Croft couldn’t remember the last time he was sick to his stomach. What the hell was wrong with him? Maybe it was something he had eaten from the buffet table. But all he had had was a couple of slices of the smoked salmon and some crackers. There was the half glass of wine, but that was hardly enough to have this kind of effect. Besides, it had been an excellent Bordeaux, not some rotgut vinegar.
Rotgut vinegar. That was a joke. As if Gladstone would serve anything but the best wine. Croft realized he was grinning. It was damned amusing when he thought about it. Gladstone serving cheap wine. What a scandal. Croft almost laughed aloud.
A small sense of shock went through him. The last thing he wanted to do right now was laugh out loud. The whole idea was to make absolutely no noise at all. He was good at that kind of thing. He could tiptoe through a swamp full of alligators and never wake one of the beasts.
What was it Mercy called him? A ghost. That was it. He’d go in like a ghost. Get in, get a close look at the inside of the vault and get out. If he didn’t find anything he would slip upstairs to the study. Somewhere there had to be something in the house that would give him the answers to his questions. His gut instincts told him that Gladstone was Egan Graves. There were too many similarities in style. This business about being the chief patron for an isolated artist colony, for example. Too much like running a cult. And that voice. Ray Chandler had once told Croft that his daughter still talked about the compelling quality of her ex-guru’s voice. Then there was Gladstone’s obvious preoccupation with security. The Rocky Mountain estate reminded Croft in some ways of Graves’s Caribbean setting. Except for the dogs. They were a new addition.
There were a myriad other small hints and clues. Croft was sure Gladstone was a reincarnation of Egan Graves. All he had to do was prove it. As soon as he had, he would get Mercy away before doing anything more. Above all he had to take care of Mercy.
The nausea faded again, leaving behind a strangely pleasant sensation. Croft tried to analyze the feeling. This light-headedness wasn’t quite normal. True, it had been three years since the last time he had had to play ghost, but he would never forget the feeling of all his senses working together in a faultless rhythm. He knew what the adrenaline rush felt like, remembered the exquisite, almost painful tension, recalled the exhilarating feeling of walking along the sharp edge of an abyss.
He remembered all those feelings very well, just as he remembered his own deep fascination with them.
But he was only getting bits and pieces of those sensations tonight. Everything seemed to be overlaid by this strange sense of easygoing, light-headed cheerfulness. And the cheerfulness was only occasionally interrupted by the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Croft drew in a deep breath, trying to suppress the abnormal giddiness. He should be feeling a lot of things, but not giddiness. Something was wrong. Under ideal circumstances he would have called off tonight’s mission and postponed it until he had his body more completely under control.
It was dangerous being out of control, he reminded himself wisely. He never allowed himself to lose that fundamental sensation of being completely in command of himself. Never.
Except when he made love to Mercy.
Every time he took her in his arms he was sure he would be able to handle himself and her. But it always ended in a storm of wild, uninhibited abandonment. He wished he understood what happened when he was around Mercy. It worried him that he couldn’t explain his passions or his sense of protectiveness or the strange bond that seemed to link him to her.
Well, she wasn’t with him now. He had no excuse for feeling unsteady and unnaturally cheerful. Something was wrong, but it was too late to turn back. He had to get the answers that night. There wasn’t going to be another opportunity. Even if he could have persuaded Mercy to stay another day or two he wouldn’t have risked it. She was safe enough for the moment, but if Gladstone and Isobel were starting to ask questions, it was time to get Mercy out of these mountains.
The last thing he wanted to do was put Mercy in real jeopardy. Finishing what happened three years before was important, but not more important than protecting Mercy. Mercy could get into trouble so easily.
Croft smiled fondly as he thought about her penchant for recklessness. She definitely needed him to keep an eye on her.
That thought led immediately into another. A mental picture of Mercy lying nude on a field of wildflowers formed in his mind. She was so damn sexy, so warm and soft and inviting and she didn’t even realize it.
Croft shook his head again, trying to force the stray, disrupting images from his head. What the hell was the matter with him? He was getting hard, for crying out loud. This was all wrong. Normally he never had any trouble clearing his mind for this kind of work. He had to be able to focus everything on the task at hand. It was the only way to assure the degree of mind-body coordination needed. He couldn’t afford to distract himself with images of making love to Mercy.
Christ. He was going to screw this up if he didn’t get hold of his erratic thoughts. With a sudden grimness Croft tried to concentrate on regaining his customary physical, emotional and mental control. He had spent years training himself to be in control regardless of what was happening around or inside him.
Another wave of nausea interrupted the process. It only lasted for a few seconds this time, however. At least he seemed to be getting some form of control over his stomach. Must have been the salmon. Hell of a time to get food poisoning.
Funny, he understood why his stomach might be feeling queasy if he had gotten some bad fish, but he had never heard of a food poisoning victim enjoying this pleasant euphoria. This was almost like being drunk.
But he never got drunk. Never. He had never allowed himself to become what his father had become, not even for a few hours. He didn’t dare. He knew his limits and respected them strictly. And it had only been half a glass of wine from a bottle Dallas had used to pour drinks for several other guests.
