Night of the Raven Read online

  Knowing he’d only get one shot, McVey rolled onto his back, double-handed his Glock and, as the man rushed toward him, squeezed off two shots.

  It might have been his attacker falling or a particularly violent clap of thunder, but the ground beneath McVey’s feet shook. Cursing, the man swung onto his side and would have reared up if McVey hadn’t used his gun to slam him in the jaw.

  His attacker went down like a felled tree.

  Winded, and with his shoulder throbbing, McVey took aim at a bearded face. “Give me a name, pal, and hope like hell it’s one I want to hear. Because right now I’m just pissed off enough to forget I took an oath to serve and protect.”

  A flashlight beam sliced through the murk. As it did, he heard Amara shout, “Don’t shoot him, McVey. He’s not Willy Sparks. His name’s Brigham Blume. He’s a raven tamer.”

  * * *

  “OUCH, AMARA.”

  The oversize tamer jerked, but Amara merely went with the motion and finished pumping the contents of her syringe into his tattooed upper arm.

  “Both bullets penetrated flesh, Brigham. A few stitches and you’ll be good to go.”

  “Figuratively speaking,” McVey put in.

  He poured three glasses of whiskey in a kitchen too tidy to have been abandoned for any length of time. When he added in the fact that the place had power—fading in and out, but working for the moment—it appeared they’d found Hannah’s home. As for Hannah herself, he’d searched the entire west wing from top to bottom without success.

  Brigham picked up one of the drinks, downed it and glared. “Why’d you shoot me?”

  McVey tossed his own whiskey back. “Why did you attack me?”

  “I thought you were the other guy. Same time I realized you weren’t, I saw you had a gun. I figured if you were anything like your dumb-ass deputy, you’d be inclined to shoot first and congratulate yourself on the result.”

  Okay, that was a lot of information. McVey homed in on the significant point. “What other guy?”

  “The one who followed you up the mountain. I noticed he was on your tail after I got on his.”

  “Where was that?” Amara asked.

  “While you were lollygagging across the bridge. I came to collect storm noises. Around the bridge gives a great echo.”

  “For their amazing animated ravens,” Amara informed McVey. “Nana says the raven tamers do a killer show throughout the festival, complete with sound effects.”

  “Other guy,” McVey reminded her.

  Brigham slid his glass forward for a refill. “That’s all I’ve got, McVey. Guy followed you, I spotted him. I went up the stone path behind him, behind you. I lost him at the top, but decided to skulk a bit, because even though I shouldn’t, I liked Amara when I met her all those years back, and while you might think we live like our ancestors in the north woods, we stay connected to some of our relatives in the Cove. We know what’s what. Don’t always like to admit we know, but we do.” He shrugged his good shoulder. “I put knowing and seeing together and came up with someone who wants Amara here to be joining her fellow witnesses in death.”

  “Fellow witnesses and the cop who helped her get out of New Orleans.” McVey sent the whiskey bottle sliding across the table.

  “Soda pop’s got more of a kick than this stuff,” Brigham scoffed. He jerked again. “I said, ouch, Amara.”

  “Heard you the first time.” She pulled a suture through his flesh and made McVey’s stomach roll. “We should check the house as well as the outbuildings for Hannah. I might not be feeling her vibe, but my Bellam senses are far from infallible.”

  “I’ll help.” Brigham poured himself a full six ounces of whiskey and knocked it back as if it really was soda pop. “Hannah’s kin of a sort. Weird, but kin.”

  “Pot, kettle,” McVey said into his glass. “How much longer, Red?”

  “All done.” She tapped Brigham’s shoulder. “No pulling, no fiddling. They’ll dissolve as you heal. I’ll give you something for the pain.”

  Brigham gave McVey a hard look. “I’ve got that covered at home—I hope.”

  McVey just smiled. “Let’s find Hannah.”

  As Amara washed her hands, she nodded at the full second sink. “Wherever she went, Hannah left a week’s worth of dirty dishes behind.”

  Joining her, McVey counted ten plates, six bowls with food hardened on the bottom and a single coffee-stained mug that smelled like bio-diesel fuel.

  He held the mug out to Brigham, who was shrugging cautiously into his jacket. “Residue of your kick-ass whiskey?”

