Sloan blinked stupidly. He couldn't breathe because the air in the room had suddenly turned liquid. "What are you saying?" His voice started out as a whisper, but gradually the volume grew as the volcano rumbled, on the edge of erupting. He rose slowly out of the chair and leaned on his knuckles. "Do you mean to tell me you and my mother were fucking?"

Vance looked stunned. "That's cruel. That word is unfair to her memory."

"Answer the damn question." Sloan wasn't sure why, but he had to hear Vance say it.

"Of course we were. I assumed she told you that in her letter."

"No," he growled as he felt the world slip out from beneath him. "She neglected to mention that part." He sank back into the chair, the rage washed away on waves of disappointment and grief. So that was what she had been too ashamed to tell him. And that was how she finally learned the Elliotts' despicable secret. "She only told me of Dad's thieving, and alluded to his depression over the path the business had taken." He gazed up at Vance from beneath hooded eyes.

"How long was the affair going on?" he asked, even though he didn't really want to hear the answer. "Was she screwing around on Dad before he died, too?"

"No," huffed Vance. "He was my friend. I could never have betrayed him like that."

Sloan snorted. "Right. How silly of me. You're involved in grand theft and fencing. You dabble in drug trafficking-marijuana, cocaine, and even heroin. You suck your friends and business partners into the scheme which eventually leads to suicide and God knows what else." Sloan paused and picked up the knife just to feel the security of its haft in his palm. "And you apparently screw around on your wife. You're obviously a man of impeccable integrity and high standards. How could I ever think you could betray your friend by fucking his wife while he was still alive?"

"It only began after he died," whispered Vance. "It started more than a year later. And I'm not sure how she found out about the operation. I did not tell her. But when she did, she threatened to break it off with me unless I put a stop to it." Vance's tone was surprisingly compelling. "I need for you to believe that, if not for my sake, then for your mother's."

"You're worried that I'll lose respect for her?" Sloan shook his head and looked down at his hands. He noticed absently that he hadn't yet thought to take off the gloves. Or perhaps it hadn't been an oversight. He had no desire to touch anything in this house.

"It's a little late for that, wouldn't you say? My parents aren't at all the people that I thought they were. My father stole priceless jewelry and artifacts and then fenced them through the House, and my mother looked on in silent approval. He drew the line at becoming a drug lord, but eventually he showed his true colors." He forced himself to continue looking at Vance, to continue staring down yet another man who had disappointed him. "My father was a coward. They both were. They both took the easy way out when things got a little too tough. A little too complicated. I could forgive just about anything. But I can't forgive that."

"You're judging him rather harshly," said Vance cautiously. "Considering what you do in your spare time."

Sloan dug the tip of the knife into the finely polished wood of the desk, and relished the pained look on Vance's face. "What does that mean?"

"You're the Panther, aren't you?"

Sloan felt like he had been slapped.

"I've seen the news stories about the goings-on in Hollywood. I knew that you lived there. It sounded just like Jonathan's work. I suspected you from the beginning."

"Shit."

"You can hardly judge him, when you have traveled the same path yourself. How can you judge any of us?"

"I never got involved in drugs. Perhaps it's a fine line, but it's a definite one. And I can't believe that people I once respected allowed themselves to cross it."

"It came about gradually. We never planned that at the beginning. It just sort of...happened."

"Bullshit!" Sloan rounded the desk and stopped a hair's breadth away from Vance. "And I can't believe she slept with slime like you."

"She didn't think of me that way."

"Are you saying that she cared for you? Do you actually think she loved you?"

"You think so little of her, that you think she'd sleep with someone she despised?"

Sloan gritted his teeth and took a step back. Even if she didn't know the full extent of Vance's activities, the thought of the two of them together set his brain on fire. At that moment he just couldn't face it. He resorted to the desperate man's final defense-denial.

"No!" he said firmly. "I don't believe it. I don't know why, but you're lying about that. She wouldn't have had an affair with you. Maybe Dad was dead, but Lois wasn't. And even if they weren't exactly kindred spirits, she wouldn't have betrayed a friend like that."

"Oh, it's the truth, Sloan." Slowly, Vance crossed to a sideboard packed with an assortment of glasses and decanters. He silently poured two snifters of brandy. "Of course she loved Jonathan, but she loved me as well. And I suppose that's as good an explanation as any as to why she did what she did." Vance's smile was knowing, and his eyes glinted with malice. "But was she really trying to kill herself? Or, as is often the case with desperate and depressed women, was it all just a desperate cry for help?" He turned and held out a snifter. "A cry that, unfortunately, was ignored. And ended in tragedy."

Sloan stepped back. He had almost forgotten about Vance's hints and threats. However, the references had been veiled and ambiguous, at best. It was time to stop dancing around the issues and tackle it all head-on.

"What are you implying?" he demanded. "I'd like to hear exactly what you think you know, Vance. I think you owe me that much."

Vance held out the snifter again. "Why don't you take this. I think you might need it by the time we're done."

