by Trueax, Rain
Hank returned with a small decanter of amber liquid. "I know every man who’s ever felt like he's under the lash thinks he's the only one been through it, but I understand something about persecution and not just for being a gay man." His thoughtful gaze met S.T. "My people, the Irish, have been conquered, stomped on, abused, treated lower than dogs. Even when they came to America to escape famine, persecution, they were looked down on."
"I don't know much about Irish history," S.T. admitted.
"Not many do. Until all the violence exploded out of Northern Ireland, nobody much cared. Then people looked around for a reason and solution."
When did your people come from to the United States?" Christine asked.
"My mother came as a girl." He shook his head. "She never quit talking about Erin though--about how beautiful it was, like a little piece of heaven. When I came to Portland near twenty years ago now, I knew I'd found it--all the green, the soft rains, the hills and valleys, the clear rivers."
"From what little I know, I don't think Navajos much believe in heaven the way some religions do, but if my mother had believed that way," S.T. said, "heaven would've looked like an arid, red mesa land, bordered by four sacred mountains, and set in a canyon, a river so full of silt it looks red."
"That's the funny thing about heaven," Hank mused, staring somberly into his glass.
"That's the funny thing about mothers. Mine left me, left her husband to go back to her bit of heaven."
"And mine died too early grieving for what she'd left behind."
"Maybe heaven is right here, a way of living, of finding communion within ourselves,” Christine said. “It's being with people you love, appreciating beauty when you see or hear it, doing what you have to do, doing the work you were born to do, and finding peace through it all."
S.T. shook his head. "I should have seen it all along. You're the dreamer."
"Well what do you believe?"
He drew in a breath. "Only in the strength of my own hands."
"There is something more than us, a power. I don’t really know what it is,” Christine said, “but I know it’s there."
S.T. shrugged, not eager to get into a discussion on God. Then he remembered the voice when he’d been drugged, unable to move of his volition. Had it been his mother’s? From where had that come? He shook his head, unwilling to question more closely.
Believing in God, believing God cared could lead to as big a pain as being a child again and believing his mother would return or that Christine's infatuation with him was love. It all boiled down to trust, and S.T. had used up his quota for that before he was six years old.
"What do you need to find in this guy’s computer?" Jerry asked. “And I am not hearing any of this because it’s all illegal. The only reason I’d help you is there seems enough to want to find out but not enough for a legal search warrant.”
S.T. considered a moment. "Real names would be a good start. Soul might as well be a Navajo the way he hides people's names; so nobody can use them or ask questions. I want to find out what he called my sister when there. I know there won’t be any kind of entry about killing her if that’s what they did but maybe she went to another of their compounds and it might be there. At least with a name I'd have a chance to ask questions, see if anybody out there will talk about her. Then there's what happened to Lane Brown."
S.T. didn't like talking about the dead. Had his mother's warnings about the chindi awakened the long ago stories she'd told him? Did he believe that the evil in a man could be left behind when he died, that it could still hurt living humans?
For the first time he considered the possibility that the voice he had heard, the one that allowed him to get out of that room, could have been his sister’s. He didn’t know she was dead but he strongly suspected it. Then… No, he didn’t believe in ghosts either. Maybe it was just his own subconscious talking to him. He stopped trying to reason it out. There were no answers to it.
"Brown, that the one just committed suicide, right?" Hank interrupted his ruminations as he took another sip of his liquor.
"So the police believe. His wife doesn't agree."
"What does she think?"
"She thinks he was murdered, the problem is why. I thought if I could look at the records regarding Lane's work, see if there's any irregularity, anything major enough to account for somebody taking him out, I might find enough to interest the police."
"You're not expecting to find all that in an hour, I hope," Jerry said.
S.T. had three possible goals. He mentioned the first two. "When I look at what's there, it might be nothing. If something seems connected, I'll bring a camera to photograph what I can, copy what I can on my own jump drive if I can get in."
"It's going to be touch and go any way you look at it." Jerry was silent a moment.
“Look if Lane was murdered,” S.T. said, “it was worse than murder what they did to him. Right now nobody is going to look for answers. Suicide packaged it up and they have plenty of other irons in the fire. They destroyed his life and his reputation.”
“Soul presents himself as a religious leader,” Jerry brought up the other side. “The police have had too much trouble with this or that religious group claiming persecution on Constitutional grounds. You cannot blame us for not wanting to get into that unless it was cut and dried. Otherwise it sucks all the energy from the room."
"I get your point. I guess if I find anything relating to Lane Brown, I’ll take it to my attorney to see what he can do with it. Hoping I don’t get myself arrested just for collecting it."
Christine picked up S.T.'s hand, running her finger down the lines in the palm, surprised at the roughness. "Not to change your delightful subject of mayhem and violence, but why do you have calluses?" she asked as she stroked one long finger, then another.
He smiled up at her. "Obviously because I use my hands."
"Aren't you a boss?"
"Bosses who sit in an office don't know the site, their men or the project. I like to work on the buildings when I can."
"Mmmm. I like strong hands," she said, bringing the hand to her lips and kissing first one finger than another.
