Midnight Jewels

of fates.
    How could either man stand the heat of the flames? Mercy wondered. They were both so close to the fire. She kept the gun clutched tightly in her hand as she watched the awful ritual played out to its final conclusion.
    Gladstone was screaming what sounded like gibberish as Croft closed in. But just as Croft was gliding into the final step that would bring Gladstone within reach, his victim succumbed to the hysterical panic that was obviously clawing at him.
    "No! No, I won't let you do it. I won't let you do this to me. You and all the others are trash. Stupid, blundering trash. You're not worthy… There's always a way out. There must be a way out..."
    Gladstone turned and ran straight into the flames. Something heavy fell from the roof, an object that was alive with fire. It struck Gladstone just as he crossed the threshold of his once proud home.
    Mercy saw Croft start to dart forward. "Croft, no! He's dead. You can't touch him now. It's over." She ran toward him, fearful that his need for vengeance and certainty would carry him forward into the flames.
    Croft swung around at the sound of Mercy's voice as if halted by an invisible chain. He stared at her for an instant as she raced toward him. His body was silhouetted by the lethal glare and the heat was washing over him. Then something flickered in his gaze, an expression of longing and unutterable need.
    "Mercy!"
    "It's over, Croft. It's over." She threw herself into his arms and he caught her close in a savage embrace.
    "I know," he whispered hoarsely. "I know." He led her quickly away from the intense heat. , Together they ran back toward the helicopter. Mercy glanced around in amazement.
    "Isobel's gone!" she shouted.
    "No loss. Let's get out of this compound."
    Croft led her through the gate and back up the hillside. There in the cool darkness Croft stood watching for a while, fulfilling his need to be sure this time.
    After a moment Mercy asked quietly, "What went wrong with the helicopter?"
    "I drained the gas tanks last night before I entered the house. The Jeep doesn't work, either. I didn't want him to have any exits this time."
    Mercy touched his hand. "Is it over now?"
    He knew what she meant. "It's over. This time they'll find his body in the flames. This time I'll be sure. I saw him go down. He's dead." He paused and then he said quietly, "I think it's time."
    "Time for what?"
    "To call the authorities. That's what you've wanted to do all along, isn't it?"
    "Finally! Shall we start with the sheriff?"
    "I was thinking about the nearest fire station. There's so much cleared land around the compound that with any luck that blaze probably won't be able to spread very far. But there's no sense taking chances."
    Mercy stared at him in disbelief. "No sense taking chances? It's a little late to start thinking about that, isn't it? But then, that's one of the things I've always admired about you, Croft. Your sense of timing."
    But she was reaching out to catch hold of his hand, threading her fingers securely through his. Croft felt the reassuring energy of her love pouring into him and he drank it into all his senses. It revitalized him, nourished him, comforted him. He needed her, he realized, in ways he had never needed another human being. It was safe to need her because she would always be there for him.
    "Are you all right, Croft?"
    "Yes," he said. "I am now." Mercy was safe and the last of the screams left from three years before had faded away forever. The old Circle was closed and a new one lay before him.
    "What about Isobel?" Mercy asked reluctantly. "She got away."
    "I think she's smart enough to keep going." He saw the package containing
Valley
in her hand. "Don't tell me you managed to save that damn book."
    Mercy glanced down. "It came in rather handy a few minutes ago. Isobel got a gun out of the helicopter. She was going to use it on either you or Gladstone or both. I couldn't tell which. I used
Valley
to knock it out of her hand. Worked like a charm."
    "Whoever said," Croft observed thoughtfully, his eyes gleaming with relieved amusement, "that that kind of literature has no socially redeeming value?"
    Mercy's shaky smile warmed the chilly night.
    The first Doberman appeared out of the woods in front of them as they made their way back to where the Toyota was parked. The second dog was sitting beside the car, seemingly guarding it. Both animals went up to Croft, greeting him silently. Mercy watched the moment of silent