He's A Magic Man (The Children of Merlin)

by Susan Squires

  Nothing for it. She had to wait until morning.

  *****

  The old woman opened her eyes. Jason was a blur at the end of the bed. Her eyesight was failing now. It wouldn’t be long. A week? Not much longer.

  “The guy needs a picture of it to find it,” Jason said, after he got off the phone.

  “Hardwick,” she muttered.

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll see what he can find in that dusty old library.” She saw his silhouette punch at his cell. “Hardwick, here’s what I need.”

  “Make him prove he’s a Finder before he gets the picture,” she croaked. She couldn’t see Jason’s expression. She didn’t have to. It would be sly. He knew she was getting weaker.

  He finished his instructions and pocketed the phone.

  “Be careful, Jason,” she said in a clearer voice than she had managed before.

  There was a pause. He’d be thinking about how much she knew, and how strong she might still be. “I will,” he said finally.

  It occurred to her that all he might really have to do was wait.

  *****

  Needless to say, Drew didn’t get a whole lot of sleep in the little motel she found next to a T.G.I. Friday’s. She woke up groggy and threw herself together, dressing down in leggings and some drapey, layered light knits and strappy sandals with a fairly low spike heel. Then it was out of the city and down the highway to the Keys, with a Diet Coke and a fast-food yogurt parfait in the cup holders.

  She might be on a wild goose chase. Probably was. But somewhere in a marina on Key West was a boat called The Purgatory. The guy she was looking for worked on it, or worked for this Brandon St. Claire, who was taking it out treasure hunting pretty soon. She could find that boat and the guy she’d seen. How many marinas could there be on Key West?

  Driving over the long bridged highway between the Keys should have been a fun, new experience but Drew hardly registered the translucent aquamarine of the water or the mangrove swamps that lined the shores of the little islands. She could almost feel the pull of something drawing her on. When finally she reached the last stretch of Highway 1 as it slid down off the bridge into Key West she could see that the whole island was ringed with marinas. A rush of panic filled her. What if she couldn’t find The Purgatory?

  But there had been a TV production crew here two days ago. Surely the locals would remember where it had been filming. She just had to stop and ask. As she drove onto the island proper, she headed, without hesitation, past the first marina she came to. That marina wasn’t what she was looking for. She might as well get close before she asked. And there was a strange feeling of inevitability coming over her. She drove out to the end of the island. There were boat docks at the end of every street. Bigger marinas sprouted on the side closest to the Caribbean. That made sense. That would be a good place to ask. A boat that was going treasure hunting in Caribbean waters would be docked there, wouldn’t it?

  But as she reached the last street before the water, the car just wanted to turn left. Or she did. It was like playing with the Ouija board when they were kids. Did they move it or did it move itself, and what did it matter in the end? So she followed her nose. Her nose was taking her back, out of Key West. Stupid. Very, very stupid. But she couldn’t help herself. She passed all the banks and strip malls and shopping centers and the big fancy marinas. This was just dandy. She felt almost compelled to drive back over the bridge.

  There it was. The exit sign said Stock Island. She knew this was the way she was meant to go. She took McDonald Avenue and then just turned where it seemed right, driving slowly down the tiny frontage road called Shrimp Avenue as the marinas petered out. At first there were boat supply houses on her right, a gas station, a coffee shop, but as she continued the places got seedier and the people in the streets, mostly men, tougher looking. Asphalt gave way to gravel that crunched under her tires. The feeling in her gut had gotten almost like pain. Had she worked herself into an ulcer?

  A rough-looking bar was the last building on the street facing the water, the kind with no windows and guys in sleeveless jean jackets and heavy leather boots lounging around the open door. The painted sign just said O’Toole’s. For some reason Drew just couldn’t tear her eyes away from the dark maw of that door. She slowed the Toyota to a crawl. Why was a place like this so fascinating?

