IN ROOM 33

by EC Sheedy

  "Mike's up there." He raised a limp wrist, managed to point to the ceiling with his index finger. "In a box—behind a planter. Rupert shot him. And the planter... there's another one. From before. Didn't mean to. God, I was a kid. A stupid kid." He shot out a hand, grabbed Wade's jacket. "Get him, Emerson. Get the bastard." He passed out.

  In what seemed only a few minutes but was probably closer to a half-hour, the paramedics carried David out on a stretcher. Lana, clasping his hand, insisted she be allowed to ride with him to the hospital; the police insisted she go along with them. The cops won. A couple of them stayed behind to learn what they could from Joy and Wade.

  Joy studied her mother, but knew she'd never come close to knowing the woman she was. The hush of acceptance settled in her heart. She might never understand her, but she'd heard once that when a person shows you what they are, believe them. Tonight, her mother hadn't hesitated to turn a gun on the man she loved to save her daughter's life.

  An act of love.

  Joy would never again ask her for more.

  She sat heavily on the arm of the sofa, and in the next second, felt the weight of Wade's big hand on her shoulder, a gentle squeeze. "Quite a night."

  She put her hand over his, squeezed back. "As understatements go, Wade, that's a doozy."

  * * *

  "Mr. Rupert. Mr. Rupert!"

  The voice pulled Rupert's attention from the window, the riotous disorder in the street below. He moved to his door as quickly as his useless legs allowed. He put his mouth against it. "Gordy, is that you?"

  "Yes, sir. Mom said I was to check on you. 'Cause of all the commotion." He said the last as if he were repeating by rote.

  Rupert opened the door—almost too wide—and let the lad in. "You're a good boy, Gordy. Now tell me what you've seen. Who's in the ambulance?"

  "A blond guy. Joy's mom shot him with a gun. A real one." He seemed in awe.

  "I see. And was he dead? Can you tell me that?"

  Gordy looked puzzled. "I don't think so, because his face wasn't covered. They always cover it on TV."

  "And everyone else is fine?"

  Gordy nodded. "Wade's girlfriend was kinda hurt. And her nose was bleedin' real bad."

  Rupert's stomach clenched painfully, and he came near to falling before reaching out to brace himself with a hand on the wall. He was dizzy from standing so close to the window, and his heart jumped behind his ribs, ready to burst through them at any minute. He teetered back to his chair and settled into it.

  David had failed. And, damn him, he'd lived through it. It was the only possible explanation. He rested his head, closed his eyes, considered his options.

  They would come for him. Strangers in uniforms with papers giving them the right to his home. They would want him to go with them. Outside.

  He could not allow it to happen. He put his hand down beside the cushion, stroked the smooth metal of his protector. He would not go gently into the night... or anywhere else.

  The Philip! His home. His property by right and by endless heartache. The Cole girl would keep it and there was nothing he could do. She would keep his hotel and through her it would, inevitably, once again belong to an Emerson. Joe's grandson would see to that. And Joe? He would laugh at Rupert from his grave.

  Never! If it was the end for him, it was the end for Wade Emerson.

  "Gordy, would you do something for me?"

  "Sure, Mr. Rupert."

  "Take Melly with you." He stroked the dog's soft head, left his thin hand to rest there. "And take good care of her, won't you? She's a very good dog."

  Gordy nodded gravely. "Yes, sir. I'll bring her back right after her morning walk."

  Rupert didn't answer. "And would you please tell Mr. Emerson I want to see him as soon as possible."

  Rupert watched the boy turn, called him back. "Get your money from my purse, Gordy." He paused. "Take all you want."

  * * *

  Wade sat beside Joy on her bed, held her hand. She looked brutally pale, but otherwise okay. The paramedics had bandaged her hand and given her painkillers.

  Hell, but he'd be glad when this night was over.

  The police were finally wrapping up. They'd been all over the place, but all the statements jelled, so their job was straightforward. Joy agreed to be at the station tomorrow to go over her statement and answer any other questions. Wade thought of Lana Cole, shook his head. What a piece of work.

