IN ROOM 33 (39 page)

Wade had long ago given up judging anyone on the basis of their sexuality, and he was okay with the close-the-bedroom-door-and-let-consenting-adults-do-what-ever-they-felt-like-doing school of thought. But Joe and a male lover? The mean old bastard Christian Rupert to boot? As revelations go, it was right up there with discovering you'd fathered quintuplets during a one-night stand. It would take time to digest. He thought of his grandmother, the obvious love she and his grandfather displayed for one another until her death five years before his.

Rupert cackled behind him. "You're thinking it's impossible."

"I'm trying not to think at all." He chased his brandy burn with another and set his glass on the piano near the terrace windows. "Why are you telling me this, anyway?"

"Because I'm going to kill myself tonight and I feel the need to purge my soul."

Wade eyed the ancient, withered man. "You're going to kill yourself," he repeated, wanting to be sure he heard right.

"Yes," he said. "I think it's the best course of action. I have no wish to be forcibly removed from my home, mauled by strangers. Perhaps dragged to a flea-infested police station. There is no doubt such a process would kill me, so I've decided to handle my passing in my own way."

Wade went back to the footstool. "And how do you plan to bring about your... 'passing.'?"

"With this." Rupert pulled a revolver from his side. One very much like Smitty.

Adrenaline jolted Wade's back straight."Messy," he said, and gestured toward the gun. "For a man of your fastidious nature, I'd have thought you'd pick something neater. A nice crystal goblet full of arsenic, maybe."

Rupert sighed, bobbed his head. "Yes, all the blood... That is a downside, I'm sorry to say. Perhaps Sinnie will be good enough to clean up after me."

"I don't think so, considering you sicced Big Mike on her. Your sister's lucky to be alive, Rupert."

"She told you?" He blinked. Obviously it was his turn to be surprised—and annoyed.

Wade nodded, kept his eye on the gun. "What I don't know is why the big secret, or why you treated her like a damn servant all these years."

"Sinnie's a woman, therefore she's a fool. She didn't listen to my father or me. Ran off with that useless husband of hers. My father disowned her and so did I. Then, when she found herself alone and penniless, of course she came crawling back." He stroked the edge of his robe's lapel. "I gave her a job and put a roof over her head, told her she'd have both as long as she understood I was not her brother and she could make no claim on me."

"She's your sister, for God's sake, and that's all you'd do for her?"

"She disobeyed me, and then—"

"Then what? Overcooked your damn bacon?"

"She befriended your atrocious family. Unforgivable, really. I should have thrown her out then, but I found her useful." He lifted the gun, waved it in a slow, uneven arc.

Wade had almost forgotten it was there. Almost. Now it had his full attention.

"But let's forget about Sinnie," Rupert went on. "There are more interesting things to discuss." He centered the gun, leveled it at Wade's chest."Before I turn this on myself"—he wobbled the gun—"I really would like to clear up a few things."

"Fine." A faint creak came from the hall. Wade swallowed. Joy! Damn, he'd thought she'd left when the gun appeared. He forced his focus back to Rupert, the death in his bony hand, prayed she'd stay in the shadows.

"Your grandfather and I were lovers," Rupert said.

"So you told me." He strained to hear more sound from the hall. Nothing. Maybe what he'd heard was her leaving.

"But did I tell you how reluctant a lover he was?"

Wade didn't want to hear any more of the man's venom, but the gun pointed at his chest narrowed his options.

"He wanted to build this hotel—so very badly. But money was a problem. And, as I'd just inherited a substantial fortune upon the death of my father, I agreed to finance his dream in exchange for this place until the end of my life." He swept the hand not holding the gun in a wide arc. "I was your grandfather's angel, young Emerson, and he was more than happy to take my money. But I wanted more, and told him so. But when I spoke of my love for him, suggested ways of deepening our partnership, he laughed at me, assumed I was joking. I was not. I did love him"—he closed his eyes as if to right his thoughts—"and I intended to have him. I waited until he'd committed the sum I'd promised to his various creditors. Then, the night before I was to sign the final papers for the loan, I informed him I would withdraw my financing, let the hotel project sink unless he came to me, or to be more specific, to my bed."

