Hidden Pearl

by Trueax, Rain

  Christine ran to S.T. He was wheezing for breath but still managed to gasp out, "You should've... run."

  "I did," she said, reaching out to touch his cheek. It felt sticky with blood.

  "Were there just two of them?" she asked, looking nervously beyond him.

  "Three," he panted, gesturing toward another shape on the lawn. "We have to get out of here." He bent beside the man he'd knocked out.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, feeling incapable of moving.

  He pulled the man's belt from his pants and used it to lash his hands behind his back. "Buying us some time. Get in the house," he ordered. "Get our stuff, the computer, the gun, back the Silverado out of the garage. There might be more of them."

  She turned then and sprinted for the house, aware for the first time that she'd run to his aid in bare feet and her sleeping T-shirt. Suddenly she was shivering with cold.

  In the house, she rushed to her room, pulled on jeans and a sweater, then her boots, grabbed her purse and camera, their clothing, and the gun. She threw all she could carry into the Silverado, then returned for the computer and extra drives. Moments later she'd opened the garage door and backed the Silverado out.

  S.T. waited for her by the fallen men, slinging open the passenger. He had secured their attackers as well as he could, but it wouldn't hold them long after they came to their senses.

  Christine had smelled the gasoline, realized what the men had come to do and felt a renewed surge of fear as she thought of what would have happened if S.T. hadn't heard them. "Will they still burn the house?" she asked.

  He held his hand to his ribs, trying to ease the pain. "Not with us gone. No point," he managed, his breath not coming easily. He guessed he'd cracked a rib--at the least.

  "Are you all right?" She glanced over at him, trying to determine in the darkness how badly he’d been hurt.

  He carefully shrugged into his shirt, not bothering to button it. "Are you?"

  She stopped to evaluate that. "I’m fine. I can't believe I hit that man."

  "What did you use?"

  "A poker."

  He shook his head, then wished he hadn't when his neck spasmed. Lately it seemed he was getting himself banged up every time he turned around and it made him mad.

  "I hit him as hard as I could," Christine said, “but hope I didn’t kill him.”

  He scowled at her. "He was trying to kill us."

  "I know, but— Do you think Soul sent them?"

  "Unlikely. I don’t think he wants us dead. This smacks of George. His idea of getting rid of us and evidence. Christine, you should get on a plane for San Francisco as soon as we can get you a ticket.”

  She ignored that as beneath comment. “How badly are you hurt?”

  "Other than a cracked rib and some bruises, I’m fine." He didn’t mention being slammed alongside his head, didn’t feel that mattered.

  "So we need to find an all night clinic.”

  “I don’t need a doctor. What I can’t seem to do is get it through to you that you need to go to California. I’ll call you when it’s all straightened out.”

  “Like that’s going to happen.”

  "This attack tells me that, unless it was unrelated to our snooping which I consider unlikely, we have two different operatives in this and we have to be ready for either. Correction—I. I really want you out of it. I go nuts when I think something might happen to you.”

  "Like I’m crazy to see men hitting you. I know you want me to leave. You have said it. Now you have to understand I am not going anywhere at least until I know you’re safe too."

  "Woman, don’t be a fool --"

  She interrupted. "If I want to be a fool, I will be one. I care about solving this as much as you do. I didn’t like hitting a man with a fireplace poker, but I am glad I did… even though I didn’t want to kill him despite what you might think I should want. Incidentally, you didn’t kill anybody either, did you?"

  "Not that I know of," he said through set teeth.

  "You need a doctor to look at your ribs!"

  "Heaven help me.”

  #

  The sun rising made Christine aware she'd been driving several hours, and she still didn't know where to go. She cast a surreptitious glance toward S.T. who had been sleeping fitfully for the last hour or so and wished she hadn't. In the dawning light, she saw that the damage to him --dried blood, cuts, swollen lumps, growing bruises, his arm still protectively cradling his ribs. He needed medical help, food, somewhere safe to rest, and she didn't know where she could find any of that. Who could they trust? Had Jocelyn, the Bailey’s neighbor been one of Soul’s followers or had they found them some other way?

  She and S.T. hadn't been able to talk about anything sensibly because every other word out of either of their mouths was angry. She supposed their brush with death made that to be expected. Except, wasn't great danger supposed to bring people closer, not tear them apart? Regardless of what the stories she'd read said about reaction to trauma, it appeared for them every time they faced danger and survived, they ended up fighting afterward. She debated for a moment whether that was her fault or S.T.'s but since there was no way to decide the issue, she left it to go back to the real problem--where could they go?

  They were a few miles out of Sisters, a small, Eastern Oregon town. Whatever else they would do, here they had to get gas. She shot another nervous look at the nearly empty gas gauge. She hoped the attendant wouldn't look too closely at the sleeping man beside her and start asking questions.

  "S.T."

  "Uh..." He groaned, opened his eyes or at least the most serviceable one. "Where are we?" he asked, grimacing as he straightened to look around.

  "Sisters. We need gas. Are you going to be okay?"

  He met her gaze, his eyes cloudy with sleep and pain. He nodded.

