Ripples in the Shadows

by Kathy Dexter

  Riley trotted briskly toward the museum’s entrance. Opening the door, she turned to wave, then took off.

  Logan fixed his gaze on Hunter. “I’m starving. I bet you are, too. How about dinner?”

  Two days since she’d seen him last, when she’d been angry that he’d withheld information from her. What a difference forty-eight hours made! She hadn’t realized how much she missed that look in his eyes. What was it about this man that resonated deep within?

  “Ally has the car and plans to pick me up after she finishes shopping,” Hunter said.

  “She has to eat, too. Ask her to join us at The Lucky Horseshoe.” Logan eyed the box. “You want me to lock that in my trunk?”

  “Okay.” Hunter handed it to him. “Don’t drop it.”

  He pretended to lose his grip. “Oops.”

  “I guess that’s one way to get it open.” Is that what it would take? Breaking the box to get to the contents? Or would that destroy what was essential for restoring her memory?

  She realized that Logan had caught the box with the bottom up. She sucked in a deep breath and held it.

  The serpentine contour of her dragon was etched into the wood.

  CHAPTER 20

  L OGAN LED THE WAY to a booth and beckoned to the waitress as he slid into the seat next to Hunter.

  “Hi, Logan.” Lucy batted her eyes at him. “What can I get you, honey?”

  He felt the heat of Hunter's gaze. Was she jealous of the waitress? A thrill of satisfaction flared deep inside. “What would you like?” he asked Hunter.

  She ignored him and turned to the waitress. “What kind of beer do you have?”

  Lucy flipped over the menu and pointed to a lengthy list. When Hunter picked a local brew, Lucy grinned. “Nice choice, sweetie. Back in a flash.”

  Ally came breezing through the doorway, chatting with Finn Franklin. “Look who I found outside,” she told them. “He’s hungry, too.”

  Logan assessed the way Finn ogled Ally. Hungry for what?

  After some consultations with Lucy and the two newcomers, they gave their orders and soon savored the specialties of the house.

  “Best shepherd's pie ever,” Ally mumbled around a mouthful.

  “Try a taste of the lasagna.” Finn gave her a forkful, and she moaned in delight.

  Hunter looked down at her half-empty plate of fish and chips. “I must have inhaled my food.”

  Ally giggled. “Who’s the fantastic cook?”

  “Jake Tanner. He owns the place,” Logan said.

  Finn turned his head. “He’s coming this way.”

  Logan made the introductions. “You've got a couple of new fans, Jake.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Jake patted his ample stomach, a sign he sampled a great deal of his own cooking. “Keeps me in business.”

  Logan looked around the room. “Big crowd for a Thursday.”

  “Every night’s like this,” Jake said. “I got loyal customers.”

  “And your prices are right,” Finn added.

  “What about the cuisine, Phineas?” Jake clapped Finn on the back. “I expect rave reviews from the Sentinel’s food critic.”

  “How many stars you want?”

  Jake roared. “The most you got.”

  Finn gave him thumbs up, then picked up a utensil and jammed another forkful of lasagna into his mouth.

  Ally nudged him. “Phineas?”

  Finn swallowed his food. “My parents were deep into family tradition and named me after my grandfather. Luckily, they shortened it to Finn.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “However, Phineas Franklin seems to evoke an image of a long-established and traditional man of the world. Good for business, and assures contacts I know my way around.”

  Ally jabbed him in the side. “Until they meet you in person?”

  Logan excused himself to take care of some business of his own. “I'll be right back.”

  He headed to the bar and slipped onto the stool next to the friend dressed in his usual rumpled brown suit and faded tie. “Working, Lou?”

  The private detective took his time folding his paper. He gazed at Logan with innocent-looking, deep brown eyes. “I eat here most nights.”

  “You followed us from the museum.”

  Lou sighed. “You're too good, Logan.”

  “Either you’ve lost the ability to keep out of sight when tailing a suspect, or you deliberately let me spot you.”

  Lou grinned. “I'm on guard duty.”

