St Helens 02 Zinnia Read online

  "With the possible exception of a few drug dealers or serial killers."

  "Do you always whine when things don't go your way?"

  "Always." Nick watched the car come to an uncertain halt a short distance away. "Stay here. I'll handle this."

  "I don't think that's going to work. I told you, Polly Fenwick sounded very uneasy about having to deal with you all by yourself. That's why I'm here, remember?"

  Nick almost smiled in spite of his foul mood. "Does she think you'll be able to stop me if I decide to take the journal without paying for it?"

  Zinnia folded her arms under her breasts. "Morris told her that she could trust me to deal with this."

  "Trust you to deal with me, do you mean?"

  Zinnia shrugged and said nothing, but her eyes did not waver.

  For some reason Nick's mood lightened a little. "Just how do you plan to handle me if things get tricky?"

  She ignored him to peer instead at the other car. "How can we be sure that's Mrs. Fenwick?"

  "Finally, a sensible, one might even say, astute, question. I guess I'd better go see." He cracked open the door. It slid smoothly up into the roof. He had removed the interior lamp earlier. No light came on to illuminate the inside of the Synchron.

  "Nick, wait." Zinnia leaned across the seat. Her eyes were very wide in the shadows. "Don't—"

  "Don't what?"

  She hesitated. "Don't do anything stupid."

  He smiled. "I appreciate the advice, but I'm afraid it's a little too late. Stay in the car. If anything goes wrong, don't even think about getting involved. Just get the hell out of here."

  "Now you're starting to make me nervous."

  "It's about time."

  Leaving the Synchron's door open in case he needed to return to the vehicle in a hurry, he went forward to lounge against the gleaming fender.

  He waited. He was good at waiting. Behind him he heard Zinnia slide across the console into the driver's seat.

  "What's going on?" she asked urgently.

  "Nothing."

  At that moment, the door of the other vehicle slowly opened. In the glow of the interior light, Nick saw two people, a middle-aged man and woman. Even from here, he could see the anxiety in their faces.

  Amateurs. That was reassuring.

  "I'm sure that's Mrs. Fenwick." Zinnia sounded vastly relieved. "I saw a picture of her in Morris's shop."

  "Mr. Chastain?" Polly Fenwick's voice was high and shrill with tension.

  Nick did not move. "I'm Chastain."

  "Miss Spring is supposed to be here. She promised me she would come with you. I really don't know if I should go any further with this if she isn't here. Morris was very explicit in his note."

  "Miss Spring is in the car," Nick said.

  Zinnia leaned out the open door. "It's all right, Mrs. Fenwick. I'm Zinnia Spring."

  "Oh, thank goodness." Polly got stiffly out of the car. She clutched a package to her full bosom. "Morris said I could trust you, Miss Spring."

  The man who had accompanied Polly opened the door on his side of the car. He got out and stood glaring at Nick over the roof. "Let's get on with it. Did you bring the money?"

  "I've got it," Nick said. "Locked in the trunk. I'm the only one who knows the combination. Who are you?"

  "This is my good friend, Omar," Polly said quickly. "Omar Booker. I was afraid to come alone tonight."

  "Did you bring cash?" Omar demanded with a boldness clearly rooted in fear and desperation. "The deal was for cash, you know."

  Even without the aid of his talent, Nick sensed that there was no real danger in the matrix tonight. He relaxed for the first time since he had gotten the call from Zinnia. Polly and Omar were terrified. They wanted the money very badly but they were scared. That was fine by him. He knew how to manipulate nervous people.

  "I brought cash," he said.

  "The deal was for fifty thousand," Omar reminded him shrilly.

  "I know." He would have paid a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand. He would have paid any amount for the journal. But there was no need to inform Polly and Omar of that fact.

  The moonlight revealed Omar's suspicious scowl. "How did you get so much cash together in such a short time?"

  "I own a casino," Nick reminded him softly. "I don't have problems with cash. Or with very many other things, either."

  "Nick, stop it." Zinnia's voice was sharp with disapproval. "You're scaring the daylights out of them."