  She shook her head, trying to clear it. A dilapidated board pier caught her attention about a hundred yards ahead, across a tangle of low mangroves with their feet in the lapping water. It jutted into a tiny cove dug out of the shoreline. A few small, shabby boats were moored there, and one larger one. Then some broken pilings jutted like jack-o’-lantern teeth from the mangrove bushes before they gave way to open water. This wasn’t the shiny marina she’d seen on TV. No idyllic rocking of expensive boats, their teak and brass reeking of money.

  Her mouth was dry. It didn’t matter. The larger boat moored out at the end of the dock would be The Purgatory. She just knew it.

  She pulled the old Toyota into a little dirt parking lot in front of the dock. Before she could park, an engine roared behind her and a red Corvette skidded around the Toyota into the lot and screeched to a stop. She recognized the driver instantly. It was Brandon St. Claire from the Treasure Hunter show, looking just as clean cut and blunt jawed as he had on TV. Only now he was one angry dude. Now she knew she was in the right place.

  St. Claire opened the door of the Corvette and practically threw himself out of the car. “Now, honey,” the woman in the passenger seat soothed, “don’t do anything stupid.” She was a real looker. Her strawberry blond hair was artfully wind tossed, even though there wasn’t a breeze in sight. Her pristine skin was fair and her cheekbones belonged on a model. She was expensive candy and she knew it.

  “That fucker stood me up,” St. Claire bellowed.

  Was he talking about her guy? Drew had thought the place was deserted, but an old guy popped up from where he’d been sanding wood on a little sailboat.

  “Honey.” Now the girl’s voice had an edge to it. “You know we can’t do a TV show. Our friend wouldn’t approve.”

  “I don’t care. That publicity would have been dynamite for my business. Nobody crosses me like that. You there,” St. Claire shouted to the old man. “Where’s Dowser?”

  The guy was balding and grizzled. He wore an old gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out and some ratty sweatpants. His deck shoes had definitely seen better days. “Can’t say, for sure,” the old guy said. Drew saw the way his eyes narrowed as St. Claire strode up to him.

  “You tell him I’m going to ruin him. I waited all morning.”

  The expensive candy sighed and got out of the car. She had legs that went on forever, up to a teeny knit skirt in bright orange. She was wearing Manolos. But they were last year’s. Looked a little out of place in a dirt parking lot.

  “Hey, mister,” the old man protested. “Get a grip.”

  “Where… is… he?”

  The woman slid an arm under St. Claire’s. He was practically shaking, he was so mad.

  “Don’t know where he is,” the old man said, jaw jutting. St. Claire started ahead, as if to pry Dowser out of The Purgatory. The old man held up a hand. “Hasn’t been here all morning.”

  “He’s probably drunk somewhere,” the eye candy said, pouting. “Can’t do a thing drunk.” Drew expected her to have a southern accent, but she didn’t. Kinda nondescript, as though she’d lived all over. She sure knew how to simper though. She tugged on St. Claire’s elbow a little. “Besides, he said we gotta have a picture of it. And we don’t. Not yet,”

  St. Claire seemed to come to himself. He took a breath. “Okay.” He looked down at the strawberry blond. “Okay,” he said again. Then he turned back to the old man. “You tell him, Thursday morning. Nine sharp. We’ll bring a picture. And he better deliver the goods, after all the trouble he’s been.”

  “I’ll give him the message if I see him,” the old man said, his voice disapproving.


  St. Claire and the woman backtracked to the Corvette. She folded her long legs into the seat and St. Claire spun the car around. As St. Claire hit the accelerator the Corvette shot past Drew and her Toyota. They didn’t even notice her.

  Drew pulled into the parking lot and hurried across the sandy lot to the worn boards of the dock. Maybe she’d have better luck looking for her guy than St. Claire had had looking for this Dowser person. The old man was heading back to his boat, shaking his head.

  “Hello there.” At her call, he turned around and waited patiently for her to approach.

  Now she could make out the lettering on the larger boat’s prow. She could hardly get her breath. The Purgatory. How the hell had she known it was here? No asking around. No checking thirty marinas before she found the right one. She had just driven right to it. Drew swallowed. That was a little scary, but also exciting. Destiny. That was the only thing it could be. She was about to find the man who might change everything for her.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said breathlessly, without preamble. “Can you help me? I’m looking for someone.”