"Jesus! You are a sick bastard."

It was as if Rupert hadn't heard him. "It was the Depression years, and I knew he'd exhausted all his financial resources before turning to me in the first place. I made certain I was in a position to get what I wanted—as I always do. And I wanted him. In every way possible. He was so beautiful..." He stared at Wade, blinked slowly. "As you are, Wade. Very beautiful."

Wade's chest moved. He took in air, but he couldn't feel it; his lungs were blocks of ice.

"You call me a bastard," he went on, his voice growing stronger. "I see myself as single-minded in getting what I want. Always. I gave Joe an ultimatum. Be in my bed by midnight or the front door of his fancy Hotel Philip would never open—and I'd see him, his wife, and his infant son on the bread lines.

"Oh, but he was so gloriously stubborn." Rupert's voice was distant now, dreamlike. "But, in the end, he came, of course. The night was—"

"You odious little prick. He must have hated you."

"I suspect he did." Rupert rubbed his forehead, and his mouth set into a tight line. "Although not nearly as
much as I came to hate him."

"I take it he preferred his wife."

"You take it right. But I didn't care. I was young. My love was blind and my passions unbridled.
I would make him love me.
I signed the papers in the morning, confident he'd never meet the stringent terms of my loan, that there would be many opportunities for future liaisons."

"Sexual extortion, you mean. But knowing Grandfather, there were no other
'opportunities.'
" Wade remembered his granddad's boast about how he'd always paid his bills, his stern lectures to Wade to do the same and never be "beholden to any man." Now he knew why.

"No. Joseph made every payment—via a third party. I lived in the hotel, but he never looked at me or spoke to me again. I resolved to ruin him, of course—force him to come back to me. But he remained unyielding. Even Room 33 wasn't enough." He chuckled then. "Although it did offer me endless amusement."

"Room 33?"

"Brilliant of me, really. The hotel was doing well. Joseph was meeting his payments. It grew increasingly unbearable"—he shuddered—"the rooms full all the time, people coming and going—bringing god-knows-what germs in with them. It was about that time I became concerned about my health. Then that wonderfully ridiculous 'room of doom' article appeared, and when I saw how the hotel's business temporarily dropped off, I had my plan. I simply ensured that similar events were staged on a regular basis. The press is such a wonderful source of ideas."

Wade, still sitting on the hassock, gaped at the evil in front of him. "You had a family of three murdered to get back at my grandfather?" Saying it didn't make it comprehensible. He was cold to the soles of his feet.

"He never knew, of course. About any of it. That would have spoiled the fun." His expression clouded. "I'd thought I could break him, that when the hotel failed he'd crawl up the stairs to the penthouse—late one night—and beg me to save him."

"It never happened."

"Sadly, no. I did, however, achieve at least part of my goal. Hotel bookings declined, and I was gradually able to exercise much more control over the Philip's inhabitants. Unfortunately, the caliber of the guests did deteriorate as the years passed." He frowned slightly. "In the end, I suppose you'd call it a wash. Isn't that when you don't get exactly what you want, but enough to justify your efforts?" He smiled then, drew back into his chair. "I'm glad we had this opportunity to talk before we leave."

"You're the one leaving." Wade started to get up, but the gun in Rupert's hand—pointed at his chest with not a wobble in sight—stopped him cold.

"Remain in your seat," Rupert instructed. "I have more to say."

Wade relaxed back onto the hassock, eyed the gun. "Shoot," he said, his tone deliberately ironic.

"Very amusing. Another time and another place and I think you and I could get along nicely."

"Sure, I always bond well with sickos who stick guns in my face."

