Raven’s feather. Sliced power line.
Time stretched out. So did Jasmine’s nerves. The wind howled like a demon through the rafters. The chain holding the pot protested loudly.
Wainwright’s men had burst out of a night very similar to this one. She’d been watching the storm when she’d seen the shadows mutate. What she’d initially identified as bushes had morphed into humans. Fit, agile humans, packing three weapons apiece…
The wind wailed again. Thankfully, the memory passed. This was a different night, a different place. Here in Maine, the bushes were bushes, and the only danger she could see came from the evergreens that were swaying back and forth like drunk giants ready to topple.
As if responding to her thought, Jasmine heard a crack in the yard. She released the hanging pot as an object, possibly a branch, hit the ground with a resounding thunk.
That’s when the darkness to her right came alive. …
Chapter Five
She could have sworn a locomotive blindsided her—or tried to. She glimpsed a body, then a blur of fur. Instead of grabbing her, the would-be attacker simply knocked her across the porch.
Boris’s growl became a furious snarl. Ripe male curses answered it. Despite the fact that her head struck the clapboard siding, Jasmine thought she recognized the voice.
The man’s fingers clawed at her trench coat. However, with Boris’s mouth clamped to his leg, she was able to avoid them. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for the door. And this time slammed into a human wall.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” Rogan trapped her arms, examined her face.
“No, I’m…”
But she was talking to air. And of course the heel of her boot had jammed itself between two slats. One good yank freed it, but by then, both the men and the dog had vanished into the bushes below.
Catching hold of the planter that seemed determined to mow her down, Jasmine scanned the tangled greenery. “Rogan? Boris. Where are you?”
“We’re here,” Rogan replied.
Still growling, Boris mounted the stairs behind a large, heavyset man. Rogan brought up the rear.
Recognition widened her eyes. “Boxman?”
Sergeant Brent Boxman grunted. “See? She didn’t have to bounce me on my ass to know who I am. What’s the matter, Rogan? Your eyesight gone south because of a little rain shower?”
“More likely because of the thirty pounds you’ve packed on since the last time I saw you.”
Boxman showed his teeth. “You get a punch-drunk lawyer to fight your court battle against a divorce diva, an ex-wife from hell and two grown stepkids who tell you to your face to stuff your gun in your pants and blow your private parts sky-high, and see how you’re doing at the end of six frigging months. Your diet’s a conveyor belt of greasy burgers, beer and pizza.”
“That’s bad?”
The cop jabbed a resentful finger. “One day, pal, your lifestyle’s gonna catch up with you, and Jasmine here won’t be able to tell the difference between us, except that you’ll be lying in a pine box, and I’ll still be reeling in fish like Malcolm Wainwright.”
“You think?”
Rogan’s eyes glinted, but whether with humor or some kind of male challenge, Jasmine wasn’t sure. In any case, he was right about the weight. Boxman had developed a distinct paunch. He’d also grown a beard, added an earring and, unless her eyes were playing tricks in the glow from the flashlight, lost a lower tooth.
His gaze left Rogan to brighten on her. “So, tell me, angel face, what brings you to this slice of New England paradise?”
Reaching over, she straightened the bandanna he wore as a headband. “I got a feather and two phone calls, so Rogan made me come. You?”
“I heard—” He blinked. “You got a what?”
“Feather.” She used her hands to demonstrate. “About this long, black, probably stolen from a raven. My friend Lenny has two. That’s a bad thing in this town.”
Boxman waved a hand in front of her face. “You on happy pills or something?”
“Daniel found out about the recent murders,” Rogan explained. “He coupled them with the fact that there wasn’t much left of the helicopter that went down after the prison break and drew the same conclusion as the rest of us. It’s possible Wainwright’s not dead.”
“Phoenix,” Jasmine reminded and saw his lips twitch.
“It’s also possible that one of Wainwright’s subordinates has decided either to rise up and avenge his boss’s death—unlikely—or make it appear that Malcolm’s still running the show in an effort to pump fresh blood into the rapidly crumbling business.” He rested his shoulder on a post, kept his expression bland. “Your turn, Sergeant. What and why?”
Boxman shook his head. “Crocker got in touch with me.”
“Crocker’s incommunicado.”
“Sent me a text yesterday just the same.”
“What did it say?”
“Verbatim? ‘Trouble brewing in Raven’s Cove, Maine. Daniel at risk. Go.”
“Crocker’s Daniel’s contact,” Rogan told Jasmine.
“I guess he got wind I was heading up to Vermont to visit my sister while my ex and her Lady Macbeth lawyer plot my financial demise. Guess he knows, too, that since Daniel’s no longer top of the most-likely-to-be-offed list, he could bend the rules and ask me to take a detour, make sure things were kosher with his charge. I figured what the hell, so here I am, doing a favor and getting double-teamed by a dog and a shadow cop.”
Did she believe that? Jasmine wondered. More to the point, did Rogan?
She couldn’t tell, but one thing was certain, she’d had enough of the wind and rain for one night. If it was still night.
A glance at her cell put the time at 12:05 a.m., five minutes into the witching hour in a town where legends ruled and ravens sacrificed feathers to convey death messages.
Securing her blowing hair, she glanced at Rogan. “Can we take this inside? I assume Daniel’s not here or you’d have mentioned it.”
“He’s not here. Is there a hotel in town?” Rogan asked Boxman.
“There’s a house with rooms. Birdwoman of Alcatraz runs it. I met her earlier tonight in a bar called the Raven’s Perch. House sits on a cliff on the east edge of town, but if you decide to crash here instead, we could always make it a party.” He offered a wicked smile. “It’ll be like old times, minus the irritating nits.”
Nits, Jasmine recalled, was his term for anyone who adhered too closely to the rules. Like Rogan, Boxman preferred
