by Jenna Ryan
McVey ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “For no reason beyond gut instinct, I’m going with the mysterious other as both Hannah’s murderer and the firebomber.”
“Two killers, then, and one of them, Willy Sparks, is gone. I swear my brain’s going to implode.”
Standing, he tipped her chin up and kissed her until the implosion became a fiery blast of heat.
“Well, good on you, Chief,” she managed to say when her mouth was her own again. “Our entire conversation flashed briefly before my eyes, then vanished in a puff of smoke.” Setting her tongue on her upper lip, she snagged his waistband and backed toward the rear staircase. “Rumor has it the raven tamers will be doing some preparade publicity in and around the Hollow after sunset. You probably shouldn’t miss that, given Jake’s weirdly obsessive desire to lock them up and toss the key. Having said that, however, sunset is still hours away.” She mounted a step, tugged him closer and bit his lip. “You’ve been pulling double shifts.” Both hands fisted in his hair. “And I want sex.” She kissed him long and hard. “Right here, right now. With you.”
His dark eyes gleamed in the shadowed light of the stairwell. “Got you covered there, Red.”
Lifting her off her feet, he spun her back to the wall and took her as she’d hoped right where they stood.
* * *
MAKING LOVE WITH Amara was the lone bright spot in an otherwise problem-filled day. Unless he counted the discovery of Willy Sparks’s purse, which had contained five hundred dollars in cash, a bank card, her passport, keys to a Jeep—he’d sent one of the Harden twins out to search for that—a pressed powder compact and four tubes of bubble-gum–pink lipstick.
“I bought right into her story.” Amara flicked through the lookalike tubes. “Do you think Westor and Willy had already met the day Westor threatened me in the pharmacy?”
“I don’t think Westor had been in the Hollow long at that point, and we know Willy was a new arrival, so I’d say probably not. You said he grabbed her, too?”
“By the scruff of the neck.”
“Some people find a dangerous meeting sexually stimulating.”
She laughed. “No comment.” Then she raised a speculative brow. “Westor couldn’t have known he was having sex with a hit man, could he?”
“Not a chance. One, Willy wouldn’t have told him, and two, he’d have pissed himself if she had. It’s not the kind of knowledge a person wants to possess. You know, you die. Westor didn’t want to die.”
“But he did die.”
“Not at the hands of Willy Sparks.”
“And the wheels spin in place yet again.” She shook it off. “I’m going to balance my mind and spend a few hours at the clinic.”
McVey frowned. “Jake broke a tooth at lunch, Amara. I sent him to Bangor to have it fixed.”
“Now, there, you see? Every cloud does have a silver lining.”
He slid a hand along her bare arm. “I don’t want you at the clinic alone.”
She motioned toward the door. “Willy’s gone, McVey. She and Westor left four hours ago. Even if corpses could do the zombie thing and arise, she’d have to hitchhike back here to do whatever it was she’d planned to do to me.” Sidetracked by her own statement, Amara hesitated. “What do you think she planned to do?”
McVey pushed off from the front desk where he’d paused to perch. “Doesn’t matter what she planned. It only matters that she didn’t succeed.”
Amara released a ragged breath. “I guess I love cop logic after all. Don’t ask.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll let Brigham play guard dog. He’s been doing it since we got to town anyway.”
“Being common has its advantages.”
“Apparently.” She kissed him again. “Catch you at the preparade party, Chief. I’ve got notes to compare with the local midwife on Megan’s pregnancy.”
And he had two towns to police. Towns that were filling up fast with a mix of watchers and participants. He had no idea where the majority of them might be staying, although when fully open and occupied, word had it Blume House could accommodate a large number of guests. Directly below the house stood the also-large Ravenspell campsite. And farther afield, serious tenters could choose from a number of north woods clearings.
Satisfied that Amara would be safe—he’d spoken to Brigham earlier—McVey turned his mind to other matters.
Lazarus Blume had texted him an hour ago. He wanted Hannah’s personal effects brought to the motel as soon as possible. Tomorrow would have to do. In the meantime, McVey thought, if he could eke out an hour or two, Hannah’s Blume’s death required a great deal more investigation.