  “Hunter Sloane.”

  “Making sure no else throws Molotov cocktails her way.”

  “Sent by the Gyld?”

  “Disclosed all I can, buddy.”

  “You should’ve informed me about your assignment. I almost arrested you for stalking.”

  “Gotta keep a low profile. Besides, if your boss asks, you don’t know nothin’ about my comings and goings.”

  “Chief Stoner?”

  “He doesn’t like me crossing police lines. Interfering, he calls it.” Deviltry swarmed in Lou’s eyes. “I seem to have a habit of doin’ just that.”

  “I never saw you.” Logan slipped him a card. “My number if something comes up at the cottage, and you need a policeman to show up.”

  Lou tucked it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll add it to my speed dial list. I have a few others expectin’ to be notified if those jokers decide to make another house call.”

  Logan returned to the booth as Ally and Finn stood up.

  “Finn’s taking me on a tour of the town. He’ll drive me home.” Ally tossed the car keys to Hunter and winked at her friend. “I’ll be back in a little while, but don’t wait up.”

  Finn dropped some money on the table. Logan handed it back. “My treat.”

  After Finn and Ally had gone, Lucy came over with the check. “The lady and I will have another beer,” Logan told her.

  When the waitress returned with the drinks and left the final bill, Hunter spoke. “I’m glad Ally’s having a good time, but I don’t like the idea of her being in danger because of me. I’ve asked her to return to the city. She refuses to go.”

  “A true friend.”

  “I don't know what I would do if Ally got hurt because she’s helping me.” She lowered her eyes. “I couldn’t endure losing you either.”

  Logan inhaled the fragrance of sandalwood and lavender that swirled around her. Desire zigzagged through his core. He took her hand. “I’m a trained policeman. Don’t you think I can handle a little trouble?”

  She tightened her grip. “Everything's moving too fast, and I feel I’ve lost control.”

  “You don’t have to deal with any of this by yourself. See the man at the bar?”

  She looked over the customers. “The one in brown pretending to read the newspaper?”

  Surprised she’d spotted the detective so quickly, Logan identified him. “Lou McDonald. He’s taking my place guarding the cottage.”

  “He’s good?”

  Logan kept his tone light. “Not as good as me. But he can do the job. A private detective with lots of experience. Trustworthy.”

  When they finished their drinks, Logan tossed money on the table.

  Outside he told Hunter he'd follow her back to the cottage. After they turned into the driveway, she switched off the ignition and walked back to Logan. He was out of his car, retrieving the wooden box.

  She took it from him. “Ally isn't back yet. No lights. Do you want to come in for a while?”

  Regret etched Logan’s words. “I'd love to, but I have that stakeout.”

  “The one Riley mentioned?”

  He nodded. “But I’ll go inside and check under the beds before I leave.”

  He did a quick tour and met Hunter on the porch, the box resting on a rocker. He bent down until his eyes were level with hers, compelling. Her eyes deepened with flecks of darker shades of sapphire. Then his lips found hers, and she was in his arms as she had been the night of the ball. The same intensity gripped him. He didn’t want t
o leave, torn between being with her or stopping the people out to harm her. Hunter's heart beat against his, emotions entwined. Electricity circled them both, shooting sparks into the night.

  Logan reluctantly pulled away, his voice ragged. “That should keep me awake during the stakeout.”

  “A cold shower could work,” Hunter gasped.

  The touch of her, the smell of her, lingered with him. He wanted nothing more than to stay with her, hold her, never let her go.

  He sprinted to his car and sped down the road.

  CHAPTER 21

  L OGAN CHECKED HIS WATCH. Only an hour since he’d left Hunter at the cottage. Camouflaged by overgrown bushes, he’d parked under a huge elm in a vacant, grassy lot across from the gas station. No one there except the owner. At least, not yet.

  A smattering of houses and bars peppered the neighborhood four blocks south, while warehouses sprawled near Logan, flanking the railroad tracks on this side of town. Few people worked around here at night, leaving the streets deserted.