"You two are too much, either spitting at each other like two cats or making love. I can't decide which is worse. You're embarrassin' me," Hank said with a loose grin.
“Yeah you’re so easily embarrassed,” Jerry joked.
"You, embarrassed," Christine added. "I never thought I'd see the day."
"Maybe I was exaggerating."
"Maybe you were jealous," S.T. suggested.
"I’m happy with what I have." Hank gave Jerry an affectionate wink.
"You’ve had a longer marriage than most straights," Christine said.
"You ever been married, S.T.?" Hank asked.
S.T. shook his head.
"How come?"
S.T. faked a yawn. "I'm pretty tired." He sat up, swinging his legs down to the ground. "Think I'll find that bed you promised."
"Coward," Christine declared.
"You know what they say about cowards," S.T. said, rising to his feet.
"Yes, they die a thousand deaths?" Christine said, her eyes suggesting she might be considering providing him with one of them.
"No." He grinned. "They live to fight another day."
#
S.T. used the next days to ready himself for going south, for being gone from his company. He wouldn't tell Soul when he was coming, using the return as an excuse only if he got caught. He had taken the Silverado in for a tune-up, packed heavy clothes and light, canned and dried foods, thrown in sleeping bags, a backpack tent, and some simple camping gear, including his fishing pole. In the creel, he stuffed his .357, extra ammunition, and his permit to carry a concealed weapon. He didn't know what he was expecting, but this time he hoped to be ready. He had even packed a computer of the same model he'd seen on Soul's desk. It was part of his third plan, the one he hoped he wouldn't have to put into play.
The knock
at the door interrupted him as he stuffed some of the items from his kitchen into a bag. Some instinct made him put the supplies into a cupboard before he answered the door. He didn't know if he was surprised or not to see in the beam of the porch light the face of Peter Soul, two dark figures behind him.
"Kind of late to come visiting," S.T. said, ushering them into the living room. "For that matter, how'd you find my home address? I don't give it out to many."
"I find what I require," Soul said, sitting on the long sofa in S.T.’s living room. He looked at the fire glowing in the fireplace, then said, "Nice home. Did you design it?"
“And built it.” He watched as Soul's men stood behind the sofa, their arms folded over their chests. They looked like nothing more than a couple of goons, which might be what they were.
"What happened to your leg?" Soul asked as S.T., who still had a slight limp, walked across the room to settle into a wooden chair, one that would give him leverage if he needed it in a hurry.
"Wrenched ankle."
"When did you do it?"
"The night I made a fool of myself at your compound," S.T. said. That at least was the truth.
"I'm so sorry. I hope it will be better soon. It looks as though it's painful."
"Not much anymore. Now, what can I do for you?"
"When are you coming back to us?"
"I told you I'd call."
"I was becoming concerned."
"It's only been a few days."
"When a man is building his dream, fulfilling his master's will, every delay is an eternity."
"Sorry about that, but I still can't promise you anything." S.T. was angry and trying hard to get control of the inner feeling. This man had drugged him, threatened him in a particularly demeaning way. He had to restrain himself from reaching out, grabbing the front of that crisp, white shirt, and pounding his fist into the smooth featured face. Knowing it would accomplish none of his more important goals stopped him more surely than the awareness that as soon as he jumped Soul, he'd have his goons on his back.
"When will you come to us?" Soul asked, his voice a little louder, more insistent.
S.T. pretended to consider. "I'll try to make it early next week. Have those soil analyses ready."
Soul sucked in a deep breath. S.T. was glad to see he wasn’t the only one irritated for a change. What a pleasant thought.
"Have you seen Christine Johnson?" Soul asked abruptly.
"She called once to make sure I was okay." Once a day.
"How nice. Did she mention a phone number?"
"I had no reason to ask." Already knew it. Having talked of Christine, remembering she'd said she'd be calling after seven from Hank's, S.T. swallowed a curse when the phone rang.
"Aren't you going to get it?" Soul asked.
"Sure." He didn't want his answering machine picking it up, then having them hear a message from Christine. Just thinking of her creative, not to mention borderline erotic, messages brought a heat to body and soul that he couldn’t afford when every thought had to be centered on a different kind of soul.
"Hi," Christine said when he picked up the receiver.
"Glad you could get back to me on the bid," S.T. said, "but I don't have time to talk now. Can I call you back tomorrow morning?"
"Who's there?"
"The usual."
"Not him?" Christine's voice dropped to a lower register.
"Afraid so."
"I'm coming over."
"Definitely not. We're just finishing up here. I will get back to you. Do not start the job until I give you the okay."
"Storm!" Her voice rose.
"You heard me," he said firmly. "I will call you back." With that, he put down the phone and prayed she'd leave it be. Trust me just this once, he ordered her silently. Then he turned to look at Soul, wondering how much the man had guessed about the call.
"I hate to ask you to leave," S.T. said, "but I have a lot to do if I'm going to get back to Roseburg next week." There was a strained silence.
