He turned his attention to the scenery beyond the window of his cubicle—at least he had a window—and mused at the Chugach Mountains in the east, hoping for inspiration. Dark brown contrasted by snow that never melted, they stood high and majestic in the background. Some were jagged and wild, while others were domestic and round. They should have given him pause to reflect on nature's magnificence. Instead, those mountains were a constant reminder of a life left behind.
How he hated living here. His one goal was to return to California. This place was quiet, which equaled boring … drug people, some murders, an occasional bank robbery and always gangs. This case in Ravens Cove was his way out.
He picked up the phone and dialed. “I need a time with the chief, Marcy, can you do that for me?”
“Let me see … how about three today?” This new guy was one of her favorites. He was smart, kind, and handsome. What else could a single woman want? She would help where she could. Maybe get a date out of it!
“Works for me, see you then and thanks.”
Kenneth busied himself with the various alerts that had come over his desk. Too antsy to concentrate, he strolled to the coffee room. When he returned fifteen minutes later, the message light glowed red. He listened to the message, secured the phone on his shoulder and dialed, all the while trying to shrug the free arm into his navy-blue jacket. On the third ring, Marcy picked up.
“I'm on my way.”
He pushed his other arm into the jacket and jogged up the three flights of stairs to the chief's office. With the right pitch, he could be in Ravens Cove no later than tomorrow afternoon.
Chapter 4
Day's End
Kat put the final touches on the sheriff's report. A statement that should have taken an hour had taken four because of the nonstop phone calls and visits from horrified Ravens Cove residents.
To Kat's relief, the media storm had not materialized. They believed Bart's watered-down version of the homicide, so the related phone calls had stopped. For the time being, the media believed John Doe's death was a tragic and all-too-familiar fate that befell the homeless.
That cup of coffee had never arrived and she felt in dire need of a pickup. Coffee and maybe a nice oversize chocolate chip cookie, made fresh at Jo's Bakery.
“The lunch,” Kat looked at her watch, “the supper of royalty.” It was almost five. Maybe two chocolate chip cookies; she was famished. And she deserved them—what a stressful, crazy day.
Kat grabbed her coat. “Leaving.”
“Lock your doors! I mean it.”
“Yes sir!” Whether she would or not depended on how she felt once she got home. Kat shrugged into a royal-blue anorak, checked her pocket for the matching knit gloves and headed for the door.
Five o'clock in Ravens Cove in October meant it was close to dark. She'd grab the coffee and cookies to go. She did feel uneasy about being out tonight. The report had done nothing to soothe her concerns.
Thank goodness, she had not found that body. I'd be in therapy for years! Which would be tough, she mused, as there are no therapists in Ravens Cove. Grandma Bricken came close. Moose stew and sourdough bread fixed everything. Kat smiled and strolled north on Main to Jo's.
Kat opened the glass door. The noise that greeted her almost blew her over. From autumn to spring, most of Ravens Cove residents were home by now. Tonight was an exception. There was too much fear and excitement about the day's happenings. Kat braced herself and walked in.
Jo, in actual fact Josephina Latrell, walked briskly—for her size—from one customer to the next, taking orders. Coffee, sandwiches, no soup left. “A chip off the ole grandma block.” Kat smiled.
“Who's next?” All business in a rush, the flushed Josephina made eye contact with each customer. During the off months, she would have closed this shop an hour earlier. Always one to see the opportunity, she had remained open.
A young man, having left his teens behind just a moment ago, stepped forward and placed his order.
Kat studied the blackboard on the wall behind the counter, which changed daily, depending on Jo's mood. Chocolate chip cookies were not on the menu; snickerdoodles were. Then, a couple of snickerdoodles and mocha would be her evening's repast.
Today's special, baked salmon roast, must be older than dirt by now. She'd see if Jo would give her some for BC. Having been housebound all day, he would pounce in an instant.
After a painful trial-and-error period in which Kat's legs had begun to resemble a climbing post, she learned. Fish was the best way to mollify BC. The trick was to open the takeout box and slide it in the front door with the broom that sat on the porch. Unless BC's stomach was upset, the salmon was irresistible and he forgot to attack.