  "I'm not doing anything," Nick muttered.

  "You're trying to intimidate them." She got out of the car. "Come on over here, Mrs. Fenwick. Mr. Chastain will be happy to give you the money. Turn over the journal and we'll all go home and get some sleep."

  Polly hesitated. She glanced nervously back at Omar. He squared his shoulders in a determined fashion and came around the front of the car to join her. He switched on a flashlight and the pair crossed the grass to where the Synchron was parked.

  "Get the money out of the trunk, Nick." Zinnia gave him a small encouraging shove. "Go on. We don't want to hang around here all night."

  Nick eyed her as he straightened away from the fender. "Has anyone ever told you that you've got a tendency to be pushy?"

  "It's been mentioned."

  "I'll bet it has." Nick went to the trunk and deactivated the specially designed jelly-ice lock. No matrix ever trusted standard locks. He raised the lid and reached inside for the attache case that held the cash.

  Zinnia turned to Polly. "There's no need to be concerned, Mrs. Fenwick. Mr. Chastain fully intends to pay for the journal."

  "I'm sorry for all the secrecy," Polly said. "It's just that Morris's note made me very nervous. Of course, he may have exaggerated. He was a matrix-talent and you know what they're like."

  "I know," Zinnia assured her. "They tend to be delicate and overanxious."

  Nick slammed the lid of the trunk much harder than necessary.

  "Everyone knows that matrix-talents are paranoid." Omar watched Nick come forward with the attaché case. "Poor Polly suffered for years with Morris's odd fits and starts. Finally had to get out of the house."

  "It's been a miserable existence," Polly said. "The thing about being separated is that you aren't really free to get on with your life. I don't know what I would have done without Omar. He's been so kind and loyal."

  "I understand." Zinnia looked at Nick. "You can give Polly the money now."

  Omar frowned. "Hold on, we want to see it, first. Got to make sure it's all there."

  "Whatever you say." Nick set the case on the ground, unlocked it, and opened it.

  Omar aimed the flashlight at the neatly bundled packets of crisp bills inside. His jaw fell open. "Good lord. Will you look at that, Polly."

  Polly stared. "That's a great deal of money, Mr. Chastain. I hadn't realized ... I mean, Morris told me that you would pay that much but I never dreamed—" She broke off.

  "You asked for fifty grand." Nick closed the case and snapped it shut. "This is fifty grand. Now let me see the journal."

  "What?" Polly raised her eyes to his face in a bewildered manner.

  "The Chastain journal," Zinnia prompted gently. "You can turn it over to Mr. Chastain now."

  "Oh, yes. Of course." Polly shoved the package she had been holding into Nick's hand as if it were a jellycracker with a lit fuse. "Take it. It's yours. I certainly have no use for it."

  Nick tightened his fingers around the package. His father's journal. He could feel the shape of a leather-bound volume inside, but he could not quite believe that he finally had the thing in his possession.

  He was aware of Zinnia watching him intently as he slowly, carefully unwrapped his prize. Omar held the flashlight so that they could all see the journal.

  The tough, expensive green specter snakeskin that had been used to bind the volume had stood up well over the years. It had begun to acquire the unique patina that the skin took on with age, but it did not appear to be badly faded or worn. The journ
al was only thirty-five years old, Nick reminded himself. Green specter snakeskin could last for a century or more.

  "Hurry," Omar said. "We don't want to hang around here any longer than necessary."

  Nick ignored him. He opened the journal. Although he was prepared for it, the sight of his father's name on the first page struck him with unexpected force.

  Record of the Third Expedition

  to the Islands of the Western Seas.

  Expedition Master: Bartholomew Nicholas Chastain

  Nick was chagrined to see that his hand shook a little as he turned the first few pages. The entries in the journal had been written in black ink, which was slightly faded but still quite legible. The handwriting was strong, clear, and decisive.

  "Well?" Zinnia asked. "Is that what you wanted, Nick?"

