Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan (3 page)

Gunther moved a thick shoulder. “She said he walked like a man.” He slanted his interrogator a doubtful look. “He was wearing black.”

“Do you have beer?” Rogan asked Jasmine.

“Heineken.” She offered him a bland smile. “It’s Gunther’s favorite. In the fridge, second shelf. You can have one, too.”

He said nothing, but didn’t take his eyes off Gunther as he opened the refrigerator door.

Boris’s thumping tail seemed like a positive sign, so while Rogan tossed Gunther a beer and undertook the required question-and-answer session, she located a pair of battery lamps. Less than five minutes later, Gunther and his beer were gone, a headache was brewing in her temples and her mind was swinging like an overwound pendulum.

She didn’t hear him approach, but knew as she had earlier when Rogan came to stand behind her.

She relaxed her muscles and didn’t respond to the hand he ran along her arm. “You look good, love.”

There was no way to read his tone or his mood. But his eyes—now,
those
occasionally told a tale.

Blanking her expression, she turned. And immediately wanted to sigh. He had such a devastating half grin. No wonder she’d fallen into the clichéd trap and had sex with him after Ballard’s funeral.

Hot, crazed sex, she amended, fingering the thin silver chain around her neck.

“Pretty sure I look the same as I did at the memorial service.”

“You looked sad then.” His gaze lowered and rose in a single seductive sweep. “You don’t now.”

“Good to know I still wear terror well.”

The touch of his fingers and thumb on her chin cautioned her to put some distance between them—as she should have done six weeks ago. Instead, she trapped his wrist. “Daniel called me tonight. We were cut off, but he’s in trouble.”

“I know.”

Did he now? Her elevated brows posed the obvious question.

The half smile lingered. “Your ex-husband’s not the only one who sees and hears. People are dying. Wainwright’s the common denominator.”

“Wainwright’s dead. Ballard was convinced of it.”

“So was I, until…” He slid his thumb along the curve of her jaw. “Dead or alive’s not the point. Finding the person responsible for the homicides is. And to answer your next question, yes, everyone who’s died was murdered.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“You want lies?”

“What I want seems to be something I can’t have.”

“And what would that be?”

Was his mouth moving closer? As it tended to around him, curiosity chased away good sense. She ran her own finger down the side of his throat to the shadowy hollow at the base. “Pulse rate’s up a little, Rogan.”

“I’d be surprised if not. What do you want?”

“Peace. Stability. Maybe a hit of amnesia so I can stop seeing dead people whenever my sleeping mind decides a nightmare’s in order.”

“Was it so bad that you can’t let it go?”

“Two police officers were killed, and a third is presumed dead, all because they were watching out for me.”

“It was their job to watch out for you.”

Theirs, his and that of at least four other officers. Jasmine supposed she should be grateful the death toll hadn’t been higher.

“Wainwright saw you as a way to stop Daniel from testifying against him. You were a victim of circumstance. Fortunately, when the trial dust settled, he wound up behind bars.”

“And you don’t think there might have been a phoenix within the ashes of his organization ready to rise up and take over?”

“There’s always a phoenix, but Wainwright’s South American drug connection’s been severed, so all’s as well as it can be for the moment.”

A sudden urge to laugh tickled her throat. Had to be hysteria, she decided, and, tipping her head, regarded him through her lashes.

Rogan had eyes that could weave a spell with a look, great hands and an even better mouth. She’d let herself fall under his spell at the safe house and again after the funeral. So why, with two mistakes to her credit, couldn’t she walk away and be done with him?

“I can hear your mind working, Jasmine. You’re thinking a trip to Antarctica would be a good idea about now.”

Since a similar thought actually had drifted through the back of her mind, she smiled. “Any chance of that happening?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.” She stared past him to the streaming window. “I can’t help feeling responsible for the officers who died. I should have gone to the safe house when Captain Ballard suggested it. Instead, a team of cops trailed after me day and night.”

“No one died tailing you.”

“Could have, though.”