  In the last couple of hours, he'd swallowed a lot of his distaste for her. Even had a grudging admiration at the woman's bottomless self-possession. More again when he thought of her saving Joy's life. The cops said it was doubtful, given the circumstances, she'd be charged. David—facing an attempted murder rap—wouldn't be so lucky. Wade's gut churned at the thought of the bastard.

  Neither Wade nor Joy mentioned—by tacit agreement—his rant about bodies in the penthouse.

  It was well after one before Room 33 was empty.

  Except for its quota of blood.

  Joy left Wade's side to go and pick up her papers and her laptop.

  "You okay?" he asked, and got up to help.

  She rubbed her throat where the bruises were beginning to show, raw and in full force. "It hurts to swallow, but I'm okay."

  "I'm sorry I wasn't here." He stood, said again what he'd said a dozen times already. "I should have been." The bare truth of it was he'd never forgive himself for being such a dumb ass and falling for that bogus hospital call. He could have lost her, and the thought froze his bones.

  "Does this mean you owe me one?" She walked over to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and leaned her head on his shoulder. Felt right to him. "That if I knit you a hair shirt, you'll wear it?" she asked.

  "I like blue," he said, relieved to hear the humor in her voice—the forgiveness. He pulled her close, kissed her hair, and breathed her in, pulling the scent of her to the deepest part of his lungs. He'd almost lost her... He hugged her tighter, not wanting to ever let her go.

  The knock on the door made them jerk apart. Still way too many nerves jangling in this room.

  "Probably the police. Maybe they forgot something," he said.

  "Yeah." Joy wrapped her arms around herself and took a couple of steps back while Wade opened it.

  "Gordy? What the hell are you doing up at this hour?"

  "When we got home from the movie, Mom saw all the police and stuff. She sent me to check on Mr. Rupert."

  Wade glanced at Joy; she'd relaxed a little and was looking interested. "And did you," he asked, "check on Mr. Rupert?"

  "Yeah, he's okay. He said he wants you to come up as soon as you can."

  Wade glanced at Joy. She raised her eyebrows. He'd figured he'd had his share of shocks tonight—and here was another. An invitation to Rupert's lair was the last thing he expected. Not that he planned on looking the old gift horse in his toothless mouth. "Thanks, Gordy. Now go home. Get some sleep."

  Wade closed the door, turned to Joy. "I'm going up there."

  A brief arc of fear crossed her pale features, but she stepped toward him. "I'm going with you."

  "I wouldn't have it any other way." And he sure as hell wasn't leaving her here. He'd had enough of this damn room to last a lifetime. Rupert was the last piece in the Hotel Philip puzzle, and he knew neither of them would rest until it slipped into place. And until all this bloody business was over, Joy wasn't going to be out of his sight.

  "Let's go."

  Chapter 19

  The new bulbs Wade had put in the hall cast a garish white light, but at least it was light.

  They walked in silence to the stairwell, then up to seven. Wade knocked, knocked again. "Rupert, it's Wade Emerson, open the door."

  His voice came from deep inside the room. "Come in. The door's open."

  Wade touched the door with one finger; it opened stiffly. He put the flat of his hand on it and pushed it aside.

  The penthouse was black as a cave, and even though the light in the hall was faint,
their eyes needed to adjust.

  Joy groped for a light switch.

  "I've turned off most lights," Rupert called out."All that gas in the bulb is quite dangerous when it heats up, you know."

  Joy's useless clicking of the switch confirmed the lights weren't working.

  "Follow my voice. I've lit a candle. It should be enough for our purpose."

  Wade whispered to Joy. "I don't like this. Stay here."

  "No."

  Wade sucked up his temper. "Okay, then take my hand."

  Hands clasped, they made their way along the murky hallway. After a turn, they saw the candle, its narrow flame licking uselessly against the black in the cavernous room. It was on the table beside Rupert's chair.

  Rupert looked in their direction, but Wade was certain he couldn't see them outside the circle of candlelight. Not clearly, at least. Wade decided, for now, to keep it that way. He stopped abruptly, and Joy bumped into his back.

  "Come in, please. Join me in a late night brandy."

  Wade held Joy behind him, heard the clink of glass on glass. "I'll pass, thanks."

  "I understand he's not dead. My David." The tone was mild, matter-of-fact.

