Night of the Raven (23 page)

McVey wanted to ignore him, but the big man gripped the steering wheel and matched him stare for stare.

“She’s common, McVey. And I know that mountain better than anyone alive.”

McVey’s curse promised more than pain if Brigham was wrong. He gave it another second, then shoved the truck in gear and spun the wheel—in the opposite direction to the one Yolanda had taken.

* * *

Y
OLANDA DIDN’T FORCE
her to hop, but after untying Amara’s ankles, she knotted the rope to the handcuffs binding her cousin’s wrists and wound the other end around her own hand.

“On the very likely chance you decide to make a break for it,” she said, giving the rope a tug that sent pain singing along Amara’s arms.

She wouldn’t panic, Amara promised herself. Her cousin was clearly crazy. She was also overconfident. And crazy, overconfident people made mistakes.

She hoped.

The wind whipped up as they closed in on the bridge. Not enough to disperse the fog, but enough to stir it around and create patches of white that tended to envelop without warning and vanish the same way.

“I wouldn’t waste my energy screaming,” Yolanda advised. “I whacked McVey plenty hard with Uncle’s cane.”

Amara watched for the bridge. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself, Yolanda?”

“Got my gun. Got you. If McVey shows, I’ll get him, too. That’ll leave Jake in charge until Ty gets back from his honeymoon, and by then... Evidence? What evidence? I might have to lower myself and convince Jake that I’ve really been hot for him all these years—eww—but needs must in a situation like this, don’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t know, having never been in a situation like this.”

“Bitch.” Yolanda gave the rope a vicious jerk. “Ah, excellent. Bellam Bridge.” She reeled Amara in as she might a fish on a line. “What a wreck.”

Amara jerked away from the finger Yolanda stroked between her shoulder blades.

“I’m betting you won’t make ten steps without falling through.” Her cousin looked up. “Oh, nuts, the moon’s gone out. But no worries, I have a flashlight. Couldn’t risk missing the grand finale, could I? Although technically, McVey will be the finale—still pissed about that one—and R.J. if necessary.”

Unable to wrest her eyes from the bridge, Amara asked, “Were you born with no conscience, or did it die the day you killed Hannah?”

“I killed Hannah at night.” Yolanda poked Amara’s shoulder. “Walk.”

“You want me to die in handcuffs? Won’t that look suspicious, even to someone with Jake’s limited policing skills?”

“I am so going to enjoy watching you fall,” her cousin snarled. “It’ll be Christmas in May.” Visibly annoyed now, she used her left hand to shove the gun into Amara’s back while her right pulled out and inserted a small key in the lock.

The handcuffs fell away. The gun dug deeper.

“Have a nice trip, Ammie.”

Her push sent Amara to her knees on the rocky roadbed.

Without making a sound, a raven swished out of the fog. Its talons grazed the top of Yolanda’s head. When her cousin swore and waved her arms, Amara took advantage and rolled quickly sideways.

The raven swooped again, but this time Yolanda struck its body with her gun. The bird gave a raucous caw, spread its wings—and began to spark. It fell, beak open and smoking, to the ground.

Furious, Yolanda whipped her gun around while she scoured the trees. Amara sucked in a bolstering breath.
Go big or go home,
she reflected and, using her shoulder, went for her cousin’s knees.

If the bridge had been susceptible to sound vibrations, Yolanda’s shriek would have brought it down. She fell sideways but kicked out hard and caught Amara in the hip with the heel of her boot.

Wind swirled a thick patch of fog between them. Unfortunately that left only one direction for Amara to take. If she wanted to escape, she’d have to cross Bellam Bridge.

She knew there must be a raven tamer in the vicinity. There often was, and they hadn’t all gone down to the Hollow for the parade. If this one was smart, however, he or she would stay out of sight.

Behind her, Yolanda fired several bullets.

“Where are you?” she demanded. Her voice echoed into and back out of the chasm below. She fired again and again. “I’ve got tons of ammo, cousin. Come out where I can see you or I’ll keep shooting into the fog.”

Amara crouched behind one of the damaged supports. Her heart had long ago made a home for itself in her throat. Should she attempt to cross the bridge or go wide and circle?

She dipped as a bullet zinged off the support and whizzed past her ear. The near hit made the choice for her. She’d go with the bridge, where the fog was thickest and Yolanda might not think to look.

