Orchid

by Jayne Castle

  On the surface the two women could not have been more different, Orchid thought. Gracie was a petite, stylish woman with a knack for high fashion and social contacts. She owned and operated Proud Prisms, one of Psynergy, Inc.’s chief competitors. She was an unfailingly accurate source of gossip and information.

  “Whew.” Byron’s eyes got very big behind his purple glasses. “We’re talking about those Stonebrakers, are we?”

  “Yeah.” Clementine grimaced. “But our maybe not-too-bright client quarreled with his grandfather, old Alfred G. Stonebraker, years ago. Young Rafe lit out for the Western Islands to find himself, as they say. His grandfather never forgave him. Cut him off without a cent. Actually, Gracie says it was more like Rafe cut himself off. Apparently he refused to have anything to do with the family fortune or the company.”

  “But he’s back in New Seattle,” Byron pointed out. “Maybe he and his grandfather have been reconciled.”

  “Not likely,” Clementine said. “Gracie knows about these things. She tells me that everyone who moves in the same ritzy circles as the Stonebrakers is aware that Rafe has no interest in the family business. Apparently Rafe’s cousin is scheduled to take over control of the company in a few months.”

  “How sad,” Orchid said.

  “I’ll say,” Byron murmured. “Just imagine walking away from all that money and social clout. Clementine’s right. Maybe our client isn’t all that bright.”

  Orchid glared at him. “I was referring to the rift in the family. It’s always sad when families are torn apart by a quarrel.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Byron draped himself over the half empty box of notepads. He gave Orchid a deeply fascinated look. “So, tell me, is it true what they say about strat-talents? Can they really sense it if you lie to them?”

  “That’s just an old myth,” Orchid said crisply. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Well, what about the other stuff?”

  “What other stuff?”

  “Are they really sort of, you know, primitive?” Orchid picked up a stack of Think Exclusive notepads and sent them raining down on Byron’s head.

  At nine o’clock that evening the Volcano Club was only half full. Orchid, seated at a small table with Morgan Lambert and Rafe, studied the shadowed room. The place was a cross between a nightclub and a coff-tea house. It catered to a bohemian crowd of poets, artists, and assorted wannabes.

  A young man on stage hunched over a microphone and growled the words of a poem he had written.

  Images burn in jelly-ice.

  Frozen forever in jelly-ice

  Shimmering in jelly-ice

  Dreams of synergy and orgasm

  In jelly-ice.

  It may not have been deathless prose, but it beat the heck out of meta-zen-syn philosophical poetry, Orchid thought.

  Tiny jelly-ice candles flickered on the tables. The small flames revealed an assortment of expressions, most of which fell into two categories, world-weary ennui and passionate intensity. The majority of the clientele was dressed in gray, the fashionable color of the moment among the artistic set.

  Morgan Lambert fit well into the ambiance of the Volcano Club. He was a thin, intense man with sharp, ascetic features and the long, sensitive fingers of an artist. He looked at Rafe.

  “Did you know Theo Willis?”

  “No.”

  “He was sort of weird, but he was okay.” Morgan glanced at Orchid. “Not much else you can say about poor old Theo, is there?”

  “I guess not.” Orchid slumped back in her chair and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “Never thought he’d kill himself, though. He didn’t seem the type.”

  “They say it’s hard to tell.” Morgan sipped his weak green wine. “He’d been seeing a shrink for the past few months.”

  Orchid raised her brows. “I didn’t know that.”

  “The only reason I know it is because he came by my place a couple of days before he drove his car off that cliff. We had a few drinks. He said he wanted to talk to someone, but in the end the only thing he told me was that he had been going to a syn-psych doctor.”

  “Did he tell you why?” Orchid asked.

  “No. I got the impression he was under a lot of stress because of his new job at that university lab.”

  “Theo didn’t handle stress well.” Orchid pursed her lips. “But I wouldn’t have thought it would make him suicidal. He would be far more likely to just quit the new job if it bothered him that much. He was always changing jobs.”

