by Trueax, Rain
"If he changes his mind on the modeling," Christine said, linking her arm possessively with S.T.’s, "I have first dibs." For good measure, she added a firm grip on his biceps.
"So that's the way of it." Hank shook his head. "All the good ones are taken," he said, leaving it up to S.T. to decide how he meant that as he grinned like a tipsy leprechaun, which, with his bowling ball shaped bald head and slightly pointed, prominent ears, was how S.T. was beginning to see him.
"How about coffee?" Hank asked S.T., pouring Christine a cup.
S.T. felt the desire well up in him. One cup. What could one cup hurt? When he took it, he saw by the knowing expression in Christine's eyes that she hadn't forgotten his earlier comment that he would give up the brew. Just as well she be forewarned that where it came to will power, he didn't think his would take any awards.
"Sit down on that chair," Hank gestured. "We'll get that boot off and have a look at the injury."
Overriding S.T.’s protest, Christine and Hank soon had him seated, his boot painfully pried off, his sock removed, jeans rolled up his calf, and his foot resting on a chair, while Hank heated some sort of salts in a pan of water.
"Stick it in there," he said, lifting S.T.’s leg as though he wasn't capable of doing it for himself. When his foot met the water, he understood why the hand had been there. It was to keep his leg down and foot submerged.
"Ouch!" he yelped, hoping Hank would relent, but he didn't.
"Got to be hot. When this cools, we'll pack it in ice. Tomorrow you'll barely remember it happened."
"If I survive the burns.”
Hank glanced pointedly up. "You know," he said, "you two would look great together in a photo series--blond and dark, delicate and muscular. Quite a lot of neatly opposing angles." He lifted his eyebrows. "Maybe a wedding present--me to you."
Christine laughed. "Good grief, Hank, are you trying to chase him off?"
“Nah, just never can resist a joke.”
“We are going to need some help with computers when Jerry gets back.”
“He’s your man then.” Hank sat back, releasing S.T.’s leg, which since the water had cooled sufficiently, was no longer necessary to hold down.
An hour later when Jerry walked into the house, they did the polite introductions and then asked him about the computer problem. "We need to know how to get past a lock-out code, then interpret what I expect could be encoded information."
"You know that's illegal," Jerry said, scratching his chin as he sat back with a skeptical look.
"We don't want to steal anything," S.T. said.
"Don't matter. Prying in somebody's computer that way is against the law." S.T. thought for a moment Jerry would refuse to help them, but instead, he asked, "Why you want to do it?"
S.T. considered only a moment. Both men were entitled to know what this was about. The further he got from the compound, the more fantastic his suspicions felt. It wasn’t as though Soul had a widespread network, or did he?
Succinctly, he told them about The Servants of Grace, about his sister, the doubts regarding Lane Brown's death, his connection to this project, and finally, reluctantly, his own drugging.
When he'd finished, Jerry whistled. "That's some story."
Hank looked at Christine. "Soul that other guy you were photographing?" When she said he was, Hank nodded, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Do it for them, Jerry.”
Jerry studied them for a moment. “Okay... What's the time frame you expect to have?"
S.T. shrugged. "I’m guessing, of course. Anything from a couple of minutes to an hour, depending on what happens outside."
"Not enough."
"It has to be."
Christine hated listening to their talk and imagining S.T. stepping back into that compound. He wouldn't be able to talk his way out of it if he was caught in those files. Her feeling of the evilness in Soul returned to haunt her. If he was willing to use drugs with so little concern for their effects, what else might he be capable of? Poor Lane Brown.
She looked up when she realized Hank was asking her a question. "Could you repeat that?" she asked. “I was out in space.”
"Do you want to stay here until things straighten out?"
She looked from him to Storm. Decision time. How deeply did she want to be involved in this? "Why?" she asked to give herself a moment to think.
"It would be safer than your motel room. I don’t see Soul figuring out about your friends here," S.T. said without much expression. "It could be that if I get into the compound something will go wrong. If he finds out, the uh... situation could turn nasty, and to be honest, I'm not totally convinced he bought my story about why you helped me."
"So?"
"So, you'd be easy to find in a public hotel. Not so easy here at Hank's."
"You men have worked that all out. Taken care of my weak-willed female thinking for me? How tidy."
"Woman," S.T. growled, "you know it's not like that."
"Isn't it?" She was tired of him trying to make the decisions for both of them. Hadn't she been the one who had been right before about the danger of going into Soul's nest? Hadn't she protected him, almost literally dragged him from that danger? Hadn’t she lost her camera because of him? And she really loved the features on that camera, her familiarity with it. Whatever she bought to replace it might not have the same feel.
"Here, Hank and Jerry could protect you," S.T. said, not missing her anger, but bulling his way ahead anyway.
"Actually it won't be necessary because when you go back to the compound, so will I!"
His surprise quickly turned to a scowl. She repressed the grin it almost brought to her lips.
"You will not," he said through his teeth.
Hank interrupted the argument as he handed S.T. a towel to dry his foot, then an ice bag. "Hold this in place long as you can stand it. Let it go, put it back."
