Parker And The Gypsy (21 page)

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Authors: Susan Carroll

BOOK: Parker And The Gypsy
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“Fine. If—if that's what you want. Just send me a bill for the days you already worked.”
“There won't be any bill,” Mike said, picking up his trench coat and flinging it over his arm. “I figure between all the psychic readings you've given me, we're even.”
“But I didn't do a good job, Michael.” Sara gave a bitter laugh. “It wasn't until now that I was able to figure out who your shadow man really is. Maybe you should go home and look in the mirror.”
And she turned slowly, giving him a deep sorrowful look that Mike knew he'd remember for a long time to come. He strode toward the door while he still could, getting the hell out of there.
Long moments after Michael had gone, Sara simply stood there, her throat and eyes dry. She wasn't crying. She knew that would come later and it was going to be bad.
But for now she was taking Mike's advice. Just forget it. Forget everything. It would be a good trick if she could pull it off. Just forget the loving that had been beautiful beyond her most incredible imaginings.
Numbly she moved back to the table to clear away the coffee cups and put away her rune stones. The single stone marked X still lay discarded by Mike's cup.
Sara picked up the rune, cradling it in her hand. Partnership....
Maybe you're not as psychic as you think you are
. Mike's harsh words seemed to whisper in her ear.
“Maybe I'm not, Mr. Parker,” Sara said bleakly, dropping the stone back in the bag.
 
He was lost in the alley gain. Mike shrank back, but this time as the shadow man stepped into the light, he was stunned to see his own face reflected back at him, glaring with menacing hate. He cried out as he took the knife and drove it into his own chest....
Dammit! Mike forced himself awake, bolting up in bed, his body soaked in a fine sheet of sweat. Through his bedroom window came the night sounds of the city, harsh and indifferent—traffic rushing, horns blaring, the shouts of a pair of drunks fighting in the street below.
It was a long way from the peace and warmth of Sara's bed. Swearing again, he shook off the last vestiges of his nightmare and dragged himself out of bed. Switching on the bare bulb that dangled above his bed, he stumbled across to a small cabinet.
Fishing out a bottle of whiskey, he poured himself a belt, letting the fiery liquid burn down his throat. Well, this was an all-time low, even for him, he thought blearily. Drinking alone, finding comfort in a bottle. Mike Parker in his skid-row-bum mode.
Glancing up, he caught sight of himself in his bathroom mirror and grimaced. Unshaven jaw, hollow, reddened eyes, straggly hair. Hell, he was the stuff nightmares were made of. He slammed the bathroom door closed, shutting out the sight.
Moving back to the bedroom, he noticed that stupid stuffed dog abandoned on a chair. It seemed to be staring at him, its single glass eye beaming a constant reproach.
“What are you looking at?” he growled.
Shoving the dog aside, he plunked down on the chair himself, placing one hand to his throbbing head. Man, for a guy who didn't believe in love, he was a real mess. These past few days since he'd last seen Sara were among the most miserable of his life, and that was saying a lot.
It was worse than when he'd found out Darcy had been cheating on him and when she'd left him. Then he'd only been in a tearing rage, hurt. Losing Sara made him feel strangely like some part had been ripped out of him. It wouldn't have surprised him at all to discover he was bleeding inside.
He'd always thought of Mike Parker as a survivor, but he'd recently recognized a self-destructive tendency in himself that he didn't like. What the hell had gotten into him? Treating Sara that way, shoving away from him with his own two hands the best thing that had ever happened to him in his life.
But that was the trouble. He obviously wasn't the best thing that had ever happened to her. He scooped up the stuffed dog and lounged back in the chair, staring at his only companion through bleak eyes.
“Sara's going to be all right. That's the important thing,” he mumbled to the dog. “I'm like a bad cold, Sparky. She'll get over me in a couple of weeks.”
He might have been able to convince himself of that if he hadn't made the mistake of cruising by her store today. Damned if Mike knew why he had. Nothing better to do, he guessed.
Something about her shop had disquieted him. The place had looked wrong, desolate somehow. He couldn't put his finger on it at first; then he'd realized what it was. The huge mechanical eye that had been Sara's trademark was gone.
“Aw, hell, Sparky,” Mike groaned. “She took her eye down. She caved in to that Jorgensen woman and her stupid city council.”