  "No."

  "Unfortunate, given his failure to perform."

  Wade, eyes now more accustomed to the poor light, saw him take a sip of brandy, then sit stone-still.

  "I must speak to him about that," he said.

  "Won't happen anytime soon, Rupert. 'Your' David will be going from a hospital bed to a prison cot in record time. And he'll be there a long time."

  "Where, no doubt in an effort to make life easier for himself, he will—how do they say it—spill the beans?"

  "He already has," Joy said.

  Wade saw the old man straighten, set his glass on the table beside the lit candle. "You have the girl with you." His sharp intake of breath was audible in the dense quiet of the room.

  "I haven't been a 'girl' for a very long time, but thanks for the compliment."

  Rupert turned his head toward them. "You're impertinent and you're not welcome here." His voice was shrill, agitated. "Please go. My business is with Emerson."

  "And what business is that?" Wade asked.

  Rupert put his head back, and Wade could hear his stark breathing; when he spoke, he sounded calmer. "Instruct your whore to leave and I'll tell you."

  Joy gasped. "Just a minute—"

  Wade tightened his grip on her hand. "Why don't you go, Joy. Let Rupert and me talk man-to-man."

  "You're kidding."

  He whispered in her ear. "Don't go far."

  "Oh," she whispered back. "Got ya." Then, in a louder voice, added, "Fine, I know when I'm not wanted. I'll wait for you downstairs." She took a couple of steps backward. In the dark recess of Rupert's hall, she made a show of closing the door.

  "Good," Rupert said, sounding pleased. "A man should always control his lovers."

  "How do you know we're lovers?"

  "Mike had his uses."

  "And that makes you what? A pervert by proxy."

  Rupert ignored his comment. "Step into the light where I can see you." He waved a hand. "There's a chair, directly in front of me."

  "No, thanks. I like to stand." But Wade did move deeper into the gloomy room, edged his way to the terrace doors. "And speaking of Mike, David tells us he's a resident here, that you've been doing a little burial work out on the terrace."

  "David should know." He raised his glass. "He's quite expert in 'burial work.'"

  Suddenly impatient, Wade said, "What the hell's going on here? Are you going to tell me, or do I go out there and dig up the answers for myself."

  Rupert sniggered. "My, my, and aren't you just like your grandfather, full of piss and vinegar."

  "I can't see this has anything to do with my grandfather."

  "Oh, but it does. It has everything to do with him. Dear Joe." He let the name out on a wistful note. "Like you, he was always up and ready to get the job done, no matter the cost." He snickered. "I suspect you have no idea how up and ready he could be."

  "Cost? What cost is there in exposing you for the avaricious, murderous son of a bitch you are?"

  "Ah, now there's the question. There's always a cost, young Emerson. Your granddad taught me that. And if you'll be good enough to take the seat in front of me—where I can see you properly, I'll show you exactly what you're going to pay—and throw in a rather risqué story about your much-revered grandfather as a small bonus."

  Silence pervaded the cavernous room, and for a few moments, Wade let it lie.

  But he was curious.

  He ambled over to the brandy bottle sitting on the liquor cabinet a few feet from Rupert and poured himself a drink. "I'm listening," he said.

  "Sit, for goodness sake!" Rupert kicked lightly at the footstool in front of him. "It hurts this old neck, craning to look up at you."

  Wade decided to humor the bastard and carried his brandy across the room to sit in front of him. And, God knows, he was curious about his relationship with Joe—or his version of it. He raised his glass to his lips, waited.

  "Let's start in the middle, shall we? It's the best part, really." In the flickering light, his face cratered by shadows, Rupert's smile was wavy, grotesque. "It's when your grandfather became my lover."

  Wade's hand jerked and his throat opened and closed reflexively over an inward rush of burning alcohol. "You're lying." He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  "Now, why would I do that?" Rupert's milky gaze settled on him like seepage. He was enjoying himself. He raised a white brow as if waiting for an answer.

  Wade didn't have one, so he got to his feet and walked to the terrace. He pulled back a heavy curtain and gray city light slithered into the room. Joe and Rupert, lovers. He repeated it in his mind. Couldn't make it stick.

  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."