Midnight Jewels (40 page)

Mercy swallowed at the calm way Croft said that. "It must have been terrible."

"When he was sober it was okay. We could both tolerate each other.- But when he was drinking, yeah, it was rough. I think he knew he was dangerous when he was drunk but he couldn't control himself. I think he was afraid that one day he'd really do some damage."

"To you?"

Croft nodded. "Either that or he realized that I was getting bigger and that one day I might stop disappearing when he started drinking. I might start fighting back. Whatever his reasoning, he began going into town on the weekends to do his boozing. I was glad to see him go. I had signed up for self-defense classes at the Y. I told myself at first I just wanted to be able to protect myself from my father when he was drunk. But I guess I became fascinated with the world of martial arts and the underlying philosophy of mind and body control. I found a refuge in my classes at the gym, a place where I could go and be strong."

"Another world."

"In a way. The instructor at the Y was good, but he had his limitations and he knew them. He told me I needed to travel, to find other teachers who could help me get the most out of myself. He gave me some names of men who might be persuaded to take me on as a pupil. I didn't have the money for that kind of travel and tuition. I felt trapped. Then I decided I couldn't hang around any longer. I would have left earlier but I had some crazy idea my father might die if I weren't there to look after him. But on the day I turned eighteen and packed my bags, he went into town and didn't comeback."

"What happened?"

"He got himself killed in a stupid, meaningless back alley brawl. Somebody rolled him for the few bucks that were in his wallet and a bottle of cheap wine."

Mercy closed her eyes and a premonition of what was about to come took hold of her. "Did they ever find out who killed him?"

"The cops didn't spend a lot of time on the case." Croft's voice had shifted into that dangerously neutral tone. "My father was just another drunk who got himself killed in an alley. Happens all the time. The authorities have better things to do than try to solve that kind of crime."

Mercy realized dimly that she was digging her nails into her palms. "So you decided to go looking for the killer, didn't you?"

"No one else was going to do it. I thought I hated my father, but after he was killed I couldn't walk away from the fact that he was my father. He'd done his best by me."

"So you did your best by him. You decided to see that justice was done. You went looking for the killer?"

"I found him. It wasn't hard. I just went to the section of town where my father used to hang out and started asking questions. For some reason people talked to me."

"I'll just bet they did."

Croft shook his head. "It wasn't like that. I didn't have to beat the answers out of anyone. There were people on those streets who wanted someone to find the killer. My father wasn't his first victim. They were all potential victims and they knew it. They would have been frightened of cooperating with the cops, but they weren't afraid of a young kid who wanted to know what had happened to his old man. I got the help I needed. And I found the man who had stuck a knife in Dad."

"What happened to the killer?" Mercy wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer.

Croft gave her a cool, level look. "I didn't kill him."

"Almost but not quite?"

"Not quite. I left him unconscious on me front steps of me police station. I also left enough incriminating evidence in
his pockets to tie him to my father's minder and the murders of a couple of other transients."

"Where did you get the evidence?"

Croft shrugged. "He was still carrying around some of the things he'd taken off his victims' bodies. And he had the knife
that had been used to kill my father. Not the brightest killer in the world. The cops were more than happy to have three murder cases cleared up without any real effort on their part. They didn't try to look a gift horse in the mouth. They even managed to get a confession out of the guy. Justice, after a fashion, got done."

Mercy didn't flinch from his direct gaze. "A closed Circle."

Croft's mourn twisted slightly. "Yes."

"What happened next, Croft?" Mercy kept her voice steady even though her stomach was tying itself into a knot.

"I learned something about myself during the process of tracking down the bastard who killed my father. Something that I might have been better off not knowing. It scared me."

"Let me guess," Mercy said softly. "I think you found out two tilings. The first was that you could do it. You actually found the killer and took your vengeance. You were able to do on your own what society couldn't do. The second thing you learned was that you found your new line of work… interesting? Is
that the right word?"

