Читать книгу Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan - Страница 13

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.”

Did she believe that? Jasmine wondered. More to the point, did Rogan?

She couldn’t tell, but one thing was certain, she’d had enough of the wind and rain for one night. If it was still night.

A glance at her cell put the time at 12:05 a.m., five minutes into the witching hour in a town where legends ruled and ravens sacrificed feathers to convey death messages.

Securing her blowing hair, she glanced at Rogan. “Can we take this inside? I assume Daniel’s not here or you’d have mentioned it.”

“He’s not here. Is there a hotel in town?” Rogan asked Boxman.

“There’s a house with rooms. Birdwoman of Alcatraz runs it. I met her earlier tonight in a bar called the Raven’s Perch. House sits on a cliff on the east edge of town, but if you decide to crash here instead, we could always make it a party.” He offered a wicked smile. “It’ll be like old times, minus the irritating nits.”

Nits, Jasmine recalled, was his term for anyone who adhered too closely to the rules. Like Rogan, Boxman preferred to fly solo. Unfortunately, as far as she knew, he’d never been allowed to do so.

It took her a moment to identify the sensation settling over her as disappointment. Did that mean she’d wanted to be stranded with Rogan? Alone? That she hadn’t really come here to find Daniel? “Do I even want to know?” she muttered in disgust to herself. Catching Rogan’s eye, she summoned a smile. “Tired.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then set a hand on her back and steered her toward the door.

Maybe Boxman’s presence was a plus, she mused. Because one touch from the man behind her, and her good sense was already threatening to fly out the window.

Rogan passed a flashlight over her shoulder. “Boxman’s checking the backyard sheds for a generator.”

On the threshold and resigned, Jasmine played her beam over stack after precarious stack of newspapers, magazines and books.

She moved with care along the narrow pathways. “Trust me, this is Daniel’s idea of organized.”

“A pack rat with a system, huh?”

“It was one of our many differences. My mother was, for lack of a better term, a collector until the day she flew off on her retirement adventure. I spent my childhood learning to appreciate the value of empty space.”

“So it makes sense you’d marry a man who’d fill it up again.”

“Or bury the secret in his parents’ basement until we got back from our honeymoon in not-sunny Spain. Within days, a moving van carrying half a million books showed up on our doorstep, and it occurred to me there might have been one or two questions I’d neglected to ask.” Angling her beam upward, Jasmine sighed. “Like how many journalists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

Rogan perused the overflowing phone desk. “You trusted Daniel to be truthful. Be glad he didn’t have a deeper, darker secret stashed in that basement.”

She didn’t realize he’d left the desk until she felt his knuckles graze her cheek.

“You smell like tropical flowers, Jasmine. I’ve never figured out which ones, but I’ve always thought I’d be able to pick you out of a crowd by your scent alone.” Easing her hair aside, he bared her neck. “Do you want me to make Boxman disappear?”

Did guns have triggers? “I don’t think…” she began, then caught her breath as he kissed the sensitive spot below her earlobe.

“I’ve missed you, love. You’re in my head every night when I try to sleep.”

Although her mind wanted to haze, she held tight to her last thread of reason. “Night turns to day, Rogan, every time. Moon and stars vanish and take you with them into the great unknown. The only time I knew you’d be there without fail was at the safe house. And even then I understood why you were training Boris. You’d leave, he’d stay, and that would be the end of it. It’ll be the end again when this mess we’re in now is sorted out. I’m not going to live my life on a carousel that you come to and go from whenever a situation requires your attention.”

Rogan didn’t push her, but he didn’t move away, either. “What about Boxman?”

“What about him? He’s here, we’re here, and our reasons all seem to be rooted in the growing possibility that Malcolm Wainwright didn’t die in that helicopter crash.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, God.” Suspicion at his cryptic tone had her turning to look. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He ran a light thumb across her cheek. “Boxman said Daniel’s contact sent him a text message yesterday.”

“And you don’t buy that because…?”

“Crocker’s dead, Jasmine. His throat was slashed. I found his body in the trunk of his car two days ago.”

* * *

IN THE TWELVE YEARS HE’D been a cop, Rogan hadn’t given a second thought to lying. It came with the territory, and most of the time that territory was a cesspool. So why did he feel like slime for not telling Jasmine the whole story?

She’d figure it out eventually, or see it for herself. In a town the size of Raven’s Cove, how could she not?

With annoyance beginning to rise and no answers in sight, he jogged to his truck, traded guilt for mistrust and moved on to Boxman.

Was the sergeant searching for a measure of off-duty glory, or something else entirely? Time would tell, he supposed, but with the stakes high and Jasmine’s life on the line, he didn’t plan to give anyone, cop or civilian, much rope.

The storm appeared to have taken root on the coast. Lack of light and power made it difficult to follow directions, but he reached his destination at last, parked and settled in to wait.

He’d left Jasmine sleeping at Daniel’s cottage. Boxman had grumbled, but agreed to spend the night in his camper. Boris would ensure he didn’t change his mind.

The passenger door opened while he was once again contemplating Jasmine’s feather. A man climbed in, soaked and cursing.

“Piece-of-crap night.” He started to rub his wrist, then flapped it forward instead. “Take us down to the water. Fishermen don’t care if the lights are powered by gas or electric. All they want’s the drink.”

As Rogan shoved the truck in gear, his companion sniffed once. And again. Then he grunted out a breath. “You brought her with you, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

“Someone threatened to kill her. Slowly. He left that as a token.”

The man beside him sighed when he spied the feather. “You were right, then. Except now we’re talking local legend, or the borrowing thereof, to do the same job to Jasmine that’s been done to the others.”

“Daniel has two feathers.”

“And just how would you know that unless you’ve been talking to him? And if you have, you might’ve mentioned it before I spent half of this hellish night slip-sliding around town—and I mean that literally as you’ll see when and if the sun ever comes out—trying to locate him.”

Ignoring the question, Rogan pointed his truck down a steep hill. “Any luck?”

“None. Far as I can tell in my extremely limited time here, no one’s seen him for two days.”

Rogan wasn’t surprised. “He called Jasmine tonight, told her about his feathers and suggested she contact someone she could trust.”

His companion snorted. “Contact someone she could trust before, once again, his meddling got her killed. Bastard’s probably gone into hiding.”

“Odds are.”

“Could as easily be dead.”

“Also possible, but only if the killer’s working with a partner, which I doubt. That feather wasn’t on Jasmine’s door when she got home from work.”

The man pointed. “See that shack near the piers that shoot out from the dock? It’s called Two Toe Joe’s. Place smells like piss. Beer tastes like it. The oldest geezer on the planet parks his bony ass there every night. You got questions about legends and feathers, he’s your man. But you gotta keep his cup full, or his vocal cords dry up.”