  “You and everybody else this morning.” The old man emitted a kind of a humphing sound.

  She smiled. She used one of her mother’s smiles. Warm, a little self-deprecating. Really hard to refuse. Drew knew that from personal experience. “But I promise to be nicer.”

  That drew a chuckle from the old man. “Wouldn’t take much. Who you looking for?”

  “He was on TV the other night. On that boat.” She nodded to The Purgatory.

  The old guy shook his head. “Just missed him. But he looks like he’s already got a girl.”

  “Not St. Claire. I’m looking for the other guy. Big, in good shape from what I could see. Dark hair, olive skin....”

  The chuckle again. “It must be Dowser’s morning.”

  “Dowser?” The man who drew St. Claire’s anger. Was that a first name or a last name?

  “Guy who owns The Purgatory.” The old man nodded toward the bigger boat.

  “Yes. Yes. A ... a good-looking man. Early forties maybe?”

  “Thirty-six,” the old guy corrected her, spitting into the water off the pier. “But he lives hard. You don’t want to get mixed up with him.”

  “Yes I do. Well, I mean I want to talk to him.” She could see the old man deciding he wasn’t going to tell her. “If you really don’t know where he is, I’ll just hang out here. He’ll come back if he owns the boat.”

  The old man looked disgusted. He sighed and shook his head. “Headstrong girls these days.” His bright old eyes snapped back to Drew. “Dowser’s having a bad day. He’s probly up at O’Toole’s. But that ain’t a place for you.”

  The place that had almost pulled her off the road. Drew felt her eyes get wide before she got control of her expression. “Thank you, then. I’ll catch him at O’Toole’s.” It was good that her guy owned the boat. That gave her an excuse to approach him in the bar. She had no experience approaching guys. They’d always come to her.

  “Better have 911 on speed dial, if you’re going in there.” The old man rubbed his beard as if the world just continued to surprise him as Drew walked back to her car.

  This was getting more than a little scary. Had she been so fascinated with that bar because the guy who’d been haunting her was in there? She didn’t really want to think about that. Or the fact that she’d have to brave those tough characters hanging around the door to find out. She’d grown up with brothers who were bigger than she was, so she thought she could hold her own with normal guys. But these probably weren’t normal guys. Her spike heels were small. Not much good as weapons. Did it matter? She’d come all the way across the country to find this guy. She wasn’t stopping now.

  She pulled the Toyota as far off the road as she could and got out. There were no curbs or sidewalks here. She took a breath and walked across the street. The men’s eyes raked her body. There were four. Dirty tee shirts, scuffed biker boots. Lots of chains hanging out of pockets. The black guy had a Rolex watch. Either a knockoff, or he’d knocked somebody off to get it.

  “You lost, sweetheart, or just slummin’?” one with extremely close-cropped hair asked.

  “I’m looking for someone.” Drew put on her most damping tone.

  “I bet she’s looking for me, Danny.” The guy had tattoos, even on his face.

  Drew looked him over as she pushed through them toward the door. “I think... not.”

  “How about me?” the guy with almost no hair called Danny asked.

  “Definitely not,” she said as she left their laughter behind.

  They might be laughing, but she could feel them coming in behind her and that sent shivers down her spine. Their big bodies blocked the light from the open door. The whole place felt like invisible electric sparks were careening around in the air. Was it from fear, or was it some kind of magic she felt?

  The bar was so dark she couldn’t get her bearings at first. It smelled of cheap alcohol and old cigarette smoke. Fans whirred overhead, but apparently the owners couldn’t afford air conditioning. The place was still sticky warm. She heard the click of billiard balls. Yeah, there was a table under a swinging light in the back. Her eyes began to adjust. The bar itself was little more than rough planks worn smooth by elbows over the years, set on large barrels. The bartender was a big guy, but gone to seed with thinning gray hair. He was idly polishing glasses. He wasn’t too particular on streaks. As he turned to her, he stopped in mid-swipe. Pretty much everybody else stopped what they were doing too and turned to look. Jeez. She was sorry her watch wasn’t a knockoff and her simple jewelry was worth a fair amount of money with the price of gold these days. That wasn’t even counting the emeralds in the ring. They weren’t huge and no one here would know they were first quality, but still. There were only two other women in the bar. And they didn’t look like her. One, plump and sagging, had menopause-red hair, and one was rail thin. Her hand shook as she raised her glass.