Croft glanced around, vaguely aware that the overhead lights had been turned off before he had entered the garden room. The swimming pool still glowed faintly. He caught glimpses of it as he moved along the path toward the vault room. The garden itself had a weird green shadowy ambience because of the lamps that had been left on under the leaves. All in all, a nicely exotic effect. Should appeal to the artsy crowd upstairs. Too bad there was no one there besides himself to enjoy it.
It might be fun to make love to Mercy in the middle of a tropical forest.
Croft came through the far side of the garden and leaned heavily against the glass doors that opened onto the vault room. He could see the heavy metal door sealed shut in the wall. When he pushed against the glass doors he was amazed by how heavy they seemed. He hadn’t noticed their weight the night before.
Once inside the room, he made straight for the sealed vault. He had to stop and think about the technique he had used the previous night to unlock it. He knew on some level of awareness that he shouldn’t have had to pause while he tried to recollect the method. He had memorized it, after all. He had wanted nothing to slow him down now. Slowly he pulled the delicate little tools out of the seam of his shirt.
For an instant he stood, swaying slightly and staring down at the small lock-picking implements. He was an old hand with these. The knowledge it took to use them was imbedded in his fingers after years of practice. So he shouldn’t be standing here trying to recall exactly how to use them.
Impatiently he turned toward the vault door. There wasn’t much time.
It took a few embarrassingly awkward attempts, but the sophisticated lock finally surrendered, just as it had the night before. Every lock was vulnerable in some way. Α moment later, Croft started to ease the heavy door open.
He didn’t just want another look inside the vault, he remembered vaguely. He also wanted one more look at Valley. That damn book was still the key. He had studied it a number of times
but he knew he must be missing something. The door handle moved in his hand.
It was then that he knew there was someone else nearby.
There was nothing tangible on which to base the sudden knowledge but Croft didn’t require hard evidence. He had stopped relying solely on his five senses years before. Surviving in his unique line of work had often meant listening to a sixth sense.
Another wave of nausea hit him at that moment. Christ. Just what he needed.
He staggered slightly as the sick feeling threatened to overwhelm him. It took a fierce act of will to fight down the queasy sensation. He had to control it.
The nausea faded. Croft took advantage of the returning euphoria to make his way to the door. He left the vault unlocked but closed behind him. He stepped out into the shadows of the garden, remembering his first thought when he had seen the pool room.
A good place to hunt or hide.
Gravel crunched under his booted foot. A false sense of well-being must be making him careless. Or had the crunching sound come from someone else? He ought to be able to tell the difference, damn it.
A heavy palm frond blocked his path. Croft put out a hand and shoved it aside with a sense of impatience. There was someone else in the garden, he was sure of it. Not a guest. A guest wouldn’t have cared how much noise he or she made. Whoever it was was trying to hide.
Time to play hunter, Croft told himself, feeling suddenly invincible. Mercy was always saying he reminded her of a ghost. Well, now was the time to play ghost.
Another crunch of leather on gravel. His own footstep or someone else’s? Croft wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and discovered he was sweating.
Couldn’t be nerves. He knew what fear tasted like and he wasn’t tasting it tonight. Not yet at any rate.
Instinctively he headed toward the pool. There was more light in that direction. He would force the other hunter to reveal himself against the blue glow of the underwater lighting. He chose another path and started toward the center of the garden.
What a truly brilliant idea, he thought. Make the other guy reveal himself. Too bad Mercy wasn’t here to appreciate his brilliance. Croft got the feeling that on occasion she didn’t think too highly of his strategic planning capabilities. Little did she know. He was good at this kind of thing.
Damn good.
But not good enough that night.
Croft sensed the movement behind him but his body didn’t react the way it had been trained to do. Everything went wrong.
He tried to turn and stumbled, slightly off balance. The movement hardly qualified as a stunning example of training and coordination, but it probably saved his life. The blow that had been meant to land on the back of his head caught him mostly on the shoulder.
Croft had a distant impression of someone hovering in the bushes, watching him. But he couldn’t concentrate on his unseen opponent. Searing pain shot through his arm and up his neck. It was followed by a sense of rage that would have been earthshaking if he had been in any condition to give voice to it.
The only thing he could do was go with the flow. He let the force of the blow send him over the edge of the pool and into the water.
Blind, dumb instinct kept him from moving so much as a muscle as he hit the surface. He floated face down in the water and concentrated on holding his breath. After all those years of breathing exercises, he ought to at least be able to hold his breath for a while. Croft knew his survival probably depended on his assailant assuming that he would quickly drown.
It was a logical assumption under the circumstances. Drunks who got struck on the head and wound up facedown in a swimming pool usually did drown.
Croft opened his eyes and stared down through the depths of the glowing water. Mercy was right. The color of the pool water bore an uncanny resemblance to Gladstone’s eyes.
Mercy. Sweet Mercy, I need you.
Chapter 13
Much to Mercy’s surprise, she found herself interested in the conversation with Micah Morgan, Gladstone and Isobel. Micah’s enthusiasm was contagious, and if Gladstone’s comments weren’t always amazingly insightful or brilliant, one could always take pleasure in just listening to his marvelous speaking voice.
