by Trueax, Rain
Dusty's expression froze. "Wasn't he the architect we worked with a couple of years back?"
S.T. nodded and looked back at Jim, meeting his gaze. "The paper said Katy doesn't believe he killed himself. Has Jayne talked to her since it happened?"
"No, but she hoped to this morning. The funeral's Thursday. Will you go?"
S.T. didn't like funerals, didn't like anything to do with the dead. Maybe it went back to his mother’s stories about the harm that can come to a man who comes in contact with the spirits of the dead. Still, this was one funeral he felt he should attend. Lane Brown had been a good man. S.T. needed to show support because even the American culture tended to be superstitious about suicide.
"I'll be there. I still don't understand though why he would do it."
"If he did."
"They said there was a note.”
“I read that.”
“No wife wants to think her husband would rather be dead than stay with her," S.T. said a cynical twist to his lips.
"I suppose not," Bailey agreed with a deep breath. "On a more pleasant subject, Jayne asked again that I have you to dinner. How about Thursday night after the funeral. We can cheer each other up—or down," Bailey offered, then smiled more broadly. "I'm waiting to hear your creative excuse this time."
"Too busy. I have to leave town Friday and there's a lot I need to do before I can," S.T. said, knowing he fooled no one.
Bailey shook his head. "You can't avoid Jayne's stroganoff forever, you know."
S.T. laughed again. "Tell her I appreciate the invite. Maybe when I get back."
"I've heard that too many times." Bailey handed S.T. two other contracts. "Read these over and get back to me if there's anything that doesn’t fit what you need. Otherwise send them back with your John Henry here." He pointed to where the appropriate lines were tagged and marked.
When S.T. was again alone, he grabbed the phone and began making the arrangements for his trip to Roseburg. Helen was still gone, and it was beginning to get to him. He knew she'd probably just gone for a long lunch, but it seemed people were always disappearing out of his life and he didn't much like it. Of course, in the case of Helen, it was most likely just a sale at one of the big department stores, but what was the reason with Shonna? Where was she? Darker thoughts accompanied his thoughts of Lane's death. If a man like Lane believed life wasn't worth living, for whom was it?
#
"Well?"
The muscular, balding man smiled. "Everything’s ready."
"Are you sure, George?" Reverend Peter Soul asked.
"We've seeded the trail."
Deep within, Soul felt a glow of satisfaction. He twisted in his chair to stare out the window, his hands steepled across his chest. If the bait was not taken, Soul had another plan in mind. One way or another he would bring him. No one else could fulfill the dream he had been given. Time was limited.
He looked up then. "We've had some disturbing failures recently, George, but this makes up for it."
"It just takes time to bring about our Lord's work," George said, lowering his lashes to hide his expression, "but I think we're there."
"It must be."
"So you've said."
"And you don't agree?"
"Is it mine to agree or not?" George asked.
Soul smiled, thinking the sarcastic tone had been barely hidden. "You're right. It's not necessary at all. My ways and thoughts are deeper than yours can ever be." He looked up and met George's gaze, his own smile cynical. Did he really believe what he said? "Your piece of puzzle is only to believe and know that much depends on this. Our master has told me this."
"I swear by all I hold holy that I've done as you asked."
Soul looked up, saw the smirk, but chose to ignore it. "I trust you more than anyone, George."
"As it should be."
When he was alone, Soul stared out the window, thinking of the various aspects he'd brought into play, the snare he'd laid so carefully. Soon it would come to fruition. This one would not be the first nor the last to find the web entwined about him before he knew into what he'd walked. It served his Lord’s work and was worth it.
The ringing phone interrupted his satisfied musings. "Ms. Johnson is here, Sir," Sharon said.
"Send her right in," Soul said, rising to greet her at the door, pleasantly surprised to find such a tall, beautiful woman with the camera bag. "This is a pleasure," he said, reaching out his hand. “May I call you Christine?”