  With the light from an almost-full moon, Logan had a good view of the dilapidated, rectangular service station. Wild, untamed shrubs shrouded the sole street-side window. Around the right corner, the front door and two garage bays faced one working gas pump. A back door at the opposite end of the building provided an additional entry. Or exit.

  Not a place many people would come for gas, which made it an ideal location for a chop shop. Stolen cars could be dismantled without drawing attention.

  Logan stretched and took a sip of coffee. Ugh! Disgustingly cold.

  Urgency stirred the air he breathed, thrummed along his nerves. His informant swore Dave Jones had a nasty scheme in the works, and tonight he’d be finalizing the deal with his accomplices.

  Another raid on the cottage? Logan tensed. He had to keep Hunter safe.

  Under the handle of a gas can abandoned by the night attackers, a clever tech had discovered a partial fingerprint belonging to Jones. A background check revealed he had a long history of skirting the edge of illegitimate business operations. Despite investigations into car thefts and a raid on his garage, the police found no evidence.

  A call to Hannah Parker at the newspaper netted additional slices of information.

  During the years following her car accident, Hannah had stored knowledge concerning most Mystic Lake residents in those altered brain waves of hers. When Logan mentioned the garage owner, Hannah was quick to relate Jones’ shady past. “He managed to get into trouble as a teenager. Some unpleasant acts of vandalism. But that’s over twenty years ago.”

  “Those incidents were long before your accident. How come you have them in your memory bank?”

  Hannah didn’t reply right away. Finally she spoke. “A friend asked me to look up some back issues of the paper and Jones’ activities back then. When I read the articles, the knowledge became part of the data cramming my brain.”

  “Who asked you to find information about Jones?”

  “Clarissa Sloane.”

  What possible reason could Clarissa have for checking into Jones’ background? “When?”

  “She came to the office Monday. Dave Jones’ name had come up in connection with her granddaughter Hunter.”

  “Did she say how?”

  “No.”

  He’d meant to talk to Clarissa about his own discovery in a back issue of the Sentinel. That conversation had to take place real soon.

  Hannah had more to say. “I don’t know if this has any bearing. Reenie Stoner––the chief’s wife––is Dave Jones’ cousin.”

  Logan slowly released a deep breath. Not good news.

  When he disclosed the fingerprint evidence from the gas can to his boss, Stoner said, “I already talked to Dave. He sold the gas can over two weeks ago to someone who'd run out of fuel. He has the receipt to prove it. That's a dead end, Logan.”

  He didn’t want to believe the chief would cover for his wife’s cousin. Yet Stoner didn't usually track down leads, leaving that to the detectives. Logan kept his misgivings to himself. “Credit card receipt?”

  “He paid cash.”

  “Description?”

  “Too long ago and too many customers since then. He only remembered a man did the buying. You'll have to find the perps some other way.” The chief waved in the sergeant waiting to add more paperwork to the stack already suffocating Stoner’s desk.

  Logan had been dismissed and so had his evidence, but he couldn’t let it go. Not after his informant had warned him Jones had something else planned. So Logan set up surveillance of the gas station on his own time without telling the chief. Better if no one warned Jones he was being watched.

  Headlights flared off Logan’s windshield. He slid down in the seat and peered over the steering wheel. The glare lit up foliage along the darkened road.

  A car passed under the street lamps and swerved into the station. The driver’s door slammed shut. Carrying a gas can, Sylvia West scurried to the pump and filled the container. Once finished, she stashed it in the trunk, then drove the car into the shadows on the far side of the station, out of Logan’s view. She walked around to the front door, stopped a moment to scan the area before slipping inside the building.

  Why drive all the way to the warehouse district for a can of gas? His stepmother couldn’t possibly be one of Jones’ accomplices, could she? Yet she’d arrived right at the scheduled time for the meeting.