Did she? Or was it more likely Sara had caved in to Mike Parker? Who was it that had taken the biggest whack at Sara's confidence in herself?
Mike frowned, trying to dismiss the idea, but he couldn't. That eye coming down was like a symbolic gesture, that Sara no longer believed in her own unique magic, her right to be different. Or maybe she just didn't care anymore.
“Oh, God, angel,” Mike murmured. “What have I done to you?” It was all right for him to be the world's biggest skeptic, but he didn't want her ending up that way. He kept having this stupid, but awful vision—Sara attending a production of Peter Pan and refusing to clap. And that damned fairy was going to die.
“I really screwed things up for her bad,” Mike said. But he couldn't think of any way to put it all right again.
There is one thing you could do, stupid.
Mike scowled at Sparky. Not only was that ratty stuffed dog starting to talk back, but it was also sounding a lot like him.
“So all right, wise guy?” Mike demanded. “What am I supposed to do?”
Do what you promised to do. Find John Patrick.
“Oh, yeah, like that would really solve everything.”
At least it would show Sara that you believe in her and her ghost. And maybe she'd keep believing in herself.
Mike squirmed in his seat. He hated to admit it, but the stupid dog was right.
“But how am I going to find the Patrick kid?” he asked. “I can't even find that old man Kiefer, and even if I do, there's no guarantee he'll remember anything. I've got no more leads, Sparky.”
Yes, you do. A big one.
Mike stared down at the dog for a moment, thinking furiously.
“Yeah, you're right, Sparky,” he said. “For a stuffed dog, you're pretty smart.”
Setting the toy down, he shoved himself to his feet and made his way to the window. Even from the dump that was his apartment, Mike could see it.
In the distance, the winking lights of a millionaire's penthouse, the tallest building in Atlantic City. The home of the one man who'd held all the aces, all the answers to John Patrick's disappearance from the very beginning.
Storm.
Ten
W
hat could a person do with a gigantic eye?
Sara stared bleakly at the mechanical contrivance that was now taking up a large portion of room on the floor of her shop. Maybe she should just dump it on Elaine Jorgensen's doorstep as a sign of her surrender. Or perhaps she could sell the thing to another business in a town with less strict codes.
Maybe an opthamologist might like to have it to advertise his profession. Or... or a private eye.
Mike's image immediately flashed into her mind.
“Oh, no, you don't.” Sara pressed her fingertips to her forehead, willing the image to vanish. “Out, out! Stay out of my head!”
She'd been struggling not to think of the man for days and losing. He interfered with her concentration at every turn. She hadn't been able to do a decent reading of the runes since Mike had left. Though she wasn't sure if that was due more to a certain loss of confidence or that maybe she just didn't care anymore.
Slumping down on the stool behind the cash register, Sara let the despair sweep over her, too weak to fight it. How many lifetimes, she wondered, would it take her to get over Mike Parker? That was the trouble with being a psychic in love. You knew it was going to last forever.
Or maybe it was all just her imagination. Maybe that's all it had ever been. Her feelings for Mike, her seeing Mamie's ghost, her psychic perceptions.
Sara sighed. The phone at her elbow gave her an odd tingle. Without thinking, she answered it before it rang, just as she always did.
“Hello,” she said glumly.
“Sara?” Mike's startled voice echoed from the other end.
“Michael?” she breathed. Her imagination kicked in bigtime, making her feel like her heart was about to pound out of her chest with love. Just for the sound of his voice.
“Yeah, it's me,” he said. “But the phone didn't even ring. How did you—Never mind. Listen, doll. Something's come up. We may be on the verge of a big breakthrough on the Patrick case.”
Sara blinked. What was the man talking about?
“But Michael, you said you weren't going to work on it anymore. And besides,” she added indignantly, “we're not even speaking to each other.”
“Forget about that for now. I need you to get out here to the Pine Top Inn.”
“What? But Mich—”
“Get out here, Sara.
Now!
”
He clicked off before she could protest, leaving her listening to nothing but a dial tone. Sara slammed down the phone, seething with frustration and anger at his presumption. Thinking that he could just walk out on her, then sweep back into her life to...
To do what? He could have given her just a hint of what was happening. Instead, she had only the sound of his voice, filling her with a vague sense of alarm.
All those psychic sensors she wasn't sure she had were going off on full alert, warning her that Mike Parker was about to do something really crazy.
