by Trueax, Rain
S.T. didn't want those fingers against his skin, but he couldn't seem to say so. Where was he? He tried to remember, tried to force his mind to reason, but he could only feel Soul's fingers as they continued to work over his muscles, stroking, touching. He was talking but the words made no sense to S.T.
"I want you to listen to something tonight," Soul said, speaking slowly, his voice not much more than a whisper. "Just some tapes. They will help you understand how important this ministry is, help you design a better building for us."
S.T. didn't want to listen to anything, wanted to move from the chair, get away from those manipulative hands, the soft words, but he couldn't make his body do anything.
Soul pushed buttons on a small tape recorder which must have already been in the room. His words took on a meditative tone. "Just sit here relaxed, don’t leave this chair. Your arms and legs are relaxed. You are totally at ease as you listen. You are open to what it says. Be open to where truth comes. Do you hear me? You must tell me if you do."
Through the confusion and disorientation, S.T. knew only one thing--he wanted to leave, wanted out of this room, but he managed to nod his head. Then he heard the voice from the tape recorder, Soul's voice. He looked at the box, unable to take his eyes away.
The door close,d and S.T. was alone with the taped voice, alone with his confusion. He wanted to move, to turn off that voice, but couldn’t make himself do it. What had been in that orange juice? Or was it something that wasn’t aspirin? It didn’t matter because whatever it was, he would have to ride it out with a body incapable of responding to his will. The words droned on barely penetrating the fog that now seemed to be enshrouding him in tentacles of steel.
#
Christine paced her room. Something was wrong. She'd known it in Portland when she'd felt the abrupt urge that she had to go to Roseburg immediately, had to get to S.T.
Well, now she was here. What good was she doing? Where was he? She couldn't ask Soul, and no one was going to tell her voluntarily. She was unsure what S.T. had been trying to do at the meeting she'd interrupted, but if it had been to anger the people, he'd clearly succeeded. Had that endangered him? Soul hadn't acted angry, but he seemed to never show any of his feelings in any visible way.
As she paced, she thought of what she might do next. How could she get to him and assure herself she was being foolish—except she was nearly sure she was not. Whatever connection was between her and S.T., she was feeling an energy that told her he needed her.
The knock at the door interrupted her furtive thinking.
"Who is it?" she asked, moving to stand near the bed, so her voice would sound as though she was in it.
"Peter," Soul said. "May I come in?"
"I'm quite tired after the long drive down. Couldn't it wait until morning?"
"Of course. How thoughtless of me. I'll see you at breakfast."
She heard nothing more but wondered if he was standing outside her door listening. Had he heard her pacing? She felt a growing uneasiness. Where had she parked her car? Where the heck was S.T.?
She looked out the window and at the dark grounds around her. "If she slipped outside, she could get to her car, but driving off wouldn’t help S.T. She had nothing she could tell the police. Okay, going off without him was impossible; so how would she get to him and convince him to go with her?
She pulled off her skirt and blouse; but instead of putting on a T-shirt for sleeping, she slipped into a pair of jeans, flannel shirt, sweater, and hiking boots, at the last minute shoving her car keys and wallet into her jeans pockets. She didn't know what she was preparing for, but she moved to the window and looked out into the rainy darkness as she called out to him without words. She felt confidence suddenly. His energy would draw her to where he was.
#
"Storm Walker." The voice, although not audible, penetrated the haze entrapping him, got past the droning sound of Soul's teachings. His only hope seemed to lie in that new voice, and he struggled to hold onto it, to understand what it was saying.
"You must stand up."
S.T. felt confused, dazed, his eyes barely able to focus, but he obeyed the command, followed it as it told him to go to the window and open it. He felt dizzy, his steps uncertain, but he managed to get the window open, to stick his head out and suck fresh, cold air into his lungs. The rain fell on his head, but couldn't clear away the webs that held him unable to think for himself.
He looked down then and saw the ground far below. Second story, he reasoned, proud of himself for being able to ferret out that simple fact. He had to go out the window, had to get away from Soul's voice, but it was a ways down, maybe not a full story but an unknown distance. Still after the rains, the ground should be soft. He was relieved he could reason out that simple fact.
"Get down. Out of this room." He knew what the voice said was true and edged himself out the window, his hands weak, his whole body shaking as he lowered himself as far as he could before he let go and fell to the ground. Instead of being soft, it was rocky and he landed badly, his ankle twisting, the pain sending him to him to his knees, then flat out, sending another pain spiraling into his body as his arm landed against another rock.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, struggling to his knees, to his feet, then leaning back against the wall of the building. He had no idea where he was and his right leg was now throbbing.
The woods, he thought bewilderedly. Get into the woods, and they wouldn't find him. But something held him. He wanted something in the building. What was it?
"Storm." This time he knew the voice. It was one he had known forever. He didn't remember her name; but if she was with him, he could go now. He straightened, grimacing at the pain.
"We have to get out of here." Her arms went around him, giving him her warmth and strength.
"Yes," he muttered, unsure of where they were, where they had to go, but he understood the urgency.