Sloan stared at it. He didn't really want it. What he wanted was for all this to go away. He wanted to forget he had ever had a connection to Bay's Haven and the Lakeside Auction House. He wanted to wake up in his old bed, and find out he was still nineteen with two healthy, happy parents and the world at his feet. But none of that was going to happen.

In lieu of that he accepted the brandy and took a fiery sip.

"Even barring your activities south of the border, Sloan, you are hardly an innocent. Your mother died and I blame you."

"What do you mean?" he whispered.

"You know perfectly well. You stood by and let her bleed to death. You waited until she was dead and cold before calling the authorities. In my mind that makes you as guilty as if you had held her down and sawed through her skin yourself."

Sloan's eyes snapped to attention. What the hell? "That-that's insane! That wasn't how it happened," he stuttered in disbelief. "It was two minutes, maybe three. I think. I mean...I was in shock. I couldn't move! I-I loved her." He hated that he found himself defending his actions to the likes of Vance Elliot. Or maybe Vance wasn't the one he needed to convince. "Where are you getting this, anyway?"

Vance smiled indulgently and sipped from his own brandy. "Don't bother to deny it, Sloan. Perry saw the whole thing. She had called me to come over and discuss it that night. Late, so that Lois wouldn't miss me. But Perry thought it might be a good idea for someone else to talk to her. Maybe a clearer head could talk some sense into her. But it was a ruse. She had wanted me to come and find her...like that. No doubt she thought that the sight of her bleeding and near death would convince me to change my ways and give up the business."

Vance closed his eyes, his misery and pain as real as Sloan's. And Sloan hated him all the more for that.

"Unfortunately it backfired on her." He opened his eyes and they glared at Sloan in unmistakable judgment. "You arrived early and beat Perry to the house. He must have driven in just a couple of minutes after you. He saw the whole thing through the window. He didn't feel it was his place to interfere between mother and son, and by the time he realized what was happening..." Vance dropped his voice to a whisper. "By the time he realized that you had no intention of helping her, it was too late. She was dead."

"No." Sloan's head was reeling. Perry? He had watched? He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "I don't care what he says. That is not how it happened. She was alive when I-"

Vance wouldn't allow him to continue. "Time can become distorted in circumstances like that, Sloan. Not that that excuses it, but..." He sipped from his snifter. "Whether out of malice, or shock, or simple poor judgment, the fact remains, you let her die. And I'm sure the police will be very interested-"

"Shut up!" he raved. He refused to allow Vance to get the upper hand again. "I won't be manipulated by you and I won't avoid this anymore. I'm through running. You can tell them whatever you like. I'll face the music if I have to." He drained his brandy and pointed his finger at Vance again. This time it was rock-steady. "As long as it means you will too."

"So, you're planning on going to the authorities."

Sloan nodded. "Of course I am. I mean..." The brandy had hit him hard. His legs had suddenly turned to jelly. His fingers began to tingle.

"What?" prodded Vance. "What do you mean?"

"Pardon?"

"You didn't finish your thought, Sloan. Is something wrong?"

Wrong? Yes, something was wrong. He couldn't seem to remember what he was going to say. His brain had become as numb as his fingertips.

Sloan felt himself sway a little on his feet.

Why was Vance smiling so strangely? And why was he leaning to one side like that?

"Whuss going on?" he slurred, as fear suddenly coiled in his gut. "What have you..." His voice trailed off. His tongue felt thick.

"What have I done?" mocked Vance. "Take your time, Sloan. You'll figure it out."

Sloan leaned back against the desk because at that moment the world had started to spin. His tongue felt too sluggish to form words. His lips refused to respond. He heard something thud onto the carpet, and realized with dismay that he had dropped the snifter. He wanted to pick it up but his hand refused to move.

"Ah, poor Sloan," taunted a familiar voice. "Not feeling your usual perfect self tonight?"

With some effort Sloan looked up and was startled to see that Perry had entered the room. But he seemed distorted, like a reflection in a warped carnival mirror. But then he remembered, Perry always looked like that. He wanted to laugh but couldn't.

Perry snickered. "I can't believe he actually drank it. You're a pro, Dad."

"Shut up, Perry. Just shut the hell up."

Sloan felt like he was melting. He sank to the floor, congealing in a huge shapeless puddle. Like his body, his thought processes felt sluggish and distorted, but he remained sentient enough to figure out that he had been drugged. And he was aware enough to realize that his limbs were paralyzed. Slowly, steadily, fear crept over his skin, but he tried to shrug off the panic and focus on what the Elliots were saying.

"I think I like him this way," jeered Perry. And Sloan realized that Perry was standing over him. Perry's foot nudged Sloan's ribs. "Humiliation suits him." And then Perry's shoe connected with the side of Sloan's head. He didn't kick, but he pushed hard enough that Sloan's head rolled to the side. And no matter how hard he tried he couldn't move it back.

"Stop it," scolded Vance. "You can play with him later, if you want. But I want him out of this house."

Play with him? Sloan groaned mentally at the images that phrase brought to mind.

"Do you need me to help you get him out to the car?" demanded Vance.

"No, actually," answered Perry. And Sloan noted with relief that he had moved away toward the door.

"For once I have some help."

