves, crypts and cemeteries are generally considered taboo, and I’ve always respected that. Wainwright doesn’t have a thing against ex-wives. …” She moved a speculative hand back and forth, then dismissed the notion. “Way too out there. Doesn’t leave much, though, does it? Any way you look at it, confusion does seem to be the keyword here.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it, Jasmine.” Costello gave her arm a reassuring pat. “And we’ll do it before your mysterious caller does anything more than frighten you.”
She wanted to believe him, even dredged up a smile. “You heard about the suffering part, huh?” She started to take a drink, saw Rogan moving to the edge of the makeshift campsite and said, “If you’re searching for interlopers, Boris has it covered.”
“Where is he?”
“Guarding the perimeter.” She angled her head when he continued to prowl. “Trained guard dog, Rogan. Very effective as first alarms go.”
“He knows that.” Costello’s eyes twinkled. “Unfortunately, like old Hezekiah, Rogan was born in one form and changed into another during adolescence. Not man to raven in his case, but wolf to man.”
“Like Lon Chaney in reverse.”
“Oh, well, now you’re talking werewolf.” The older man grinned. “Given the lateness of the hour and the general strangeness of the raven’s tale, I wasn’t going to go there. Bad dreams,” he whispered and made her smile. “No need to induce them.”
“Actually, a werewolf in my sleeping mind would constitute a good dream. Are you sure you’re all right here in the woods alone? Riese has plenty of empty rooms at Blume House. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to take on another guest.”
Rogan finished the circle, handed Costello his mug and turned her by the shoulders toward the path that had brought them there. “Call Boris, Jasmine, and say good-night to the lieutenant.”
“So that’s a no to Blume House?”
“He wants me to have more of the fun,” Costello confided. “While he takes on a bigger portion of the hard work.”
Jasmine heard something on the heels of his remark. It took her a moment to pinpoint the sound as coming from Costello’s pocket.
“Incoming text.” He withdrew his phone. “This won’t be good news at 1:36 a.m. … And, no, it isn’t.” Blowing out a breath, he passed the device to Rogan.
Fear blew like a winter breeze on Jasmine’s neck. “What…?”
Rogan’s phone cut her off. A second later, her own beeped.
The temperature in her bloodstream plummeted. She didn’t want to look. But of course she had to. They all did. And a strained moment later stood in such a way that each of them could see the other’s screen.
Costello’s message said: Welcome to the party, Lieutenant.
Rogan’s was more chilling. It read: To a dead man. From a dead man. Bang, bang…
And then there was hers. Jasmine stared at the single word on her screen that simply told her to: RUN!
* * *
“THIS IS INSANE, ROGAN. He gives me a feather, then tells me to run, in uppercase letters. Meanwhile, Costello’s presence in Raven’s Cove has been noted, and a dead man plans to shoot you.” Jasmine strode back and forth on the path outside Blume House. “Last night, I was at the top of his to-kill list. Tonight, I’m not even on it. Tonight, he wants you dead, and no one, not even you, knows why.”
She stalked up to him, huffed out a breath and stalked away.
“It was better the other way. I’m connected to Daniel and to the trial. I fit the profile. I know you fit it, too, but not as well as I do. Still, for whatever reason—insane—the killer’s decided to change his priorities. Maybe he wants to hunt me like the big-game whatever-it-was Riese’s students were after earlier. Easier to do that if you’re out of the picture. But I don’t want you to die because of me.”
Spinning, she struggled to collect her thoughts. Her only small comfort was that they’d left Boris with Costello, because who knew when the murderer might change his so-called mind again and go for him instead. Why? Best answer Jasmine could drum up right now was, why not?
Swinging back, she said, “You didn’t get a feather. Neither did Costello. I got a feather. Daniel got two.” A thought occurred and she paused. “Unless it was Daniel telling me to run. But my message came at the same time as yours and Costello’s, so that’s too big a coincidence.