Christine blessed the rain that, although it was soaking them both, masked the sounds of their movement. She tried to assess his condition. He seemed dazed, seemingly drugged, his skin felt like ice, and his clothes were already soaked, his black hair hung lankly around his face.
Okay, no point on wondering what had happened to him. They had to get away from this compound and now. She remembered S.T.'s Silverado had been parked farther from the house than her rental car. There might be more chance of starting it and getting away with no one being the wiser. She felt of his pocket and was relieved to feel the bulge of a key ring.
The walk to the truck seemed to take forever; S.T.'s much larger body seemed a heavier weight against her arms and shoulder with each step, then at last they were there. She shifted him so that he leaned against the side of the vehicle, then dug into his pocket for the keys. Whatever had happened to him, he would be no help to her, but he was able to lever himself into the passenger seat when she told him to do it. She reached across to fasten his seat belt thinking as she did it that a seat belt was the least of their problems.
She got behind the wheel and started the engine. By now if anyone heard them, she didn't care. She just wanted to get out of there as she found the lights, pushed her foot down hard on the accelerator and felt the powerful truck surge forward. She hadn’t driven a truck for awhile but it was like riding a bicycle, not that hard to pick back up. It wasn't until she was turning onto the main road that she realized that although she had her wallet and keys in her pocket, she'd left behind her camera and equipment in the rental car. She smiled wryly. A month ago, she'd have never believed she could have forgotten her camera for anything or one. Life had changed.
She adjusted the rear view mirror to make sure no one was following them, then let out a sigh of relief. When she looked over at S.T., slumped in his seat, her sigh turned a groan. Did he need a doctor? Anywhere near the compound who could they trust? What emergency room technicians might be members of The Servants of Grace? Would Soul come after them? If he did, the first place he would be likely to try would be an ER?
She turned the truck onto a side road, went around another bend, then found a wide enough spot to pull into. She switched on the overhead light, lifted his head gently, tilting his chin to examine his chiseled features again for visible injuries. He was soaked to the skin, now shivering.
"Storm, can you hear me?"
His eyes blinked open, the pupils dilated, his eyes black. His gaze met hers, but she didn't think he saw her. She ran her hands over the back of his head, through the thick wet hair, feeling for any swellings that might indicate head injury. This was not acting like any concussion she’d seen. He had to have been drugged.
"Do you know what happened to you?" she asked, pressing her finger against his neck and counting the pulse beats. She wasn’t really surprised when he didn’t answer her. His pulse was strong--fast but steady. She saw blood on his left wrist. She felt a moment of panic as she realized she had nothing with which to make a bandage, but when she examined the gash, it didn't appear deep; the bleeding had stopped. He had been limping. The boot hid his ankle from her view. Not likely broken since he put weight on it; so most probably twisted or sprained. Nothing life threatening.
The biggest worry she had was the drug. What had he been given? Might his condition worsen? He was conscious, but seemed dazed, incapable of acting on his own.
She remembered then an article she'd read about some sort of hallucinogenic that was being used in Colombia, South America to render victims virtual zombies. She swallowed hard, trying to think what the writer had said about the drug. Could be days before the effects wore off, disorientation, memory loss, but it did wear off, that is if the dose wasn't too strong. She reminded herself his pulse was steady. Biting her lower lip, she considered her options. S.T.'s life and maybe even her own might depend on her choosing the right one.
Okay, proceed to step two. Get him someplace dry and warm. She turned the truck back onto the road and headed for town. She would find a motel room up the freeway, preferably one from some kind of national chain, less chance of the managers knowing or being connected to Soul. She wondered if she was becoming paranoid. As close to exhaustion as she was, she decided it was a possibility. They both needed to sleep. Tomorrow maybe she'd know what they should do next. Maybe tomorrow S.T. would be able to help her decide.
#
Christine paced the spacious motel room into which she'd checked S.T. and herself. She bent over him, felt of his forehead for at least the fourth time that day. Still no fever but he had yet to be fully lucid. He had yet to awaken enough to talk to her.
She looked down at his long, blanket-covered length. Because of his violent shivering, his completely soaked clothing, when they'd gotten there, she'd gotten off his boots and then stripped him of everything wet—which had been everything. It’s not like she hadn’t known how a man was built but there were men and then men.
His body was masculine perfection with long muscles, hard planes, and little body hair to hide the angles. She hadn’t been surprised that he would have had a beautiful body. She was more surprised by her own reaction to it. For heaven’s sake, Christine, the man is unconscious for all intents and purposes. What on earth is going on with you?
He moaned, the sound barely audible, but she looked at his face, saw the moment his eyes opened and stared at the ceiling. She waited, uncertain if he was really aware.
He turned his head, his gaze met hers and he frowned in puzzlement. "Wh... where am I?" His voice was little more than a whisper.
"A Best Western along the freeway," she said. "Do you want some water?"
He nodded, and she brought a glass, lifting his head so he could drink it.
"Is that necessary?" he asked, when she'd lowered him back down.
'You tell me."
He levered an elbow under himself, lifting his torso with more difficulty than he'd expected. “God, what happened?"
