Night of the Raven (14 page)

The deputy’s mouth, open to object, closed with a snap. “I guess that’ll partly make up for the sickies.” He stuck out a warning finger. “But I better not get measles.”

Amara’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll give you a shot, Jake. It’ll stop those measles germs in their tracks. Unless your immune system’s really weak.”

“Well...what if it is?”

McVey came around his desk. “Life holds few guarantees, Deputy, but here’s one you can count on. Anything happens to Red between now and the next time I see her, you’ll be covered in red spots. And they won’t be the kind that go away.”

* * *

W
ORD DIDN’T SO
much spread as erupt. From early afternoon to early evening, Amara poked, prodded and treated more than twenty-five people, including her second cousin Two Toes Joe, who owned a dockside bar in Raven’s Cove and did indeed possess only two toes on his right foot.

“Shot myself,” he’d revealed, and wiggled his remaining digits. “Never point a gun at your foot if folks nearby are throwing punches. One bad bump, and
bam.
”

Having offered those words of wisdom, he’d dropped his pants and showed her his hernia.

The upside of being overrun was that time passed very quickly. Jake sulked, balked and avoided anyone who so much as coughed, but he did as ordered and stayed put in the waiting room until the last patient left.

“You tell McVey I deserve to be carried out of the Red Eye singing, Amara. Any fights break out on account of the Night or because people are as thick as twenty bricks about Hezekiah and how he came to be cursed, it’s for him to handle.”

“I’ll pass it along.”

“I don’t know what all the fighting’s about anyway,” he grumbled. “Story’s simple as Owen the Sky is Falling’s brain. Nola Bellam should have stayed in the Hollow where she belonged. It wasn’t Hezekiah’s fault she flirted with Ezekiel and made him want her, too. And it sure as hell wasn’t Hezekiah’s fault he went a little crazy after Ezekiel raped her.”

“So crazy that an evil spirit, who just happened to be in the vicinity, decided to help him out.”

“That story’s been accepted as true for a lot of years, Amara. Until some glory-seeking Bellam came along and challenged it. Put the power—good and bad—in the hands of a bunch of witches.”

She smiled. “As I recall, your brother believes in that power, Jake.”

“Because you scared him with your phony stories.”

She packed up her instruments, said goodbye to the midwife in charge and exited the clinic ahead of him. “Guess we’ll never know whether those stories were phony or the real deal, will we, seeing as Jimbo decided not to shove me off that cliff.” She glanced up and around at the fog that had been rolling in for the past hour. “This stuff’s getting thicker by the minute.”

“It’ll be pea soup before I’m done with my second glass of whiskey. Which won’t be long, as the first’ll be going down in a great big gulp.”

“If we were talking raven tamer whiskey, you’d be the one going down, Jake—onto the floor and under the table. Do you know if McVey’s back from the sheriff’s office yet?”

“He’s back.” His expression sour, Jake walked beside her toward the noisy bar. “He said for us to meet him inside— Aw, damn, is that Lazarus going through the door?”

Amara laughed. “Oh, come on, Jake. You know Uncle Lazarus wouldn’t make the same mistake...” Her denial evaporated as the fog parted to reveal Lazarus Blume’s unmistakable profile. “Okay, that’s me shocked.”

“This night’s getting crappier by the minute.” Jake yanked the door open. “McVey’s over talking to the bartender. I’m gonna find me a nice dark corner and crawl into it with a bottle. Let me know when the old spook of spooks leaves.” With that, he vanished into the shadows.

The room was hot, crowded to the point of being barely navigable, and although Amara managed to keep McVey in sight, she lost her uncle in the first few seconds.

McVey met her halfway across the floor. “Where’s Jake?” he asked above thundering Steven Earl.

“Far corner, near the washrooms.” She grinned as he scouted the room. “He stuck at the clinic all afternoon, McVey, even when a seventysomething woman showed him a collection of truly hideous boils on her inner thigh.”

He continued to search, but she saw his lips curve. “I’m not looking for Jake. I’m trying to find Westor. Could be he’ll go with a disguise.”

“And now we add in a disguise. Does he have a favorite look?”

“He pulls off a decent old man.”

“Maybe he’s posing as Uncle Lazarus. Jake and I thought we saw him come in.”