"It's your grandfather's fault, really. All of it. I was prepared to ignore your presence here, but one of the terms of my 'ownership' of this penthouse is that when I die it goes back to the hotel proper." The gun held steady. "When I agreed to the term, it meant nothing to me. I was young, death inconceivable. And I was stupidly love struck. But now—after all I've been put through—the idea of an Emerson owning my home is completely unacceptable."

"It's not an Emerson who owns the Philip, or have you forgotten that?"

"I've forgotten nothing. And I'm no fool. You and the Cole girl are lovers, and I suspect you, Emerson, have a reason for that coitus other than carnal pleasure. You want this hotel—as your grandfather did before you. And it's been my experience that Emerson men always get what they want—if there is a woman involved." His lip arced to sneer. "Women are ignorant creatures. Put some stars in their eyes, they open their legs. Promise them a trip down the aisle, they open their hearts. Once there,
voila!
You have them." His smile was snide, knowing. "And if they happen to own a hotel, you have that, too."

Wade barely heard him. There was a shadow behind Rupert and it moved. Jesus! His heart hammered. Joy hadn't left! He had to keep Rupert's attention on him. "You're dreaming, Rupert." He raised his voice. "The Philip belongs to Joy Cole, and the way things are shaping up, it'll stay that way."

"Yes, it will because I intend to
ensure
it does, by seeing you dead, before I see you wed." A slight lift of the gun barrel.

Wade hurled himself sideways. Rupert fired.

He rolled into the darkness beyond the sputtering candle; his arm burned as if seared by a branding iron. He held it with his good hand to stanch the bleeding. He'd been lucky. Now all he needed to do was breathe, and get Joy the hell out of here.

In the halo of light provided by the candle, Rupert struggled to rise from his chair, the gun tight in his grasp.

"Emerson," he shouted, almost to his feet.

Ghostly, slender arms emerged from the darkness behind him. Pale and disembodied, a pair of hands gripped his shoulders, yanked him roughly back into the recliner.

A waterfall of blond hair fell forward to flow over the old man's head.

"Sit down, you cruel, miserable old man!" Joy had caught him off guard and took advantage of it. She ripped the gun from his hand, and called into the dark room, her voice high, anxious. "Wade, are you there? Are you okay?"

Wade stepped into candlelight range, holding his bleeding arm; she came right toward him. "That looks bad. I'll call 911."

"No, Miss Joy Cole, you will not."

Wade looked past her to see Rupert, on his feet now, a small, glittering pistol in his hand—pointed at Joy.

"Fuck!" Wade said under his breath. "We've got ourselves a senior Rambo. How many of those have you got in that damn chair?"

"Enough. A man is nothing without his Plan B." He took a step closer. "Now, to business. Which of you would like to go first?"

Wade tried to get Joy behind him, but she stepped to his side. Finally, he gave up and moved forward, which gave him a better chance to shield her if he had to move suddenly.

The old man sneered at Joy's stubborn posture. "I guess you're not as good at keeping your women in line as I thought."

"Women have come a long way since your century, Mr. Rupert," Joy said. "That would be the fifteenth, right?"

He ignored her, spoke to Wade. "I've never killed a woman. That was David's forte. All I did was provide a frightened boy a place to bury her body." He gestured with the gun toward the terrace. "Although my act of kindness did prove convenient for me. Whenever I needed something done, I'd simply call my David, and he'd come running. Just like Melly."

Wade experienced a brief stab of empathy for Grange. Living your life in debt to this creature would be a hell. He'd have been better off paying his dues in the legal system. And as for Wade, he'd had it! He didn't intend to spend another minute listening to Rupert's malevolent bile—or having Joy in the sightline of his pistol.

He dropped and lunged, took another slicing burn damn close to the other one, but he took the old man down. No contest. It was like knocking over a stack of kindling.

He shoved him into his chair—none too gently—and turned to Joy. "Now, call 911."

While she dialed, Wade removed Rupert's robe sash and secured him to his chair. He also searched it. Hell—who knew?—maybe he'd stashed a couple of grenades. Wade wasn't taking any more chances.