The teenager-man finished his order. The man who stepped to the counter next was a stranger to Ravens Cove. Kat released her cell phone from the pouch on her belt and dialed the sheriff's office.
“Yes, Kat.” He knew her number by heart. He'd sure dialed it plenty of times when he needed emergency help.
“I'm at Jo's,” she whispered.
“Speak up. I can't hear you.”
Kat left her place in line, her stomach protesting, and walked to the door.
“I'm at Jo's.”
“Good, bring me a sandwich, would ya? It's going to be a late night.”
Kat sighed. “Bart, listen! There's someone down here I've never seen before. About six feet, thirtyish, red and black check flannel shirt, shiny, new blue jeans. With all of today's happenings, thought you might want to check him out.”
“Hmmm. Does bring some questions to mind. Our town is a bit out of the way for most. I'll be there. Order me a sandwich, okay?”
Heaven help me.
Kat made it to the counter in record time, placed her order, and took the opportunity, provided courtesy of the mirror hanging behind Jo's counter, to keep an eye on the stranger.
He had one of the coveted window-seats, and he looked like he was going to stay a while. Having finished his meal, he was focused a day-old Anchorage newspaper, which made him stick out like a sore thumb. The Anchorage paper was a rare find in Ravens Cove. If this guy had wanted to fly under the radar, it would have been better to pick up one of the freebies outside the bakery.
The door opened, the night's chill air rushing in with it. Bart Andersen entered in one, quick step, bringing more of the chill with him.
“Man, it's getting cold!” Bart said, rubbing his hands together. He made his way through a now thinned-out line at the counter to Kat.
“What, no sandwich yet?”
“Just made it to the counter,” Kat's look said it all.
“Kidding, Katrina, just kidding.” He poked her with his elbow. “Now where's that person of interest?”
Kat motioned, right index finger pointing behind a cupped left hand, hidden by her body, in the direction of the man who appeared to be absorbed in his newspaper. The tightness of his body, and his jaw flexing now and again, contradicted the otherwise calm exterior.
“Order me that salmon salad sandwich and chips,” Bart said as he moved out of line, and made a beeline to the stranger's table.
“Don't know you,” Bart said to the back of the newspaper.
The stranger replied, “I don't know you either.”
He lowered his paper, piercing blue eyes locking into Bart's brown ones. Bart stood straight, hands by his sides, feet apart, hand on his holster. His stance spoke volumes about a man who meant business and wouldn't hesitate to take down a threat, when necessary.
The stranger rose and extended a hand. “Kenneth Melbourne. We spoke this morning.”
The storm of anger rose. He had told this jerk to stay away; he could handle this on his own!
“I remember. Amazing, but this hillbilly sheriff has a rather decent memory, Agent Melbourne.” The way he emphasized agent made it sound like a dirty word.
Realizing his greeting was not going to be returned, Ken lowered his hand to his side. This wasn't going to
be easy but this guy was going to have to accept he was here for the investigation. Period.
“Well, I know we got off to a bad start this morning, Sheriff, but as I said, I'm here to help.” That was the chief talking.
Instead of a three-o'clock conversation, Chief Billings had told Marcy to have Ken come along earlier. Ken made his pitch. He had heard of the murder through one of his sources at the local paper, who had gotten her information from who knows where. A real puzzle. Decaying body, but not dead that long; colorful stuff oozing from the eyes. A positioning of the body. No fingerprints, no shoe treads—in fact, nothing to say anyone had been there with the victim. Possibly the work of someone who had killed before. Ken wanted this investigation for both the puzzle it presented, and the escape it might provide if he succeeded in solving it.
At first, the chief wasn't giving an inch.
“Not our jurisdiction, Agent Melbourne.”
Ken had pitched it with all he had. “I think this is the work of a serial killer, Andy.” He used the chief's first name when they were in private. He had known Andy Billings while they were in California, busting some high-profile bank robbers together.
