by Jayne Castle
Rafe stirred in the shadows. “It’s called Three.”
Orchid did not exactly jump in surprise at the sound of his low, dark voice, but she did feel the hair lift on the nape of her neck.
She reminded herself that she had known he was there. He was, after all, the one who had brought her here today. But her new client was a strat-talent. He had an extremely annoying knack of sinking deep into the shadows.
She had almost refused to accept the first assignment earlier in the week. Only the combination of her boss’s abject pleading and dire threats had finally convinced her to work with Rafe.
“I don’t want to work with a strat-talent,” Orchid had said when Clementine Malone had told her about the job. “They give me the creeps.”
“Come on, how many have you worked with?”
“One.” Orchid shuddered at the memory. “That was enough.”
“Look, you know I’m trying to build an exclusive image for Psynergy, Inc. Stonebraker’s an exotic. We want to attract exotic talents.”
“There are other kinds of exotics.”
“Yeah,” Clementine said, “but not like strat-talents. You know how rare they are.”
“Not rare enough as far as I’m concerned.”
“Not to put too fine a point on this,” Clementine said, “but you’re not exactly one-hundred-percent normal yourself.”
Orchid winced but she refused to take the bait. “Give Stonebraker to one of the other full-spectrum prisms on the staff.”
“They’ve all got assignments. Or a home life at night.” Clementine grinned triumphantly. “Which you, being single, don’t yet have. Besides, you know you always request evening assignments.”
“Only because I need my days for my writing.”
“Stonebraker apparently prefers to work at night.”
“Right. Probably under full moons.”
Some people viewed strat-talents the way they did wild jag-pards in zoos. Fascinating, but dangerously undomesticated. In a world where virtually everyone had some degree of paranormal talent and where such abilities were taken for granted as a naturally evolving aspect of the human species, para-sensitive strategic-awareness talent was considered very retrograde, evolutionarily speaking.
After meeting Rafe Stonebraker, Orchid was prepared to dismiss the throwback theories. Whatever else he might be, he was neither primitive nor unsophisticated, although she would not go so far as to call him domesticated.
He was well educated, well read, highly opinionated, and chillingly intolerant of those who failed to think as clearly and cogently as he did. Intelligence and awareness burned in him with the cold, powerful energy of jelly-ice.
But during the past week she had rediscovered why strat-talents were sometimes called hunters. They did have some distinctly unnerving habits. Hanging out with one was a bit like keeping company with a chameleon-cat.
She had discovered that if you took your eye off Rafe for even a moment it was easy to lose sight of him. He did not exactly disappear, but he had a natural affinity for whatever camouflage happened to be convenient. If he wished, he could fade right into the woodwork. His ability to become uncannily still made it possible to overlook him when he stood in any kind of shadow. Until he moved a second ago, he had been blending quite nicely into the dark space created by two narrowly focused lights positioned above two of the glass cases.
“Percy Morland was one of the foremost stylists of sixth generation meta-zen-syn philosophical poetry,” Rafe said.
His disapproval lapped at her like a dark sea in the windowless chamber.
“Yes, I know.” With an effort of will, Orchid managed to keep her voice polite. Did he think she had never attended a basic lit class?
No doubt about it, as interesting as he was-- and he was a far sight more fascinating than meta-zen-syn poetry-- Rafe Stonebraker was starting to get on her nerves.
Orchid reminded herself that it never paid to offend the clients. Clementine would not be pleased if she was rude to this one in particular. Think Exclusive was Clementine’s latest office slogan.
Orchid did not mind thinking exclusive, but she wondered if Clementine was aware of just how exotic her newest client really was. Rafe claimed to be a class-six strat-talent and he had the certification papers to prove it. But this was the third time she had worked with him in the past week and Orchid was willing to bet her next royalty check that he was far more powerful than his papers claimed.
When she focused for him she could literally feel the self-control he was forced to exert in order to hold his talent to a class-six level. She sensed the hunger in him to use the full range of his power. She knew that the powerful prism she projected for him whetted his appetite.