“He did. He’s got a mad on at Yolanda. Something about cost overruns and breakage. She hightailed it. Your uncle’s expression suggested her head was going to roll.”

“How could you tell? His expression never changes.” Not expecting an answer, Amara lifted the hair from her neck to cool it. “How did it go with the sheriff?”

“We’re heading up to Bellam Manor tomorrow with full forensic and medical teams.”

“Oh. That’s good, I guess.” Her forehead creased. “Why do I feel left out?”

“No idea. You’re part of the medical team.”

“I’m— What?” Mistrust swept the mild sting aside. “McVey, you know I’m not a forensic specialist. You just want me where you can see me.”

“See you, feel you, touch you, Red.” He draped an arm over her shoulders as the music changed from “Copperhead Road” to “Beast of Burden.”

“What say we hijack a corner booth and make out until Westor shows?”

As ideas went, Amara liked it.

Or she did until glass crashed, someone screamed and the whole right side of the bar burst into flames.

* * *

W
ILLY HAD LEARNED
from experience never to be surprised. Not by anything or anyone. But this was a shocker, and while it made no sense on the surface, logic said there had to be a reason.

Unless the person across the alley was clinically insane.

It took no more than that second of puzzled immobility for the perpetrator to turn and hesitate as Willy did. To snap an arm up as Willy did.

To shoot as Willy did....

Chapter Twelve

Fire shot from floor to ceiling. People panicked and bolted. Drinks spilled and fed the flames.

McVey knew which direction the stampede would take. He also knew the main door was already fully involved. Shouldn’t be, not so rapidly, but was. Meaning this blaze had been carefully planned and executed.

He heard a bang to his right and shoved Amara down. The bartender vaulted out of harm’s way as the bottled stock behind him began to crash and burn.

Amara fought the arm that restrained her. “There’s an exit at the end of the corridor near the washrooms, and a delivery door in the storeroom behind the bar.” She dipped down again as smoke began to blacken the air. “I think I see Uncle Lazarus. I’ll get him and as many other people as possible out through the washroom corridor exit.”

When a man rushing to escape knocked Lazarus Blume into a table, McVey gave up. Amara wasn’t helpless, and he couldn’t do it all.

“If you see Jake, tell him about the delivery door.” He kissed her once, hard, then ran for the fire extinguisher on the far wall and hoped to God the cylinder was full.

* * *

A
MARA KNEW SMOKE
killed more effectively than fire. She used the sleeve of her jacket to cover her mouth. To reach her uncle, she had to dodge tables and chairs and at the same time try to round up as many terrified people as possible.

It didn’t help that a number of them already had several drinks under their belts or that the ones who’d been playing pool were swinging their cues to clear a path through the crowd.

“Uncle Lazarus.” She bent to peer at his face. “Are you hurt?”

He was doubled over a chair, gripping the back as if it were a lifeline. “Winded,” he wheezed.

She wrapped an arm around his waist. “Come with me.” Her voice rose. “Listen, everyone. There’s a door this way. We can get out.”

Slowed by her uncle’s weight, she nevertheless managed to direct at least twenty people toward the little-used exit.

Her legs wanted to buckle. Lazarus Blume was not a small man, and the smoke he’d inhaled was taking its toll.

In the corridor, Yolanda burst out of the women’s washroom. Half a dozen expressions raced across her face when she smelled the smoke and heard the commotion. “What’s going on? What was that bang?”

“Fire in the front.” Amara winced when her uncle stepped on her foot. “Help me with Uncle Lazarus.”

“I can manage.” Regaining his balance, he took some of his weight back.

Amara was about to release him when the people who’d rushed past them earlier backpedaled in a panic.

“Door’s burning,” one of the men shouted.

“We’re trapped,” his companion wailed.

Were they? Amara looked around her uncle at Yolanda. “Are there windows in the washrooms?”

“No—or, yes. But they’re really skinny.”

“We’ll have to squeeze. This way,” Amara said, giving her uncle over to Benny the pharmacist. “Let the smaller people go first in case someone bigger gets stuck.”

“I twisted my knee.” An inebriated woman in painted-on jeans hobbled along the wall. “I can’t climb.”

“She goes last,” Yolanda decided.

“We go last,” Amara countered. “It’s our uncle’s bar.”