  "Yes." Nick closed the journal very carefully. He felt a little dazed. "Yes, it's what I wanted."

  "Then, if you don't mind, Polly and I will be on our way." Omar picked up the attache case with both hands.

  Polly gave Zinnia a relieved smile. "Thank you, Miss Spring. It was very nice of you to help me with all this. I feel much better now that it's over."

  "Good night," Zinnia said. "And good luck."

  Nick said nothing. He gripped the journal and watched Omar and Polly hurry back to the other car.

  Zinnia stood quietly beside him as the pair got into the vehicle and drove off down the park road.

  "Time to go home," Zinnia said finally.

  Nick shook off the dazed sensation with an effort of will. "Yes."

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine." He opened the passenger door for her.

  "You're acting a little strange."

  The sharp claw of panic slashed across his senses. Had she guessed that he was a matrix? In the next breath, he realized that she was concerned, not nervous. "It's hard to believe I've finally got the journal. I wasn't even sure it actually existed."

  Zinnia's eyes were luminous in the moonlight. "I understand."

  He closed her door and went back around to the driver's side. He put the journal carefully into the back seat and got behind the steering bar. He sat quietly for a long moment, composing his mind.

  "Thank you," he said at last.

  Zinnia smiled. "When was the last time you had to thank someone for doing you a favor, Mr. Chastain?"

  "I offered a reward for the journal. You're entitled to it. I'll see that you get it."

  "You have a real knack for ruining the moment. I don't want your money, Mr. Chastain."

  He realized that he had offended her. He gazed steadily ahead through the windshield. "I got the journal. Polly and Omar got fifty thousand dollars. You're the only one who didn't get anything out of this. Why did you get involved?"

  "It came under the heading of unfinished business." Zinnia settled back in her seat. "And it's still not finished."

  Something in her tone of voice put him on full alert. "What does that mean?"

  "Morris's killer is still on the loose."

  "Five hells. It isn't your job to find him." Nick turned to face her. "Leave it to the cops."

  She rested her head against the back of the seat and stared out into the darkened park. "What if the police are looking in the wrong place?"

  "Stay out of it, Zinnia."

  "Morris was a matrix."

  He flexed his fingers impatiently. "I'm aware of that. It's got nothing to do with solving his murder."

  "But it does, you see. People, cops included, tend to dismiss matrix-talents. No one understands them."

  "I know," he said stiffly. "But has it occurred to you that matrix-talents may prefer it that way?"

  "Everyone says they're paranoid, reclusive, secretive," Zinnia continued as if she had not heard him. "Some people think they're borderline crazy. But I've worked with enough of them to know that they're quite sane."

  Nick stared hard at her moonlit profile. "They are?"

  "Yes, but they live their lives under a constant and very unique kind of stress. No one who isn't a matrix or who hasn't focused for one can possibly comprehend the incredible struggle they go through to control their psychic energy."

  "No kidding." He was disgusted by the unmistakable note of sympathy in her voice.

  "It's a very different, very powerful form of paranormal energy. Matrix-talents obsess on patterns of any kind. They can get lost in them for hours on end. The problem is that their instinct to see the underlying design in everything, the need to make connections, sometimes causes them to see patterns where most people think that none exist."

  "In other words, they become paranoid."

  "Who knows? Maybe they simply see deeper and more clearly." She shrugged. "Or maybe they are inclined toward paranoia. There simply has not been enough research done on them or on the handful of prisms such as myself who seem to be able to work with them."

  Nick hesitated. Curiosity finally overrode his good sense. "How did you learn that you could focus for matrix-talents?"

  "I had a friend in college who was a matrix. She and I practiced together for hours. Interestingly enough, the more we worked together, the more relaxed she became with her talent."

  Nick spread his fingers and gripped the back of the seat. "She didn't go super-paranoid?"

  "No." Zinnia smiled slightly. "Okay, she's a bit more suspicious than most people. And she does tend to overanalyze everything, but, then, so do a lot of non-matrix-talents. She's doing just fine, though. She's working in a think tank which has a prism on staff who can focus fairly well for her. She's happily married and expecting a baby."