Three years ago, she had known another strat-talent whose hunger had been just as powerful. Calvin Hyde’s talent, however, had also been tainted with the dark hint of evil. But after the first very cautious focus session with Rafe, Orchid had known at once that he was no Calvin Hyde.
He could be irritating, arrogant, and maddening but there was no evil in his talent.
She could feel other things besides the hunger in him and that fact was making her increasingly uneasy. After all, everyone knew that the focus link was supposed to be completely neutral when it came to the personal side of things.
The indescribable rush of intimacy she experienced when she created a metaphysical prism for Rafe had to be a product of her own overactive imagination. There was no other logical explanation. But it was definitely not normal.
Thankfully, thus far Rafe appeared to be blithely unaware of the sensations she experienced during their focus sessions. As far as she could tell, he seemed completely unaffected. Nevertheless, even though she was not afraid of him, Orchid was beginning to think that it might not be a good idea to work with him again in the near future. Something about their link was definitely weird.
Suddenly Rafe moved closer to her, coming to stand directly behind her. He studied the book over her shoulder.
“Most experts believe that Percy Morland was a very high-class vision-talent who suffered from periodic bouts of unaligned synergy on the metaphysical plane,” he said.
“I’ve heard that,” Orchid murmured. She wondered if Rafe knew how irritating he was when he went into his lecture mode.
“He refused treatment,” Elvira put in helpfully. “Apparently Morland was paranoid about the syn-psych labs. Seemed to think the experts might destroy his artistic visions if he allowed them to try to realign his metaphysical energy waves.”
“Can’t blame him for steering clear of the labs.” Orchid reflected briefly on her own extremely unpleasant experiences in a synergistic psychology research lab three years earlier. Lately the old nightmares had returned in full force. She’d had two this week. “If I could make a fortune writing poetry like that, I wouldn’t want anyone messing with my para-energy waves, either.”
Elvira chuckled. “An excellent point, my dear. I take it you are not a great admirer of the meta-zen-syn philosophical poetry?”
“To be honest, no,” Orchid admitted.
Rafe did not bother to conceal his exasperation. “Why not?”
She wondered, not for the first time, why her opinion mattered to him. “I consider it at best to be a dead-end in literature. More likely it was a huge joke foisted on the literary world.”
“I see.” Elvira raised her delicately arched silver brows. “How very intriguing to think that I risked so much just to steal a poetic joke.”
“But I do admire the writers’ financial sense,” Orchid added. “Unlike most poets, they got rich. Their works still grace the shelves of every library in the tri-city-states and there was a time when they were the hottest thing in the bookstores. Everyone who was anyone read the stuff.”
“I have three originals in my own collection,” Rafe said in a dangerously neutral voice. “A Morland, a Jenkins, and a Singh.”
Orchid told herself that she should not allow him to goad her. But the man had an att
itude and it made her reckless. She’d always had this problem, she thought. She could already hear a distinct sucking sound but she could not resist putting her foot a little deeper into the jelly-quicksand.
“Got to hand it to those meta-zen-syn philosophical poets,” she said cheerfully. “Morland and his pals were shrewd businesspeople, even if their poetry does sound like something a fifth grader might write.”
There was a short, highly charged silence.
“I suppose it would be too much to expect you to appreciate the clear, strong visual strength of meta-zen-syn poetry,” Rafe said in suspiciously civil tones.
The polished edge of his voice was so sharp Orchid was pretty sure it could have severed bone. She gave him her brightest smile.
“Yeah,” she said. “A little too much to expect.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You may as well give it up, Rafe, dear.” An amused twinkle lit Elvira’s merry blue eyes. “I don’t think that you will be able to intimidate Miss Adams into pretending that she admires philosophical poetry.”
“Obviously,” Rafe said dryly.
She did not look at him but Orchid knew that, unlike Elvira, Rafe was not twinkling.
Orchid smiled blandly. “ ‘Synergy, confluence, harmony. Even chaos seeks balance’.” She quoted smoothly.