“You’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

Warning eyes shot to his. “This isn’t about me, and you know it. The men who were killed had families. Call it what you like, I feel the weight of their deaths every day.”

“So if a lunatic came into Witch House and shot you, you’d expect your boss to bear the burden?”

“The only burden he’d bear is if the shooter missed me and hit one of the artifacts.”

“Sounds like you need a new employer.”

“It’s crossed my mind.” She would have moved out of range then if he hadn’t trapped her arm.

“We’re not done yet.”

She glanced first at his hand, then at his shadowed face. “We are, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not getting involved with you again.”

A trace of amusement appeared. “I’d say mutual attraction is the least of our problems.”

“My problems, Rogan.”

“Makes them mine by default. You’re connected to Daniel and through him to Wainwright’s trial. People far less directly involved are dead. Your power line was cut. …”

“And you’re in my home. The how and why of which you still haven’t explained. You can’t possibly have known Daniel would phone me tonight, or that my power would go out before the call ended.”

“Put my appearance down to fortunate timing. I actually planned to wait until tomorrow to show up.”

“Have I mentioned you’re a little scary sometimes?”

He drew her in so smoothly she didn’t even realize her feet were moving.

The word
danger
became a red glare in her head, but she made no effort to resist. Why bother? She wasn’t foolish enough to pretend there’d never been anything between them. She just wished she could identify it and make it go away.

With his eyes locked on hers, Rogan lowered his mouth to within an inch of hers. The fingers he slid under her hair wrapped around the back of her neck. Then a smile grazed his lips.

“What?” she asked when he held her there unmoving. “Please don’t tell me you hear something outside.”

“Not outside. In. Your cell phone’s ringing.”

“It’s probably Daniel.” She kept her tone calm and her expression neutral. “If you want me to answer, you’ll have to let me go.”

She breathed out when he released her and headed for the living room.

“Jasmine Ellis.”

She anticipated a burst of static. When it didn’t materialize, she regarded the screen. No number, no caller name. Switching to speaker, and aware that Rogan was behind her again, she tried for a different angle in case the storm was affecting the reception.

“Melvin, is that you?” The silence stretched out. She was about to disconnect, when an artificial male voice reached her.

“Hello, sweet Jasmine. This is your nemesis, your fate. Open your front door and see the feathery token I’ve left for you. A large bird told me it means death. But not yet. First, you’re going to suffer. As I suffered. Before I died. …”

Chapter Three

Rogan had spent too much of his adult life wading through the muddy back roads of the criminal psyche to dismiss any possibility, but no matter how he worked it, he couldn’t see Wainwright employing this kind of scare tactic. Not that he was prepared to view Jasmine as a victim, but obviously someone did. Unfortunately, the someone who best fit the caller profile was a should-be-dead drug lord with a weighty ax to grind.

Wainwright had been old school all the way. Murder for necessity, no problem. Murder for pleasure? About as probable as the odds that he’d survived that helicopter crash.

So what did that leave?

Pulling on a glove, Rogan picked up and examined the long black feather they’d found taped to Jasmine’s front door. Courtesy of a raven, he imagined.

According to local Maine legend, one feather warned, three equaled death. Or so Daniel’s contact had said.

Straddling a dining room chair, Rogan contemplated both token and tale. Then swore. Trust Daniel Corey to drag Jasmine not only back into his miserable life, but also into a witch’s brew of omens, legends and death.

Police protocol dictated that both the feather and the tape used to secure it to her door be checked for prints, but he knew there wouldn’t be any. Just as surely, the cell phone from which the threatening call had been placed would turn up in a trash can or not at all.

Anyone capable of committing seven murders—more than Daniel realized—in the month and a half since Gus Ballard’s funeral wasn’t going to be easily identified. Nor was he likely to hang around Jasmine’s condo.

After the call, Rogan had left Jasmine at Gunther’s place and conducted a thorough search of the neighborhood. He’d come up empty, but then he hadn’t expected to find the guy cowering in the bushes, waiting to be flushed out.

A sound from the bedroom where Jasmine was packing diverted him. His gaze moved past the upheld feather to the half-closed door.