  The attendant was either as sleepy as S.T. or he was used to seeing a lot of unusual people in his station because he gave S.T. no more than a quick glance.

  "Where should we go? We can't keep driving forever,” Christine said after they were back on the highway.

  "I know that," he snapped. He ran his fingers through his hair.

  "How about Hank's?"

  "Drag him into this?"

  "I don't see how it would do that. How could they find out about Hank?"

  He sucked in a breath as he shifted in the car seat. "How did they find the cabin?"

  "If they can do that, he's in danger anyway. Better we let him know how much."

  He considered that a moment, unconsciously rubbing his side. "I guess I don't have a better idea."

  "Sometimes I get the feeling you only listen to me when every other possibility has already been proven wrong."

  "You're still determined to fight, aren't you?"

  “Since we met, you’ve done nothing but tell me all the reasons I shouldn’t want to be with you. Shoving that half-breed talk down my throat until I’m sick of hearing it. Me thinks the man doth protest too much."

  Before he could respond, she made a low throaty sound, one that didn't indicate pleasure. "I've done everything I can to help you, to convince you I don't feel that way. I'm tired of groveling!”

  He gave a short, angry laugh. "Groveling? Are we talking about you? Is that the woman who pushed her way into my office, shoved her way into my life?"

  He didn't add stole his heart because he was unwilling to give her that much leverage over him, but he knew it was true. Seeing her running into the fight, poker raised to defend him, had taken away his last doubts about his own feelings. The fact that they were impossible did nothing to take away the yearnings. He could only cover them with anger, and he was doing the best he could to hold onto that.

  "All right then, master," she said her voice cold enough to freeze ice cubes, "where do you think we should go? I can't keep driving forever. You need to have your ribs checked. We need food. In your superior wisdom, what do you suggest?"

  He scowled at her and tried to think. Going
to his friends didn't seem like a good idea. Soul had found out about the Bailey’s cabin. What else did he know? She was right, not that he wanted to admit that. They needed to take a chance with someone they trusted and Hank came as close to that as anyone he could imagine.

  "All right," he muttered.

  "What? I didn't hear that."

  Her tone was sarcastic and made it less than tempting to repeat his admission, but he did it anyway. "You’re right. We'll go to Hank's. It's the only place I can think of either."

  "Complete capitulation," she retorted, casting him what he interpreted as a gloating glance. "I can hardly believe it."

  "Neither can I." He closed his eyes, hoping he could sleep again but doubting it because of the protesting muscles and injuries. He remembered now why he'd stopped getting in fights as a kid. Win or lose, his body always lost.

  #

  Christine parked the Silverado four blocks from Hank's studio. “What’s wrong?” he asked looking around and trying to assess if there was danger.

  “I just thought we should keep the vehicle a distance from the house just in case. I’ll go to the house and see if it’s clear.”

  “Why? I can go too.” He grimaced as he shifted his position and undid the seatbelt.

  “Let’s just take it slow just in case.” He gave her one of his looks but let her go. He definitely was in no shape to move as fast as she was if there was trouble.

  At the backdoor, Christine tapped lightly and then a bit louder as she saw no one watching and Hank didn’t immediately respond. When he answered the door and pulled her inside, it was all she could do to not throw herself in his arms and start sobbing.

  "Jesus Christ, you look beat, what happened?" he asked.

  "Everything."

  "Where's S.T.?"

  "In the truck four blocks away. We ran into some trouble, Hank."

  "How bad?"

  "I don’t know. Someone tried to kill us last night."

  If she had expected a shocked reaction, she didn’t get it. She might as well have been discussing the weather as he asked with no particular surprise or emotion, "Okay, what do you want?"

  She looked up into his eyes. "It could be dangerous for you and Jerry."

  "So could eating real butter. I repeat, what do you want?"

  "Could we stay with you and Jerry a day or so? S.T. needs some rest. We have to figure out what comes next. We could take a motel."

  "No need. Let’s go get the big guy. How well is he getting around?”

  “I think fine if he wants to.”

  "Ouch. You two been squabbling?"

  "It's about all we've done since this last thing happened." She felt teary again but decided it was because of her near exhaustion and Hank's sympathetic shoulder.

  "Okay, then let's go get him, get you two something to eat, then a shower. When you've slept, you're going to think everything looks a lot better."

  She shook her head. "I don't think it’s going to get a lot better for awhile anyway, Hank. The reason this looks really dangerous is because it is." She remembered then what Jerry had said when he first saw the photo of George and took hold of Hank’s arm. "I meant it that it could endanger you too. Maybe you want to think about it again."

  "I don't need to think about it and I knew from the first time I saw that guy Soul's picture that he was trouble. So, are you going to the police?"

  "S.T. doesn't think we have enough to get them to pay attention to us. Maybe he'll change his mind when he's resting comfortably and can think more clearly." Then again, maybe not.

  #

  Waking, S.T. opened his eyes finding only one worked effectively. He made a mental survey of his condition--pain pretty much everywhere, a soft bed, clothing stripped from him. He turned his head to see Christine curled up like a kitten beside him. He swallowed against the surge of emotion that filled him at finding her there. It would have served him right if she’d walked out.