  “He needed the money this time, he said. He mentioned some crazy plan to start his own focus agency. One that would specialize in ice-prisms. He was trying to get financing for it but he wasn’t having any luck.”

  Orchid sighed. “I can’t see a bank giving Theo a pile of cash. He wouldn’t have looked like a good risk.”

  “No,” Morgan agreed.

  Rafe contemplated Morgan with a surprisingly thoughtful expression. “Did Willis mention the source of his stress?”

  Morgan shook his head. “No. But he was always under stress. He was sort of paranoid.”

  “How did the three of you meet?” Rafe asked.

  Orchid wondered why he was so interested in the subject of Theo Willis. “Three years ago we were recruited for a study of ice-prisms. The researchers at ParaSyn wanted to see if prisms like us could be used to treat violently disturbed mental patients. They wanted to test a dippy theory Dr. Bracewell, the head of the lab, had concocted.”

  “What was the theory?”

  “Bracewell thought that if criminally insane talents could be properly focused, the syn-psych shrinks might be able to realign the synergistic forces of their para-profiles.”

  “Regular prisms can’t work with talents who are really over-the-edge crazy,” Morgan explained. “There’s just no way to get a good focus. Besides, it hurts. The usual result is temporary burnout for the prism.”

  “Probably just as well,” Orchid put in. “Another one of nature’s little tricks to keep dangerous talents from becoming too predatory. Synergy in action.”

  Rafe gave her an unreadable look. “What happened with the study?”

  Morgan grinned briefly. “They didn’t learn much. Orchid led a revolt right in the middle of the project. Got pissed off when they tried to make us focus some really bent talents. She had one session with a guy named Calvin Hyde and that was the end of it. Walked out of the lab. Theo and I followed right behind her.”

  “Calvin Hyde?” Rafe repeated. “He was one of the violently disturbed talents?”

  “Bracewell said he was normal.” Orchid shuddered, recalling the predatory hunger she had sensed in Calvin Hyde. “He claimed Hyde was one of the control subjects. And I think he believed it. Hyde could be very convincing. But as soon as I saw the energy waves of his talent, I knew he was a very dangerous, violently inclined man. The last thing I wanted to do was give him a focus.”

  Rafe watched her with unwavering intensity. “What did you do?”

  She shrugged. “Pretended I couldn’t get a sharp focus. Told Bracewell that Hyde was just too powerful for me and that I couldn’t take anymore. I think Hyde really liked the idea that he was so strong I couldn’t handle him. He was incredibly arrogant. Always had to be top, uh--” She broke off before she uttered the words wolf-hound.

  “What kind of talent was Hyde?” Rafe asked.

  Orchid hesitated.

  It was Morgan who answered the question. “Calvin Hyde was a high-class exotic. A strat-talent. You know, one of those hunters. Very rare.”

  Orchid did not look at Rafe but she could feel him watching her.

  “How strong?” he asked quietly.

  She could not think of a diplomatic response to that query so she kept her mouth shut.

  “She never did find out what his actual rating was,” Morgan said. “Did you, Orchid?”

  “No.” Orchid refolded her small cocktail napkin with great precision. As diversions went, it was not much, but it gave her
an excuse not to meet Rafe’s eyes. “I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. A class seven, maybe.”

  “I see,” Rafe murmured.

  “Bracewell was always running experiments with weird talents, as well as ice-prisms,” Morgan explained. “Orchid said it was because he envied them.”

  “The talents?” Rafe glanced at Orchid.

  “Yes. He’s only a class-two hypno-talent.”

  Morgan chuckled. “Folks at the lab used to refer to him as Two-Watt Bracewell behind his back.”

  Anxious to change the topic, Orchid looked at Morgan. “Speaking of ParaSyn, did you get a letter from the lab recently asking you to come back for a follow-up study?”

  “No.” Morgan looked surprised. “Why? Did you?”

  “Yes. I ignored it.”