  The bartender moved toward Drew. “Can I do something for you?”

  He sounded like he thought she was selling something. “I’ll have a ... scotch.” She slid onto the nearest stool. Did a place like this have scotch? Everybody seemed to be drinking beer. The bartender bent down to get a bottle, giving her a clear view of the other end of the bar.

  Everything and everyone in the bar faded away. Her guy was sitting at the far end. He wore a black tee shirt with some red lettering on it. It bulged over his biceps. He was really muscled, much more impressive in person than on TV. She slid off the stool, drawn around the bar toward him. He was the only one in the place who wasn’t looking at her. His hair was disheveled, curling in black waves with some gray streaks at the temples. It hadn’t been cut in a while. His stubble had a little gray in it too. He tossed back a shot of some golden brown liquid.

  He slammed the shot glass down on the bar. “Gimme ’nother one, Al.” The words were slurred. He was really drunk. Drew frowned. Now that her eyes had fully adjusted, she could see that his face was puffy around the eyes. This guy couldn’t have reached across a continent to her and raised her powers. He couldn’t reach across the bar for his own drink if he was dying of thirst. Which he wasn’t. He looked to be very well lubricated.

  “Hold on, Dowser. I’m getting a scotch for the lady,” Al called.

  “I need ’nother one now.” The voice was a baritone growl. Between that and the muscles, he looked like a guy you wouldn’t want to mess with. If he could stand up, that is.

  “Relax. Another minute won’t get you sober,” Al the bartender said.

  Drew’s heart was doing Riverdance in her chest as she slid up on the barstool next to him. He smelled like booze and sweat. But that didn’t stop her reaction to him. She had a hard time getting her breath. Maybe he’d be okay if he were cleaned up. Sober. Like he had been on TV. Suddenly she remembered that he’d stumbled while Brandon St. Claire was talking to the interviewer, and two guys had helped him up.


  Maybe this drunk wasn’t a one-time thing.

  Underneath the drunk, he sure was a looker. His shoulders were huge. His eyes were such a dark brown they looked black. And there was a pain in those eyes that booze couldn’t erase. She’d never seen anyone who looked that damaged. Damaged equaled trouble. But she couldn’t just turn around and walk out. She’d come all the way from LA just to find him. And she had, just like it was her destiny drawing her forward. “Your name is Mr. Dowser?”

  She heard sniggers behind her.

  “Just Dowser,” he muttered, staring regretfully into his empty glass.

  The bartender slid her scotch across the bar to her. “Seven bucks.”

  “I’ll run a tab,” Drew said without looking at him. She had eyes only for the cheekbones, the dark eyes, the sensuous lips of her TV guy.

  “She’ll run a tab.” A guy down the bar barked a laugh.

  Oops. She couldn’t even offer a credit card to hold the tab open. And this wasn’t exactly the Polo Lounge. Oh, well. Brazen it out. “You can put Mr. Dowser’s next drink on it,” Drew said, and now she stared down the bartender. She’d learned that particular look from her father.

  The bartender raised both hands in surrender. Drew turned her attention back to her quarry. “I’d like to hire your boat.”

  “She wants to hire the boat,” Dower repeated to no one in particular. Then he shook his head. “Can’t. Can’t hire the boat.”

  “Why not?” Drew was surprised. The guy obviously needed money. His jeans were frayed and the tee shirt, which she could now see said “Jake’s Dock and Dive” on it, had seen better days. The rumpled khakis and white shirt of the TV shoot were Sunday best compared to what he wore now.

  “Boat’s already hired. Going out to find treasure.”

  “I think you were supposed to be doing that this morning.”