  He realized then her eyes were open, watching him. "This is getting to be a habit," he said.

  "One you need to break.”

  "I only vaguely remember getting here. Is Hank okay with the possible risks?"

  "He knows what to look for. How are you feeling?"

  "Like I was in a fight and didn’t win."

  “You’ve been sleeping nearly a day.”

  “I do like having you in bed with me when I wake up,” he said teasingly as he stroked a lock of hair back behind her ear.

  “I like that myself.”

  He ran his fingers over the tape that wrapped his upper chest. "You do this?"

  "Hank. He thinks your rib isn't broken, but cracked. If you take it easy, you won't send it through your lungs after all. You have a lump behind your ear which he didn’t think would be a concussion if you woke up at all."

  He smiled. “I like him."

  There was a tap at the door, then Hank entered. "How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, not holding up any.

  "Eleven," S.T. answered.

  "No concussion then." Hank grinned. "Feel like eating something for breakfast?"

  Running his tongue over the inside of his cut-up mouth, S.T. assessed the situation. "If it's soft."

  Hank smiled. "I'll be back. How about you Chris?"

  "I'll just have what you do," she said, grinning at him.

  "Pretty high cholesterol."

  "So I'll live dangerously," she retorted. "It seems to be par for the course anyway."

  Hank chuckled and was gone, leaving Christine to face S.T.'s troubled gaze.

  "I was joking," she said.

  "But it was the truth." He looked up at the ceiling. "I haven't brought you much that was good."

  "You know I could have run into trouble myself when I went down there. And once we realized what was going on, it’s been my choice to be involved with trying to bring them down for it," she reminded him as she sat on the edge of his bed, taking his hand into hers. The knuckles were scraped and looked sore. Gently she brought them to her lips, kissing each abrasion.

  "You might not believe this now, but this isn’t typical for how my life goes.” Then he remembered the time in Central America, and added, “Usually anyway.”

  She ran her fingers up his arm to the point of his shoulder. “There have been compensations.”

  He could barely think, let alone argue as he felt her soft touch against his bruised flesh. "Good there’s something on the other side of the ledger," he managed, his voice a husky whisper. Her lips were now only inches from his, her breath a stirring against his skin.

  "Breakfast," Hank yelped, kicking the door wide with his foot, his hands loaded down with a large tray.

  "Good timing," S.T. muttered as Christine tucked pillows under his back to lift him into a sitting position, then moved to a chair. Hank had brought in scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. As they sipped their coffee,” S.T. asked, “Where is Jerry?”

  “At work.”

  “He know about all of this?”

  “As much as he wanted to without it jeopardizing his ethics. What are you guys going to do now?” Hank asked.

  "Go back to the compound. Hopefully talk Christine out of going with me."

  "All of that when you've healed enough," Christine inserted.

  "As soon as I can," he corrected himself.

  "What'd you lose there?" Hank asked, leaning back against the bottom railing of the bed.

  "It's what I think I'll find there." He explained his belief about what had gotten Lane into trouble. "Before I go back though, think you and Christine could get back on that computer and see what you can dig up about religious cults in L.A. seven to five years ago."

  Hank snorted. "There's probably only thousands of them. Shouldn't take us more than a month or two to look through them all."

  "I'm thinking of zeroing in on ones who got in trouble with the law. Enough to do some prison time, maybe."

  "You figure that's what happened to Soul?"

  S.T. nodded. "It
’s not likely to be his name then."

  "You want to tell me what you found so far?"

  S.T. started to tell him, was interrupted by Christine's clarification, began again, then had to laugh when she again inserted a modification of his statement. "Which one of us is going to tell him?" he asked, leaning back against his pillows, smiling but unsure if he thought it was funny.

  Christine smiled sheepishly. "You... Sorry. Unless that is you forget something." Somehow the rest of the story was relayed, when they'd finished, Hank cursed. "Gun running hypocrites. Feel sorriest though for the folks that think they found a guy with a pipeline to heaven."

  "It's a trap a lot of people fall into," S.T. agreed.

  "And at all levels."

  "I can’t argue with you about that.” He smiled at Christine. “Or you either.” She tilted her nose in the air but ignored his provocation.

  "So what's next?" Hank asked.

  "Keep your doors locked, don't trust anybody and see what you can find out about what Soul was up to before The Servants of Grace, and I'll get back there and hopefully find enough to bring the police into this."

  "You mean we will," Christine corrected.

  He gave her a half smile. "Yeah... we." Actually the word was beginning to sound kind of good to him. He didn't remember ever thinking of himself in terms of a we. He had never wanted to before and it scared him that he might now.

  Chapter Eleven

  S.T. sat into a kitchen chair, propping one elbow on the table. He'd awakened after another long nap to find Hank cooking in the kitchen. Gloomily he watched him frying chunks of hamburger for dinner. "You think my Silverado's still in one piece?" he asked finally.

  Hank grinned, grabbed a cutting board and began slicing onions. "You saying something about my neighborhood here?"