Forensics had discovered a substantial amount of alcohol in her system, but no poisons or painkillers. Factor in the impossible positioning of her body and, any way he approached it, her death read like a homicide.
So. Had Luger-man killed her, or were they dealing with a pair of murderers?
Lieutenant Michaels’s captain had contacted him that morning. Michaels had been poisoned with a derivative of the hemlock plant called conium, a toxin usually introduced to its victim through some form of liquid. That probably explained the hemlock-leaf tattoo on Willy Sparks’s body. One swallow of whatever she’d poisoned and the lieutenant had been a dead man. Westor and Willy, on the other hand, had died in a far more blatant fashion.
The station phone rang as he was pulling up files on Westor and the Sparks family. He glanced at the computer screen and clamped down an urge to swear.
“Hey there, handsome,” a familiar voice cooed.
“No, you can’t have a last-minute license to sell liquor in the street, Yolanda.”
There was a trace of venom under her petulant response. “Well, that’s just mean, isn’t it? You know I can’t miss the Night. I was telling Uncle Lazarus earlier how easy it would be to do a tent with benches and tables. Like an Oktoberfest. I have stock. The Red Eye’s cellar didn’t burn.”
He was tempted to cave but... “Okay, here’s the deal. Email me a plan that works, and I’ll think about issuing a license for tomorrow night.”
Her already high-pitched voice rose. “By tomorrow, the raven tamers will have over half the town buying their stuff, and the rest will defect to Two Toes Joe’s in the Cove. I can’t afford to lose my regulars.”
McVey tapped a few computer keys, saw nothing of interest and rocked his head from side to side to ease the building tension. “Look, you didn’t hear this from me, but why don’t you talk to Brigham about selling raven’s blood in your rebuilt Red Eye? Come to an agreement, and the tamers might let you have a barrel or two for your temporary street digs. That should entice your regulars back. Tomorrow.”
“I don’t like raven tamers, McVey. My brother says a single bottle of their whiskey could blow out the side of Bellam Mountain more effectively than nitro. He figures if the crazy person who firebombed me out of business had been smart, he’d have used it in his Molotov cocktails. Who needs gasoline when you’ve got raven tamer whiskey?”
“Send me a plan.”
“McVey...”
Damn her. The wounded tone struck its mark. Unfortunately he wasn’t in the mood to be guilt-tripped. “Really busy here, Yolanda.”
“She won’t stay, you know. She wouldn’t make you happy if she did. And that’s a big ‘if’ considering a baddie like Jimmy Sparks wants her dead.” The venom bled back in. “My bar’s gone because of her.”
“Your bar’s gone because someone—not Amara—rigged explosives to blow inside and tossed firebombs through a couple of windows. Talk to Brigham about the raven’s blood. Sorry, but I’ve got work.”
He cut her off midprotest, called himself a bastard for his lack of sympathy and turned back to Jimmy Sparks’s police file.
He spent forty minutes with the reports, but knew his viewing time was up when the remaining Harden twin stuck his head in the door.
“Got a problem brewing, Chief.”
“Blume, Bellam or raven tamer?”
>
“Yes. And all six of them are boiling mad.”
An unanticipated spark ignited in McVey’s belly and spread quickly to his eyes. Oh, yeah, here it was. This was why he’d come to Maine. Where else on the globe could a legend about a transformed raven clash with a legend about a mad witch and cause people to come to blows? Only in the place where those legends had been born.
The place where the person he’d been long ago had been born.
* * *
AMARA WORKED AT the clinic until Brigham insisted he needed food.
“We’ve got a caravan, a truck and a couple of jazzed-up wagons parked along Main and in front of the square. Marta’s big on sausages, root vegetables and herbs roasted in their own juices. Makes the street smell like heaven.” He shrugged. “We mostly do it for the tourists and the show. I planted a garden once, and everything I grew turned black.”