  “If I get one, I’ll do the same.” Morgan lounged in his seat and raised his glass. “Well, here’s to Theo. A fellow ice-prism. May he rest in peace on the other side of the Curtain.”

  Orchid hoisted her glass. “To Theo.”

  Rafe said nothing but he swallowed some of his coff-tea when the other two sipped their wine.

  Morgan put down his glass and looked at Orchid. “Let’s go on to a more cheerful subject. Any word from your marriage agency recently?”

  “You call that cheerful?” Out of the corner of her eye, Orchid saw Rafe blink in what in another man might have been startled surprise. She ignored him. He had been acting weird all evening.

  “All right, make that a more interesting subject,” Morgan said.

  Orchid wrinkled her nose. “Funny you should ask. I had lunch with my cousin, Veronica, this afternoon. She brought up the very same question. The answer is no. I still can’t get a date.”

  Morgan whistled. “Sheesh. What is it now? A year since your last agency date?”

  “A year and three days,” Orchid said. “But who’s counting?”

  “Your folks, I imagine,” Morgan said dryly.

  “Don’t remind me. I hate guilt trips.”

  Rafe folded his hands very tightly around his coff-tea cup. “You never mentioned that you were registered, Orchid.”

  Morgan’s mouth curved faintly. “She postponed it as long as she could but a little over a year ago her family finally applied enough pressure to get her to a matchmaking agency. She’s only had one date, though.”

  “And he doesn’t count,” Orchid said.

  Morgan sighed. “Everyone knows ice-prisms are extremely hard to match.”

  “Try impossible,” Orchid said.

  “Still, I’d have thought your agency would have introduced you to more than one potential candidate by now.” Morgan’s eyes widened. “Hey, maybe Affinity Associates lost your registration paperwork.”

  “Not likely,” Orchid said.

  “You never know. Maybe you ought to give your counselor a call,” Morgan urged. “It’s possible there’s been a screw-up.”

  “I doubt it. They’re a very reputable agency.”

  “Things can happen in any office.”

  Orchid grinned. “You’re telling me. I work for Psynergy, Inc., remember?”

  The flaring light of the jelly-ice candle rendered Rafe’s face into a saturnine mask. “Why haven’t you called Affinity Associates to see what’s going on?”

  As if it was any of his business. Orchid decided it would be easier to slide out of the discussion with a small, white lie. “Okay, okay, I’ll call this week.”

  Rafe’s brows rose at that but he made no comment. The brief, knowing look that flashed in his eyes worried Orchid, however. She got the distinct impression that he did not believe her.

  She recalled Byron’s question. Is it true what they say about strat-talents? Can they really sense it if you lie to them?

  Myths, she told herself. Nothing but rumors, gossip, and outdated speculation based on early, faulty, syn-psych research test results. Strat-talents were not human lie-detectors. There was no such creature.

  Theoretically it was no more difficult to lie to a strat-talent than it was to anyone else. But some people, regardless of their paranormal abilities, had an instinct for discerning the truth. Rafe might be one of those people. And she was not the most accomplished liar in the world, she reminded herself.

  But what did it matter if Rafe believed her tonight? After all, her love life or lack thereof was none of his affair.

  Orchid gave both men a determined smile. “I suggest we abandon the subject of my marital prospects before we all expire from boredom.”

  “I don’t find the subject boring,” Rafe said softly.

  Orchid glared at him and decided to turn the tables. “Are you registered?”

  “Yes. Synergistic Connections.”

  For some reason the information hit her like a solid wall of jelly-ice. Rafe was actively looking for a wife. And he was doing it in the proper, appropriate, socially approved manner. Who would have guessed? She wondered why the news was so deflating.

  “Good agency,” she managed in what she hoped was a breezy tone.

  “So I’m told. But I haven’t been introduced to a single potential candidate yet.”

  Morgan gave him a commiserating look. “Sounds like you and Orchid have something in common. Neither one of you can get a date.”