The paralysis continued to spread. Sloan could breathe and he could swallow, but other than that his muscle control seemed almost nonexistent. He had barely enough control of his eyes to look up at the sound of fresh footsteps entering the room.

Perry's voice continued, "Look who I found skulking around in the bushes."

"Troy? What the hell are you doing here?" asked his father.

Sloan felt a wash of relief. Troy. Troy would protect him from his maniacal family.

Troy glanced at Sloan. But to Sloan's horror he looked away again, and seemed unconcerned by what he saw. "I was watching Sloan tonight because I knew he had found something over at the Auction House. I wasn't sure what he would do."

"You knew what he was up to tonight? You watched him break into our house?" Vance's voice could have cut solid ice. "And you said nothing?"

"I didn't know about the break-in until he came back."

Troy was lying. But why? What was he doing?

He continued, "And I thought if I stopped him from coming in here, we'd never find out how much he knew."

Sloan couldn't believe what he was hearing. Troy had followed him here? Troy knew about his family's activities? Troy felt some sort of loyalty to his father and brother?

But that didn't make sense. Troy had disowned his family years ago. He had distanced himself from them, and was almost militant about maintaining the feud. So, why would he have kept their secret? Or was he involved somehow, and the split was some sort of ruse? But to what purpose, Sloan couldn't guess.

Whatever the reasons, whatever the circumstances, it seemed that Troy wasn't the man Sloan thought he was. But then again, Sloan wasn't exactly who Troy thought he was either. Apparently they had been lying to each other for years. Sloan's head began to throb.

He was startled by a whisper close to his ear, but the words were jumbled and he couldn't sort them out before a pair of hands grabbed him and roughly dragged him off the floor. The voices continued, but he completely lost track of the conversation. And he knew he had missed part of what was said earlier. Not that it mattered, he supposed.

He found himself draped across Troy's broad shoulders, limp and helpless. He'd never felt so humiliated. And he'd never felt so betrayed.

"All right," grunted Troy as he arranged his cargo, fireman style. "Let's go."

Troy moved smoothly through the darkened house, trailing his father and brother as they walked, without a word, toward the back door.

They halted and Sloan heard the back door squeak open.

"Whatever you do tonight," hissed Vance. "I don't want to know. However you decide to clean up this mess, I want nothing to do with it."

"Yeah. That's me," replied Perry. "The Elliotts' resident janitor. That's my function in life, to clean up your messes." "This isn't my mess. This is all your doing," shot back Vance. "I never should have listened to you. If it weren't for you there wouldn't be any messes."

"God," groaned Troy.

Even through his paralytic haze and the numbness that had settled over his extremities he could sense the

tension in Troy's body. He hummed with it, and Sloan marveled that his father and brother didn't seem to have noticed the simmering cauldron in their midst. "Listen to you two," continued Troy. "You sound like a pair of old biddies arguing over whose turn it is to clean up the kitchen. But this is a hell of a lot bigger than that. You're both to blame. And we've all paid the price. Now let's just get on with this, I'm not fucking Superman here!" "I think," said Perry, his voice slow and cold. "That my brother is absolutely right. And in light of that, I think Daddy dearest here should give us a hand on this one."

"You're insane," ranted Vance. "I have no intention of getting involved in this."

"I'd say it's a little late for that, wouldn't you? You're neck-deep in this, whether you like it or not."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. I've never had a hand in this particular...activity, and I don't

intend to start now." "Fine. Then Troy and I will just haul him back to his room and let him sleep it off. We'll let him go to the cops, and we can all deal with the flying shit tomorrow. And then we can argue over who turns state's evidence first." "You wouldn't dare. That would be cutting your own throat." "Oh, but it would be worth it, just to see the blood gush from your neck for a change." "Decide!" blasted Troy. "Quit your goddamned bickering and let's get on with this." There was a moment of tense silence, and Sloan silently wondered how, exactly, Perry usually cleaned up his father's messes. What, exactly, were they going to do with him? They wanted to preserve their secret, obviously. But just how far would they go to do it? He tamped down the fear that swirled through him. It served no purpose. He had to keep a clear head and think. The drug couldn't last forever. And when it wore off he had better have some line of defense ready, because, it seemed, he was all he had.

"All right," said Vance at last. "I'll go upstairs and get changed and meet you at the car. But Perry?" "Yes, Father?" "This had damn well better be the last time." And Vance stomped away. Troy led the way out the door, down the walkway to the waiting vehicle, and Sloan heard Perry mutter, "You can count on it, Dad. And this time there won't be any loose ends."

Chapter Twenty.

Sloan winced when the light from the foyer's thousand-watt chandelier crashed against his retinas.

They had driven through the night, the silence in the car as tangible and sharp as the spray of a skunk. Sloan had kept his eyes riveted to Troy who had ridden in the back seat with him, but not once had Troy met his gaze.

Sloan had wanted to scream at him, plead with him, pummel him with questions, and possibly his fists. But while the numbness in his fingers had faded, his tongue continued to resist his attempts at communication. He couldn't even scratch his nose, let alone manage anything as sophisticated as a one-two punch.