“Vegetable gardens do very well everywhere else in the north woods.” Amara grinned. “Maybe Sarah cursed the soil on and around Bellam Mountain.” Movement at her feet distracted her. “Ground fog. Very cool. Looks like snakes. Did you order this as part of your pre-Night publicity?”
“No, but if you tell Marta you conjured it, could be she’ll cut you in on a share of the profits.”
“Which I in turn could funnel into the Hollow’s so-called medical clinic.”
Brigham sniffed the air. “Roasted yams and beef stew. Man, I’m starved. Never thought I’d say that after seeing a man with some kind of foot fungus.”
She laughed. “Do you know if McVey’s here or in the Cove?”
“He drove to the Cove to check in at his badly neglected office.”
“Wonderful. More guilt on me.”
The shoulder knock Brigham gave her almost sent her into the side of a painted wagon. “Don’t sweat it, Amara. Cove people being mostly Blumes are used to not having a police chief around. Trouble tends to unfold more in the Hollow, where mostly Bellams live.”
“At the risk of sounding contentious, you raven tamers—mostly Blumes—currently reside on Bellam Mountain and are planning to line your collective Blume pockets with a substantial amount of Bellam money during the festival.”
“Pick, pick, pick.” Brigham jerked a thumb. “I’m getting some of my cousin Imogene’s stew. Stay where the light’s good.”
She’d have to go to Bangor to do that, Amara reflected, because neither the Cove nor the Hollow boasted well-lit streets.
The scent of fresh buttermilk biscuits drew her toward a red-and-black caravan with a collection of animated ravens on the top. She was marveling at the combination of artistry and engineering when her phone went off.
Her first thought was McVey. Her second was Damn. But she sucked it up and summoned a pleasant “Hi, Uncle Lazarus. Sorry, I got sidetracked. I’ll bring Hannah’s things to the motel as soon as McVey gets back from the Cove.”
Raspy breathing on the other end had her raising wary eyes. “Uncle Lazarus?”
“Amara...” He wheezed out her name. “Not sure... Might be my heart. I...took a pill.”
She spotted McVey climbing out of his truck and jogged across the street toward him. “When did you take it, Uncle?”
“Five, ten minutes ago.” He sounded painfully short of breath, which might or might not be due to his heart condition.
“Breathe as evenly as you can and try not to move. Where’s R.J.?”
“Went to the Cove... Still there.”
Amara waved McVey back to his truck.
“Problem?” he asked.
She covered the phone. “It’s Uncle Lazarus. He might be having a heart attack.”
“Motel?”
She nodded, returned her attention to her uncle. “I need you to stay on the line. Don’t exert, just relax and breathe. Are you sitting down?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now stay where you are, no extraneous movement.”
“No extran...” He tapered off.
McVey spoke to one of the Hardens. The young deputy nodded and took off running. Tossing her medical bag onto the seat, Amara climbed into the truck. “Uncle Lazarus, do you have R.J.’s cell number?”
Her uncle’s voice came back reed thin. “Not memorized... Speed dial.”
“Okay. McVey’s here. We’re on our way. We’ll be there in...”
“Fifteen minutes.”
McVey flipped on the siren and flashers to clear a path through town. Amara put her uncle on hold and punched 9-1-1.
What had been ground fog in the Hollow thickened and crawled higher as they wound their way toward the motel. Filmy finger clouds stretched across the face of a nearly full moon. If the leaves hadn’t been new and green, May could have passed for October—although why she was thinking ridiculous thoughts like that when her uncle might be having a massive coronary, she couldn’t imagine.
“He didn’t mention pain,” she said to herself. “But I can hear he’s short of breath.” She made a seesaw motion with her head. “Happens. Not all the symptoms all the time.” She raised her voice. “What’s the usual response for the paramedics, McVey?”
“As much as thirty minutes. If we take the old logging road, we can shave five off our time.”
“It would help.”
For the life of her Amara had no idea how any vehicle could navigate ruts large enough to swallow a full-grown man. But somehow McVey pulled it off. Several terrifying pitches later she realized that they were only a mile or so from the motel.
“Uncle Lazarus?” she said into her phone.
