Authors: Jayne Castle
Zac peeled open the bag and pulled out the small book. He flipped it open to the first page. “Elena Overstreet,” he read.
Guinevere got to her feet. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to read that diary in this house.”
He didn’t argue, merely looked at her curiously for a few seconds and nodded. “We’ll take it back to your apartment.”
***
Back at her apartment Guinevere practically ran up the stairs, carrying the diary in both hands. As soon as Zac had opened the door she headed straight for the kitchen and opened the little book on the table.
“What do you think it’s all about, Zac?”
“Calm down and we’ll find out.” He pulled the book toward him as he sat down. Guinevere leaned forward, craning her neck to read the fine, feminine hand.
The diary dated from three years previously. The last date was August fourteenth, two years earlier.
“She died August seventeenth, according to the newspapers,” Zac said as he scanned the last entry first.
Guinevere stared as a familiar name leapt off one of the pages. “Look! There’s a reference to Madame Zoltana. Damn, I wish Elena’s handwriting was easier to read. Go back a few pages, Zac. I want to see where Madame Zoltana first appears.”
Zac obediently flipped through the pages. Zoltana’s name first occurred some six months before Elena’s death.
It is clear the woman has a genuine talent. At our first session she demonstrated her abilities beyond a shadow of a doubt. She knew how unhappy I am and how fearful I have become lately. Unlike Dr. Stevens, she doesn’t try to tell me it’s all in my head and then write out a prescription for more pills. Madame Zoltana is a great comfort to me. I fully intend to make another appointment. I am not going to tell Rick about her. He would only ridicule me, and I can’t take any more of his mockery.
Guinevere sucked in her breath. “So Madame Zoltana was Elena’s psychic counselor during those months before her death.”
“Looks like it.” Zac turned a few more pages, reading quickly. “Elena Overstreet was one scared woman, Gwen. Listen to this.”
I can’t shake the feeling of foreboding. I talked to Madame Zoltana about it again yesterday, and she told me that she sees a great darkness on my horizon. I told her about my panic attacks in the middle of the night, and she said they were meant as warnings. She is hoping that if she sees me on a frequent basis she will be able to determine the nature of the warnings. I am going back to her again tomorrow. Rick is not home tonight. No doubt he is out with another of his whores.
Guinevere winced as she read the last line. “It wasn’t me,” she told Zac defensively. “I didn’t even meet him until a month after that.”
“And you were never one of his whores, so relax,” Zac said grimly.
“I think I’m going to feel guilty when this is all over,” Guinevere said sadly.
“Why? When you were seeing Rick, you didn’t even know Elena existed.”
“That’s true.”
“And when you found out about her, you told Overstreet to take a flying leap.”
Guinevere nodded again, mutely seeking reassurance.
“So stop making guilty noises and help me figure out what’s going on in this diary.”
His utter lack of patience with her attack of guilt made Guinevere smile in spite of herself. “That’s what I like about you, Zac. You’re so straightforward about life’s little problems.”
“I do make an effort not to let them bend my brain into spaghetti, unlike some people I could mention,” he retorted dryly. “Ah, here we go, another entry mentioning Rick.”
If I tell anyone about what happened last night, I know I will be told I’m mentally ill. Perhaps they will send me back to the hospital. I couldn’t stand that. No one but Zoltana believes me. I know Rick tried to kill me last night. All those pills he insisted I take, and then the alcohol he encouraged me to drink. I know he wanted me to overdose. Thank God I had the sense not to swallow the pills. He must have been amazed when I appeared at breakfast this morning.
“She thought he was trying to kill her, Zac!”
“It gets worse.”
Together they pored over the diary, following Elena’s heart-wrenching story. The woman had been terrified of reporting her fears to anyone but Zoltana, apparently because Elena had had a history of psychological problems. Eventually Zoltana became her confidant, and it was obvious Zoltana had made the most out of the situation. Toward the end of the diary Elena was visiting Zoltana three or four times a week, while Rick was at work. She never told her husband of the psychic counseling sessions.
There were two more incidents in the diary that Elena reported as attempts on her life. Both would have looked like accidents or suicide if they had succeeded. By the next to the last entry it was obvious that Elena was nearly hysterical with fear.
