Stranger on Raven's Ridge (15 page)

* * *

T
HE
FACT
THAT
SHE
believed him unsettled her sufficiently that she neglected to press for details. And not knowing was a situation Raven despised. She’d forfeited two years of her life because she hadn’t known what Aidan and his captain had strategized. Unfortunately, by the time she firmed up her resolve, it was too late for explanations.

After a rushed trip to town, Gaitor and Steven met them in the clearing. Together, they joined the crowd swarming the repositioned market stalls.

Fred, the cotton candy man, had hauled Phil Herron’s grill to the ridge and fired it up. Joanne was serving raven dogs and burgers by the score. Raven was about to order a bottle of juice when she spotted Guy, the hippie with the beard and braid, heading toward her. He shouted something she couldn’t hear, then cut across the flat rock carrying a box of fruit-filled Mason jars.

“I’m giving miniature jars of my home brew to all the participants,” he said with a grin that didn’t quite stamp out the concern on his features. “Like any show, the Reenactment must go on, even with Herron still MIA.”

Raven summoned a casual “Oh, I’m sure he’s around somewhere.” She held up and studied the jar. “Is this the same thing I drank at the campfire?”

“You bet. Your friend Sylvie helped me put a batch of them together this afternoon. We went through multiple bottles of vodka. No half measures where I come from. You wanna strip the skin from a person’s gullet, you get it done with the first swallow.” Balancing his load, he raised a parting hand. “I’ll collect the jar later. Enjoy.”

She felt a movement near her shoulder while she unscrewed the lid.

“As a man of the cloth, Raven, I’m compelled to point out that drinking any substance guaranteed to disintegrate your vocal cords is not, under the circumstances, the wisest choice. Better hand it over.”

“Says the man whose eyes in good light still resemble roadmaps.” She swirled the fruity concoction. “Come on, Gaitor, this stuff has a decent first kick, but it’s O’Doul’s compared to Raven’s Blood.”

“News flash, your family wine has recently been added to our nation’s top ten list of toxic substances.”

“In that case, we’re wasting time with bullets and strategy. All we really need to do is give Johnny Demars a bottle of Blood and scrape his remains off the ridge in the morning.”

“You’re joking, but it’s a workable thought.” He motioned at the silver truck. “I talked to my accuser. In her own I-hate-nut-ball-preachers way, she half apologized for any allegation she might have made. But she still believes she saw someone outside Herron’s tent.”

“Maybe it was Fred wearing a cloak made of black cotton candy.” Raven regarded the woodland trees. “It’s getting dark—well, darker. The die-hards have their blankets and chairs spread around the so-called stage. Another thirty minutes, and the ravens will begin to circulate.”

“Is this what you call an interactive event?”

“Interactive and largely impromptu. According to Grandpa, there’s not much of a script. Everyone here is familiar with ‘The Raven’s Tale.’ Equally familiar with ‘The Soldier’s Tale’—probably not so much.”

“The faithful know it.”

She dropped the miniature Mason jar into his gloved hand. “I guess that would make me an unfaithful Blume, despite my line of descent. I only hope the evil that was left behind doesn’t decide to aid Johnny Demars in his quest.” Her eyes skimmed the growing crowd. “Have you spotted anyone suspicious?”

“Not a soul, and I’ve been watching closely. Careful, folks,” he cautioned as an enthusiastic group of campers jostled past.

At the tail end of the rush, an arm descended on her shoulders. “Costume’s waiting up at Blume House, Raven,” Aidan said in her ear. “You put it on, sans mask and hood, head backstage—that would be in the trees—where you and your cousin will do a quick switch. We’ll see what transpires from there.”

More campers bumped her as they brushed by. “You won’t let Demars hurt Steven, right?”

“The sheriff supplied us with a vest and two deputies. One of them will stick close to him. Five tough men, handpicked by your great-grandfather, will also be wandering around dressed as ravens. So will Fergus and I. Once you and Steven switch costumes, you’re with me. I’ve shown you the sniper vantage points and three other potential sites. Fog’s down to a light mist—not the best scenario, but not much we can do about it—and we’re less than forty-five minutes from full darkness. Generators are up and running, spotlights are positioned around the perimeter. Our view of the high points should be good. Any last-minute questions?”

Shivering, she slipped her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “What if Demars manages to insinuate himself into the Reenactment?”

Aidan glanced at Gaitor as more people streamed past heading for the food. “We thought of that. It’s why I want you with me. Are you ready?”

“Do ravens’ feathers foreshadow death? Answer’s yes,” she stage whispered to a puzzled Gaitor.

His frown deepened. “I know about the feathers and what awaits the recipient of them, Raven. I’m only surprised you’d use such a maudlin analogy.”