  With catlike movements, he padded across the deserted street to the bushy side of the station. He vaguely thought of how often the police advised homeowners to cut back shrubbery in order to make it more difficult for burglars to go unnoticed. He was mighty glad Jones didn't pay attention to those recommendations. Logan had no plans to break in. On the other hand, he didn't want to be caught sneaking around, either. Luckily, the station lacked lighting except near the pumps––likely because Jones didn't want anyone to notice his late-night visitors.

  For several months, Logan had practiced a deeper level of mind linking which involved channeling thoughts and words through solid substances. However, he’d never been able to penetrate concrete’s density. But since his magic had deepened, amplified, when he’d melded his energies with Hunter’s the night they’d searched for Sylvia’s pills, could the mind link pass through concrete now? Hearing the conversation between Jones and Sylvia could be essential.

  Logan put his hands on the dingy yellow stucco, pitted with uneven holes and neglected cracks, crusted with slime and gelatinous matter Logan didn't care to identify. The smell was bad enough, as if drunks used the place for regular puking rituals. He shut out those thoughts and concentrated, his mind sending out tendrils, searching for a way through the walls.

  . . .protect son. . .

  . . .can't let. . .corrupting. . .children. . .

  . . .girl. . .stirring up trouble. . .

  . . .put an end to. . .not like us. . .ruining town. . .

  Coldness crept along Logan’s skin. When he connected the mumbled words, he could only envision Hunter as the catalyst for Sylvia’s rant about magic corrupting children. Engrossed in trying to hear what Jones and Sylvia intended to do, Logan almost missed other sounds.

  Roaring engine. Squealing tires. He dropped flat to the ground and peered between the overgrown greenery. Light from the pump area glinted off an expensive sports car as the driver climbed out: Dr. Paul Fleming.

  With stringy gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, a tall, angular man in his late forties ambled out of the building, taking time to shut the door behind him. He took a puff of his cigarette as he neared the car. “Got another job for me, doc?”

  Fleming spit on the ground. “You didn't finish the last one. For which I paid you and your men well. Now I want my money back. We're through.”

  “Hey, you can’t blame us! We were almost outta there when the kid and the crazy broad interfered. She had some kind of fancy electrical weapon. Me and my men still have the burn marks. And then the cops showed up.”

 
Fleming sneered, “Are you going to blame the cat, too?”

  Jones opened his frayed shirt collar. “That damn animal attacked me. I got the claw marks to prove it.”

  Logan’s eyes narrowed. He managed to creep close enough to see the spider web tattoo spreadng along the man’s shoulder and toward his jaw. It matched the sketch Hunter had drawn.

  Fleming scoffed, “So big, burly men get scared off by a few scratches and some spooky magic tricks. You and your band of incompetents are pathetic.”

  Jones’ face flamed a bright red. “We been doin’ your dirty work for a coupla months now. And we’ve both made a profit.”

  “Thanks to the inside information I provided.” Fleming’s tone held contempt. “Now you can’t do the job when everything’s on the line. You and your men are useless.”

  A furtive smile slid along Jones’ lips. “The cops have been here.”

  Fleming stared. “What for?”

  “Tracking down the men who tried to set fire to the cottage.”

  “What led them here?”

  “They're checkin’ all the stations, askin’ about sales records for anyone who bought gas cans recently. The brand I stock.”

  Fleming banged a fist on the gas pump. “Because your dimwitted men panicked and abandoned the evidence.”

  “They had to get out before the cops caught them. You didn’t want them to get nabbed and hafta spill the beans about that job.” Jones put his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and rocked back and forth. “Kinda stupid of you to show yourself to the hired help. They could identify you to save their own skins.”

  “You threatening me?” Fleming growled, his anger sizzling the air. “Think you can gouge hush money from me?”

  “No, no, no. That ain't what I meant.” Jones waved his hands in denial. The sly smile reappeared. “’Course if the cops come after me, I'll have to make a deal to keep outta jail, now won't I?”

  Fleming grabbed Jones’ shirt and pulled him nose to nose. “Keep your mouth shut, you little piece of shit. Or one of these nights you might find yourself going up in flames, along with this rat hole of a business.”