 
Sara sped her blue compact down the dirt road, apprehension a tight knot in her chest as she worried what Mike was up to. Something rash. Something dangerous. Anything was possible with a man who'd been daring enough to confront a knife-wielding thug when he was only twelve years old
Whatever was going on, she had a horrible fear that it was all her fault. She shouldn't have messed with Mike's aura. She shouldn't have pushed him so hard over that business with his father.
Her trepidation only increased as the old inn's towers loomed before her. Gathering dusk gave Pine Top a more sinister and threatening appearance than usual. At least, Sara thought, no matter what Mike had in mind, they wouldn't have to worry about being disturbed by Elaine Jorgensen or anyone else. No one came near the old Pine Top at night unless they were insane. Like Mike Parker.
Or herself. Sara grimaced, hitting the brakes as she pulled to a stop in front of the inn. Parked just ahead beneath the shadows of the trees were two more cars. Mike's hot red Mustang and another vehicle. Metal gray, it was one of those sleek expensive sports cars that ate up the road with a menacing purr.
Through her windshield, Sara could just make out Mike and another taller man, about a yard apart, squared off as though in confrontation. And Mike was wearing his trench coat. Mike Parker in his Sam Spade mode. Oh, dear Lord!
Shoving the car door open, Sara scrambled out, her pulse beating with alarm. She could already sense the hostility in the air. And this time it wasn't coming from the house and Mamie.
As she hurried along the drive, narrowing the distance between herself and the two men, Mike hardly glanced her way to acknowledge her approach. When she drew closer, she saw the reason for it.
Mike held a small handgun trained on the tall dark stranger.
“Mike!” Sara gasped in horror. “What—what are you doing?”
“It's called kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon,” the stranger drawled, not a small feat considering his lip was cut and swollen. “A federal offense, I believe, punishable by up-to-life imprisonment.”
“Michael,” Sara cried.
But Mike appeared undaunted by any possible consequences of his actions. Even in the deepening twilight, Sara could see the set of his jaw—grim, determined and... bruised. His trench coat likewise showed evidence of a recent scuffle, one button torn off, the sleeve smeared with blood, possibly from the stranger's lip.
“Michael, please,” Sara said. “Whatever this is about, surely there's some better, more
legal
way—”
“I'll tell you what this about, angel,” Mike interrupted. “I'd like to introduce you to an old friend of mine. Mr. Xavier Storm.”
“—and I hate any kind of violence. It distresses my aura and...” Sara's voice faded as the impact of Mike's words sunk in. “Storm. You—you mean
the
Mr. Storm. The one who—”
“That's the one, doll.”
Storm, the person who didn't want John Patrick found. The ruthless tycoon that Mike suspected might even be guilty of his murder.
Sara stole a nervous glance at the man with the lean, arrogant features and night black hair. A handsome man, exuding a dangerous kind of sensuality and power despite the fact his expensively tailored suit was streaked with dust, his tie yanked askew.
Studying Sara from beneath hooded eyes, he said, “So you must be Parker's client, the woman who runs the New Age shop. You'll forgive me if I don't offer to shake hands, Miss Holyfield, but...” He raised his arms slightly and Sara saw that Storm's wrists were manacled together. Good God, Mike had the man handcuffed.
Sara was appalled and somewhat relieved. She could feel something very dark emanating from Xavier Storm. Something dark and frightening. Shivering, she drew back closer to Mike.
“Michael, I don't understand. What...how did this happen? I mean how did Mr. Storm end up...”
“Being knocked down, handcuffed and held at gunpoint by a lunatic who thinks he's Humphrey Bogart?” Storm filled in, managing to sound amazingly bored with the entire situation. “Just my lucky night, I guess.”
Mike glared at him. “It all happened quite simply, Sara. I told Storm I had evidence regarding what had become of John Patrick, and if he didn't meet me out here alone, I was going public with my information. As soon as he realized I was bluffing, things got a little...tense.”
A little tense? Despite Storm's relaxed manner and Mike's deadly calm, there were enough undercurrents crackling between these two men to have exploded Newark. Sara glanced from one to the other with increasing dismay.
This was like a scene out of one of Mike's steamy detective novels or those old grainy black-and-white movies he liked to watch. Only, this was horribly real.