“The important thing about working in Santa Fe,” Micah was explaining very seriously, “is the fact that there would still be a couple thousand miles between me and New York. You wouldn’t have to worry about me being influenced by the East Coast art establishment. You were absolutely right two years ago when you told me I needed to get out of New York. But I’m changing again. I really think it’s time I left the colony. I’m beginning to feel stifled there.”
“Moving to Santa Fe isn’t the answer for you, Micah. Too much West Coast influence there now,” Gladstone told him soothingly. “The hard edges would bleed through into your work. You need time to solidify your unique style before you try to take it to either L.A., New York or Santa Fe. Trust me. You need the control and isolation of the colony for a while longer. It’s done wonders for you.”
Micah’s head bobbed up and down like a yo-yo on a string. “I know Erasmus. It has done a great deal for me. I’ll admit you’re usually right, but—”
Isobel smiled benignly. “Erasmus is always right. You must trust him when it comes to this kind of thing.”
Micah sighed. “Don’t worry, I do. So do most of the people in this room.” He smiled at Mercy. “All of us here tonight have reason to be grateful to Erasmus. Without his help and financial encouragement, most of us would be trying to make a living doing advertising layouts or department store windows. Are you going to be joining the colony?”
Mercy smiled self-deprecatingly “I’m afraid I’m a business person, not an artist. But I’ve seen your work in the sitting room across the hall. It’s wonderful. I love your nice, clean colors and shapes.”
“Micah has an extraordinarily fine sense of color and shape,” Erasmus interjected.
Micah looked thrilled. “Can I get you another drink?” he asked Mercy.
She looked down at her empty glass and decided not to mention that she had been drinking water. She started to respond as she handed her glass to Micah, but nearly tripped over the polite words as an image of water flickered through her mind.
Blue, glowing water. Water the color of Erasmus Gladstone’s eyes. Unable to help herself, Mercy glanced quickly at Gladstone. He was saying something to Isobel that was making the other woman smile politely. Then they both turned away to talk to a woman dressed in a glittering, iridescent leotard.
“Mercy?” Micah Morgan cocked a quizzical brow. “A glass of…water sounds good.”
“Just water? Nothing in it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” Micah said amiably. “Be right back.”
Mercy watched him disappear into the crowd. Then she glanced again at Gladstone and Isobel, who appeared to be deeply involved in their new conversation.
Glowing blue water rippled through her mind again. She wondered uneasily how Croft was doing down in the vault. Automatically, as she had every few minutes, she checked to see that Dallas and Lance were still in the room. Dallas was tending the bar and Lance was just coming in from the kitchen with another loaded tray of canapés. She had seen him go into the kitchen a few minutes earlier.
Damn it, this was ridiculous. There was nothing to worry about. She couldn’t really bring herself to believe Erasmus Gladstone was the evil Egan Graves in disguise, and even if she did believe it, there was no denying Croft was more than capable of taking care of himself. He always seemed to know what he was doing.
The water image faded from her mind, but the sense of uneasiness did not. Mercy began wondering how long it took to thoroughly explore the interior of a man’s private library vault. How long before someone noticed Croft had disappeared?
One thing about this crowd, it did
provide good cover. There were a number of men dressed in black or other dark colors scattered around the room. Croft’s absence wasn’t immediately noticeable.
Nothing should be wrong, but something was.
After having awakened more than once now with this strange, uneasy feeling in the middle of the night, Mercy was not inclined to ignore it when it struck, even if it did so in the middle of a party. Being around Croft seemed to have caused her to develop a sixth sense of awareness.
She remembered his unusual cheeriness earlier. For the first time she wondered if Croft really had had too much to drink before he undertook his trip downstairs. He had claimed he hadn’t, but he’d had half a glass of wine in his hand and there was no telling how much he had had before she saw him last.
The idea of Croft drunk was ludicrous. But if she hadn’t known him better, she would have sworn he had been dangerously close to overindulging just before he left for the basement.
Mercy waited no longer. A glance across the room showed that Micah had gotten sidetracked by a blonde in a pair of red long johns and three-inch high heels. Gladstone and Isobel were still occupied with their leotarded friend. Mercy slipped through the crowd toward the door. No one paid her any attention.
Outside in the hall she heard a few voices whispering and laughing from the elegant sitting room. Someone had turned off the lights and it was obvious the couples who had retreated to that room had not gone there to enjoy the starlit view of the Rockies.
Mercy waited a minute to make certain no one noticed her and then she headed for the staircase. The sounds of laughter and the smell of marijuana and tobacco faded rapidly as she descended into the lower level of the big house.
An eerie silence and the familiar combination of chlorine and growing plants hit her as she pushed open the glass doors and stepped out onto the platform. The glowing blue of the swimming pool drew her eye. The room was dark because the overhead lights were off, but not as shadowed as last night when all the lights except those in the pool had been dimmed. Tonight the green glow from the undergrowth lit the paths that led toward the water.
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