by Jayne Castle
Things sighed and rustled in the foliage around her. It seemed to Zinnia that there was an air of hungry anticipation in the small disturbing noises. Feeding time at the plant zoo.
She kept her hands close to her sides and watched where she put her feet. The important thing was not to touch anything, she told herself. She must not provoke any of the little green monsters.
“I said, come outa there. Aaah. What the hell? Bat-snake shit. I’m bleedin.”
Zinnia realized that Stitch had run afoul of one of the plants. She wondered if the experience would cut down on his eagerness to pursue her.
“Goddamned matrix whore. You’re going to pay for this.”
Stitch’s footsteps resumed. He was moving faster, more recklessly now. Zinnia could almost feel the rage that was propelling him forward.
“Shit.” Stitch’s voice rose. “What is it with these damned plants?”
She edged deeper into the unpleasant maze. Glancing down, she saw that she was not leaving any footprints on the thick, eerie green moss that carpeted the floor of the maze. Stitch was no doubt using the sound of her own retreating footsteps as a guide.
She tried to walk more softly but she soon discovered that it was nearly impossible to move both quickly and stealthily at the same time. At least it was impossible for her. She had a feeling that Nick would know how to do it.
She inched past a row of barbed leaves and caught a glimpse of something that could have been a green tongue.
A slithering sound overhead made her flinch. She peered into the shadows. A thick meaty-looking vine curled down from a matted stretch of leaves. It appeared to sway slowly, as if in response to a light wind.
But there was no wind. Not even a breeze.
The vine swayed closer. There was something almost hypnotic about the way it swung gently across the width of the narrow corridor. It had uncurled to a point about three feet off the ground.
Back and forth. Back and forth. The longer Zinnia watched it, the more harmless it looked. It was just an ordinary vine. She could brush past it easily.
No. She must not touch anything, she reminded herself.
She froze in place, aware of Stitch’s approaching footsteps.
“Where are you, you stupid woman? If you go any deeper, you won’t be able to find your way out. Then what will you do?”
Slowly Zinnia sank down to the ground and crawled under the questing vine.
The ropy vine descended a few more inches in response to her presence but she managed to scoot beneath it without touching it.
“All right, bitch. You win. I’m not going to follow you any farther. Five hells. Damn this stuff.”
Zinnia whirled. He was too close.
Stitch came around a corner, nursing a bleeding arm. He stopped when he saw her standing on the far side of the swaying vine.
“Well, well, well.” Stitch’s small eyes brightened with malevolent excitement. He started forward more quickly. “There you are. Come on, we’re going to get back out of here before we get lost.”
“We’re already lost, hadn’t you noticed? Don’t come any closer.” Zinnia stepped back. “I’m warning you. Some of these plants are extremely dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid of a few thorns.” He rubbed a hand on his pants. The motion left a streak of blood on the fabric. “And this’ll slice anything in this damn maze to ribbons.” He held up the long-bladed knife.
“Don’t count on it.” Zinnia turned away from him and walked gingerly down another green corridor.
“Damned fucking bitch.” Stitch lunged after her.
Zinnia heard a soft deadly swoosh.
Stitch’s ear-splitting scream froze the blood in her veins. There was a terrible thrashing in the bushes behind her. The dreadful screaming halted abruptly on a strangled note.
Zinnia swung around, searching for the entrance to the corridor that she had just exited. But all she could see was a wall of green. She knew that she was only a few steps away from Stitch, but she was completely lost and disoriented.
“Stitch?”
There was no answer.
She waited a few more minutes but there was no further sound.
After a while, she turned and walked slowly down another green-walled corridor, DeForest had told her that the maze was designed to funnel anyone who entered it straight to the grotto. If she got that far without running afoul of one of the plants, she could sit on the stone bench and wait for Nick.
She did not doubt for one minute that he would come looking for her.
A few minutes later she stumbled, unscathed, into the clearing that surrounded the grotto. The stone bench was there, just as she had remembered. It would make a cold perch for the night, but at least it was a safe spot to spend the next few hours while she awaited rescue.
She did not see Newton DeForest until she started to sit down.
A scream rose in her throat.
Newton floated face down in the grotto pool, enmeshed in a net of fibrous water plants.
Even as Zinnia stared in horror, several more tendrils snaked out from the shrubbery that clung to the rocks. They drifted across the surface of the water until they reached Newton. When they reached the body, they twined themselves around his legs.
Demented DeForest was feeding his plants one last time.
Nick gazed at the enlarged frame of the microfilmed edition of the New Portland Corporate Registry and felt the last connections click into place. Fire and Ice Pharmaceuticals, the company that had committed to underwriting the Third Expedition through the University of Portland had gone bankrupt a few months after the expedition was supposedly canceled. But that was not what interested Nick the most.
What fascinated him was the name of the CEO of Fire and Ice.
It had taken him a while to find what he needed but his hunch had been correct. Not even a matrix could successfully wipe out all records of a large business that had existed as recently as thirty-five years ago.