“It is maudlin,” she agreed. “But as analogies go, it’s also completely appropriate.”

Keeping her right hand steady, she removed it from her jacket pocket—and showed them the three black feathers someone in the crowd had slipped to her.

* * *

H
E
SLUNK
ACROSS
THE
RIDGE
with one and only one thought in his head—to find that perfect spot, set up and wait.

In a way—a rather large way, in fact—it was a shame Raven Blume had to die in order to settle a score, but like so many things in life, what had to be done had to be done. And in this case, there’d be an enormous personal reward at the end of it.

As darkness descended and the spotlights began to glow, he settled in his perch near the rock ledge that towered some twenty-five feet above the elevated stage.

He’d checked it out earlier and concluded it would work. Ravens nested in the trees that brushed this portion of the cliff, so there’d be irony as well as intelligence in the selection.

Everything about Raven’s Cove centered around those big black birds. For most people, Hezekiah was the raven of interest. But for the man who detached himself from the excited crowd, the only Raven that mattered would be dead before her ancestor’s legendary transformation.

He thought with mounting anticipation,
Let the game begin.

Chapter Fifteen

The best-laid plans...

For some irritating reason, those words began whispering in Aidan’s head the moment he and Raven separated. He could see her, and the myriad costumed ravens around her, but it didn’t feel like enough. Not nearly enough right now.

The combined smells of cod and grilled burgers wafted past him, carried on the evening mist. He watched the back of Raven’s cape as she made her way toward the stage where Fergus and two other men stood guard, and hoped the two-way radios they’d borrowed from the county sheriff’s office weren’t as crappy as they looked.

“Soon as Fergus heads for the trees, we’ll know she’s made the costume switch with Steven.” Stationed several feet away, Gaitor pretended to read from his book on local lore. “Any movement in the high areas?”

“Not so far.”

Gaitor turned a page, regarded the throng ahead of them. “Is there an official start to this thing, or does some random person just yell, ‘Game on,’ and the actors take it from there?”

“It’s starting now.” Aidan’s eyes remained on the trees where one by one the main players emerged.

Without fanfare, a dozen ravens burst from the branches and vanished into the mist at full raucous caw.

“There’s the good spirit.” Gaitor sounded as relieved as Aidan felt. “And there goes Fergus to fetch Raven back.”

The costumed birds traveled in pairs. Still, Aidan reflected, the best-laid plans...

He swore long and low.

Gaitor’s head shot up. “What? Is there a problem?”

Amusement glimmered despite the circumstances. “Would I be standing here if there was? Lose the nerves, Gaitor, or we’ll all be screwed.”

“Worry about yourself, McInnis and leave...” He broke off when Aidan swore again. “Crissakes, what now?”

“High shadows are shifting at three o’clock. Circle toward them. I’ll intercept Fergus.”

He kept an unwavering eye on the big man and his smaller raven companion. “Meet me by Herron’s grill,” he said into his two-way, and watched Fergus immediately change direction.

So far, so good, Aidan told himself. But the best-laid... “Dammit, piss off,” he snapped. He added, less testy, “Sorry, Fergus not you. Bring her to the grill.”

The minute Fergus complied, Aidan drew Raven into a deep shadow and clasped her shoulders. “I need you to stay here, okay? Right here. Promise me you won’t move.”

She used the two-way in her head mask for the first time. “I won’t move. Just don’t forget about Steven.”

“He’s covered.... Say again, Gaitor?”

“The shadow shift you spotted was someone setting up for a photo shoot.”

“False alarm,” Aidan relayed to Raven and Fergus. He bumped his gaze from point to point. Nothing else stirred.

“Lieutenant McInnis?” A sea-roughened voice crackled over the headset. “Old Joe—Two Toes—just told me there’s a guy sitting like a big Hezekiah raven in a pine tree on the north point. He’s carrying a rifle.”

“Where’s the north point?” Aidan asked Raven.

She pivoted, aimed a feathery finger.

“On my way,” he told the man. “Gaitor?”

“Halfway there already.”

“Don’t move,” Aidan repeated, and took off to the sound of a low growl in her throat.

He shed the restrictive cloak and mask as he ran, but made sure his two-way remained intact. Gaitor puffed out a location, but with the north point in sight Aidan had already identified the only tree from which Demars could view the entire area.

Drawing his Glock, he headed for the top via a crude set of ledges.

An ancient but sturdy evergreen stood to his left. If he climbed to the summit he’d be parallel with the upper branches.

“Stop before you get to the top,” he instructed Gaitor. “We might be able to cut off his escape if he runs.”

A winded grunt he took for a yes came back to him.

Aidan set his sights on the target. But the fear of something screwing up continued to haunt him as he reached the high plateau.