His eyes never left her face. "Fascinating is the word. And I had an aptitude for it. After I found the man who murdered Dad, I knew that in a sense I had found myself. I had to know more. But dure was still the money problem. So I joined the Army, and that's when I realized I really didn't deal well with authority, especially blind, bureaucratic, senseless authority that operates most of the time without reason or logic. But the military gave me training, the kind of training I hungered for."

"And after that?"

"My aptitude didn't go unnoticed," Croft said dryly. "I was invited to go to work for a special unit, but it wasn't long before I knew I wasn't going to make a very good team player. So I left when my hitch was up, took the money I had saved and went looking for some of the names on the list my old instructor had given me. I found a few. I traveled and studied and learned and everything I teamed was dangerous in some way, either mentally or emotionally or physically. So I had to learn how to control the things I learned. And I didn't stop there. I put what I learned into practice. There was a market for my skills. An insatiable market."

Mercy smiled in spite of herself. "Don't waste your time trying to frighten me with veiled hints of how dangerous you are, Croft. It won't work. I know you too well."

"You aren't scared of me, are you?" he asked quietly. "Not on any level. I wonder why. You're such a soft, gentle little thing."

"Just because I'm smaller than you and maybe a bit softer in certain areas—although certainly not in the head—that doesn't make me a 'soft, gentle little thing.' I'm not afraid of you because even though you seem to be interested in violence and physically adept at it, you're not crazy. You're not out of control. You've come to terms with yourself and your nature. In some ways you're one of the most civilized men I've ever met. All of us have a streak of wildness in us. Few of us have had to learn to control it and integrate it into our day-to-day lives. But you have. Maybe mat's the true definition of being a civilized human being."

Croft closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall behind the bed. "Don't romanticize what I am, Mercy."

"I'm not romanticizing you. I'm trying to understand you."

His lashes lifted, revealing a betraying hunger. "Why?"

"I've already given you the answer to that question. I love you."

He sat up in a smooth rush, his expression stark. "Mercy, you don't know what you're saying."

The phone rang shrilly. Mercy reached to answer it. "Of course I know what I'm saying. I'm not a complete knot."

"Mercy."

She ignored him as she listened to the familiar voice on the other end of the line. "Hi, Dorrie, how's everything going? Any messages yet?"

"Just got one," Dorrie said easily. "Wait a second until I find my note. Here it is. A Mr. Glad called. Is that the person you were expecting to hear from?"

Mr. Glad. Mercy's gaze swung to collide with Croft's. It had to be Gladstone. At that point Mercy realized she hadn't really expected Gladstone to contact them. Obviously an example of wishful thinking. "That's him, Dorrie. What's the message?"

Croft was hovering over the phone as if he wanted to snatch the receiver out of her hand. He gave Mercy a pen and a pad of motel paper. "Get everything down."

Mercy nodded, listening intently.

"Just a short note," Dorrie said. "You're to call him at this number." She rattled it off. "Got it?"

"Got it. Thanks, Dorrie."

"Hey, what's going on? I thought this deal was all settled."

"So did I," Mercy said with a sigh.

"I guess this is what it's like in the big time world of rare book negotiation, huh? Offer and counteroffer and all kinds of maneuvering. It's exciting, isn't it?"

"Yes," Mercy said softly, "it's exciting." She hung up the phone and sat staring at Croft, the note pad clutched in her hand. "He wants us to call."

Croft snapped the note from her hand. "He's still at the estate."

"How can you tell?"

"I checked the number on the phones while we were there. This is it. It's unlisted, naturally, but even people who worry about their numbers getting out still make the mistake of putting them on the phones where any visitor can see them."

"Perhaps Gladstone wasn't all that concerned about his number getting into me wrong hands," Mercy said.

Croft nodded abruptly. "He's been fairly safe tucked away up there in the mountains with only a few handpicked people around him. Probably learned his lesson about the risks of trusting a multitude of not-necessarily devoted followers. I wonder what kind of games he's been playing with that artist colony he runs."