Assessing the situation, S.T. glanced at Soul's henchmen. Their eyes were emotionless, reflecting neither will nor intelligence. They would do whatever Soul told them and if that meant grabbing S.T. right now, they'd give it a try. S.T. was betting Soul wouldn't go that far. He believed Soul still hoped to earn his cooperation at least somewhat voluntarily. Whatever Soul opted to do, this time he would be collecting some bruises if he attempted violence as his solution.
When the phone rang again, S.T. swallowed his curse. If this was Christine, he'd have a few, choice words for her--later. He picked up the receiver, not taking his gaze from Soul.
"My son, is that you?" It was his mother's voice.
"Yeah, what can I do for you?" S.T. asked.
"I wanted to know what was happening. What you found out."
"I have someone here. This is not a good time to talk."
She said nothing for a long moment. "I hear it in your voice. Something is wrong. What is it?"
"No problem. I'll just have to get back to you."
His mother's breath hissed out. "Aiiii the chindi are there. I feel it."
"Don't be foolish," he retorted, his gaze not leaving Soul's probing eyes.
His mother mumbled something in Navajo. He didn't know the words, but recognized the intonations and knew he was not deceiving her.
"I'll have to call you back," he repeated, then hung up the phone.
"I see you are indeed a busy man," Soul said. Rising to his feet, he reached out his hand for S.T.’s. If he'd thought it possible, S.T. would have refused, but he had no way without making an issue of it.
Meeting the cold flesh, the fingers that closed around his, S.T. felt as though his warmth was being sucked away. He broke it as soon as he could.
Soul walked to the door, his men only a few steps behind him. "Until next week," he said, then they were gone.
S.T. locked the door, then leaned against its hard surface. He swallowed against the feeling of nausea with which being in the same room with Soul had left him. What was the man? Not the chindi his mother believed in, but something.... Something S.T. couldn't define or explain but that left an icy feeling in his stomach.
Chapter Eight
"I don't see why you had to go with me," S.T. complained, turning the Silverado in the driveway of Katy Brown's palatial home. At least Jim had probably been right about her not needing any financial help.
"You've argued with me all the way," Christine said, glancing at his tense profile. "I wanted to go, wasn't that enough reason?"
"Woman, you're getting too deeply entangled in this."
"Maybe I'll see something you miss." She smiled sweetly at him, not surprised to see his dark eyes flash angrily at her.
"You read blueprints, do you?"
"Sarcasm doesn't help anything, Storm Walker."
"You trying to suck off my power?"
"Of course. I want it all for myself,” she said, as he stopped the Silverado and turned off the ignition.
Katy Brown, a striking young woman with coal black hair and porcelain skin, waited for them at the door. As S.T. introduced them, Christine watched her force a polite smile as she ushered them into the living room.
Christine saw S.T.'s mouth tighten when he looked down at the coffee table and saw the trouble Katy had gone to, the cookies on a plate, cookies still wafting a freshly baked fragrance.
"Can I get you coffee or tea?" Katy asked, only sitting when she'd been assured they didn't want anything. In the light, Christine saw the dark circles, red-rimmed eyes, and her heart went out to her.
"I'm sorry about everything," S.T. said.
"Everyone is, but it's no one's fault, except the ones who murdered Lane. And yes, I do not believe he killed himself. If he had wanted to get away from me, there were easier ways." She swallowed hard.
“I will do what I can to try and get to the bottom of it,” S.T. said reluctantly. He had been dragged into it but he now did feel that determination to take th
e investigation as far as he could. Seeing Katy Brown just enhanced that goal.
"I haven’t known how to do anything about it and am so grateful you said you would come and look at Lane's drawings. I've tried to see if there's something, some hint of what the problem was, but I... don't know much about things like that."
"The drawings are a starting point for me at least."
"I have to find something that will convince the police to reopen the investigation." She impatiently brushed her hair behind her ear.
"Have the toxicology results returned?" S.T. asked.
She nodded. "Nothing showed up... Of course, that does nothing to convince the authorities they have been wrong to believe he killed himself, but I know he didn't. I will prove it somehow for the sake of my girls, his daughters."
"Your little ones are quieter than any I’ve been around recently," Christine said, hoping to give S.T. time to gather himself
"Actually they’ve been spending a few weeks with my parents in Seattle. I couldn't be there for them right now, not as they needed. I had to get myself together and haven’t been doing a very good job of it." She wiped away tears.
"You know," Christine said, "I think I'd like some coffee after all." She looked pointedly at S.T. "Maybe Katy and I could drink it in the kitchen and let you look through the papers without a disturbance." S.T. sent her a grateful look before Katy showed him the den where Lane's papers were.
A few moments later Christine sat with Katy at the kitchen bar, sipping coffee.
"What do you do?" Katy asked.
"I'm a photographer. I've been up here on an assignment."
"That sounds interesting..." Her voice dwindled off.
Christine reached out her hand and put it over Katy's. "You don't have to pretend for me," she said. "I know how it can be trying to keep up your spirits for everyone else, to keep them from worrying, but with me, it’s okay to just let it out. You need to."
Tears rolled down Katy's cheeks. "How did you know?"
"I've seen my mother do the same thing. When my grandmother died, Mom went around seeing that everyone else ate, that no one grieved, eventually it wore her down and she got sick. It's important now that you don't bury your feelings."