I don’t think I will live out the week. Rick is a total stranger to me now. Perhaps he always was. I have never been so terrified in my life. I think he bought a gun yesterday. Perhaps he has given up trying to make my death appear to be a suicide. I must get out of this house. I have made up my mind. There is no one who will believe me or shelter me except Zoltana. I cannot ask her to take the risk of offering shelter. If Rick discovered I was hiding with her, he would surely kill her, too. No, I must go off by myself and hide. I have taken money out of the bank, and I have the keys to the car. Rick had hidden them, but I found them anyway. I will leave this diary with Zoltana, along with my written request that any accident I appear to suffer be investigated as a possible case of homicide. I will instruct her that if anything should happen to me, she is to turn the diary and my request over to the police. Heaven help me, I should have left long ago. But perhaps there never was a time when I would have been safe. From the moment Rick married me, I have been his victim. He has watched me as a cat watches a mouse, waiting to pounce.
There was a handwritten note folded up in the back of the diary. A neat, formal little request from Elena Overstreet to the authorities. Guinevere’s eyes burned when she read it. “That poor woman,” she breathed.
Zac closed the diary. “Well, it’s obvious she didn’t make the best possible choice of confidants when she picked Madame Zoltana. Zoltana took her for a ride as long as she was alive, and after Elena died, she decided to go big time and blackmail Rick Overstreet. I think we can guess what finally happened to Madame Zoltana.”
“I wonder how Rick found out she was the blackmailer.”
“Any number of ways. Given enough time, Zoltana probably would have made a few slips and exposed herself. Once Overstreet knew who she was and what she had on him, she didn’t stand a chance.” Zac tapped the small book against the tabletop, his eyes unreadable. “The problem is that Overstreet can’t relax completely, even if he has gotten rid of Zoltana.”
“Because he didn’t find the diary,” Guinevere concluded.
“Exactly. He must have emptied out the safe that night and assumed he’d found what he needed. But all he got were the client files.”
“This diary is not going to be enough to convict him of murder, Zac. There’s no proof here, only his poor wife’s fears and suspicions.”
“True, but there’s enough to put him in a very untenable position and probably enough to reopen the investigation of Elena’s accident. No telling where that might lead. Furthermore, we’ve got a missing person on our hands and more than enough evidence to send the police to Overstreet asking pointed questions.”
“You know what really worries me?” Guinevere asked quietly.
“What?”
“Francine Bates. Zac, if Rick didn’t find this diary the night he ransacked the safe, he’s bound to wonder where it went. And if he ever figures out that Francine was Zoltana’s inside person at Gage and Watson, he’ll assume she has the diary.”
“I know,” Zac said simply. He reached for the phone and dug his notebook out of his pocket.
“What are you going to do?”
“Tell Francine and her sister to take a short vacation until I can convince the authorities to look into this. That’s going to take some doing, and I’d just as soon the Bates sisters were staying anonymously in a hotel. If we found them, Overstreet could find them.”
“He’d have to figure out first that Francine was involved with Zoltana.”
“That’s not so difficult to figure out, Gwen.”
“You’re right. Even I did it.” She waited anxiously while Zac dialed the Bates cottage on the coast. After a few minutes it was obvious there wasn’t going to be an answer. Zac hung up with a grim expression.
“Maybe they’re not home.”
“I think it’s more likely they still aren’t answering the phone. They’re scared, remember.”
A new level of alarm flared in Guinevere. “Zac, we’ve got to warn them.”
He eyed her. “The only way to do that is to drive over to the coast.”
“I know.”
“We’re talking a two-and-a-half-hour drive, and it’s already twelve thirty.”
“I know,” Guinevere said again.
There was silence in the kitchen while Zac and Guinevere sat looking at each other. Then Zac got to his feet.
“Right,” he said decisively. “Let’s get going.”
The drive to the coast seemed endless, although in truth Zac made excellent time on the empty highway. Fifty miles out of Seattle it became obvious there was a storm brewing. By the time they neared the ocean it had arrived in full force.
“Thank heavens we didn’t have this rain to drive through until the last few miles,” Guinevere remarked as Zac turned on the windshield wipers. “It would have slowed us down.”
“Let’s just hope the whole damn trip hasn’t been wasted.”
She gave him an alarmed glance. “What do you mean? You don’t think anything has happened to Francine and Denise, do you?”
He exhaled patiently. “I only meant I hope they really are in that cottage and not out for the evening visiting friends or something. Be just our luck to make this drive when a phone call in the morning might have been all that was needed.”
“I would have been a nervous wreck by morning,” Guinevere told him.
“Theoretically, they aren’t in any more danger now than they have been for the past few days.”
“Except that Rick might be closing in on Francine.” Guinevere chewed her lower lip. “I just hope he doesn’t figure out her connection to Madame Zoltana too quickly.”
Zac slowed for the turnoff to the Bates cottage. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning, and the lights were off in the house.
“They’re probably in bed,” Guinevere said reasonably.
“Probably.”
“So why am I so jumpy all of a sudden?”