"You think it's a front for something illegal?"

"I think it's a front for something very profitable and very illegal and very rough. Gladstone is still Graves inside. He needs power and money. Lots of it. And he's learned how to get it. He's using those artists for something. The setup is too similar to what he had going down in the Caribbean. The money making end of things probably includes drugs this time around, too, just as it did last time. It's the field Gladstone knows best. At least we know for certain where he is now. And we've forced him to make the first move. That makes him a little more vulnerable." Croft studied the number in his hand. "So he wants us to call, does he?"

"Just like you said."

"Yes." Croft reached for the phone. "Let's not keep the man waiting."

Croft saw the expression on Mercy's tense face as he dialed the number on the note pad. She was scared. Not of him, but of what was going to happen next. She probably had a good hunch about the next logical step in tins deadly game. He wished he could quiet her fears but that was impossible now. Things had gone too far to turn back. He hadn't been able to turn back since the day he had seen that
ad for Burleigh's
Valley of Secret Jewels
. She seemed to realize that, but it wasn't going to make her any less fearful of the final outcome.

The phone rang once. It was answered by Isobel, her low, husky voice clear and controlled. "Hello."

She knew who was calling, Croft thought. "Let me speak to Gladstone." There was no sense revealing he knew that Gladstone was really Egan Graves. The goal now was to assure Gladstone that Croft was just an opportunistic hustler who had lucked into the biggest deal of his life.

"We've been expecting your call, Mr. Falconer. Just a moment."

So much for being on a seductive first name basis. Croft waited quietly until Gladstone's warm, charming voice came on the line.

"Ah, Mr. Falconer. Why do you wish to cause me all this trouble?"

"We aren't all born rich, Gladstone. Some of us have to take advantage of our opportunities as they arise. I assume you're interested in getting your book back?"

"You assume correctly. I'm a reasonable man. You have a certain figure in mind?"

"I have a large figure in mind."

"I was sure you had. That book is very important to me, Mr. Falconer, as you must have guessed by now. It has great sentimental value."

"That's the first time I've ever heard anyone call pornography sentimental, but to each his own, I guess."

"Just how large is the price tag you've placed on my book?"

"Fifty thousand."

There was a beat of silence from the other end of the line. "You're not bashful, are you, Mr. Falconer?"

"Mercy tells me there aren't many copies of this particular
volume around. I think you took advantage of her in the first set of negotiations."

"And she's empowered you to negotiate this time?" Gladstone asked.

Croft looked at Mercy. "Let's just say she's put everything in my hands."

"Isobel was correct. You and Miss Pennington are, indeed, besotted with each other. How strange. Well, in the meantime, you and I must deal. I can meet your figure, Mr. Falconer. In cash. How soon can you get here with the book?"

"You want me to come back to the estate?"

"Isobel can meet you anywhere you choose with the helicopter."

"No thanks. I prefer to get there under my own power. I'd just as soon not have to depend on Isobel to fly me back out of the mountains after you and I have made our deal. I'll be there at dawn."

There was another pause on Gladstone's end before he asked smoothly, "How far away are you?"

"Far enough."

"You can't get here any sooner?"

"I'm afraid not. It's going to be a long drive. Dawn is the earliest I can make it. Have Isobel take the money down to the first gate at sunrise. I'll meet her there."

"With the book, I presume?"

"All I want is the money, Gladstone. You're welcome to the book. It's not my kind of thing, anyway."

"No, I'm sure it isn't. You undoubtedly prefer a more modern style of such fare."

Croft noted a trace of condescending disgust lacing the man's voice. Gladstone was giving into his private sense of intellectual snobbery, he realized, though he also wondered how anyone could be snobbish about preferences of erotica.

"I don't want to see anyone except Isobel at that gate, Gladstone."

"There's no one left to meet you except Isobel or myself. Lance and Dallas are in the hands of the authorities, as I'm sure you're aware."

"And you're not going to go bail, right?"