He didn’t respond.
When the skin on her neck prickled, she glanced around. “Something’s wrong. Do you feel it?”
“Define it, Amara.”
“I don’t mean Uncle Lazarus. Or not just him. I was examining a woman’s breast this afternoon and suddenly my mind wandered off. That never happens. I’m not sure where it was trying to go, but it never got there. Is that stress or is the general weirdness of the area getting to me?”
“You lost me at ‘woman’s breast.’ And I’m still coming to terms with the general weirdness of the area.”
“That’s not exactly... Oh, good, we’re here.” She took a moment to regard the collection of wagons and caravans parked every which way around the motel. “Whoa, raven tamers. Go big or go home.”
A single light burning in her uncle’s room brought her back. Grabbing her medical bag, she hopped out and ran for the door.
She had her hand on the knob. Then suddenly she didn’t. The ground under her feet vanished. So did the air in her lungs as she landed on top of McVey in a patch of gravel, dirt and weeds.
She couldn’t speak, literally could not get enough breath into her lungs to make a sound. But McVey covered her mouth anyway and rolled them both into a crouch.
“There’s someone inside.”
The clutch of stars that had erupted in Amara’s head faded. Her brain settled sufficiently for her to understand they weren’t alone. Not them, and not her uncle.
She twisted on McVey’s wrist.
“No sound,” he cautioned, releasing her.
She drank in the cool night air. Her knees wanted to buckle and her chest felt as if Brigham’s foot was lodged in it, but at least the ground was beginning to steady.
“Did you see Uncle Lazarus?”
“He’s slumped over the table.” As he spoke, McVey drew his Glock. “Backup’s in my left boot. Get it, stay low and stay behind me.”
Who was inside? The question echoed in Amara’s head. It had to be the person who’d killed Hannah, didn’t it?
At the edge of the window, McVey aimed his gun skyward.
They heard it a second later—a protracted creak behind the motel. A creak, followed by a slam, followed by an engine roaring to life.
With his gun still angled up, McVey shouted, “Get inside. Doors locked, shades down. Minimum light.” He tossed her his keys. “Use my truck to drive him out if you have to.”
“I— Yes, okay.”
She ran, spun. “Be careful.” Already at the door, she shook off her frustration. “Part man, part Merlin.”
Naturally the door jammed when she tried the knob. To her relief, one hard shoulder bump and it sprang open.
“Uncle Lazarus?” Shoving the dead bolt in place, Amara yanked the shade down but left the light in the kitchenette burning. She needed something to see by.
She set McVey’s gun and her cell phone aside, went to her knees and checked her uncle’s neck for a pulse. Thready and rapid, she realized. Too rapid.
With her left hand she unzipped her bag and pulled out her stethoscope. Pushing away a glass of milk, she placed the chest piece over his heart and listened.
His heart was definitely beating too fast, yet there was no sign of ventricular fibrillation. “Hmm.” Removing the earpieces, she lifted one of her uncle’s eyelids, sat back and thought for a moment.
Her uncle suffered from arrhythmia—an irregular heartbeat—for which he took medication. Yes, his heartbeat was wrong, and he’d sounded extremely short of breath on the phone, but he’d taken a pill to combat the condition.
“Need to see your meds,” she declared.
She made a point of switching off the light in the kitchenette before turning on the much stingier one in the bathroom.
“You could be a little less frugal where your own comfort is concerned,” she muttered and, knowing exactly what her uncle would say to that, let a faint smile cross her lips.
Her brief amusement lasted until she opened the medicine cabinet. One look inside had a scream leaping into her throat and her vision starting to blur.
Chapter Seventeen
The engine of Lazarus Blume’s 1954 Dodge continued to roar long after McVey reached the corner of the motel. Although the ass end of the truck was pointed toward him, he had no sight line through the rear window.
He knew a ruse when he saw one. He also knew movement when he spotted it, and he saw someone dart around the front of the truck into the shadows of the motel. It wouldn’t have been a problem if there hadn’t been twenty raven tamer vehicles parked at cross purposes directly in front of him.