The public librarians of St. Helens took their profession seriously. They could give matrix-talents lessons when it came to one type of obsession, Nick thought. They were a passionate lot when it came to the preservation and storage of information. All kinds of information.
It was more than an obsession for librarians, it was a sacred trust. The First Generation colonists had learned the true value of information storage and retrieval the hard way. Shortly after the Curtain closed, stranding them, they had seen their only hope, their computerized databases, start to disintegrate along with everything else that had been manufactured on Earth.
The colonists had known that without the advanced technology of the home world, they would need the ancient skills of a more primitive time in order to survive. The secrets of those old crafts were buried in the history texts stored in their computerized library.
A scriptorium had been set up to copy as much basic medical, agricultural, sociological, and scientific data as possible before the computers failed. Teams working with rough handmade paper and reed pens had labored around the clock for weeks in a frantic effort to record the most essential information before it disappeared. Everyone had understood that the more that was lost, the less chance there would be for survival.
Technologically, the colonists had been thrown back to a period roughly equivalent to the late eighteenth century on Earth.
When the Founders had crafted their vision of a society that would be strong enough to ensure their survival, they had embedded two values most deeply into their design. The first was the value of marriage and family. The second was the value of books.
Librarians, Nick thought with a sense of keen appreciating, had been zealous in honoring the Founders’ trust. Because of their commitment to hoarding every scrap of information, including old phone books and corporate registries, he now knew the identity of the person who had murdered his parents.
None of the library patrons bothered to glance more than twice at the sight of a man dressed in wrinkled formal b
lack evening wear running through the book stacks toward the door.
Half an hour later when he broke the lock of Zinnia’s loft and slammed into the apartment, Nick was no longer basking in the rush of satisfaction that had hit him in the library. He was fighting a rising tide of fear.
Zinnia was supposed to be home, resting. But she had not answered the door.
He walked quickly through the airy apartment. The bed was rumpled. The towels in the bath were damp. She had been here earlier but now she was gone.
He paused by her desk and picked up the phone to dial Leo’s number. Then he noticed the flashing light on the answering machine. He punched the button.
There was a hum and then a click. “Zinnia? This is your Aunt Willy...”
Nick hit the FAST-FORWARD button.
Another hum and a click. “Zin? It’s me, Leo ...”
He pushed the FAST-FORWARD button again.
Hum. Click. “Miss Spring? Newton DeForest here. Say, I did some checking in those old files ...“
“Five hells.” Nick ran toward the door.
The connections in the matrix were shatteringly obvious now. Zinnia was not a hapless bystander who had been caught up in the elaborate web of events surrounding the Chastain journal.
She had been the target of the killer all along.
She had to be here. But she was not responding to his psychic probe.
Nick stood at the entrance of the dark maze. Everything in the matrix was designed to draw him into those twisting corridors of grotesque foliage.
He sensed the hunger of the gently rustling plants. He knew that Zinnia was somewhere inside. He could see her purse on the ground near the first turning point. Farther on a bit of khaki cloth dangled from a long sharp spine. A piece of a man’s shirt.
Someone had chased Zinnia into the maze.
He shoved the flashlight he had brought with him into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He did not need it yet. The sun would not set for another hour. He walked cautiously into the evil green maze.
He was immediately engulfed in a deep perpetual twilight, thanks to the heavy canopy of vines and leaves. An innocent yellow flower caught his attention. He did not see the toothlike thorns inside until he glanced down into the heart of the bloom. A large half-dissolved insect floated in a sticky pool at the bottom.
He went forward, careful not to brush against even the most innocuous-looking leaves. He slipped through the dark halls the way Andy Aoki had taught him to move through the jungles of the Western Islands.
He let his senses expand to full awareness. His matrix-honed instincts for spatial relationships kept him centered in the passageways.
He turned and went along another corridor. Something slithered near his foot. He glanced down and saw a small vine creeping toward the toe of his shoe. He stepped over it and continued on to the next intersection.
It did not matter which way he chose to go, he decided. Zinnia had told him that the design of the maze was such that anyone who entered it ended up at the center.
At each twist and bend in the path, his stomach tightened at the possibility of what he might find around the corner. He told himself that the maze was not deadly so long as one was careful. DeForest had given Zinnia a tour. He had explained to her that as long as she did not provoke the plants, she was safe.
But Zinnia had been fleeing from someone when she had entered earlier. She would have been scared. Her thoughts would have been on escape, not on protecting herself from the foliage.
He rounded another corner and saw the body. It dangled from a vine that was twisted around its throat. Dozens of small spongelike flowers had descended from the canopy and attached themselves to the corpse. They were swollen and dark. They throbbed as they dined.
For an instant, Nick could have sworn that his heart stopped. Then he realized that he was looking at the body of a man, not a woman. The person who had chased Zinnia into the maze, no doubt. What remained of the torn khaki clothing matched the scrap of fabric he had seen at the entrance.
There was something familiar about the khaki, he thought. Then he made the connections and realized that he was looking at the second knife man.
Nick got down on his hands and knees and crawled beneath the gently swaying body. His hand brushed against an object lying on the moss. A sheath-knife. He picked it up, closed the sheath, and dropped it into the pocket of his black trousers.