  The big man sniffed the mug. “Well, damn me. And we’ve been making do with ginger ale. I should’ve checked out the cupboards when we came in. My mind must’ve gone south from the pain of having two bullets drilled into my shoulder.”

  “You want to launch an official complaint, I’ll be happy to take your statement while you’re showing me around your raven tamer property.” McVey picked up a wineglass that was coated red inside. “Raven’s blood, I assume?”

  Amara took the glass and smiled. “Nana says it’s an acquired taste.” She rubbed her thumb over a pink smudge on the rim. “If Hannah drank raven’s blood and chased it with raven tamer whiskey, it’s possible she’s passed out somewhere between here and one of the outbuildings. Passed out equals no vibes. Or so the theory goes.”

  As a fresh round of wind and rain buffeted the manor, McVey rezipped his jacket. “Let’s get this done. If Hannah’s on the property, we need to find her.” He regarded Brigham, who was currently rooting through the pantry. “Do you know if there’s power in the other wing?”

  “Doubt it.” He sent Amara an evil grin. “But I’m willing to bet there’re plenty of really big spiders.”

  * * *

  BRIGHAM WAS RIGHT about the lack of power. Unfortunately he was also right about the spiders. Amara found evidence of several in each of the rooms she inspected.

  “How is it possible,” she asked the big raven tamer when he passed her in a dusty second-floor corridor, “that you know so specifically what terrifies me?”

  “Could be a little raven told me.” But he chuckled when she beamed her light directly into his face. “Okay, McVey told me. He made a sweep while you were digging out your instruments of torture. He made me look under the table. Me, Amara, the guy with two bullet holes in his arm.”

  “Any time you want to swear out that complaint, Blume.” McVey came down the ladder stairs from the attic. “Any luck?”

  Amara jerked her hand away from a sticky web. “No. You?”

  “I spotted a bunch of small sheds and a larger building that was probably a barn or stable at one time.”

  “She might have gone to a neighbor’s place,” Brigham said. “How bad was her leg?”

  “Swollen like a balloon according to Uncle Lazarus.” Amara fastened her rain jacket and pulled on the Dodgers cap McVey had loaned her.

  “You and me, left. Him, right.” McVey took her hand and tossed one of the flashlights to Brigham. “Don’t assume the person you saw earlier is gone.”

  “Because he’s probably not as considerate as you and won’t settle for shooting me in the shoulder.”

  Amara watched him slog away. “I like Brigham better, but he reminds me of Jake. Which makes sense, I suppose, since they’re both Blumes, and he seems to know about your dumb-ass deputy’s penchant for firearms.”

  McVey gave the bill of her cap a tug. “You have a strange group of relatives, Red. Barn’s about two hundred feet west. Tuck in close behind me.”

  The wind had picked up and the rain was falling in buckets now. Mud sucked at Amara’s boots and made running impossible. Even if they found Hannah, she couldn’t see them getting her back to McVey’s truck.

  And if they couldn’t get back, she thought as they approached the barn, neither could the person who’d apparently followed them. All in all, not a positive prospect for the next several hours.

  The barn turned out to be even more
derelict than the manor. A full third of the roof and most of the wall that faced the ocean had been torn away. There was no sign of Hannah, only a dozen or so rusty vehicles from another era.

  “What now?” Amara asked when they rejoined Brigham in the central core.

  McVey shone his flashlight up the staircase again. “Only place we haven’t looked is here.”

  “Not infallible,” she reminded him. “Up or down?”

  “With a leg like a balloon, I doubt she’d have gone either way. This floor’s our best bet.”

  Brigham took the front of the house, leaving the back to her and McVey.

  “Oh, wow, now here’s a kitchen only my great-great-many-times-grandmother would recognize.” Stepping carefully, Amara beamed her light into a hearth large enough to roast an ox. She ran it over broken counters, cupboards with no doors and appliances so old their purpose eluded her. “Hannah?” Her voice echoed up to the rafters. “Brigham could be right, McVey. She might have made her way to a neighbor’s—”

  The last word never emerged as McVey gripped her arms and yanked her down below the level of the windowsill.

  “Someone’s heading into the trees.”