“And I think it could be one that has gone across state lines. I mean, think about it, that town is a few thousand people. There has been nothing like this in Anchorage or any of the towns surrounding Ravens Cove. Where did he, or she for that matter, come from? It's worth looking into. We may have a real crazy on our hands here.”
“Let's be honest, Ken. You're just itching to get out of here. But this one could blow up in our faces. Alaskans, as you know, aren't real thrilled to have any help and this sheriff already sounds like he is cocked to the make-a-complaint and make waves in the FBI, position.” Andy sat back, laced his fingers behind his head, never breaking eye contact with Ken. Coming to a decision, he sat up and thwacked his hands flat on the desk in front of him.
“Here's what I'll authorize. You can go to Ravens Cove. You have 48 hours to come up with facts, and I mean real facts, Ken, to justify being there.”
Ken jumped up, holding back the excitement to the best of his ability and headed for the door.
“One more thing, Agent.”
Ken spun around to face the chief.
Chief Billings stood up, admonition in his eyes. “You will coddle that sheriff and handle him with kid gloves while you're at it. You are on shaky ground when it comes to jurisdiction. If that complaint materializes, it will get ugly for you, my friend.”
“Understood. Thanks, you won't regret this!” He opened the door and sailed through.
“I better not, or it's your career,” the chief shouted after him.
The backside of the door stopped the warning in its tracks.
Ken dropped back into the chair. “I am not here in an official capacity.” Yet. “I am here to offer a helping hand.” Ken almost choked on the last part. This man had gotten on Ken's bad side this morning with his stonewalling attitude. He would have liked nothing better than to take complete control of the investigation, and leave the good sheriff in the dust of this Godforsaken hole of a town.
“Here you go.” Bart and Ken's attention turned to the warm, melodic voice.
A young—all Ken could think was “gorgeous, magnificent”—work of God stood with one hand extended, holding a white lunch sack, toward the sheriff.
“Thanks.” Bart smiled at her. It was obvious that the good sheriff had strong feelings for this magnet of a woman.
Ken knew that voice. Voices were one of his specialties, gifts, as his auntie would have put it. He could hear her now as if it were only yesterday. “A gift from the Lord Almighty, young man. He'll put it to good use for you one day, you wait and see.” And, whether you believed in the Lord Almighty or not, that talent had been one reason he'd landed the job in the FBI. Go figure.
“Do I know you?” Ken stood for a second time, extending his hand, to be rejected a second time. He dropped his arm. This one was as cold as glacier ice. The chill from her glare would have frozen a lesser man.
She raised her eyebrows, revealing gold-flecked, sea green eyes. She shook her head back and forth.
“This is Agent Melbourne. You remember the FBI agent I spoke with this morning?”
Kat's eyes changed from cautious scrutiny to downright disdain in a twinkle. She said nothing.
Kat turned her attention to Bart. “I'll be on my way now. BC is going to make me pay for being late tonight.”
Bart laughed. A warm, contagious sound, full of mirth and joy. “Yep, that animal harbors a grudge; I've got the scars to show it.” Bart had been the one who found the half-dead, scarred kitten that had been transformed by Kat's loving care to the cantankerous, ego-driven feline that was more her closest friend than a pet.
“Two peas in a pod, those two cats,” Bart mused. Both were independent, both were semiwild, and neither of them would be tamed. If Kat weren't his first cousin, he'd marry her. Those were all the qualities that said ‘real woman’ to Bart Andersen.
“I'm walking you home. Don't even think of arguing with me tonight.” He held up his hand. “Not a word! You know I'm right. We're finished here. Isn't that right, Mr. Melbourne?”
To make the point to Melbourne that he was unwelcome, Bart discarded the title of Agent. He hoped the guy would take a hint. The jibe found its mark and the hint was ignored.
“For tonight, Sheriff, for tonight.” Ken gave a tight smile. “I want some time to collect my thoughts. I'll be checking into that inn down the way.”
Bart gave Ken a disapproving glare before he turned, put his hand on Kat's back and walked her out the door into the bitter-cold night.