  Chapter 5

  Orchid leaned forward to peer through the windshield when Rafe halted the Acer at the front gates.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “My place.” He activated the remote control to open the gates. “I brought you here so that we could discuss our new job. You do remember that contract I signed in your boss’s office this afternoon?”

  “I remember.”

  The gates swung wide. Orchid sat beside him, wrapped in silence, as he drove through the trees that shielded the front of the big house.

  He had not realized that he had braced himself for her reaction to his home until she spoke.

  “Good grief. This is where you live?”

  “Yes.” He brought the Acer to a stop in front of the broad steps and deactivated the engine.

  “It’s incredible.” She gazed at the dark, looming mansion with unmistakable delight. “What a fantastic place. I spent the entire amount of my first book advance on a genuine Later Expansion period sofa. You’ve got a whole house from that period.”

  He had been afraid this would happen, he told himself as he cracked open the Acer door and got out. She not only loved the damned house, it felt right bringing her here. Very right. All of his senses were pulsing in tempo with the invisible rhythms of the night.

  He looked back through the open Acer door and watched Orchid as she watched his house.

  “I’d give anything to live in a house like this,” she whispered.

  “Funny you should say that.”

  “But why would anyone want to steal an alien relic?” Orchid swirled the ridiculously expensive moontree brandy in her glass and watched Rafe as he stood in front of the fireplace.

  She had found herself reluctantly fascinated by the tale he had just outlined. A stolen artifact, a mysteriously dead thief, and the client’s request for absolute discretion. It sounded like one of her own plots.

  “People steal things for a wide variety of reasons,” Rafe said quietly.

  “Yes, but there usually is a reason. I don’t understand what it would be in this case. From what I’ve heard you can’t do anything with the alien relics. No one knows what their tools were used for, if they were tools. None of them function any more. The experts don’t even know how they were powered. All anyone seems sure of is that they’re very, very old and that they aren’t native to St. Helens.”

  The first small cache of alien artifacts had been discovered by Lucas Trent. He had found them in the course of a jelly-ice prospecting venture in the jungles of the Western Islands. Trent had given his finds to the New Seattle Art Museum which had, in turn, formed a research partnership with the science and history faculties of the University of New Seattle.


  Another, much larger cache of relics had actually been located by the third Chastain Expedition several years earlier. The records of the find had been lost because all but one of the expedition team members had been murdered by a mad spec-talent before the reports could be filed. The “alien tomb,” as the cache was referred to in the press, had been rediscovered by the fourth Chastain Expedition last year.

  The huge collection of artifacts had caused a sensation.

  Speculation ran rampant in the tabloids. Stories featuring women who claimed to have given birth to space alien babies were popular fare at the supermarket checkout counters. The Return cults, predictably, wove the relics into their ludicrous, quasireligious notions regarding the Curtain. Novels and films featuring the artifacts were popular.

  But when all was said and done, Orchid knew, the experts had learned virtually nothing about the alien relics. They remained a fascinating enigma.

  “You’ve worked with me often enough to know that people steal for some strange reasons,” Rafe said. “Collectors are a unique breed.”

  Orchid thought of Elvira Turlock. “Do you think there’s actually an underground market for alien artifacts?”

  “It would not surprise me.” Rafe took a thoughtful sip of his brandy. “But there are other possibilities.”

  “Such as?”

  “The Return cults. Some of them have seized on the discovery of the alien relics to expand their crazy claims about the Curtain. It’s conceivable that one of the more off-the-wall cult leaders arranged for the theft in order to get his or her hands on a genuine alien artifact.”

  “I see what you mean. Be great for show-and-tell at the next meeting of the believers, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Rafe paused. “But the fact that the cult leader would have to display the stolen relic to his followers in order to get any mileage out of it makes me think that’s a less likely scenario than it appears.”

  “Why do you say that?” Orchid waited expectantly. She knew that Rafe would have a reason for his deduction. He always backed up his leaps of strat-talent intuition with cold, hard logic.