  A glimmer of lightning revealed a figure, but it could have been a deer for all Amara saw of it. Moving ahead of her, McVey led the way along the line of windows to the door.

  “It’s as if we crossed Bellam Bridge and stepped into the worst horror film ever,” she whispered. “What if it’s another raven tamer, McVey?”

  “I’ll try not to shoot any vital parts. Stay here, Amara, and be ready. Anyone you don’t recognize appears, fire a warning. If he keeps coming, shoot him.”

  He stood as he spoke and eased the door open.

  Amara set a hand on the floor. She would have gone from a crouch to her knees if her fingers hadn’t recognized the thing beneath them and gone still where they lay.

  “McVey?” Even being a doctor, she didn’t want to lower her eyes. “I, uh...could you shine your flashlight this way for a minute?”

  “Not now, Red.”

  “Yes, now.” Her throat tightened, threatened to close. Before it did, she made herself look.

  McVey angled his light down. The beam bounced off a pair of green eyes. Lifeless eyes, Amara’s shocked mind corrected. The lifeless green eyes of her uncle’s cousin, Hannah Blume.

  Chapter Ten

  In Amara’s opinion, Hannah had been dead for at least two days. If appearances could be believed, she’d struck her head on one of the broken counters. But given her severely swollen leg, why she’d been in this part of the house was anyone’s guess.

  “Maybe she was delirious.” Brigham watched as McVey gathered what evidence he could without disturbing Hannah’s body. “Could’ve wandered over here not meaning to.”

  “It’s possible” was all McVey said, and he did so absently while taking pictures with his iPhone.

  When he was finished, Brigham got a sheet from Hannah’s living quarters and Amara draped it over her. Because he’d known her best, she asked Brigham to say a few words.

  After a last look around the property, McVey secured the manor and they headed back to Hannah’s wing.

  “Power’s out,” he noted halfway across the yard. “All the lights on the lower floor were burning when we left.”

  “I didn’t see a generator in any of the sheds,” Brigham shouted forward.

  “There was nothing in the barn, either,” Amara called back.

  Leaning into the house, McVey tried the light switches. When nothing happened, he flipped his jacket collar up and came back out. “With our mystery man still at large, this could turn into a hell of a long night.”

  “We’ve got gens.” Brigham’s surly tone told Amara quite clearly that he didn’t want to take them anywhere near the raven tamers’ camp. “I’ll need some assurances first, though, McVey.”

  “Only assurance you’re getting is that I’m not Ty.”

  Brigham’s teeth appeared, but not in the form of a smile. “Makes two of us. Grab your gear and let’s roll. Camp’s a fair hike away.”

  They walked single file with Amara in the middle. Lightning continued to flicker. Thunder rumbled behind it and the rain just kept on falling.

  Amara knew she should be worried about Willy Sparks, but all she could think about was Hannah’s vacuous expression, her glassy eyes and, of course, the dried blood.

  Whether he’d let it show or not, Uncle Lazarus would be upset. She was upset, and she hadn’t known the woman.

  The north woods went on forever. Although she worked out five days a week at a New Orleans fitness center, negotiating rocky paths that climbed, dipped, tilted and often vanished altogether made Amara’s legs feel like rubber bands. Wherever they were going, she figured they would have crossed at least one state border before they arrived.

  Gradually a sprinkling of lights came into view. As they descended into an odd-shaped clearing, trailers of various sizes, ages and states of disrepair took shape. If any permanent structures existed, Amara couldn’t see them. Prepared for the worst, and with McVey close behind her, she trailed Brigham to an outlying RV.

  “Mine,” he said, yanking the battered door open. “Go in, stay in. I’ll come for you in the morning. Door locks. I’d use it. Your cell phones’ll probably work. We pirate three satellite television stations. Best one plays old movies 24/7. There’s food in the cupboards. Sorry about Hannah, Amara. Sleep well.”

  When he was gone, Amara looked around. Man space, she decided. Single man’s space, with clothes and dishes scattered, furniture duct taped and every surface dusty, except for a forty-year-old television that still had a channel dial and a chair with raven-wing arms that sat directly in front of it.

  “Not bad,” McVey remarked over her shoulder. “Good, actually, as it’s off the beaten path.”