Christine nodded as she stretched out her hand to take his. Although his fingers were finally formed, long, thin and white, almost immediately she felt a chill at touching his flesh.
Her cursory examination told her Peter Soul was thin, not much taller than she, his hair a pale blond, lighter than her own. She studied his face. The handsome, finely molded features gave her no reason for the uneasiness she had instantly felt. Then she looked into his eyes, saw the gray color, but behind that what seemed to be almost a glowing fire. She swallowed hard against the urge to turn right around and leave with no photos. She'd been around many different sorts of people. Some admittedly evil. She'd never experienced the instant disquietude with which this man filled her.
"After I saw your portfolio, I knew you were the right person to record our work here. I am so glad you agreed to come. Our Lord blesses those who bless his work," Soul said, his hand now gesturing toward the stuffed chair in front of his desk.
Christine sat, managing a smile with some difficulty. “You do understand this is part of a series of young shakers and movers in the Pacific Northwest?” she asked wanting no misunderstandings or maybe a way out of doing the photos. She was unsure which.
“Of course. That’s fine.”
When Soul was seated, she again looked into his eyes. This time they seemed a simple gray. She decided her imagination had been running away with her Perhaps the light had somehow reflected oddly, explaining that strange glow. Her perturbation was less easy to explain away, but she hoped talking to him would reassure her.
"May I get you a cup of tea?" Soul asked, motioning again with his hand, this time toward a pot and two cups on a warming tray.
"Herbal would be nice if you have it."
He smiled. "We don't drink anything with poisons in it."
"Poisons?"
"Like caffeine, alcohol, additives."
"Of course."
"Peppermint?" he asked, lifting a sack for her approval. When she nodded, he dipped a silver tea holder into the bag, carefully filled it, then lowered it into the tea pot.
"Now," he said again sitting. "Where should we begin?"
"Well, I do have a few questions."
"Ask to your heart's content, fair lady."
“You are building up a sizeable membership. That has led to some being suspicious about exactly what is going on with your people.”
He smiled. “It’s human nature to doubt. Anyone who goes against the tide is suspected. Jesus Himself was crucified.”
“So you consider yourself to be a Christian church?” When he nodded, she bent to retrieve a small notebook from her bag. "I have some quotes by those who say it’s not." She knew she might have just blown the interview with that statement but she'd felt compelled to make it.
His smile broadened. "I have never asked for a vote of popularity," he said easily, sliding back in his chair and crossing one leg, so that his ankle rested on his knee. Although he was dressed in a fine gray suit, he seemed casual and at ease. She had a feeling it was deliberate. This man was excellent at his use of body language, effectively communicating whatever he chose. She wondered if he ever relaxed enough to be himself--whatever that was.
"You are quite popular. Charismatic might be a good word to describe the way people fall in your thrall."
"In God's thrall," he corrected.
“Like Jim Jones perhaps?”
“Not at all. I don’t try to entrap people.” He smiled benignly. “This is about the Lord’s work, not mine.�
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She smiled and nodded, yielding him the point. "How large is your ministry?" she asked, choosing the word carefully.
"As wide as the world," he said, throwing his arms wide. "I consider everyone to be my ministry, to be in need of the wisdom God has given to me."
"Very biblical."
"The Bible is God's book, but He still speaks to men. Do you believe that?"
She considered a moment. "Possibly although in different ways."
His smile seemed genuine. "Possibly? You do or you do not. To doubt is to disbelieve”
“You are quite rigid.”
“That is a way to avoid facing the reality of God. We must accept the Lord’s direction for today. If we broaden meanings enough, they tend to lose value. Do you agree?"
"I will have to think about that." She realized she would not be able to debate this man. He was a master at the art, would most likely turn everything she said against her. "Do you believe God gives you messages for others?" she asked, cutting to the quick of it.
He laughed and bent to pour their tea. Was the laugh real or a manipulation? Nothing about him was putting her at ease.