Elvira’s eyes widened in appreciation.
“Why, that’s lovely, dear. Which meta-zen-syn poet wrote those lines?”
“I did. Mrs. Kramer’s fifth-grade class.”
Elvira laughed. “Point taken.”
Rafe did not laugh. She could feel the brooding stillness in him as surely as she could sense his aura of paranormal power. She was fairly certain that if she turned around to look at him she would risk a nasty cut from the knife-sharp edge of annoyance in his icy gray eyes.
Why did he care whether or not she admired the stolen volume of Morland poetry? she wondered. The question was just one more on the long list that she had been compiling on Rafe Stonebraker all week.
She did not know what to make of him. At times, she had the disturbing impression that he was studying her. Or perhaps testing her would be more accurate, she thought. Either way, the weird sensation was making her edgy.
Unfortunately, contrary to what she had predicted to Clementine, she was enjoying her assignments with Rafe. They had proved very different and far more interesting than her usual focus projects. She was beginning to think that she had a flair for the private investigation business.
In the course of the first two assignments, she had assisted Rafe in the recovery of a lost third generation painting and helped him trace a highly prized racing pony-hound that a groom had taken from its stable.
It had become clear that Stonebraker Investigations handled only the most confidential of inquiries. Rafe was called in by clients who did not want publicity or the attention of the police.
This evening’s assignment was the most unique yet. Orchid was still not sure why Rafe had even bothered to hire her. She was almost positive that he had known who had stolen his client’s stolen volume even before he had phoned Psynergy, Inc., and asked for her.
To make matters even more curious, Elvira Turlock was not the least bit concerned about the fact that she had been caught redhanded with an extremely valuable stolen book. On the contrary, she obviously took great pride in displaying the volume to Orchid and Rafe.
Orchid got the impression that Elvira and Rafe were old acquaintances who had long ago established a quasi-professional relationship.
Elvira glanced at Rafe. “I suppose you feel you must return my Morland to George.”
“He did hire me to find it.” Rafe sounded mildly apologetic.
“Yes, of course,” Elvira said.
Orchid cleared her throat discreetly. “George?”
“George Yeager.” Elvira’s smile was warm and tinged with an odd wistfulness. “An old friend of mine.”
Orchid blinked. “You stole this book from a good friend?”
Elvira chuckled. “Why not? Six months ago, he snatched my Kingsley. I had to even the score.”
“I don’t get it.” Orchid glanced from Elvira to Rafe. “Is this some sort of game?”
Rafe shrugged but said nothing. There was almost no expression on his austere, bluntly carved features.
“George and I see it as more of a challenge,” Elvira explained lightly. “Rather like a sailing regatta or a golf-tennis tournament. The goal, of course, is to make it appear that the theft was carried out by someone else.”
“A challenge,” Orchid repeated. A light went on somewhere in her brain. “I think I get it.”
Elvira gave her a droll smile. “George and I are both widowed. Perhaps it would help if I explained that the two of us are more than merely good friends. Our little adventures serve to keep a certain zest in our relationship.”
Elvira and the unknown George were lovers. Orchid grinned. “Why, Mrs. Turlock, that is incredibly romantic.”
“Five hells.” Rafe sounded thoroughly disgusted. “It’s not romantic. It’s a complete waste of everyone’s time.”
Orchid glowered at him. “Why are you complaining? You get paid to track down the thief, even though you obviously know who the culprit is before you even start. Sounds like easy money to me.”
Rafe’s jaw tightened. “It’s not always quite that easy. George and Elvira go out of their way each time to fool me, too.”
“Indeed we do,” Elvira said. “Part of the game.” She peered at Rafe. “Tell me, were you thrown off by any of the clues that I left behind this time?”
“The use of a miniature twin-blade saw to take apart the locked case gave me some pause.”
“I hoped it would,” Elvira sounded smugly satisfied. “It’s Edison’s trademark, not my own.”
