Hidden Pearl

by Trueax, Rain

  S.T. smiled. "No insults intended, just--"

  "I moved it twice while you slept. Last I saw it, it still had all hubcaps and its engine."

  "I appreciate the effort.”

  "I can tell." Hank's eyes began to water as the power of the opened onion reached upward, and S.T. felt a mild interest in whether or not he'd end up sobbing.

  "I'm tired of always coming out the loser in fights I never wanted to begin," S.T. said, sipping at the orange juice Hank had handed him. He hadn’t been sure he’d ever want juice after the drugged one but found it was just fine when it wasn’t laced.

  "Maybe you need to change the rules of the game." Hank tossed the onions into the fry pan.

  "Good idea. How do you suggest I go about that?"

  Hank chuckled. "Don't ask me, it's your game."

  "You find out anything about Soul's history?"

  Hank leaned against the stove. "It's a slow process, which due to a little cut of the cards which Chris lost, she is currently working on in the basement. I have been, however, receiving a side benefit as she explains the underground religious life in Southern California. Not a cheerful bit of knowledge, I might add."

  S.T. smiled despite the fact it still hurt the swelling at the left side of his mouth. "A lot of desperate people out there."

  "You bet. Desperate and willing to part with their money. It's kind of interesting the different scams the saintly use to part suckers from their dollars, sometimes even their property. Be directly connected to the ultimate god for a small gift--tax deductible, of course."

  "Desperate pretty well describes it."

  Hank reached into the cupboard and began adding spices to his hamburger and onion mixture.

  "What you're fixing?" S.T. asked. His stomach growled at the thought of something he could sink his teeth into.

  "Spaghetti."

  "Actually I make a pretty mean spaghetti myself," S.T. said, watching as Hank added tomato paste to the meat. "How good's yours?"

  "Pure ambrosia--food for the gods."

  "Sounds promising. Do I need to leave an offering?"

  Hank grinned. "Well, the way you managed to mess up your face, I'm not sure. I had hoped to have you enough in my debt that I could set you up in front of my camera, but until you heal, it would be pointless."

  "The way my life's been going lately, you may have a long wait."

  "I have noticed a decided tendency to get yourself into damaging situations. Has that been a lifelong habit?"

  "I only recently started to consider that it might."

  "The proverbial death wish."

  "Not going quite that far, I hope."

  "The mythic hero of ancient times, going off to do battle with the dragons, no thought of safety, no preparations for survival--a death wish in Freudian terms."

  S.T. laughed. "How much do you know about Freud?"

  "Not much. I'm more of a Jungian myself. A modified Jungian since I'm also a Catholic."

  S.T. knew he was going to lose if he tried to discuss any of this but asked anyway, "Exactly what is a modified Jungian or for that matter a Jungian?"

  "I take it, as well as not being a student of mythology, you are not a fan of psychology," Hank suggested.

  "Bingo. I was too busy learning how to plot a line that intersected another where it was supposed to."

  "Well, as a photographer, I thought I should know the ways of man. I could have done as Chris did--study anthropology, but the inner workings of the mind, the whys of human action and interaction interested me more."

  "You find it applies much?"

  Hank grinned. "It's great when I'm shooting a wedding supposedly for the money, but I turn the photographs into a journal on the real emotions behind the people's actions—modifying the negative aspects, of course, since I want to hear from those families again."

  Christine pushed open the kitchen door. "You're a wicked man, Hank Brannigan."

  He smiled innocently. "I just take my amusement where I can."

  "Like all those shots you took of S.T. while he was sleeping?" she suggested.

  S.T. rose out of his chair, then subsided back as pain shot through his side. "He didn't," he growled.

  "No," she said, kissing the top of S.T.'s head and smoothing down his long, black hair. "But he did suggest he would like to."

  "I'd have called it the 'Wounded Hero' series," Hank lamented. "I'd have taken prizes for it everywhere. Especially if our beautiful Christine would have let me photograph her sitting beside the bed, her long blond hair flowing onto your chest, your limp hand in her delicate fingers. It was a powerful moment. Unfortunately she was resistant."