“He’s still there,” one of Rooney’s men said from below. “But he might be catching on. He’s getting twitchy... No, wait, hell, he’s turning jackrabbit.”

Stuffing his gun, Aidan jumped to an outstretched limb. “Can you see him?” he asked Gaitor.

“He was climbing toward you,” his partner shouted back. “But I can’t see him now for the branches.”

“Come on, you bastard.” Aidan drew and readied his weapon. “All I need’s a glimpse.”

What he got instead was a blinding glare of light beamed directly into his eyes as the spotlights made their first creaky revolution. Below him, he heard a rustle that quickly turned into a thrash of leaves.

Before he could react, a rifle butt slammed across his shin and almost cost him his balance. A second blow got him in the thigh, dangerously close to his groin. Even so, he squeezed off two silenced shots—and took a measure of grim satisfaction from the indrawn yowl of pain that reached him.

He knew right away he hadn’t hit anything important, because after more thrashing, his quarry launched from the tree and landed hands and knees on the plateau.

“He’s made the rock,” Aidan warned Gaitor. “Can you cut him off?”

“Do my best, partner.”

Unfortunately, the man did in fact move like a jackrabbit. He bounded downward from ledge to ledge, glanced at Aidan, who’d jumped from the tree after him and, ditching his rifle, zigzagged to the level ridge.

He was fast and nimble, Aidan gave him that. But he also thought in two dimensions and veered instinctively toward the woods.

Instead of pursuing him, Aidan stuck to the higher rock. “He’s heading for the road,” he said to Gaitor.

“Why go—through—the woods?” Gaitor puffed. “Why not just—never mind. You take the forest. I’ll take the shorter route.”

“Use Rooney’s Jeep,” Aidan told him. “Keys are inside.”

“Good, thanks—I will. If you’re right—we can squeeze him.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Running on relatively flat ground was easy for Aidan, so much so that it allowed his brain to kick back into gear. Too bad every thought that formed did so in blinding red neon.

Too obvious...too predictable...not clever enough...

But then again, wasn’t that why crime lords hired the Weasels and “big guys” of the world to do their killing? Because the pros knew how to avoid capture, while those who employed them might not be so savvy?

The runner darted through gullies and hopped over fallen logs, but Aidan suspected he was tiring. Even jackrabbits had their limits.

Unfortunately, so did cops who’d been dead for two years. A mile in, he opted to go with the odds. He waited for the man to pull up as they approached a wide stand of bushes, then, stopping, fired three shots into the mist.

The runner stiffened and spun in place. Several drunken steps later, he vanished into the darkness.

Aidan headed toward the greenery with caution. Tendrils of white twined about his ankles, but all he could hear were his own footsteps and half the insect population of Maine waking up for the night.

He expected the shots when he glimpsed the man down on one knee, his shoulder butted up against a rock smeared dark with blood.

Ducking behind a bush, Aidan called to him, “You can toss the gun or bleed out. Your choice.”

“Go ahead and shoot, McInnis—if you’ve got the balls. I see your face or any other part of you, you’re a dead man.”

“You think?” Clearing the outer leaves, Aidan took aim, cursed the night mist and squeezed the trigger.

The man’s body jerked. He’d worked himself to his feet, but Aidan’s bullet threw him against the trunk of a poplar and sent his gun flying into the night.

“You know you have to kill me, right? I’ll keep fighting you until you do.”

“Why?”

“Because you murdered my kid, why the hell do you think?”

“You know what happened that night. Jason’s dying wasn’t part of any plan.”

“He’s dead all the same, isn’t he?”

The sudden surge of motion came as no surprise. It irritated the hell out of him, but Aidan had already figured the guy was playing possum to some degree. He’d wanted a clear shot of his own. Hadn’t gotten one, but like any shooter worth his salt, he’d taken a chance.

“Where are you?” Gaitor shouted the question through increasing static.

“No idea.”

Back on the move, the man leaped left, somersaulted over a felled tree and barreled on.

“Take the next road that goes west, partner.”

“I sent a sheriff’s deputy after you,” Gaitor returned. “Hope he’s fit enough to keep up.”

Aidan hoped he was fit enough to keep his quarry in sight, because there was no chance the guy would be exiting the woods anytime soon.

Another mile on, the runner veered right, halted abruptly and slipped out of sight behind a fat spruce. “Stop there, McInnis.”

At least he was panting, Aidan thought as he bent at the waist to suck in badly needed air.

“Come one step closer—” the man emerged from the trunk as a silhouette “—and I’ll drill the bitch.”

Aidan’s insides turned to liquid. Until his eyes cleared and he realized the woman who’d been yanked—bound, gagged and whimpering—into view had the wrong shape to be Raven. This woman’s hair was short and her figure less curvy.