  Nick could feel the tension gathering in him. "What class is she?"

  "Linda is a class-four or -five."

  "Mid-range." His excitement faded.

  "There are almost no high-class matrix-talents," Zinnia reminded him. "In fact, the one I picked up briefly in your casino was the only one I've ever encountered who was stronger than Linda. By the way, did your security people find him?"

  "No. But there were no big winners last night. Whoever he was, he didn't break the bank."

  "Lucky for you. Just the same, I wish your people had caught him."

  "Why?"

  She glanced hastily at her watch. "It's the general principle of the thing," she said with patently false unconcern. "It's very late. You'd better take me home."

  "About Fenwick's murder," Nick said deliberately. "Promise me you'll let the police deal with it."

  "There's not much else I can do."

  "Don't give me that. I can almost feel you making plans. What are you thinking?"

  "Nothing."

  "Five hells." Nick reached out and caught her chin with his hand. He forced her to look directly at him. "Tell me."

  "Well, it just occurred to me that now that Morris is dead, Polly and Omar are free to marry."

  Nick stared at her, astounded. "Polly and Omar? Wait a second. You don't actually believe that they had anything to do with Fenwick's murder, do you?"

  "Why not?" She sounded aggrieved by his lack of support. "They couldn't marry as long as poor Morris was alive."

  "Polly and Omar are obviously involved in a longstanding affair. Why would they suddenly decide to murder Fenwick after all this time?"

  "I don't know." Zinnia's jaw was set in stubborn lines. "But you have to admit, it's a possibility."

  "An extremely remote one. I'd estimate the odds at about the same as those of the Curtain reopening in our lifetime. Damn it, Zinnia, I do not want you messing around in a murder investigation, do you understand?"

  She tilted her head, gazing at him as if he were not making sense. "Why are you getting worked up over this? Whatever I decide to do, it's none of your business."

  "Do you want to know why I was furious when you phoned me an hour ago?"

  "You told me why. It was because I made arrangements for us to purchase the journal in a dark, deserted park."

  "That was just the icing on the cake," he said throu
gh his teeth. "I was pissed long before you even picked up the phone."

  She watched him with an unwavering gaze. "Why?"

  "Because. You. Never. Called."

  She stared at him. "But I did call."

  "Only because Polly asked you to get in touch with me."

  "Let me get this straight. You expected me to call earlier? Before I heard from Polly?"

  "We were going to talk about searching for the journal and the killer together, remember?"

  "Like heck we were," she shot back. "You were just trying to manipulate me with all that gooey blather about joining forces. You wanted whatever information I might have had concerning the whereabouts of the journal but you had no real intention of helping me find Morris's killer."

  "That's not true. Talk about suspicious paranoia. You're giving a pretty good demonstration of it right now." He was going to lose her. He had nothing he could use to hold on to her now. Desperation tore through him.

  "Damn it, Chastain, if you wanted to talk to me, why didn't you pick up the phone?"

  "I'd already done that." He felt his jaw clench. "It was your turn."

  Zinnia threw up her hands. "I can't believe we're arguing like this. We sound like a couple quarreling after a bad date."

  "I'd glad you finally noticed." He reached for her. "That's exactly what this feels like. A bad date."

  "Hold it right there." She braced both hands against his shoulders. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "I'm going to kiss you."

  "Why?"

  "Damned if I know."

  "Good." She glowered ferociously. "I like you much better when you don't pretend to have all the answers.

  "Believe me, if I had all the answers, I wouldn't be sitting here arguing with you like this. I'd be back in my office doing something more constructive."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as making money." He hauled her halfway across the console and into his arms.

  Chapter 10

  The storm of passion stunned her. The deluge came thundering out of nowhere, sweeping her up in a magnificent wave. She found herself whirling down into the depths of an uncharted sea.

  Zinnia could almost feel the energy crackling in the front seat of the Synchron. She wondered vaguely why there were no actual sparks.