On the far side of the body, he stood and continued along the corridor. He tried another psychic probe. Still no response from Zinnia. She was alive, he thought. She had to be alive. He would know if she were not. And she was here somewhere in this damned maze. Why wasn’t she responding?
He moved more swiftly now. The fear that Zinnia might be lying unconscious or hurt somewhere in one of the green corridors briefly overrode his old cautious habits and his natural sense of timing. The sleeve of his black jacket brushed against a leaf. A rustling sound alerted him to his mistake.
Instinct took over. He leaped forward, barely avoiding two long blade-shaped leaves. The leaves snapped together with a sound that was uncannily reminiscent of a pair of scissors.
A moment later the gurgle of water bubbling over rocks caught his attention. The grotto. He was near the heart of the maze.
He walked around the last corner and saw Zinnia.
She was not alone.
Duncan Luttrell stood a short distance away. He had a gun in his hand. His mouth twisted in amused disgust at the sight of Nick’s rumpled tux.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Chastain,” Duncan said. “You’re a trifle overdressed for the occasion. But, given your notoriously bad taste, I suppose that was only to be expected.”
Chapter 23
“Nick.” Zinnia shot to her feet as he walked casually into the clearing. She started toward him.
“Don’t move,” Duncan ordered.
She halted. Relief and fear soared through her. Nick was here. But now they were both trapped. “I knew you would find me. But I wish you hadn’t. Duncan has gone crazy.”
“Sit down, Zinnia.” Duncan’s voice vibrated with sudden rage. “Now. Or I’ll kill Chastain where he stands.”
She whirled around, fists clenched. “If you do I’ll never give you what you want.”
“Yes, you will.” Duncan smiled thinly. “Because I will make certain that Chastain dies very slowly if you don’t. I’m sure those plants that are munching on what’s left of DeForest would welcome dessert.”
Nick stopped beside a large, dark purple-green plant that rustled expectantly. He ignored the shrubbery and spared only a passing glance at Duncan. His whole attention was focused on Zinnia. “You may as well do what he says. Have a seat. We’ll probably be here a while.”
She searched his face. In the eternal twilight of the maze, it was impossible to read his expression. But, then, it had never been easy to tell what Nick was thinking, she reminded herself. He could be as enigmatic as the sea. Slowly she sank back down onto the cold stone bench.
“He’s got your father’s journal.” She looked at the neatly wrapped package that lay beside her on the stone bench. “He stole it from poor Morris Fenwick and then murdered him. He had already hired Wilkes to create the duplicate and a fake note for Polly and Omar to find. He thought if you accepted the fraud, you’d stop looking for the original.”
“I know.” Nick looked at Duncan. “And you tried to implicate my uncle in both the murder of Fenwick and the forgery.”
Duncan’s empty hand swept out in a what-can-you-do gesture. “I tried to put you off the scent or at least distract you by leaving one of your uncle’s cuff links at Wilkes’s house.”
“How did you get the cuff link?” Nick asked.
“Oh, that was simple. He and I were meeting regularly to discuss business. I made certain that he lost one link after he’d had a few too many scotch-tinis. I really did not want to have to kill you, Chastain. I was afraid it would draw too much interest, not only from the police, but
from your circle of lower-class associates.”
“His associates, as you call them, are not nearly as low class as yourself, but you’ll certainly get their attention if you kill him,” Zinnia said fiercely. “You’ll never get away with it.”
“I’ve found a way around that little problem,” Duncan murmured. “By the time anyone finds his body in this charming country garden, there will be very little left. It will be assumed that he and Demented DeForest argued about the fate of the Third Expedition and both of them ran afoul of these damned meat-eating plants.”
“It will never work,” Zinnia said.
She was hoarse from repeating the words. She had been saying them over and over for the past hour while they waited for Nick.
Duncan had been just as certain as she that Nick would show up eventually. She had deliberately refused to respond to the familiar probe of Nick’s strong talent in an attempt to discourage him from entering the maze. But he had found her, anyway. Typical matrix.
Nick looked at Duncan. “Your father went to a lot of trouble to rewrite history. He murdered several people and he faked the bankruptcy of his own company in an effort to blur his tracks. But even a paranoid matrix-talent couldn’t wipe out every piece of evidence that related to the Third Expedition.”
The flash of rage that had appeared in Duncan’s eyes vanished as if it had never existed. He assumed his familiar warm, charming, open-faced expression. “My father certainly tried hard enough. Got to give the old bastard credit. In all the years I knew him, the only thing he ever cared about was that damned journal. He didn’t even bother to come to my mother’s funeral because he was so busy working on it.”
“Why didn’t he get rid of DeForest years ago?” Zinnia asked.
Duncan chuckled. “There was no reason to do that. In his own bizarre fashion, Demented DeForest made an unwitting contribution to the plan.”
“He helped turn the truth into a legend,” Nick said.
“Precisely.” Duncan smiled. “Thanks to his silly theories about alien abductions, no serious scholar ever paid any attention to the subject. It became the kind of story that only the tabloids covered.”