  “Way off, McVey, and a lot more beaten than any of the paths we took to get here. The word dump springs to mind.”

  He moved past her. “As long as the word grateful is close behind it.”

  “Oh, I’m grateful. Not entirely sure we’ll be allowed to leave, but happy not to be spending the night with no power and the prospect of a run-in with the homicidal hit man who apparently followed us across Bellam Bridge.”

  “Always good to think positive, Red.”

  She touched a set of raven wind chimes above the TV and offered him a smile. “Also, I’m related to these people and theoretically safe from harm—on the off chance that the tales about the raven tamers turn out to be true.”

  McVey stowed their packs next to a lopsided sofa. “I’ll have to hope my badge will be enough to get me out in one piece. And the fact that, while I did shoot Brigham, I didn’t kill him.”

  Amara hung their rain gear on a wobbly rack, looked at the kitchen and decided she was hungry enough to check it out.

  “How did Hannah die, McVey?”

  “I don’t think Willy Sparks had anything to do with it, if that’s what you’re asking. Beyond that, her death will have to be investigated.”

  “Along with that second bag of coffee beans you mentioned this morning?”

  “I had Jake send both bags and the brewed sample off to the county lab for analysis. Bases covered, Amara.”

  She opened a cupboard and, standing back, stared in astonishment. “Seriously. Brigham has soup. In cans.”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “Well, duh, McVey. Look around—metaphorically speaking. Not a store in sight. I’d expect people living in such a remote area to grow herbs and vegetables, raise chickens—you know, make homemade soups, pickles and other off-the-beaten-path things.”

  “Maybe they’re too busy teaching ravens to do tricks to worry about pickling and preserving. Anyway, I like food that comes in cans.”

  “That’s very sad.” She opened the fridge. “Okay, now, this is more what I expected. Self-bottled beer, mason jars with not-sure-what inside, and something that looks like brownies.”
r />   “Ones that’ll give you a wicked case of the munchies.”

  Laughing, Amara closed the door and leaned back against it. “When I was a kid, Nana and my aunt—Uncle Lazarus’s sister, Maureen—used to encourage me to get in touch with my Bellam side. I don’t mean cast spells or brew potions...”

  “Although your uncle Lazarus could present a case for the casting of spells.”

  “I doubt he actually thought I’d bewitched him. He just found the coincidence funny. Anyway, the point is, I got as far as being able to sense things. I’m not sure how to say this so I don’t come out sounding crazy, but sometimes I could sense life, or the lack of it, in a place.”

  “You’re talking about Bellam Manor and Hannah, aren’t you?”

  “There was no life inside the house, McVey. Not anywhere. Spiders don’t count. Human-wise, the whole place felt—dead.”

  He crouched to rummage through a metal container. “You don’t have to sell me on your Bellam ancestry, Red. I’m open to a fair number of beliefs. And lifestyles for that matter.”

  “Right. Because you weren’t always a cop.”

  He met her questioning gaze with an unfathomable one of his own. “Were you always a doctor?”

  “No, but I always wanted to be one.”

  “So you could make people prettier?”

  “In a way.” Just not the one he thought. “Talk to me about how you knew the knife guy in the days before you were a cop, McVey.”

  “I knew a lot of people in those days.” He pulled a bottle from the container, blew off a layer of dust. “Raven’s blood wine?”

  “I don’t see a label, so probably. How did you know him?”

  He met her eyes again. “If I said the truth might shake your faith in me, would you let it go?”

  A smile tugged on her lips. Circling around behind him, she set her hands on his shoulders and bent to whisper in his ear, “I’m in an RV that belongs to a raven tamer, McVey. There are stories about raven tamers that would send squeamish people like Jake’s brother, Jimbo, under their beds for a week. Brigham’s the only tamer I know, and I suspect he’s considered affable. Hannah’s dead, this storm’s not moving on and we all saw someone creeping around the manor. Someone who, like us, could be stranded on this side of Bellam Bridge. There’s a better than excellent chance that person is Willy Sparks. I believe you can and will deal with him, because dealing with criminals is your job. So, really, short of telling me you used to be a mass murderer, there’s not a whole lot you can say about your past that’ll shake my faith in you.”