Zac gave her a faint smile as he parked the car. “Damned if I know. I was hoping you could tell me why I’m so jumpy.”
“You’re never jumpy,” she accused him, holding her purse up to shield herself from the rain as she got out of the car. “You’re always cool, calm, and collected. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Vitamins. Ready?”
“Wish you kept an umbrella in the trunk,” Guinevere muttered as she hastened after him.
“Seattlelites don’t carry umbrellas.”
“A myth.” She ducked under the shelter of the porch and brushed rain from her leather purse as Zac rang the doorbell. When there was no response, he tried pounding heavily. Guinevere frowned. “They might be afraid of anyone coming to the door at this time of night. Perhaps they’re playing possum.”
“Miss Bates!” Zac shouted through the door. “It’s Zac and Gwen. We have to talk to you.”
“Open the door, Zac.” Guinevere was compelled by a fierce sense of urgency. Apparently Zac was feeling the same force.
“It’s open,” he said, shoving at the door.
“Don’t waste your time,” Rick Overstreet said from the far end of the porch. “They’re not home.”
Guinevere whirled around to see him step out of the shadows, an ugly, snub-nosed gun in his hand.
“Zac!”
Zac didn’t bother to answer. His hand closed around her wrist, and he yanked her forward into the house, slamming the door behind them. A shot cracked viciously as the door shut, the bullet slicing through the air where Guinevere had been standing a second earlier.
Chapter Nine
Guinevere got only a brief view of the dark living room and kitchen of the cottage as Zac raced her through both rooms, but they appeared empty. There was no sign of either Bates sister.
“Zac, what are we going to do?”
“The woods out back,” he bit off, yanking her through the kitchen. “With any luck, Overstreet will think we’re hiding in the house, at least for a few minutes. That might give us some time. Why is that goddamn Beretta of mine always stuck under the sink in my apartment when I need it most?”
Guinevere didn’t argue, as he paused for a second to open the back door and glance outside. The rain was coming down in thick, heavy torrents now. The endless dull pounding of it was a blessing, as far as Guinevere was concerned. The sound masked their movements through the house. The oppressive darkness visible through the back door offered a haven. Guinevere plunged into it without any hesitation. She had no desire to huddle under a bed inside the house waiting for Rick Overstreet to hunt down his quarry. She’d had one horrifying glimpse into his face out there on the porch, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Rick had murder in mind.
“It won’t take him long to figure out we’re not hiding in the house,” Zac said as they plunged into the heavily wooded area.
“The car . . .?” Guinevere’s breath was coming quickly already. The wet undergrowth slapped and clawed at her jeaned legs. She didn’t know how far she could run, although being pursued by a man with a gun was probably going to be an excellent incentive.
In the wet darkness Zac shook his head. “The area around it is too open. No cover. We’d never make it if he spotted us. Our best bet is to draw him as far as we can into these trees.”
“And then what?” Guinevere gasped.
“Then we do something real clever.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I think of it. Come on, behind those bushes.”
“I think those are blackberry bushes, Zac. Be careful. Full of thorns.”
Zac dodged around the edge of the looming clump of bushes, and Guinevere followed. Her wrist was getting sore from the relentless pressure Zac was exerting on it. She didn’t complain.
“You think he’ll come after us?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder. She could see little in the darkness. The dark bulk of the house was a featureless blot barely visible between the trees.
“He’ll come after us.” Zac sounded grimly certain. “He has to come after us. He’s got too much at stake. We know who he is and what he’s done. He can’t afford to let us get away.”
“Somehow,” Guinevere muttered dismally, “I didn’t expect my big case to end quite this way.”
“Neither did I. Life with you is full of surprises, Gwen.” The observation was clearly not meant as a compliment.
A harsh, cracking sound echoed through the rain. Guinevere gulped air. “Zac!”
“He’s shooting blindly. He can’t possibly see us.”
“Zac, I saw a light,” Guinevere whispered after another quick glance over her shoulder. “He’s got a big flashlight.”
“Well, at least we’ll always know right where he is, won’t we? That flashlight will act as a beacon.”
“I love the way you always look on the bright side.”
“Come on, I think this is about as far as we can go. The trees are starting to thin out again, and we need their protection. We have to stay among them.” Zac slowed to a halt and tugged Guinevere to the right.
She struggled after him, her chest tight with the effort of drawing in oxygen. “If we get out of this, I think I’d better sign up for an aerobics class. No stamina.”
“You’re doing fine. I’m the one who’d better sign up for the class.” He pushed her down behind a massive, chest-high cluster of twisted berry bushes. “Listen to me, Gwen. I want you to stay here, understand?”