“It was.” Her cousin waved at the choking smoke. “Tomorrow it’ll be ashes. What the hell happened? Did the gas oven blow?”

“Some kind of bomb came through the side window, I think.” Amara raised her voice again. “Benny, if it’s stuck, break the glass.”

A few seconds later a toilet seat crashed through the window.

People climbed, crawled, wedged and wiggled through the narrow opening. When she was sure they’d reached the alley safely, Amara returned to the corridor. No way was McVey going to die because of her.

She spied Jake farther along the hall. He was hunkered down with his hand on a black pack. He surged to his feet when he spotted her—and was immediately engulfed in smoke.

Before she could take another step, Amara found herself flying—through a door and onto a tiled floor. The impact stunned her, but not as badly as the explosion in the hallway outside. The hallway she’d been standing in two seconds earlier.

* * *

M
C
V
EY MADE SURE
Amara was unharmed, then, ignoring her protests, lifted her through the bathroom window. After one last foray into the inferno that was the Red Eye, he made his own escape via the smoldering delivery door.

On its own, the fog was a swirling curtain of white. Add in plumes of black smoke and the scene around the bar went from grim to macabre.

It took several hours for volunteer firefighters to extinguish the flames.

McVey instructed the Harden twins to gather anyone in need of assistance at the clinic. Paramedics came from Bangor to help Amara treat the injured—some who’d been burned, but more, McVey suspected, who’d hurt themselves during their frantic flight.

Once the site had been taped, he posted four deputized guards and, accepting he’d done all he could, joined what Jake sarcastically referred to as “the major players” at Lazarus’s Raven’s Nest Motel.

They’d agreed to gather there for the simple reason that Lazarus took medication to control an erratic heartbeat and he hadn’t brought it with him.

As roadside accommodations went, McVey had seen worse. On his final stakeout in New York, he’d woken up eyeball to eyeball with a rat twice the size of his fist, in a room so badly infested with cockroaches they’d crunched when he’d walked across the sagging floor.

Oh, yeah, Band-Aid-colored walls, brown carpet and a kitchenette straight out of the seventies was paradise compared to Cockroach Central.

While Louis Armstrong rasped out a tinny blues song, Lazarus sat in a straight-backed chair and listened without interruption as Amara told him about Hannah. She didn’t use the word
murder,
but McVey knew they’d have to deal with that hard truth, as well. Eventually.

When she walked past him en route to her medical bag, he stopped her. “Is your uncle okay?”

“About Hannah? I can’t tell. Probably not.” She jabbed his stomach. “You know, you could have shouted instead of tackling me into the men’s room at the Red Eye. I have excellent reflexes.”

“No time.” He repositioned the makeshift ice pack she’d given him when he came in—ice cubes wrapped in a towel—flexed his bruised right arm to make sure he still could and shot Jake a dark look. “I told you not to disturb any suspicious objects.”

“Since when’s a backpack suspicious?” Jake retorted.

“This particular pack was propped against a door with a wire running between it and the knob. In the cop world, we call that suspicious.”

Lazarus batted Amara’s hand away when she attempted to unbutton his jacket. “I’m not feeble, niece. I took my heart pill. It’s ticking just fine.” He narrowed his eyes at McVey. “Are you saying someone planted an explosive device in the rear corridor?”

“In the rear corridor, behind the bar, under one of the pool tables, above the front door. Some were on timers. Others were rigged to blow if moved.”

“In other words,” Lazarus said, “we’re dealing with a mass murderer.”

Amara plucked a piece of glass from his collar. “That murderer has a name, Uncle. It’s Willy Sparks.”

Seated on the floor, knees pulled up, arms tightly folded around them, Yolanda speared Amara with a vicious look. “This is your fault. You brought it here. Danger. Death. Bombs. And now, because we were all shaken and stupid and wanted to get out of town in case the whole main street blew up, we rushed to the back of beyond—no offense, Uncle Lazarus—to try to sort out what most of us already knew but were too rattled to realize until we got here.”

“She means we’re sitting ducks.” Jake flung an angry arm. “And damn it, she’s right. Who says this Willy Sparks person you told us about won’t decide to come barreling through the front window in a truck loaded with explosives?”

“He does that, he’ll be dead right along with us.” Lazarus searched his pockets. “I need a pink pill. R.J. knows where all my medications are. Where is he?”