“You are indeed a delight, fair lady.” He handed her a cup. "Are you yourself a believer?" he asked, his gaze steady.
"In my own way," she said.
"How can there be your own way?"
"I believe in a spiritual reality. I don’t necessarily believe it all comes through a religion as such... or a guru, but I do feel there is something beyond us in this world."
"Ah, experience, sometimes a good teacher. Unless it's the wrong experience or we put the wrong interpretation on it. That's why God sends prophets into the world, to help us interpret our experiences, to help us fully understand the Word of God."
“You are such a prophet?” She took a sip of the tea. “It’s very good.”
“A prophet must be declared so by others, don’t you think?” His smile was saintly, beatific, and she didn't like it. She suddenly wanted this project over with, wanted away from this man. S.T. Taggert with his rough edges, his reluctance to let her work with him, had filled her with reassurance, with a feeling of innate goodness. This obviously self-anointed prophet left her with none of those feelings. She wished she'd never agreed to the assignment, but she always finished what she began.
She picked her camera from its bag. "I usually attain the best results by following around a subject... that is wherever it's okay. In your case, I'd like to do some photographs of you with the people in your church, certainly some of you preaching."
Soul smiled. "I prefer to call what I do teaching. It isn't traditional preaching the way you might expect it to be."
"All the more reason to capture it all on film," Christine said. She realized her hands were shaky as she took off the lens cap. "Would you mind my taking some of you at your desk?" she asked.
"Not at all." His smile broadened. "How could I turn down any request from such a lovely woman? Or did I just open myself up to a risk I hadn't calculated?"
Christine doubted there were many risks this man didn't calculate to the last detail, but she managed another smile. Just take the pictures and get out.
#
S.T. looked into the apartment manager's eyes, trying to decide why the man was lying. What was behind his fear?
"She lived here a year," the man said, rubbing his broad belly with a beefy hand. "She was never hardly here though."
"Where did she work?"
"Look, I manage their apartments. I don’t baby-sit them. They pay their rent and that’s all I ask. Up until the last, she was always on time."
"Yet you noticed she wasn't here that much."
The manager shrugged. "Easy to notice. She came in at the last just to pay me. Apartment never had no lights on."
"Then she moved out."
"I didn't say that. She just quit paying."
"Where's her stuff?"
"How do I know you're her brother?" the man asked, suddenly belligerent.
"Because I said so. Show me her apartment and if everything's still there, I'll pay what she owed. Nobody but a brother would be willing to do that." S.T. knew that wasn't strictly speaking true, knew the manager probably knew it too, but he was betting on the man's greed.
S.T. could see the calculations in the man's eyes as he considered before he said, "Okay." He reached up and grabbed a key from the wall behind him. "But if she don't like this when she comes back, you explain it to her."
S.T. nodded and followed the man back out into the sunlight, down a sidewalk to a two story addition. They walked up the stairs where the manager stopped in front of a door that looked as though someone had once kicked it in.
"Was she burglarized?" S.T. asked as they entered the quiet apartment.
"You mean the door?" the man asked. "If she was, she never reported it to me. I figure it was a boyfriend or something. Damage is going to have to be paid for."
S.T. smiled coldly. "When you can prove Shonna did it."
The man shrugged. "How about that rent check? She owed me four hundred bucks"
"I want to look around." S.T. dug into his jeans pocket for his wallet.
"No skin off my nose," the manager said, his eyes widening as S.T. peeled off four one hundred dollar bills.
"I'll want a receipt."
"Sure, sure," the manager said, grabbing the money. "Take your time here. I'll have it ready when you come back down. You want her stuff?"
“No.” S.T. gave him another hundred. “I’ll take what I want, you get rid of the rest.”
