Midnight Jewels (36 page)

"I like the sound of that. Dead slow. Yeah, that's what he's gonna he all right. You want to split up or handle this together?"

"Let's split up. We can cover more ground that way. But pay attention if you use the gun. It's dark and we don't want any mistakes. Make certain you're aiming at Falconer or the woman and not me."

"Gladstone wants this to look like an accident, remember? We're supposed to dump them both over the edge of a cliff, not put a bullet in them."

"You think the local cops are going to be looking for bullet holes if they find two charred bodies in the wreckage of a burned out car?" Lance scoffed. "Once they find the fake alcohol in Falconer's system they won't ask any more questions."

"Yeah, but Gladstone—"

"Stop worrying about Gladstone. We'll handle this our own way."

A cold breeze was stirring the branches overhead. The increased moaning of the tree limbs covered whatever response Dallas made to Lance's comment. Mercy retreated behind another shack and crouched low, trying to listen for footsteps. It would be awkward if she blithely rounded the corner of one of these old buildings and ran straight into Dallas or Lance. Or Croft, for
that matter, she added silently. In his present state he could easily mistake her for the enemy before he realized who she was.

For the first time she realized that was a very real danger. Perhaps she should have stayed in that horrible place Croft had left her.

The unfortunate second thoughts were shattered by a man's shout and the rapid firing of two more shots.

"I got him. Over here, Dallas. I got the bastard."

Mercy cringed as heavy, running footsteps came straight down the narrow alley between buildings where she was hiding and passed by. Her first reaction was complete denial. Lance couldn't have shot Croft. It wasn't possible. But earlier that evening she would have sworn it was impossible for
Croft Falconer to get drunk and wind up face down in a pool. The man might be part ghost, but he wasn't completely inhuman.

Mercy's second reaction was to follow Lance: If Croft was wounded, she was his only hope. Grabbing her rounded stick, she got shakily to her feet, listening for Dallas, who was calling for his buddy.

"Lance? Where are you? Are you sure you got him? What about the woman?"

But there was no answer from Lance. Warily Mercy stepped out into the narrow strip of uneven ground that separated the two rows of shacks.

There was no exclamation of triumph or anger. No call for help. Nothing. Not a sound except the moaning of the wind. It appeared that Lance had simply run down the aisle between the row of wooden hulks and vanished into the darkness at the far end.

The looming structures on either side of Mercy seemed abruptly less substantial than they had a few minutes before, once again taking on that aspect that made them seem half in and half out of the real world. Rocky Mountain starlight played unpleasant tricks on the eyes.

"Lance! Where the hell are you, man?"

Dallas' voice sounded from behind Mercy. Automatically she stepped out of the dim starlight back into the dense shadows between two buildings. There was still no response to Dallas' call.

"Goddamn it, Lance, what the hell's going on?"

There was real fear in the man's voice now. Mercy recognized it and thought it strange. Dallas was the one with the gun. Interesting that he should be starting to panic. Ghost hunting in Drifter's Creek was not turning out to be the sporting game he bad originally thought it would be, apparently.

There was a hesitant footstep nearby and then the crashing
sound of a sagging door being thrown open. Dallas was on the broken porch of the building to Mercy's right. The flashlight he held cut a jerky path through the darkness. Mercy flinched as he fired into the black shadows of the interior. It occurred to her that Croft was right. She had led a very sheltered life. She had never, for example, heard a gun fired at such close range. It made her ears ring.

"Shit. Where the hell are you, you bastard?" Dallas spoke in a confused, angry whisper. "
Where are you
?" It wasn't clear if he was speaking to his silent partner or talking about Croft.

Mercy heard his footsteps on the porch and then a thud as rotting wood gave way beneath Dallas' foot. He swore violently, yanked his foot free from the splintered trap and leaped off the porch.

His lurching jump took him directly into the narrow path between the shacks where Mercy was hiding. His flashlight picked her out immediately.

For a split second Dallas simply stared at her. "Goddamn bitch." And the hand holding the gun came up in a swift, smooth arc.

