by Jenna Ryan
The trick was to make it Aidan’s, as well.
“Being a spirit, I could hang out in the background and leave the spotlight stuff to the more seasoned players. As Hezekiah, you could make sure—” She positioned and repositioned her hands. “Hmm, well, maybe not.”
“Definitely not.” Dressed in fresh jeans and an even cooler jacket than before, Aidan stuffed the Glock in his waistband and strapped on his backup. “We don’t know what Demars’s overall plan might entail. The best we can do is control as much as possible on our end.”
“Which is why you’re okay with me being part of the performance.”
“Sort of okay with it,” he corrected. “The last thing I intend to do is let myself be distracted by spotlights and actors and someone telling me to look tormented.”
“You know, I get that, I really do.” She grinned at him via the bedroom mirror. “It’s just that you’re so perfect for the part.”
“You see me as a homicidal maniac, looking to the dark side for personal power?”
“Anguished homicidal maniac. Hezekiah had emotional and mental issues.”
“Bull.” He sent her a slow smile. “That’s you, his descendants, prettying the story up. He went looking to be possessed because he was pissed off about some aspect of his life, and he got his wish.”
“You’d have made one truly lousy psychiatrist, McInnis.”
“Glad to hear it.” Sliding a hand over her hair, he tipped her face up to his for a kiss. “Tell Rooney I’ll play one of the background ravens and make sure he gives Fergus and at least three other large men the same outfits. Now, talk to me about the good spirit’s costume.”
“It’s a silver cloak.” She shot him a suspicious look through her lashes. “Why are you being so amenable?”
“Full head mask?”
“Yes.”
“Hood?”
She crossed her arms. “Yes, there’s a hood but, no, I’m not calling Rooney until you tell me what’s going on in that cop brain of yours. I know you’re thinking I’d make an easy target in a billowy silver cape, so what’s the deal? Will I be wearing a bulletproof bodysuit underneath?”
“If we can get our hands on one, absolutely. If not, we’ll settle for mixing things up a bit.”
A light winked on. “Ah, got it. Mixing—as in I won’t really be playing the good spirit.” Moving her lips into a blithe smile, she replied along with him, “No, you won’t. Steven will.”
Aidan chuckled. “Exactly how do you do that?”
“I’d say I was psychic, except in this case, I heard Steven while I was drying off in the bathroom. He said he wants it made clear before he goes front and center onstage that there’s been a last-minute substitution. I didn’t know what he meant at first, but being around you, I’ve learned to play catch-up. Aidan, what if Demars shoots the good spirit anyway, just for the hell of it.”
“Italian mother, angel. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
“And if he lapses in that area?”
“The sheriff’s office is trying to locate a bulletproof vest.” He trapped her chin for another kiss. “Steven’s fine with the idea, and I don’t intend to give Demars any clear shots. The plan is to close on him while he’s setting up. There are a limited number of vantage points for a shooter on the ridge.”
“Meaning the ball’s in our court?”
“Meaning if we don’t do something here and now, he’ll have the element of surprise entirely back on his side.”
Working through her frustration, Raven picked up the mini cassette recorder. “This has to be something, don’t you think, because a person like Weasel wouldn’t own or use such an outdated device. And why would he carry it around with him even if he did have a bent for old technology?” She played the tape again, heard the man at the end offer a weary “Jason...” But still no face materialized.
“It’ll drive you crazy if you let it.” Aidan zipped his jacket. “It’s like a yo-yo in your brain. Yes, I recognize him, no, I don’t.”
“Diagnosing unusual problems is my area of expertise,” Raven pointed out. “I’ll listen to it again while we drive to town.”
“We’re driving to town?”
“I’m told the pharmacist wants to see me.” Humor nudged in. “Medicine is kind of why I came to Raven’s Cove, Aidan. It shouldn’t take long, and, who knows, maybe the bumpy ride will shake loose a useful memory.”
“Be nice.”
Halting on the threshold, she looked back. “Do you think he’ll come after me during the Reenactment?”
“The play’s an opportunity, and it strikes me that Demars is growing impatient. Whatever he does or doesn’t do, I want to be prepared.” He kissed her again, and something in his touch stilled the panic that wanted to rise. “One thing, I’m sure of is that I’m not going to let you or any member of your family die at the hands of Johnny Demars. No matter what the cost.”
* * *
THE 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.
* * *
HE 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?