“You think you have me, don’t you?”
The door banged, and Dixon jumped from his chair. He pivoted to face Abbadon. “You’re a swindler.”
The scoundrel’s height stretched to the ceiling, towering over Dixon, and his presence saturated the room.
Dixon’s blood flowed to an icy halt.
Abbadon circled him, a hawk ready to dive for his prey, but Dixon was not about to be caught in the man’s talons. He leaned toward this enemy. “You’ve worked your last scheme and—”
“And you have trespassed. Any evidence you use will be disregarded in a court of law.”
“I’ll get a warrant and—”
“By then, I’ll have had opportunity to remove any so-called evidence.”
“So you admit to—”
“I’ve admitted to nothing.” Abbadon tugged on the index finger of his glove. “You’ve assumed much.”
“With the testimonies of the Blacks and others, you’ll be condemned and placed where you belong.”
The corner of Abbadon’s mouth lifted. “The Blacks can prove nothing, except that Lord Dunsbury is dishonest. What happened in Ontario was a mere slip of judgment on the part of Joab’s father.” He stepped toward Dixon and looked down at him.
The man’s eyes were remarkable—fierce, yet compelling.
Dixon stifled a shudder.
“You were the one to break the law. Entering a private citizen’s quarters without permission, last I heard, was a criminal activity.” He twisted away and glided to Dixon’s desk. With a pale finger, he caressed the edge. “Then again, you’re an old hand at breaking the rules, aren’t you?”
“You have nothing on me.”
Abbadon tipped his head and peered at Dixon from the corner of his eye. A smirk danced upon his lips. “I have much on you. Much that would end your career as a North West Mounted Police Officer.”
“You’re fear-mongering.” Dixon stretched his stiff fingers then clenched them. He strode around the desk and looked Abbadon in the eye. “That is how you gain control of people.”
“I gain control because I’ve got what people want.”
Dixon snorted. “You have nothing I want.”
“Really?” He swiveled and moved to the fireplace. “You desire peace. You desire that all those ‘mistakes’ you made at Duck Lake would go away, never to be remembered. And you desire a certain someone to be more than just a friend.”
Dixon held his tongue. This fiend would not manipulate him into revealing his past.
“You think you have something on me—that you can bring me down.” Abbadon smirked. “I’ve been around for ages and no one has been able to accomplish that. You’ve played into my hands, Dixon. I own you.”
“And just how do you own me?”
“Your pride keeps you from confession. Your pride drove you to my room. Your pride saw what it wanted because you want to be the hero to make up for playing the fool in the past.” Like a snake moving toward its victim, Abbadon slithered up to stand inches from Dixon’s face. “I hold your pride in the palm of my hand and can shape it to my liking as a potter would clay.”
Dixon huffed and moved away, but his heart pounded like a locomotive. Pride did hold him. It drove him. “That has nothing to do with your criminal activity. Arson, blackmail, God knows what else. You’ve destroyed a man’s livelihood.”
“And your actions led to the death of many good men.”
“This is not about me.”
“This is all about you.”
“If you are so confident of your innocence, why don’t we take a trip to your room and examine your boots, among other things.”
Abbadon grinned. “Let’s do that.” He gestured to the door.
Dixon grabbed his Stetson while his skin tingled. This was too easy. Abbadon likely got rid of the boots—the link to the Blacks’ fire—in the few minutes before he came to the office, but he’d have had to dump them somewhere close.
Then there was the book by the bed. Even though Dixon didn’t get a look at it, he was certain it would contain damning information.
He pulled the door closed behind him. Would Abbadon have destroyed that book? Most of what Dixon had on him was circumstantial evidence. But what evidence did Abbadon have on Dixon’s involvement in the massacre at Duck Lake?