“What arrogance, coming to our town when you told him, in no uncertain terms, to stay away.” Kat turned to look through the window of Jo's. “I don't like him one bit!”
Bart smiled; his cousin was one of the most protective women he knew. Don't mess with her family, friends, or anyone she considered her family or friends.
“He's just another groupie, of a different kind. Wants to get in on the action and make himself a name.” Bart chuckled.
“Boy, did he come to the wrong town. To make a name for himself, he needs information. I've lived here all my life and no one wants to talk to me when I'm on duty. Let him try.”
Bart's mood lightened and he began whistling a favorite childhood tune. Kat joined in, dancing a jig to the melody. They broke into raucous laughter, turning heads as they headed south on Main to Kat's home.
Chapter 5
The Darkness Grows
Miggie made two trips to Ravens Ravine before sunset. On his first trip, he arrived well before the appointed time, and found the ground on corpse mound was soiled from the corpse removed earlier that day. He hurried back to his shop, grabbed an old blanket, and ran back to the ravine. He almost missed sunset. Both times, he had sneaked under the yellow tape, praying no one saw him violate the crime scene.
Feeling a bit foolish, but not so foolish as to ignore his guardian's instructions, he threw down the blanket, and sat cross-legged, back to the ravine. He could feel the ice-cold ground beneath him. He shuddered at the thought of what might be seeping into his pants.
Focus, Miggie my man, focus.
“I am a messenger of your great guard. Please do not harm me but listen to his warning. One has come to this place that means to destroy you. He is strong in God. He is working to muster God's people. You destroyed his family and, except for this man and a few others, his entire town. O great one, no one can defeat you. Tell me how you want to proceed to guarantee the victory that is so close. I await your instructions.”
Miggie sat still, his chattering teeth piercing the otherwise silent countryside. Something was here. He could feel it. To make matters worse, the lone hag tree appeared to be bending toward him. He used every bit of his self-control to stay immobile and to stifle the scream that constricted his throat. Terror had such a hold that Miggie's brain did not register the blood that tricked
from his mouth, or the self-inflicted wound on his tongue.
The old hag tree started to shimmer, exuding a tarnished-gold light. Terror gave way to curiosity. The sounds of long-dead leaves, none on this tree as long as he'd been alive, engulfed him. He covered his ears because the noise became unbearable. He would scream if didn't subside soon.
“Stop,” he yelled.
Miggie was sure he heard a gallows-laugh followed by the dying clatter of the ghost-leaves. He dropped his hands. The pale light illuminated, and then spotlighted, a small arrowhead sitting at his feet. Arrowheads were commonplace in Ravens Cove and not a remarkable find. This one, however, was different. He could not stop looking at it when it began to kaleidoscope through purple and black and red and even the jaundiced yellow of the tree. The rhythmic pulsation of the colors was hypnotic.
He inched his hand toward the arrowhead, making sure the rest of his body stayed statue-still.
Pain seared through his left hand. He opened it to find a deep cut, so deep that Miggie saw bone before blood filled the gaping wound. As if it were never there, the pain subsided. The blood and vision of bone were gone. All that remained to convince Miggie that he had not imagined the whole thing was a scar, the color of eggplant, running in a straight line from his middle finger to the base of his hand.
“A sign from my gods,” he mused aloud. Miggie gazed into the magical stone. This new charm had the power to wound and heal! With this new find, he could run Ravens Cove. He could run all of Southcentral Alaska, then all of Alaska, and maybe even the world. Who knew—the possibilities were endless.
“You'll all see. Reverend Plotno will be my minion, part of my new congregation.”
For the second time, the rule of silence was broken. A sallow light snaked from the stone in his hand, dancing toward his chest, the macabre rhythm set to his heartbeat. A long tendril of ochre mist shot through his body, then pulled out.
Miggie stood, turned, and faced the ravine path. A wind, laced by the stench of decay, smacked him in the face. Instead of acting as a repellent, it acted as a magnet and drew him to the head of the path.
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