But Mercy was already moving, closing her eyes against the blinding glare of the light and running straight at him. She held the stick in
both hands as if it were a sword aimed at his chest.

There was a muffled mud and a furious gasp as Mercy found her target. Dallas flailed awkwardly, staggering backward as he lost his balance under the impact. The gun in his hand went off and Mercy thought
that this time she would lose her hearing, the sound was so close and so loud.

Without any warning Croft was there, materializing in the alley behind Dallas as the other man floundered in an effort to keep his balance. Dallas seemed to sense
that he suddenly had another enemy in the small space besides Mercy. He swung around awkwardly, trying to bring the nose of the gun
up to aim at Croft, but it was too late. Croft was already reaching out for him.

Mercy was watching the whole thing, but later she couldn't describe what happened. One instant the man in front of her was trying to aim a gun at Croft, the next Dallas was lying in an unconscious sprawl on the cold ground.

Croft stood quietly, his bare feet slightly spread in a balanced stance, his hands at his side. He glanced down at the man on the ground and then looked at Mercy.

"Are you all right?" Croft asked, his words unnaturally even.

Mercy gasped for breath and nodded, staring at him. "What about you?"

"It's cold out here."

He appeared vaguely surprised, as if he were noticing the mountain chill for the first time. Mercy glanced down at his bare feet.

"Yes," she said. "It's cold." But the shiver that went through her had nothing to do with the mountain air.

"You should have stayed in that shack where I left you." There was no masculine outrage or chiding complaint in the words; no male fury over disobeyed orders. There was no emotion whatsoever. There was only perfect calm.

Mercy wasn't sure how to respond. She wasn't being chastised, so there was no reason to launch into a passionate self-defense, although that was her first instinct. She wanted to scream at Croft in an effort to break through the unnatural serenity that gripped him. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and be soothed and comforted while she offered soothing comfort in return. She wanted to hear him chew her out for having disobeyed his orders so she could have the release of yelling back at him.

The potent cocktail created in her bloodstream by the aftermath of violence was causing her to tremble with reaction. She wanted to seize Croft and shake him while she
pointed out that although this might be a normal occurrence for him, it certainly was not for her. She craved some sort of emotional explosion, needed it to use up the nervous energy flooding her system.

But one look at Croft's remote, too-serene expression was enough to keep Mercy still. Somehow it seemed futile to use emotion of any kind as a weapon against such an impregnable fortress of self-contained isolation. She hardly knew this man.

Croft went down on one knee beside the unconscious Dallas. He started going through his victim's pockets. The process was a curiously detached one, methodical and totally without emotion.

"I think we'd better get out of here," Mercy offered tentatively. She found herself groping helplessly for words as she tried to communicate with the stranger in front of her.

"Yes," he agreed, pulling Dallas' wallet out of a back pocket. He flipped it open.

"What are you looking for?" Mercy whispered.

Croft didn't bother to respond. He was slipping a credit card out of its plastic envelope. He picked up the flashlight and used it to glance at the name on the card.

"Well, I'm glad to know you have some normal human limitations," Mercy heard herself mutter before she stopped to think. "I was beginning to think you might even be able to read in the dark."

Croft glanced up. "This credit card doesn't belong to Dallas."

She frowned. "Whose is it?"

"My guess is that it came from the wallet of one of the guests in that motel we stayed in on the way to Gladstone's."

Mercy's eyes widened. She crouched down to look at the card. The name etched in plastic was Michael J. Farrington. "You don't think Farrington is just Dallas' real name?"

Croft pulled out another card. "This one's in the name of
one Andrew G. Barnes. I'll bet Gladstone would be furious if he knew his hired muscle had stashed a little on the side for himself after that robbery. Dallas and Lance were probably supposed to get rid of all the evidence, but they were too greedy to dump the credit cards."

Mercy nodded. "As long as they keep purchases under a certain minimum, they can use the cards a long time without anyone checking for authorization. You've made your point, Croft," Mercy said ruefully as she got to her feet. "It's probably safe to say these cards don't belong to Dallas. Lance probably has a few stray souvenirs in his wallet, too." She bit her lip. "Where is Lance?"