It didn’t matter how much time went by, he could always bring her face to mind. She’d been haunting him for weeks. Longer, if he was honest with himself.

She was a beauty, no doubt about it, inside, outside and every other place. Long hair, as dark as the feather he held, green eyes just a shade deeper than emerald, sleek yet curvy body—the list went on. She was thoughtful, smart and kind. And if he’d been any of those things, he’d have sent someone else to Salem to check on her.

As if a breaker tripped in his head, he switched back to cop mode and visualized the seven corpses he’d viewed recently. Factor in Jasmine’s threat, and a sense of something more twisted than mere criminal vengeance began to snake through his belly.

The storm wind bore down hard on the roof. While Jasmine continued tossing God knew what into a case for the night, he zeroed in on her ex-husband’s location as it related to the message she’d received. … Rather, he would have if she hadn’t emerged from the bedroom pulling a large suitcase and carrying a second overstuffed bag.

His eyes rose to her face. “You’re joking, right? I said pack for a night, not a month.”

“Promises, promises.” She handed him the carryall, swung her trench coat on and shouldered her purse and laptop. “Any more than three nights, and I’ll have to call Gunther to water the plants.”

Amusement warred with exasperation. “You get a death threat, and you’re worried about your plants?”

“My mother’s plants.” She dug out her iPhone and pressed the screen. “Very old and in some cases very rare. Gunther’s a good friend, and…” She regarded the screen. “This is the third time I’ve tried Daniel’s number. He’s not answering.”

Rogan made a motion that had Boris trotting to the side door. “A college-educated man, still technically within the confines of the witness protection program, gave you his number?”

She smiled at his tone. “Daniel’s not a complete ass. He used a cell to call me. I imagine he has several and ditches them as he sees fit. Still—” she dropped her phone into her purse “—he must have known I’d call back. He was trying to tell me something when we were cut off.”

“So you said.”

She caught his arm while he tucked a gun into the back of his waistband. “We have to make sure he’s all right.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

A smile crossed his lips as he scoped out what was visible—not much—beyond the front window. “If I didn’t know both of us better, I’d be offended by that.”

“Do you have a contact in Raven’s Cove?”

“Not yet. But give me a few hours and a break in the storm and I will.”

He felt the visual dagger she aimed at his back. “I’ve met that diabolical mind of yours enough times to know who it is you trust and therefore who that so-called contact will be. We’re heading north, aren’t we?”

He couldn’t resist. Turning his head, he brushed a kiss across her cheek, then let his lips stray to her ear. “North to Raven’s Cove, love. Into the heart of a three-hundred-year-old legend.”

* * *

A
POSSIBLY NOT-DEAD CRIME
lord, a phone call from Daniel, another from a potential killer, a death threat, a black feather and now a remote New England town complete with a legend. Why not? Jasmine wondered as they crossed the border from Massachusetts into New Hampshire. It wasn’t as if she’d had any plans for the weekend.

They were traveling in a fully equipped Ford F-350 truck. Rogan drove it with ease and seemed unfazed by the extreme weather that encompassed the whole eastern seaboard.

“We’ll be in Raven’s Cove in a few hours, right?”

“Give or take.” He reached out to turn down the volume on AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck.” “The town’s on a tricky point of land north of Portland and well off 95. Well off any of the state highways, for that matter.”

“So basically, right off the map. We’re talking paved roads here, I hope.”

“In the town proper.”

“Meaning you’ve either been there or you’ve done your homework. Oh, sorry, I mean research, because you don’t actually have a home, do you? Captain Ballard called you a rogue cop with links but no ties to anyone or anything, just an uncanny sense of when and where you need to be.”

She saw the beginnings of a grin in profile. “You want to know why I was in your condo tonight.”

“Why, how long, how you got in—though that one I can guess—who sent you and any other details you think might be pertinent to the fact that I’m sitting in your truck en route to a town where both a three-hundred-year-old legend and, apparently, Daniel live.”

His features remained inscrutable. “My uncanny cop sense tells me you’re pissed off about pretty much all those things.”