Midnight Jewels

bullet in them."
    "You think the local cops are going to be looking for bullet holes if they find two charred bodies in the wreckage of a burned out car?" Lance scoffed. "Once they find the fake alcohol in Falconer's system they won't ask any more questions."
    "Yeah, but Gladstone—"
    "Stop worrying about Gladstone. We'll handle this our own way."
    A cold breeze was stirring the branches overhead. The increased moaning of the tree limbs covered whatever response Dallas made to Lance's comment. Mercy retreated behind another shack and crouched low, trying to listen for footsteps. It would be awkward if she blithely rounded the corner of one of these old buildings and ran straight into Dallas or Lance. Or Croft, for that matter, she added silently. In his present state he could easily mistake her for the enemy before he realized who she was.
    For the first time she realized that was a very real danger. Perhaps she should have stayed in that horrible place Croft had left her.
    The unfortunate second thoughts were shattered by a man's shout and the rapid firing of two more shots.
    "I got him. Over here, Dallas. I got the bastard."
    Mercy cringed as heavy, running footsteps came straight down the narrow alley between buildings where she was hiding and passed by. Her first reaction was complete denial. Lance couldn't have shot Croft. It wasn't possible. But earlier that evening she would have sworn it was impossible for Croft Falconer to get drunk and wind up face down in a pool. The man might be part ghost, but he wasn't completely inhuman.
    Mercy's second reaction was to follow Lance: If Croft was wounded, she was his only hope. Grabbing her rounded stick, she got shakily to her feet, listening for Dallas, who was calling for his buddy.
    "Lance? Where are you? Are you sure you got him? What about the woman?"
    But there was no answer from Lance. Warily Mercy stepped out into the narrow strip of uneven ground that separated the two rows of shacks.
    There was no exclamation of triumph or anger. No call for help. Nothing. Not a sound except the moaning of the wind. It appeared that Lance had simply run down the aisle between the row of wooden hulks and vanished into the darkness at the far end.
    The looming structures on either side of Mercy seemed abruptly less substantial than they had a few minutes before, once again taking on that aspect that made them seem half in and half out of the real world. Rocky Mountain starlight played unpleasant tricks on the eyes.
    "Lance! Where the hell are you, man?"
    Dallas' voice sounded from behind Mercy. Automatically she stepped out of the dim starlight back into the dense shadows between two buildings. There was still no response to Dallas' call.
    "Goddamn it, Lance, what the hell's going on?"
    There was real fear in the man's voice now. Mercy recognized it and thought it strange. Dallas was the one with the gun. Interesting that he should be starting to panic. Ghost hunting in Drifter's Creek was not turning out to be the sporting game he bad originally thought it would be, apparently.
    There was a hesitant footstep nearby and then the crashing sound of a sagging door being thrown open. Dallas was on the broken porch of the building to Mercy's right. The flashlight he held cut a jerky path through the darkness. Mercy flinched as he fired into the black shadows of the interior. It occurred to her that Croft was right. She had led a very sheltered life. She had never, for example, heard a gun fired at such close range. It made her ears ring.
    "Shit. Where the hell are you, you bastard?" Dallas spoke in a confused, angry whisper. "
Where are you
?" It wasn't clear if he was speaking to his silent partner or talking about Croft.
    Mercy heard his footsteps on the porch and then a thud as rotting wood gave way beneath Dallas' foot. He swore violently, yanked his foot free from the splintered trap and leaped off the porch.
    His lurching jump took him directly into the narrow path between the shacks where Mercy was hiding. His flashlight picked her out immediately.
    For a split second Dallas simply stared at her. "Goddamn bitch." And the hand holding the gun came up in a swift, smooth arc.
    But Mercy was already moving, closing her eyes against the blinding glare of the light and running straight at him. She held the stick in both hands as if it were a sword aimed at his chest.
    There was a muffled mud and a furious gasp as Mercy found her target. Dallas flailed awkwardly, staggering