Croft rose smoothly beside her. He nodded in the direction Lance had run while firing his gun. "At the other end of that row of buildings."

"Unconscious or…" Mercy glanced uneasily down the narrow path. She realized she was afraid to complete the question.

"Unconscious," Croft said. . "Thank heavens." Mercy wasn't aware she had spoken aloud until Croft responded, his voice still devoid of inflection.

"Did you think I'd killed him?"

Mercy hugged herself. "I didn't know what to think. He just went racing up this little alley and disappeared. You've mentioned your interest in the philosophy of violence and I—"

"I'm interested in violence. Not death."

"Is there a difference?" she snapped, goaded.

He looked at her. "They're frequently linked, but yes, there is a difference. All the difference in the world."

She knew he could see her expression much more clearly than she could see his. Mercy turned away, lifting her hands to clasp herself against the chill. She realized she was still holding the stick she had used to defend herself.

"Where did you find that?" Croft asked, taking the stick from her and examining it briefly.

"I found it in that horrible cabin where you left me. I couldn't stay in that place, Croft. It was awful. I couldn't stand it another moment."

He wasn't paying any attention. "It looks like a shovel handle."

Mercy stared at the piece of wood as Croft tossed it aside. Images of a dead miner flowed back into her mind. The miner's personal possessions were stacked on a table. Camping gear. A battered hat. A shovel.

"Let's get out of here, Croft."

"As soon as we tie these two up and leave them in one of the buildings. The general store would be a good place, I think."

"What are you planning to do about them? We ought to call the sheriff's office."

"We will. An anonymous tip. We'll tell the authorities that if they're interested in solving the motel robbery, they might check the general store in Drifter's Creek. We'll let the sheriff take it from there."

"As good citizens, we ought to go straight to the authorities. We shouldn't turn in an anonymous tip over the phone."

"Good citizenship is not high on my list of priorities at the moment." Croft stepped out into the corridor between buildings. "I have other things to do."

"Croft, you can't handle this sort of thing on your own. You're supposed to call the cops when you get into a situation like
this." Mercy hurried after him as he made his way down me alley. "We've got proof that Dallas and Lance were probably involved in that motel robbery and some indication that Erasmus Gladstone might be Egan Graves or at least connected to him. We should turn everything we've got over to the sheriff and let him take it from there."

"Take it where? He might be able to build a case against Dallas and Lance, but they're unimportant. Gladstone is the one who matters, and Gladstone is too well protected to be hurt by Dallas and Lance. He would never let himself be vulnerable in that way. If the sheriff questions him, he'll simply say he's shocked to learn he'd hired two thieves to work for him. No one will believe that Gladstone sent his hired help to steal a couple of wallets and open the empty safe of a rundown motel. It's obvious he doesn't need the few dollars and the stolen credit cards."

"I guess you've got a point," Mercy said uncomfortably. "And Gladstone's already paid for the book, so who would think he'd want to steal it. It will be obvious to everyone that Dallas and Lance were probably operating on their own. No one would think Erasmus Gladstone was a common thief. But what about what happened to you tonight?"

"I got drunk and fell in the pool."

"You were poisoned or drugged."

"There are forty or fifty artists at Gladstone's estate who will say I was drunk when they last saw me."

Mercy chewed on her lower lip. "Maybe blood tests would turn up some evidence of poison or drugs."

"I doubt it. Whatever Gladstone used will probably look like alcohol in my blood, if there's even enough left of the stuff to detect in a test. These new designer drugs are getting more sophisticated every day. Just like Gladstone to be at the forefront of the technology."

"You're looking for excuses. You don't want to go to the authorities," Mercy accused.

"You're right. I don't deal well with authority. I prefer to operate on my own."

"Well, you're not on your own," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm here, remember?"

He stopped and turned around so quickly she almost ran into him. "Believe me, I'm well aware of your presence."