Guinevere ignored the stinging in her palm as she unthinkingly closed her hand around a thorny branch. She looked up, trying to see his face in the darkness and rain. In the wet shadows she got only an impression of harsh planes and angles. His eyes seemed colorless, but the glittering intensity in them was frightening. It was the image of a face belonging to a creature that hunted and killed to survive. It crossed her mind that it was because of her that Zac had once again been transformed into this grim, relentless, very dangerous being.
“I’m sorry, Zac,” she heard herself whisper, her voice a mere thread of sound.
He didn’t pay any attention to the useless apology. “Don’t move, Gwen.”
“Yes, Zac.”
He urged her down until she was crouched in the mud, and then he was gone, his passage soundless in the night. Guinevere hugged herself, recovering her breath as she strained to listen. She became aware of a weight on her right shoulder and realized in vague surprise that she still had her leather bag. Amazing how strong a woman’s instinct was when it came to hanging on to her purse.
Minutes passed. Guinevere could hear nothing but the endlessly thudding rain. She knew Zac was out there somewhere, hunting the man who was hunting them. Her mind conjured up a bizarre scene of two dangerous wild animals prowling through the night, seeking each other’s throats. She thought of Rick Overstreet’s golden cat’s eyes, and of Zac’s strong, quiet strength.
Another shot cracked through the trees. Instinctively, Guinevere ducked, although she knew Rick couldn’t possibly see her. The strain of waiting behind the berry bushes was quickly eating at her nerves, though. She needed to know where Overstreet was.
She crawled through the mud on her hands and knees, peering around the edge of the berry thicket. For a moment she could see nothing, and then Rick’s flashlight cut a vicious swath through the night. She froze, trying to spot Zac and wondering how long it would take Rick to find Zac’s hiding place or her own.
When the light shifted in another direction Guinevere caught an impression of movement to her left and realized it was probably Zac. She narrowed her eyes, struggling to see through the pouring rain, and decided he was working his way around an invisible circle that would ultimately bring him to a point directly across from her.
It made sense from his viewpoint, she realized. He would be able to keep an eye on her location and make sure Overstreet didn’t find her first. He would also be able to track Rick’s progress through the woods. But as far as Guinevere could tell, the only action Zac would be able to take would be to leap out and try to take Rick by surprise. She shuddered. Rick had a gun and a flashlight. It was going to be damn risky.
Minutes slipped past. Guinevere was soaked, and she was getting chilled, but still she crouched where Zac had left her. The slanting flashlight beam kept cutting through the night in a pattern that indicated Rick was methodically searching every inch of the wooded terrain. He must have realized that Zac was unarmed.
Guinevere flinched as the flashlight began moving closer. Zac was right. In one respect the light made it easy to keep tabs on Rick. But there was a certain horrifying inevitability about its movement. Given enough time, Rick was sure to find one or both of them. Guinevere huddled more tightly into herself, watching the flashlight through the twisted berry vines. She was soaking wet.
“You should never have gotten involved, Gwen.”
Rick’s voice shocked her. For some reason, she hadn’t expected him to start talking. He must be feeling very confident. Or perhaps he thought he could rattle her and Zac.
“What made you do it? How did you figure out that that Zoltana bitch was blackmailing me? It was a mistake to drag your lover into this. I’m going to have to kill you both now. You know that, don’t you? And when I’m done with you two, I’ll take care of that goddamn Francine Bates. Zoltana gave that stupid diary to her, didn’t she? It’s the only explanation. It took me a while to put it all together. I didn’t realize the Bates woman was connected with Zoltana until today, when I had a talk with one of your silly little temps at work. She let it slip, and then I realized what must have happened to Elena’s diary. But I can’t figure you out, Gwen, or that bastard with you. How the hell did you get involved?”
Rick was edging closer, the flashlight still moving in sweeping arcs. Overstreet was only a dark, lethal shadow behind the glare of the light. Guinevere wished she could make herself smaller. The temptation to break and run was almost overwhelming, but instinct warned her that that would be stupid. Rick was too close now. He would detect the movement. Her fingers closed around a rock lying in the mud beside her. It was a poor excuse for a weapon, but she didn’t have anything else. Guinevere held her breath, aware her fingers were shaking around the cold, hard rock.
She was tensing herself for a wild, desperate throw, when she realized Rick had changed direction. He was no longer coming toward her berry-bush cover. The flashlight was moving toward a point diametrically across from her. It was the direction in which Zac had disappeared.
Guinevere moved her head slightly, trying to follow the beam of light. It glanced off several trees and then skimmed over a small, tumbled pile of rocks. It froze on the rocks, and Guinevere knew for certain Rick had found Zac’s hiding place. What’s more, she knew Rick had realized the same thing. The light didn’t shift from the rocks.