Uttering every prayer she knew, Amara started across on trembling hands and knees.

A hoarse caw tore through the damp air. Glancing up, she thought she saw a raven go into a nosedive. Several yards back, Yolanda screamed.

Grateful for the distraction, Amara crawled on.

The planks sagged and made dreadful noises, but thankfully none of them broke all the way through.

Her teeth were chattering¸ she realized. She had splinters in her palms and at least one nail had spiked her knee.

More caws reached her and too many shrieks to count. Then suddenly she heard a thud, like boot heels on wood.

Her eyes closed and her heart plunged into her stomach. Yolanda was on the bridge.

She needed to move faster. No time now to test her weight on the planks.

Squinting through a gap in the fog, she spied a support post. A raven sat unmoving on one of the pegs that jutted out of it. Unlike its predecessors, however, this bird didn’t dive. It simply sat and stared.

A watcher, she thought, and recalled Brigham’s words about emissary ravens. Breathing carefully, she offered a heartfelt “I hope you’re watching for someone good.”

“Its talons are caught in my hair!” Yolanda screeched. “Where are these stupid birds coming from? They’re in my freaking hair!”

She was close, Amara realized. Fear spiked—then shot off the scale as Yolanda’s frantic fingers trapped her ankle.

But only for a moment. Amara was tugging on her foot when one of the planks gave a long, low groan—and snapped.

Yolanda warbled out a sound between a scream and a sob and fought to grab the broken wood. One moment her fingers were clawing at the splintered end; the next they were gone and only slithering coils of fog remained.

Amara stared at the empty space for several shocked seconds, unable to move or to think. Stared until the raven watching her released a startled caw.

Her head shot up. The wood beneath her protested. It didn’t snap as it had for Yolanda. Instead it pulled away from the side of the bridge.

Her scrabbling fingers found a rusted metal bar. But the bar was pulling away as well, and it was too narrow for her to hold in any case.

Overhead, the raven cawed again. And again and again. When it stopped, a strong hand grasped her wrist.

“I’ve got you, Red.” McVey’s voice reached her from the girder above. “Just hold on tight and don’t look down.”

A dozen emotions swamped her, but the one that stood out, that caused her breath to hitch, was that Yolanda hadn’t lied. McVey was alive!

Half a lifetime passed in Amara’s tortured mind before her knees touched solid wood again. Although solid was a questionable description for the worn plank that currently held not only her weight but also McVey’s. Risking it, she threw her arms around his neck and crushed her mouth to his.

“You came,” she said between kisses. “How did you know where to come?”

Taking her face in his hands, he looked into her eyes. “Once I figured out who the killer had to be, only the manor made sense. We took a roundabout route.”

“We?”

“Brigham’s here.”

A sigh rushed out. “He brought his ravens, didn’t— Oh, my God, Yolanda!”

She pivoted, heard the plank beneath them groan.

Catching her arms, McVey stilled her. “Don’t bounce too much, Red. Even raven tamer ingenuity has its limits where ancient bridges are concerned.”

“So we lead you to believe.” Brigham’s growl came from a cloud of fog. “Yolanda’s right here. The rope she was holding tangled on one of the supports. I’ve got her now. Do you want me to haul the murdering witch up or develop butterfingers and end the problem tonight?”

McVey raised a brow. “Your call, Amara.”

Now that the worst of her terror had subsided, Amara could hear Yolanda’s combination of girlish squeals and vicious threats. “Well, damn.” Sighing, she glanced up at him. “You know, I’d love to be lofty about this and prove how much better I am than her, but I guess I’m only human in the end. Haul her up, Brigham,” she said. “She’s insane, and one day I might actually pity her for that. But for now? I want the witch to burn.”

Chapter Nineteen

The way McVey saw it, where there was crime there should be punishment. It didn’t always work that way, but when it did, there wasn’t a whole lot that made him feel better. Unless you switched gears and started talking sex. Specifically, sex with Amara, which he hoped would cap off one of the most gut-wrenching, yet strangely satisfying nights of his life.

Five long hours after he’d pulled her up onto Bellam Bridge, Amara pulled him to a stop on the main street of the Hollow. “How on earth can you call anything about this night satisfying, McVey? Uncle Lazarus is in a hospital in Bangor....”