When he was alone in the apartment, the door closed, S.T. looked around, trying to see any sign of his sister in the sterile, worn environment. The pictures on the wall looked to have come from a discount store. Maybe she hadn't even furnished this place. He had forgotten to ask. The sofa and matching chair were some kind of pink, the fabrics frayed, the cushions misshapen. The little television in the corner looked past the age of working. He didn’t care to test it.
Walking through the room, thinking about his sister walking the same route, S.T. opened the door to a small hall leading to the bedroom. He had spent years dismissing his family from his mind. He wouldn’t have known Shonna if he had seen her walk through the door. He'd not let himself think about her, about the shared memories he had only with her. Suddenly he wished he'd thought of her sooner, wished he'd tried to find her before she seemingly disappeared.
In the bedroom were a few photographs on the bureau, no one he recognized and a newspaper clipping in front of them. He picked it up and didn't need to read the article to know it was about him, one of the rare pieces he hadn't been able to suppress.
S.T. didn’t want to think about the possibility that she had cared what he was doing. If she had, why hadn't she come to Portland, looked him up?
On the bedside stand was a small stack of books. Picking up the top one, he saw the author's name was Peter Soul, the book titled "Salvation or Enslavement." The ones beneath it were all by Soul.
Straightening, S.T. walked over to the closet, his mind filled with more questions. Questions to which he doubted he'd find the answers in this barren little apartment. The closet held two dresses, a blouse, a pair of old jeans and a pair of worn high-heeled shoes, sandals with a broken strap. Nothing told him anything except that his sister had been slender and liked the color pink.
#
Sipping a cup of coffee at the closest cafe to his sister's apartment, S.T. considered what little information he'd managed to glean. An aging newspaper clipping, a sparse lifestyle, no clue as to what paid for it, an interest in Peter Soul's writings.
"Can I get you anything besides coffee?" the waitress asked.
He looked up, taking in her round, youthful face. He saw her eyes go from his face, down his body, then back with obvious interest. "Maybe," he said." Did you know Shonna Taggert?"
"Shonna?" The girl seemed to consider. "Don't remember nobody by that name. She your girlfriend?"
&
nbsp; "My sister."
"What'd she look like?"
He felt a fist clench in his stomach. He couldn’t describe her even. “Dark haired, like me,” he guessed. “Slim. She liked pink”
The waitress pretended to consider. He doubted she'd known Shonna, but she obviously didn't mind prolonging her time with him. She started to say something, then glanced over at whoever had just walked up.
"Sinclair?"
S.T. looked up and saw Christine Johnson looking down on him, an amused glint in those clear blue eyes.
He grinned. "Nope."
She slid into the seat across from him. "Sidney?" She raised her eyebrows hopefully. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun at the back of her neck. Even with little make-up and a plain denim jacket and jeans, she was startlingly beautiful and looked like a page out of a magazine.
"So now you think I look like a Sidney," he complained. "A definite step down from Sam."
The waitress gave Christine a calculating look. "You want something?" she asked in a less than friendly tone.
"Coffee.” Christine turned over a cup.
“One of your groupies?” Christine asked when the girl had gone to get the pot.
"I'm not in a field that invites groupies." Then it occurred to him she wasn't where he'd expected to find her. "What are you doing down this way?"
"Assignment," she said with a sigh.
"A tough one?"
"I had to make an excuse for a break from it," she confessed with a shudder.
"As bad as me?" he asked with a grin.
"You were a delight by comparison," she retorted, "and that tells you how bad it was."
"Ouch."
"Well, you weren't exactly one of my more cooperative subjects." She looked up and smiled at the disappointed looking waitress as her coffee was poured, S.T.’s heated up.
"How did the photos come out?" he asked when they were again as alone as it was possible to be in a small cafe with only five booths, three of them occupied.
"You'll have to wait for Monday."
"That awful huh? I could have told you you were wasting your time."
She poured a container of cream into her coffee, then took a good-sized sip. "For a man who won't give me a single clue as to his name, you're pretty sneaky at getting your own information."