“Come on out and I’ll make it quick and clean,” Rick promised with a hungry anticipation that went well with his catlike eyes. “I want to get this over with. Come on,” he urged, moving slowly toward the jumble of granite.
“Come on!”
Zac didn’t stand a chance. His hiding place was exposed in the full glare of the flashlight. The most he could hope to do was make a break for it, and Guinevere knew he’d never make it. Rick would cut him down in a split second. Fury overwhelmed her. She was on her feet before she had time to think, heaving the shoulder bag uselessly in Rick’s direction. It fell short, but it brought Rick around with jolting swiftness, the flashlight blinding her.
“You bastard!” she yelled and then dove for the mud as Rick lifted the gun. A shot slammed through the berry bushes above her head, and the flashlight swung wildly, as though Rick had staggered. She flattened herself, waiting for the next shot, but it never came. Instead there was a shout of rage from Rick Overstreet and the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the ground.
Guinevere jerked to her feet, knowing Zac must have jumped the other man. The flashlight lay on the soggy ground, its steady beam revealing a twisting flurry of arms and legs. Guinevere raced forward, but she knew even before she reached the light that Zac had everything under control. She was in time to see the final savage blows as he straddled Overstreet and slammed his fist against Rick’s jaw. Overstreet went abruptly still.
“Zac! Are you all right?” Guinevere scrambled for the flashlight, aiming it at his face. Blood glinted on his mouth. In that instant he was the hunter who had made his kill. In the brilliant glare of the flashlight his eyes were pools of slowly retreating menace.
“I’m fine. Would you kindly stop trying to blind me with that goddamn flashlight?”
“Oh, sorry.” Hastily she swerved the light out of his eyes and aimed it at Overstreet. There was considerably more blood on Rick’s handsome features than there was on Zac’s face. “I was scared to death.”
“Not half as scared as I was when you stood up and threw that stupid purse at him,” Zac muttered, reaching for the gun, which had fallen into the mud. He climbed to his feet. “What the hell did you think you were doing? I thought I told you to stay behind those bushes.”
“He had you pinned behind those rocks. He was going to kill you!”
“I wasn’t behind the rocks,” Zac said mildly, watching her. “I was over there behind those trees. That pile of rocks was a little too obvious.”
Guinevere stared at him. “You weren’t behind the rocks? But I was sure I’d seen you disappear in this direction.”
“We can discuss this at some other time. Not now. Help me get this bastard back to the house.”
Guinevere bit her lip at the disgusted anger in his voice. It was obvious Zac was not in a cheerful mood. She could hardly blame him. Silently she bent to grab one of Rick’s limp arms.
***
It was six o’clock in the morning before Guinevere and Zac finally checked in to a small beachfront motel. The desk clerk had taken one look at Zac’s bruised face and cold eyes, and hadn’t argued about the fact that his new guests had neither luggage nor a semblance of respectability. He pointedly pretended to ignore Guinevere’s disreputable appearance. Her hair was hanging in damp tendrils around her shoulders, and she was wearing an oversize shirt that had been loaned to her by a sheriff’s deputy.
Zac accepted the key without a word and led the way along the second floor to the room they had been assigned.
“First, a shower.” He slammed the door shut and locked it.
Guinevere didn’t want to argue with him any more than the desk clerk had. Obediently she headed toward the bathroom, stripping off the borrowed shirt and the rest of her clothing as she went. Zac followed, leaving a trail of muddy clothes behind him. When she had the hot water on full blast, he stepped in beside her.
Guinevere waited until she could stand it no longer. Zac had been dangerously silent too long. The only real talking he had done had been to the sheriff’s men, whom he had called from the Bates cottage. Clutching the bar of soap, she looked up at him through the steaming water.
“Why don’t you just chew me out and get it over with? I can’t stand the suspense.”
He opened his eyes beneath the water and glared at her. For a moment he was silent, but there was emotion moving now in his eyes. That had to be some sort of improvement, Guinevere figured. She hated it when Zac’s eyes went cold.
“You little fool. You almost got yourself killed.” He didn’t touch her, but Guinevere got the impression that was because he didn’t quite trust himself to touch her.
“Zac, I’ve already apologized for that scene back in the woods. I told you, I thought Rick had found your hiding place. How was I to know you weren’t behind those rocks? It was a logical place to hide.” Her eyes widened slightly. “Which was exactly what you wanted Rick to think, didn’t you? You were going to jump him from behind when he tried to flush you out from the cover of the rocks.”