“Okay, I get the picture,” Orchid said. “You and Mr. Yeager apparently have a longstanding competition going here, Mrs. Turlock. But what about the rest of these old books? You said that they were all stolen. Did you take them from Mr. Yeager’s private collection, too?”
“Heavens, no, dear.” Elvira smiled. “The rest of these were permanent acquisitions.”
“Meaning she stole them from other private collections,” Rafe muttered.
“I see. I think.” Orchid eyed Elvira cautiously. “I take it that you are not unduly concerned about getting arrested, Mrs. Turlock?”
Elvira beamed. “Not bloody likely.”
“May I ask why not?” Orchid glanced at Rafe. “I understand that Mr. Stonebraker contracted only to find Mr. Yeager’s book, not to turn you over to the cops. He made that clear before we came here tonight. But what about the next private investigator or police detective who comes looking for a missing book?”
Elvira looked mildly astonished. “But, my dear, the only one I have to worry about is Stonebraker. No other private investigator or detective has ever discovered my little hobby of collecting old books. I’m a fine, upstanding member of the community. Who would suspect me? Except for Rafe, of course?”
She had a point. Orchid, herself, could hardly believe that the wealthy, socially prominent Elvira Turlock, who sat on the boards of most of the major philanthropic societies in New Seattle and whose brilliant parties were legendary, was a book thief.
“But sooner or later--” Orchid persisted.
“As she said, not likely.” Rafe gave Elvira a knowing look. “Mrs. Turlock is careful to limit her acquisitions. She only steals from a highly select group of private collectors.”
Orchid looked from Rafe to Elvira. “I don’t understand.”
“I acquire my books from collectors who are not in a position to go to the police.” Elvira waved a graceful, heavily ringed hand at the volumes in the glass cases. “Every one of the volumes that you see here had been previously stolen from someone else before I took it.”
Orchid raised her brows. “I get it. You steal from other thieves who can’t go to the cops because they would have to admit they had s
tolen the books first.”
“Precisely.” Elvira nodded approvingly. “It limits my risk. However, I have many of the same security problems as the other collectors who dabble in stolen books and art.”
“In other words,” Rafe said, “she has to worry about thieves too. Mrs. Turlock is in no position to go to the police, either.”
Orchid nodded. “Hence the state-of-the-art security system in this chamber?”
“Indeed.” Elvira smiled at Rafe. “I’ve just had it updated again. You might want to have a look at some of the new features. Quite clever, if I do say so myself.”
A gleam of what could only be professional interest appeared in Rafe’s gaze. “Thanks. I’d like that.”
“The least I can do. But first you both must join me for coff-tea and dessert before you leave. After you phoned this evening, I had my chef prepare a very nice pear-berry tart. You’re quite fond of pear-berries, as I recall.”
“My favorite,” Rafe said. “Very thoughtful of you, Elvira.”
Orchid could hardly believe her ears. Now they were discussing fruit tarts just as though they were not all standing in the midst of several million dollars worth of stolen books.
“Excuse me,” she said crisply, “but if you’re finished with me, Mr. Stonebraker, I really should be on my way.”
Rafe looked at her with unwavering eyes. “But I’m not finished with you, Miss Adams.”
A chill of awareness shot through her. It was suddenly very difficult to look away from that intent, icy stare. From out of nowhere, she was struck with an almost overwhelming urge to run but she did not think she could move if her life depended on it.
This was how a moose-deer that has just been singled out of the herd by a predator feels, she thought suddenly.
What was wrong with her? She was mildly claustrophobic but the underground gallery had not bothered her until now.
A tingling sensation wafted across the metaphysical plane, ruffling all her senses, psychic and otherwise.
Belatedly she recognized the faint shimmer of paranormal energy being actively projected. Talent seeking a prism.
An instant later, it vanished. But not before Orchid recognized Rafe’s unique brand of psychic power. She did not know if he had meant to intimidate her with a flash of raw strat-talent or if the fleeting contact had been accidental. She strongly suspected the former.