“Please, Mike,” Sara said, plucking nervously at his sleeve. “Whatever you think Mr. Storm has done, let the police handle it.”
“Oh, I think the police are the last people Parker would want to see just now,” Storm said with a sneer.
“Or just put the gun away and—and let him go.”
“Let him go?” Mike echoed in disbelief.
“The lady shows some common sense, Parker,” Storm said. “Amazing. Who would ever expect it from a client of yours?”
Mike glared at him while growling at Sara. “Don't you understand, angel? This is the guy who can solve your case for you. He can tell you what happened to John Patrick.”
“I don't care,” Sara said miserably, her head crowded with visions of Mike being carted off to prison for assaulting, or God forbid, maybe even shooting this Xavier Storm. “Why are you doing this? You told me you didn't give a damn about John Patrick anymore, that you wanted to drop the whole thing.”
Mike compressed his lips in a stubborn line. “I never quit any case until it's finished.”
“Oh, I think I can give you a better answer than that,” Storm purred. “The man's finally gone round the bend, Miss Holyfield. Do you know what he muttered during the course of our—er—negotiations here tonight? He has some peculiar notion of what will happen if he doesn't solve this case for you. Something to do with fairies.”
“What?” Sara frowned in confusion.
“Shut up, Storm,” Mike said, making a menacing movement with the gun.
But Storm continued to address his remarks to Sara, unperturbed by Mike's glare. “He said something about being afraid if you lost faith, the next time you wouldn't clap, either, and the fairy would die.”
“Don't pay any attention to him, Sara,” Mike said. “He hit his head when I knocked him down.”
“I'd say it was the other way around.” Storm's tone clearly expressed what he thought of Mike's sanity but his revelation had other implications for Sara. Her gaze flew to Mike's face. She could see him turning red, even in the fading light.
“Michael, did you really say that?”
“So what if I did?” he shot back.
“And you did all this, took this terrible risk, for me?”
Mike shrugged, trying to put on his gruff look. “After the way I upset you the other day, I couldn't leave you doubting yourself, maybe even ending up as cynical as me someday. I had to find some way to show that—that I do believe in you, Sara.”
“So you decided to solve the Patrick case by kidnapping Mr. Storm? All so I'd get my faith back. Oh, Michael.” Sara found it hard to swallow, moved to the point of tears. “I th-think this is most wonderful thing anyone's ever done for me.”
Oblivious to the gun, to Storm, to everything, Sara flung her arms around Mike's neck. Mike gathered her close with his free hand, still managing to keep the weapon trained on Storm.
Sara buried her face against his shoulder. “Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry. Our quarrel that day was my fault. I was being so unreasonable. I didn't mean to push you into anything like this.”
“It's okay, gypsy lady. Don't go getting all weepy on me. Everything's going to be all right.” Mike brushed a light kiss against her hair. “Don't you know I'd risk anything to keep the stars in your eyes?”
Beautiful words, incredible words coming from Mike Parker. Sara lifted her face to his but the tender moment was shattered by Storm's mocking voice.
“How touching. Maybe the judge will assign Miss Holyfield a cell next to yours, Parker. Padded, of course.”
“You just leave Sara out of this. She has nothing to do with my assault on you.”
“She does now. However, I'm a reasonable man, Parker. Put the gun away, unlock these cuffs, give me back- my car keys and I might be persuaded to forget this whole unpleasant episode.”
“Do it, Michael,” Sara urged. “I appreciate what you tried to do for me. For Mamie. But just let him go. You're never going to force anything out of him with that.”
“Don't worry about the gun, doll. It's not even loaded,” Mike whispered. “It's not me that can get the information. It's you.”
“Me?” Sara echoed, startled. Maybe Mike had lost his mind. “How?”
“Just touch him. Read his aura or his thoughts or whatever that thing is you do.”
Dear heavens. Was the man serious? Sara stole a frightened glance at Storm's sinister countenance and shook her head. “I c-can't.”
“Don't be afraid. I won't let him hurt you.”
“It's not that, Michael,” she faltered. “It's just...I'm not sure that it would work. That I really can—”
“You've got to try, Sara. It's our only shot. I believe you can do it.”
She searched his eyes and saw incredibly that he did. The belief was there—warm, fierce and strong. It made her want to fling herself into Mike's arms all over again.

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