“What do you remember?”
She could see him try to think it through. “Not much,” he said finally.
"I think you were drugged." When he sat up, it sent the covers to his waist revealing the torso she’d been trying to not think about.
When he looked at her, his eyes were no longer black. Pupils back to a more normal size.
“There was a headache. Then nothing. How did we get here?”
"To be honest, I am a little vague on that myself. I just did what I felt I had to do and that was get us both out of there."
“I wasn’t as ahead of the game as I’d thought,” he muttered lying back.
"You’ve talked a lot, mostly I think nightmares, like drug induced delusions. Do you remember any of that?”
"Geesus." He rubbed his forehead with long fingers.
"It’s hard for me to also believe it happened.”
She filled another glass of water and handed it to him, watching as he drank it. “I think a lot of water is the best thing to flush out of your system.”
“Speaking of that.” He smiled ruefully obviously realizing he was naked as he grabbed the blanket from the bed to wrap around himself. He didn’t ask her how he’d gotten that way, but he would have to know with seeing his clothing draped over a chair.
When he returned, he limped to the bed and sat gingerly on the edge of it. “Thanks for dragging my sorry ass out of there.”
“It was obvious we had overstayed our welcome.”
“Who knew they’d get that upset at my questions,” he tried to tease.
“You did it deliberately.”
“I thought I’d get more information that way. I didn’t think they’d get that upset.” Some of it was coming back to him. “Sharon brought me orange juice. Maybe it was her own idea.”
“Is that all you remember?”
“Until I woke up here. Do you know how I hurt my ankle?”
“You had to go out a second story window.”
“Ugh. I am really sorry for this, Christine. I was stupid to go there, to drink anything while there.”
“Don’t blame yourself for that. You had to drink sometime. I’ve had their tea before and nothing happened. I don’t know what they could have thought they’d gain by drugging you.”
"I'm just sorry I got you into it.”
“You didn’t. I wanted to be there. I felt I had to go last night too. Something just said to get down there.” He reached out a hand and she came to sit on the bed beside him.
“Maybe I should have taken you to a hospital. I just wasn’t sure who to trust and your pulse was strong, breathing good.” She told him about the hallucinogenic she suspected he might have been given.
When she finished, he said, “I was a fool. I underestimated them and likely may not have been the first to do so. I wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t gotten me out of there.”
“That’s the funny part. I can’t say I really did. I was trying to think of how to reach you and then suddenly there you were at the window and dropping down before I could do anything. Somehow you got yourself out of the room even with the drug.”
He thought then about the room and pieces were coming back to him. “It was like a voice told me to leave...” He knew then whose voice. His mother’s and then Christine’s. That was too weird to dwell on. No way could his mother have called him out of there and yet.
He managed a smile and brought her hand down to where he could kiss it. "I never meant for you to get tangled in all this."
"I know that." She stroked his bristly jaw with the back of her hand. "I thought Indians didn't need to shave."
"Maybe full bloods. Half-breeds are a mixed bag," he said, yawning.
She saw he needed to sleep. "We can talk later," she whispered. Sleep claimed him before he could form another thought.
Christine sat watching him sleep, relieved to see the more normal movements as he shifted now and then, his chiseled features relaxed but no longer slack. It had been a nightmare, but it was over, except was it? Would Sharon really do something like that in revenge without Soul’s orders? Sh
e doubted it. Were Peter Soul's minions out looking for them or glad to see the last of them? She wasn’t sure how she’d deal with the rental car or her cameras. Fortunately she hadn’t taken any photos she’d be upset to lose in case she never got them back.
When he woke again, he was ready to dress and eat the sandwich she had brought back from the small restaurant near the motel. When he'd finished, he said, "I guess the question is what now? I don’t really know anything more than before except they have drugs on the premises.”
“Nothing we could probably prove although maybe I should have gone to a hospital with you and you could have had your blood tested for what they’d given you.”
“Not sure it would help much to know. The police might think I had taken it myself.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
"You’ve been a caring nurse, Christine. Thank you.” She fought the impulse to brush his dark, thick hair back behind his ears, to touch him. "I'm surprised I haven't seen you taking pictures of all this. Especially recording me falling on my face." He grinned.
"Even if I'd been so greedy for a rare photograph of S.T. Taggert laid out flat, I couldn't. I left the camera behind and my others are up in Portland."
"You mean at the compound?" he asked with disbelief.
She nodded. "It blows my mind too, but I just wasn’t thinking when I decided we’d be safer to take your Silverado. I left my rental car there too. It wasn't until we were nearly a mile down the road that I remembered. I certainly wasn't going back for it."
"I wonder how Soul is explaining all this," S.T. said thoughtfully.
"If he is. From what I've seen, the people under him aren't prone to ask questions."
"Before all this happened," he said, "I did get to ask George a few questions."
"What did you learn?"
“Only that he’d come from Riverside."
"I wonder how many years they have been together. We can see if Soul might’ve too. The problem is I don’t think they are using their real names. It makes it tough. I don’t know how many aliases Soul has had but I’d bet he changed it five years ago when he suddenly appeared to be born."