“Yes, you can see she’s not your precious wife, but you wouldn’t want this one’s death on your conscience, either, would you?”

“Is this what you want?” Aidan called back. “To kill an innocent woman? A stranger?”

“Who I do or don’t kill at this particular moment is entirely up to you, Lieutenant. You let me walk, I let her live. It’s a fair exchange. Don’t,” he barked when Aidan’s hand twitched. “You can’t be stupid enough to think I don’t have a gun stuck in her back.”

“No, I’m not stupid enough to think that. Then again...”

When a twig snapped behind him, the man reacted instinctively, swinging his head around to find Gaitor standing several yards away.

Aidan knew he had him then, and fired off three rapid shots—one in the shoulder, one in the side, one in the leg.

A shocked snarl emerged as the man reared backward, released his hostage and dropped to the ground, jerking in pain.

His legs wobbling from exertion, Gaitor went to his knees to help the woman, hysterical now, while Aidan grabbed the fallen man by his jacket and flipped him onto his back.

“Hey, Guy.” Crouching, he jammed his Glock under the beard of the braided hippie. “You’re an agile bastard, I’ll give you that.”

“Hey yourself, Lieutenant.” The man bit the words out on wheezing bursts of breath. “You move pretty well yourself.”

When Gaitor pulled the gag from the woman’s mouth, Aidan realized that Guy’s hostage was Sylvie, the blonde woman who’d helped him find Raven in the crypt.

Still on her butt, she caterpillar crawled away from her captor. “You should shoot him,” she said with a quaver. “He’s crazy, and I mean stark raving.” She started to shiver. “I helped him bottle that fruit stuff he likes so much, and suddenly, out of nowhere, he shoves a knife under my chin and says his name’s not really Biggs, it’s Demars. Like it makes a difference what he calls himself when I figure he’s gonna stick me.”

Pounding footsteps approached and slowed. In the process of untying the ropes from Sylvie’s ankles, Gaitor raised a hand. “It’s okay, Deputy, we’re good. McInnis and me got him.”

The winded deputy bent for a look. “You might not have him for long if you don’t get him to a hospital, sirs. Bangor should do since it seems like all three bullets passed right through.”

The neon flashed a new and larger warning in Aidan’s head. Something about this felt wrong. The reason slammed into him when he stood to stash his gun.

“Biggs,” he repeated, and narrowed his eyes on Sylvie’s face. “Is that what you said?”

“I said what he said. ‘Call me Biggs,’ he told me my first night here.”

But that wasn’t what he’d told Raven. “I’m Guy,” he’d said outside Phil Herron’s empty tent.

A tent that contained three rifles. The tent of a man who’d had his eyes shot out and his body dumped in the ocean.

“Biggs.” Aidan spoke to Gaitor now. “Guy Biggs. He’s George’s ‘big guy.’ Jesus, Gaitor, he’s not Johnny Demars. He’s Demars’s second hit man.” Which meant, Aidan realized through a nightmarish haze of fear, that Demars was back on the ridge.

With Raven.

* * *

M
OST
OF
THE
PLAYERS
wandered off the stage and into the audience at will. Only Hezekiah and the good and evil spirits had voices and were therefore required to stay put.

“The ‘evil’ actor sounds exactly like I figure a snake would sound.” Fergus squirmed. “Low and hissy, like a trail of slime.”

Raven rubbed her chilled arms. “My grandfather—my dad’s father—sounded like that, and he wasn’t even a Blume. Wonder what that says about his personality?”

Fergus followed her gaze. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

“Very. Aidan would say I shouldn’t be, but I can’t help it. Johnny Demars is a shadow, Fergus. How do you capture a shadow?”

“You dip it in lead and make it so the shadow can’t disappear.” He shrugged a massive shoulder. “Gaitor told me that, once when I was a kid and I asked the same question. I thought it was kind of a cool idea. Er, do you think we can take our masks off now?”

“Probably.” Not that she wanted to, but the last communication she’d heard on her crackling two-way had been a shout from one of the Reenactment ravens about a jackrabbit.

Fergus removed his feathered head. “That’s better.” He whooshed out a breath, inhaled deeply and coughed when his lungs filled with drifting grill smoke. “Aw, that’s gross. I don’t like fish, do you? I mean I know it’s good for you, but it always tastes so—fishy.”

Raven laughed at his expression. “You look like a baby who’s just swallowed a spoonful of mashed carrots and beets.”

He brightened. “I could eat that before smoked salmon. My uncle loves smoked West Coast salmon.”

“I know. I made sure it was served at Aidan’s wake.” She twirled her mask in agitation. “Where are they? And why did our stupid radios have to cut out?”

“Because they’re old?”

His uncertain tone struck a humorous note. “Rooney’s old, and he’s still going strong. Why are you fidgeting?”