“Back to the feathers then. If the killer’s threatening you, who has none, does that mean he’s abandoned his M.O.? Have we circled back to Malcolm Wainwright—a dead man—or someone in his organization as principal suspects?” She grabbed the sides of his jacket and shook. “You’re the cop with all the answers. Tell me what this guy’s thinking and what, besides blood and our collective sanity, he wants from us.”
The silent stare he’d been giving her while she babbled away like a terrified idiot continued after she wound down. It didn’t take a genius to read between the lines of his expression.
“Yes, I know.” She sighed. “I did a stupid thing. Don’t go out alone after sunset even with a gun and a dog, because the murderer’s watching. Glaring example—he was very obviously aware that the three of us were together tonight, which is why we received nearly simultaneous text messages. I know I sound hysterical. I’m not. All I can think of at this point is that you should look into any possible connections between Malcolm Wainwright, this town—because I know Daniel, and he chose it for a reason—everyone from the safe house and all the recent murder victims. If nothing pans out…” She pressed her palms to his chest. “No idea.”
His eyes remained on hers. “You done?”
Grudging amusement rose. “What, a ten-minute rant’s not—”
His mouth was on hers before she finished the question or the thought behind it.
His kiss consumed her, shooting heat and need through her body like a flaming arrow. The fingers she’d splayed on his chest curled into his shirt, as much for balance as anything, because she was sure the ground beneath her rolled.
She’d forgotten, or maybe she’d locked the memory away, how quickly Rogan could ignite her senses. She went from tense to hungry in a finger snap of time.
When he took full possession of her mouth, her mind tumbled into a delicious tailspin. They were standing outside, in the dark, in the fog. Her intellect knew it, yet the warning it whispered was so feeble, she didn’t bother to listen.
Rogan’s mouth left hers briefly to nibble the side of her neck. A shiver swept through her from head to trembling toe. Eyes closing, she molded her body to his. She savored every touch, every long, lovely stroke. She heard the drumbeat of her heart, felt the whip of sensation at every pulse point. She relished the cool October breeze on her cheeks, the heat of Rogan’s skin beneath her fingers, the rock-hard pressure of his arousal.
Part of her hated that he could strip away her defenses so cleanly and with very little effort. But she had to admit, another, larger part of her loved it. No man mad
e her senseless. She didn’t give that kind of power to anyone.
Until now, she reflected as his lips cruised back to hers, and he began another lazy but thorough assault on her mouth.
Something solid smacked into her spine. Easing her head back slightly, she opened her eyes. And choked when she realized where they were.
“We’re in the house?” A laugh rose. “We’re inside, upstairs, and that thing behind me is my door.” Tangling her fingers in his hair, Jasmine kissed him once, then again. “You, Rogan, are one scary…”
The killer half smile appeared. “Hot.”
“Überhot,” she agreed, “but still one scary man. How did you—I mean, seriously, how did we?—oh, to hell with it,” she decided and pulled his mouth back onto hers. “I love a good mystery anyway.”
The hinges behind them creaked. The air smelled like lavender from the bath salts she’d opened but hadn’t poured because, like a lunatic, she’d ditched the bubbles and followed him into the woods. Flip side, she thought as she drifted backward across the floor, there was something to be said for the odd moment of lunacy. …
With his eyes holding hers and a vague smile playing on his lips, he unzipped her jacket. “You’re thinking too hard.” Eased it from her shoulders and let it drop. “You’ll give us both a headache.”
“Someone has to think.” But she was already drawing him forward with a finger hooked through his belt loop. “This—” she flicked her free hand between them “—whatever it is. Us. Sex. Extreme heat. It’s not necessarily the best idea, as we discovered way back when.”
“Probably a very bad idea, in fact.” His eyes didn’t leave her face, even when his hands trapped her wrists. “Smarter thing to do would be to go to our separate rooms, our separate beds and squeeze whatever sleep we can into what’s left of the night.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Then she boosted herself onto his hips and fused her mouth to his.
Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan Page 11