"Your treatment is worse than the injury.” He winced as he applied the ice to his overheated flesh.
Hank chuckled. "You want to walk on that soon, you do what old Doc Hank says." He grinned. "As for the other thing. We’re not going to get between the two of you, and sure not going to sit here and listen to you battle it out, 'specially not when I already know the last chapter; so, Jerry will hit the computer and see what he can figure out." Then they were gone and S.T. was left facing Christine, who quickly moved away from the table to rinse out her cup in the sink.
He was determined to try and sway her thinking. He propped his leg back up on a chair as he warily watched her. He debated what words might work. Impressing her with the danger would only convince her he shouldn't go either. He'd seen from past experience how hard it was to change her from a route she'd determined to take. Maybe he could convince her she'd be in the way. That would insult her. Better insulted than dead.
“Would you rather I was with you and you knew exactly where or prefer wondering when I was going to show up when you least expected it?” she asked before he could get in his first volley.
"Are those my only options?" he asked, amused despite his determination to hold firm on this.
She nodded, that cute little chin stubbornly lifted. This wasn't going to go well, and he knew it, but he couldn't stop himself from trying. "You'll only be in the way. Make me worry about you when I ought to be concentrating on finding what I need, then getting out of there."
"It won't work. I'm going. With you or without you. Actually I have a better excuse than you do. My camera. Besides I think Peter kind of has a thing for me."
S.T. resisted the impulse to slam his fist on the table, knowing that wouldn't help his case. Her last argument made it almost impossible for him to think straight. She wasn't the only one who suspected Soul wanted her. It was almost enough to make him say they'd forget the whole thing.
Maybe it would have been if he wasn't still able to remember the desperation in his mother's voice when she'd begged him to find Shonna. He had not realized at the time how strong that cal
l would be to him. He'd told his mother he owed her nothing, but he couldn't seem to turn away from her request, even if it endangered his own life.
He thought then of a wife with two little girls trying to find proof their husband and father had not committed suicide. He had no choice for what he would do next. He did not, however, want it endangering Christine. Maybe he could think of a way she could help but that would keep her away from any danger.
"You're crazy, you know that," he growled, knowing he'd lost this one before he began. He started to stand, but she came behind him, putting her arms around his neck, holding him.
"I know you're worried, but you'll see it's the right thing to do," she said, nuzzling her nose against his neck, her hands brushing over his hair. "I can help. I know I can."
"I just don't want you getting hurt."
"I don't like it when you get hurt either. Don't do it again."
"Number two on the list—right after keeping you out of this which looks the bigger problem."
"I want us to find out about Soul, about Shonna and Lane Brown, then forget all about this and concentrate on better things like the future." She worked her fingers through his hair, loosening it, letting it fall over his shoulders.
He guessed she was expecting him to say something, but he couldn’t believe they had a future--at least not together.
He should have seen himself as someone worthy of a relationship with a woman. Money, home, a certain amount of power should have made him feel he had something to offer, but instead he saw himself as a little boy, long, dark hair tangled around his face, clothing that never fit right. He saw himself standing on the street watching his father stumble home from a bar. There were other voices screaming--get lost, breed, redskin, dirty, no-good. He heard teacher after teacher asking his real name, then when he was forced to say it, titters from the other kids. There was the first girl he'd thought loved him tell him she didn't want him taking her home because her parents wouldn't approve.
The memories in his past cut too deep to believe there could be a future with this beautiful woman. What did she know of ugliness, hatred and anger? He couldn't make himself tell her why he wasn't going to say the words. His pride had been battered all his life but never more than in the last three days. Despite all that, with her arms wrapped around his neck, her lips on his jaw, his neck, he could almost forget all the reasons this could not be.
"When do we go back?" she asked, her hands now sliding around his neck to rest at the open vee of his collar.
"Sunday."
"Why then?"
"He preaches. It'll mean most people are inside listening. I ought to be able to get into his office with nobody knowing. I don’t plan to announce my arrival."
"What about your ankle?”
“It’ll be better, but I won’t need to run.”
“What if somebody patrols the halls?"
"There'll only be a brief time I'm in the hall, then I'll be in the office. From what I've seen of his mania for control, nobody's going in there without him."
She considered a moment, again kissing his jaw, his cheekbones. He wanted her lips against his, but it appeared she wanted to play and he let her. "So what is my part in this?" she asked, her lips hovering above his.
He swallowed hard. He could think of several delightful things, but momentarily they didn’t seem to fit the situation. "You stay with the Silverado, ready to drive for help if I'm not back out in an hour."
"I don't like that plan." She shifted now to kneel beside his chair. Reaching up, she kissed the edge of his mouth. "I think I'll go get my camera, then hear Soul's sermon."
"No."
She smiled, ignoring his objection. "That way if anyone leaves, I can follow them on the pretext I have to go to the restroom."
"I don't like any part of that. When are you going to let me make love to you?"
She smiled. “You want to do that?" she pressed her lips against his, lightly then harder. Her tongue darted teasingly into his mouth.
"Woman, what are you doing?" he muttered, his breath coming as uneasily as hers when she freed his lips.
