Jenna Ryan - Raven's Cove

“Will that story hold if anyone checks?”

“No one will before morning. By then, it’ll stand.”

“Not going to ask,” she promised herself and gave her temples a tap. “Okay, summing up. Lenny Grant, teacher and bird-watcher. Elizabeth and Michael McCabe, Fontino’s, New Orleans. Entered and stored. Can Boris still be Boris, or does he get a code name, too?”

Rogan inspected his backup firearm. “You’re not warming to this spy thing, are you?”

“Truthfully, I’d rather be tracking Bigfoot with my mother. Sorry if that hurts your feelings.”

“It doesn’t. But speaking of hurt, we should probably go inside and see what if anything’s up with Lenny.”

“Bet we really are on Krypton,” she murmured and set a hand on the door. “Come on, Boris. Michael McCabe has a door to jimmy. Like he did with ours.”

Sliding out, Rogan pulled her across to the driver’s seat, then set his hands on her waist and lifted her down. “Walk where I walk.” He reached back inside for a flashlight. “And stay close.”

A gust of wind blew her hair in all directions. Swiping it from her face, she peered around him. “Can I know why we’re playing follow the leader?”

“Land mines,” he said over his shoulder.

She stopped dead. “In the driveway?” Then she spotted his grin and considered ordering Boris to attack.

A moment later, however, she had her answer. The driveway, though paved, was a sea of cracks and potholes. It also sloped sharply sideways, and twice they had to step over exposed tree roots that reached almost to her knees.

A minefield, she reflected, might have been easier to navigate.

Because Rogan had his beam trained on the ground, a glimmer of light next to the cottage brought her up short. “Did you see…?”

“Yeah.” When they reached the porch, he eased her aside. “No sound,” he cautioned. “Wait here with Boris until I get back.” Then he was gone.

She leaned a hip on the railing. “I could have worked later than late at the museum tonight,” she told the dog. “Huge shipment, boxes galore. Hours of overtime.”

Despite the roar of wind that refused to subside, Jasmine managed to hear the protracted creak behind her. Whirling, she spied a large hanging pot swinging drunkenly toward her.

She reacted swiftly, grabbing the fat base and glaring into the shadows behind her. What in God’s name had prompted her to come here?

Daniel, her brain piped up. Death threat. Raven’s feather. Sliced power line.

Time stretched out. So did Jasmine’s nerves. The wind howled like a demon through the rafters. The chain holding the pot protested loudly.

Wainwright’s men had burst out of a night very similar to this one. She’d been watching the storm when she’d seen the shadows mutate. What she’d initially identified as bushes had morphed into humans. Fit, agile humans, packing three weapons apiece…

The wind wailed again. Thankfully, the memory passed. This was a different night, a different place. Here in Maine, the bushes were bushes, and the only danger she could see came from the evergreens that were swaying back and forth like drunk giants ready to topple.

As if responding to her thought, Jasmine heard a crack in the yard. She released the hanging pot as an object, possibly a branch, hit the ground with a resounding thunk.

That’s when the darkness to her right came alive. …

Chapter Five

She could have sworn a locomotive blindsided her—or tried to. She glimpsed a body, then a blur of fur. Instead of grabbing her, the would-be attacker simply knocked her across the porch.

Boris’s growl became a furious snarl. Ripe male curses answered it. Despite the fact that her head struck the clapboard siding, Jasmine thought she recognized the voice.

The man’s fingers clawed at her trench coat. However, with Boris’s mouth clamped to his leg, she was able to avoid them. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for the door. And this time slammed into a human wall.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” Rogan trapped her arms, examined her face.

“No, I’m…”

But she was talking to air. And of course the heel of her boot had jammed itself between two slats. One good yank freed it, but by then, both the men and the dog had vanished into the bushes below.

Catching hold of the planter that seemed determined to mow her down, Jasmine scanned the tangled greenery. “Rogan? Boris. Where are you?”

“We’re here,” Rogan replied.

Still growling, Boris mounted the stairs behind a large, heavyset man. Rogan brought up the rear.

Recognition widened her eyes. “Boxman?”

Sergeant Brent Boxman grunted. “See? She didn’t have to bounce me on my ass to know who I am. What’s the matter, Rogan? Your eyesight gone south because of a little rain shower?”

“More likely because of the thirty pounds you’ve packed on since the last time I saw you.”

Boxman showed his teeth. “You get a punch-drunk lawyer to fight your court battle against a divorce diva, an ex-wife from hell and two grown stepkids who tell you to your face to stuff your gun in your pants and blow your private parts sky-high, and see how you’re doing at the end of six frigging months. Your diet’s a conveyor belt of greasy burgers, beer and pizza.”

“That’s bad?”

The cop jabbed a resentful finger. “One day, pal, your lifestyle’s gonna catch up with you, and Jasmine here won’t be able to tell the difference between us, except that you’ll be lying in a pine box, and I’ll still be reeling in fish like Malcolm Wainwright.”

“You think?”

Rogan’s eyes glinted, but whether with humor or some kind of male challenge, Jasmine wasn’t sure. In any case, he was right about the weight. Boxman had developed a distinct paunch. He’d also grown a beard, added an earring and, unless her eyes were playing tricks in the glow from the flashlight, lost a lower tooth.

His gaze left Rogan to brighten on her. “So, tell me, angel face, what brings you to this slice of New England paradise?”

Reaching over, she straightened the bandanna he wore as a headband. “I got a feather and two phone calls, so Rogan made me come. You?”

“I heard—” He blinked. “You got a what?”

“Feather.” She used her hands to demonstrate. “About this long, black, probably stolen from a raven. My friend Lenny has two. That’s a bad thing in this town.”

Boxman waved a hand in front of her face. “You on happy pills or something?”

“Daniel found out about the recent murders,” Rogan explained. “He coupled them with the fact that there wasn’t much left of the helicopter that went down after the prison break and drew the same conclusion as the rest of us. It’s possible Wainwright’s not dead.”

“Phoenix,” Jasmine reminded and saw his lips twitch.

“It’s also possible that one of Wainwright’s subordinates has decided either to rise up and avenge his boss’s death—unlikely—or make it appear that Malcolm’s still running the show in an effort to pump fresh blood into the rapidly crumbling business.” He rested his shoulder on a post, kept his expression bland. “Your turn, Sergeant. What and why?”

Boxman shook his head. “Crocker got in touch with me.”

“Crocker’s incommunicado.”

“Sent me a text yesterday just the same.”

“What did it say?”

“Verbatim? ‘Trouble brewing in Raven’s Cove, Maine. Daniel at risk. Go.”

“Crocker’s Daniel’s contact,” Rogan told Jasmine.

“I guess he got wind I was heading up to Vermont to visit my sister while my ex and her Lady Macbeth lawyer plot my financial demise. Guess he knows, too, that since Daniel’s no longer top of the most-likely-to-be-offed list, he could bend the rules and ask me to take a detour, make sure things were kosher with his charge. I figured what the hell, so here I am, doing a favor and getting double-teamed by a dog and a shadow cop.”