“Resting comfortably, Red.” He held up two fingers at the raven tamer who was manning the street-side bar, which, in strict legal terms, didn’t exist. “You talked to his doctor. Your uncle’s day-to-day. Has been for quite some time.”

“A fact you apparently knew and I didn’t.”

“He told me the morning after I arrested him for punching the courier. He asked me not to tell anyone. You’re part of anyone.”

“I’m his niece, McVey. I’m also a physician. I could have...”

“What? Said, ‘There, there,’ and prescribed morphine for the pain? He didn’t want that. Private and proud’s the way he’s built.”

She blew out a breath. “Damn...him for keeping a secret like that and you for being right. Damn Yolanda, too, for being...well, Yolanda, and wanting everything for herself.”

Accepting two glasses of raven’s blood from the grinning tamer, McVey handed her one. “You know her lawyer’s going to plead insanity.”

“He doesn’t have to claim what’s perfectly obvious.” She watched animated ravens swoop and soar around a still-lively Main Street. “I’m not sure I think she was completely sane as a kid. And I’ve always thought her brother, Larry, was borderline.”

“A man who handles explosives is only borderline sane?” Draping an arm across her shoulders, McVey summoned a lazy smile. “That idea might shake some people’s faith a bit. Fortunately, any faith I ever had was shaken apart when I worked in Homicide. There are no absolutes, Amara. In the end, all anyone can do is his or her best.”

“Thank you, Mike Brady. But back in this world, I still have questions.”

“Will there be sex after they’re answered?”

She laughed, and the sound of it made him want to drag her off the street and into the station house.

“Looks like I was right way back when, Chief McVey. You have definite animal—specifically wolf—instincts and appetites.” She ran teasing fingers through the ends of his hair. “In this life anyway.”

His eyes narrowed. “I knew we’d get here at some point. You’re going to remind me I have Bellam blood in my background, aren’t you?”

“You know you do. I don’t have to remind you. When Nola Bellam married Hezekiah Blume, she already had a child, a daughter. According to one version of the Bellam legend—not to mention your recurring nightmare—it was Nola’s daughter, Annalee, who brought about Sarah’s confinement in the attic at Bellam Manor. In your dream, Sarah fell through a broken plank, but like Yolanda, she didn’t plunge into the chasm below.”

“Was Annalee a witch?”

“No one knows. With a little feathered help, though, she took mad Sarah out of the local picture.” Amara angled her head. “Kind of the way you did with Yolanda tonight. Spooky, isn’t it?”

“Very. But it was me and Brigham, not me alone on the bridge.”

“I’d speculate that Annalee has more than one descendant, McVey. And every raven tamer has two parents.”

“Pretty sure Brigham won’t appreciate that particular speculation.”

“He should. The mix of bloodlines is probably why he’s so adept—one, at taming live ravens and, two, at creating animated ones. Which brings me to my really big question.”

“How did we find you?”

“I already know that. You had to figure Yolanda would want to kill me in or around Bellam Manor, and what better way to do it than by using the bridge as her murder weapon? No, my big question is why did the bridge suddenly become crossable after Yolanda and I both fell through?”

“You and Yolanda didn’t know where to walk. Brigham did. The raven tamers dislike intrusions into their privacy. They rigged the bridge to work safely for them and only them. For the rest of us, each crossing was a roll of the dice.”

“Why does that sound illegal?”

“Call it marginally unethical, and think of it this way. The land on both sides of that bridge belongs to your uncle Lazarus. He’s the only person legally entitled to file a lawsuit against them.”

“Which he won’t do because he’s enjoying the fact that the person who killed Hannah was caught by one.”

“The person who killed Hannah and tried on more than one occasion to kill you.” McVey tapped his wineglass to hers. “She might have been in your uncle’s will, but Yolanda was never your uncle’s favorite niece. He mentioned something tonight about liking her mother and cutting Yolanda a break strictly for that reason.”

“Yolanda’s mother died in a car accident while I was in med school.” Amara paused to watch a meticulously choreographed flock of ravens wing through the sky overhead. “Brigham’s distraction helped. One of his animated ravens got its talons stuck in Yolanda’s hair. She panicked. If I hadn’t been so terrified, I’d have enjoyed watching her freak. She’s lucky Brigham was there to pull her up.”