"I--"
Jerry threw open the door to the kitchen and striding in, his broad face alight with excitement. “We got it.” He stopped when he saw them. “I interrupt something?"
"What would make you think that?" Christine asked as S.T. groaned.
#
In Hank's family room, S.T. lay on the sofa, his head on Christine's lap, her hand stroking his forehead, combing back his hair. Hank had lowered his body across a worn, overstuffed chair, long legs extending one way, arms hanging loosely the other. Jerry sat on a chair near him. On the stereo, a CD of Celtic melodies was playing, the sounds a soothing wave through the room. S.T. knew there had to have been moments like this before--good music, friends, someone who cared--but he didn't remember when.
"Times like this," Hank said, articulating S.T.’s thoughts, "are what a man works for, struggles to get to."
Christine smiled at him. "It was generous of you to let us stay with you tonight."
"Every man deserves a good sleep before he begins a venture that could cost him everything he holds dear," Hank said, his gaze now on S.T.
"You've heard the story," S.T. said. "What's my choice? But you could convince this woman to stay with you."
Hank laughed. "Get my head caught in a buzz saw? No, thank you, Mister Taggert." His sigh was gusty. "Life's a funny thing, isn't it? You go along, thinking you got it all figured out, know where you fit, how to make a day worth living. You get a day like this one, when the work goes well, when you got friends around, then something happens and you know it's all going to end up in pieces. Times like that are enough to make a`man stop and question the whole shebang."
"You a philosopher, Brannigan?"
"Every good photographer's a bit philosopher, a bit poet and a whole lot dreamer, or he'll never take a picture worth its salt."
"So then, poet king, tell us what makes life worthwhile when it's so uncertain."
"Ah we begin with the easy questions, do we?" Hank retorted with a puckish grin. "I am, however, ready with an answer. It’s the moment." He glanced over at Jerry and smiled.
"I'm beginning to understand, listening to music like this, why the Irish and Scots are such fatalists," S.T. said. "Listen to that melody. It's as though the poor fellow is fated to head off into a war. He'll die in it, yet he goes bravely without a backward thought."
"Not the Irish," Hank said. "We go complaining all the way, but we go. That's the point."
"Fatalism isn't exactly my thing either," S.T. said.
Hank chuckled. "Tell that to somebody who doesn't know your name."
"Ah, a poet, philosopher and psychologist," S.T. quipped. "Besides, practically nobody knew my name, at least not until this woman came into my life."
"Blaming me now, are we?" Christine smoothed his hair out so that it formed a dark cloud around his face.
"That reminds me, did you tell Soul my name?"
"Absolutely not. How dare you think I would? I don't talk to that man anymore than I must."
"Somehow he knew it."
She stared down at him, ceasing for the moment her playing with his hair. "Additional proof that your sister was there?" she asked finally.
"Since I've had it legally changed, there's only one person I can think of who could have. Something's definitely wrong there. Just the fact that he's never once mentioned her to me is odd. I figure his use of my name was deliberate, but I'm not sure what he hoped to gain."
"Don't you people have some kind of superstition about names?" Hank asked, rising to put a new CD on the player.
"If by 'you people,' you mean my Navajo half, there's a feeling that names have power. Use them loosely, by people who don't know you well, and the power's diminished."
"Jews recognized the power in names too," Christine mused. "They saw God as changing people's names when they began a particular journey or changed in some signific
ant way... Like Jacob to Israel. Saul to Paul."
“Some Indian tribes change a child’s name at puberty,” offered Jerry.
Christine added, “That’s what Soul does—renames people.”
"Is your birth name Native American?" Jerry asked.
“Doubtful even though I’m half Navajo. I don't know a lot about my mother’s people. Just pieces of what she told me—whatever stuck. A lot of which I've probably garbled through the years. But I don't think it's traditional... or if it is, I should have had another name to go with it. Maybe it was her or my father's idea of a joke."
“Or her way to give you power and help you see your path,” Christine said.
"You ever live on the reservation?" Hank asked.
"She left me when I was six," S.T. shot back. "I wasn't invited to go with her. She's talked about wanting me to come since, but I didn't lose anything there."
"Didn't you?" Christine asked, her mouth tightening as she met his heated gaze.
"Don't start on me," he growled.
"Hey there. Didn't mean to start a brawl over there. Sure you're not part Irish and always ready for a brawl?" Hank asked, his grin affable.
"Sorry." S.T. met Christine's troubled gaze. "Being a breed makes a man thin-skinned."
"You can't use that excuse forever, you know," she retorted.
Fresh Celtic strains filled the room, and S.T. knew as beautiful as the music was, as lilting as the melodies, they were a part of the fatalistic mood that was slowly settling over him.
"Anyone want a wee nip?" Hank asked, then headed for the kitchen when both Christine and S.T. shook their heads. "Has to be in the cupboard somewhere," they heard him muttering.
When he was gone, Christine bent and kissed S.T.’s forehead. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Okay."
Does your ankle hurt?"
"Not much." He took her wrist in his hand and drew her hand to his lips.