  "Thank God," S.T. muttered.

  "Not to interrupt your tormenting of S.T., but I think I found something interesting." Christine sat on the chair next to S.T. and put a yellow pad full of her notes on the table in front of her.

  "You found our boy."

  "Make that plural," she said with a proud grin. “I checked the bulletin board again and someone anonymously had left a tip to check on Louis Price. I started a new search and found several references.”

  S.T. raised his brows questioningly, but Hank was more direct. “Come on, lady. Give us the dope.”

  Christine smiled and looked down at her notes. "There were several newspaper articles, and then some blogs to add to it.”

  “Blogs?” S.T. asked.

  “Personal journals online which can be like little editorial boards. They also show up on searches. Anyway the earliest reference to Louis had him working under a minister named Zebediah Crawford.”

  Hank chuckled. “That name for real?”

  “If you want to hear this, be quiet,” Christine ordered. “Louis gradually took over the church and from what I could tell Zebediah anointed him as the new leader before he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “There were rumors,” Christine said, looking up, her eyes troubled, “but nothing definite ever turned up. Louis built up the church with the help of his brother Herbert and they began fund raising to build a conference center. Between mails and direct solicitation, quite a lot was raised, but nothing was built. Finally someone got suspicious, investigations were launched. The brothers were charged with mail fraud. Herbert was let off on probation beings he wasn’t the main instigator—so far as they knew. Louis did a year and a half. When he got out, he vanished.”

  "Where’s the proof that he was Soul?"

  "In one of the articles, there were pictures of the arrest. Louis Price is definitely a less suave and younger Peter Soul."

  "And you think Herbert is George?" S.T. asked shifting in his chair to look at her.

  "It would fit.”

  “Is that likely to be their real names or might we peel these onions to a lower level yet?”

  “I belong to a genealogy site and looked there. It seems to me these are their names.”

  “So the trained dog is an act, and George probably has as much say in what happens as Peter.”

  "Likely one of them deals with one set of customers and the other another," Hank said.

  “The question is whether this is enough to go to the police,” S.T. said as he considered the known facts. “If they figure we are onto them, they could either disappear, or if there really are graves, move them and we’d have nothing. Not illegal to change names.”

  “The scary part,” Christine said, “is with them being brothers, and the whole relationship a scam, we don’t know that it’s not George who runs things… The dangerous one like Jerry told us when he saw his photo."

  "You found something else?" S.T. asked, wishing his head was clearer.

  "When I saw there was a Herbert Price, I began to look for his record, anything I could find. He also spent time in prison earlier. In one of the pieces, it said that when George was seventeen, he nearly beat a man to death. The only thing that saved him from prison was his age and the guy not pressing charges; in fact, vowing he'd work against the courts if the cas
e went to trial. The D.A. settled for a misdemeanor."

  "Well we did know George is scary," S.T. said, rubbing the back of his neck. Christine moved behind him and began massaging the large muscles of his shoulders.

  "You said when you made him mad, you saw him change. I’m thinking his submissiveness is just a thin veneer over a volcano." She loosened a button on his shirt, giving her greater access to his shoulders and also distracting him for the moment by her touch against his skin. He wondered how Hank would feel about the two of them taking a nap and then reminded himself something serious was being discussed. He grunted as she began working a particularly sore spot in the long muscle heading down his back.

  Hank rested his foot on one of the chairs, leaning forward to look at Christine’s notes. “Anything more?”

  She shook her head. “Not so far, but maybe Jerry could access some stuff we cannot.”

  Hank moved around to sit at the table. "So where does this leave us?"

  "Us?" S.T. repeated.

  "I'm in. Call it my fighting Irish spirit, but I'm going to see this to the end."

  "You know how dangerous it is," Christine reminded him.

  "I know these guys aren't playing games, but I’ve had a little experience with religious fraud myself, and I want my share in bringing them down. So what's the plan?"

  “What experience?” Christine asked. This was a story Hank had never shared with her.

  “When my mother was widowed--about ten years ago, a guy came around, courted her, married her, then used his so-called church to take her for everything she had. He did it all legal enough that there was nothing could be done about it. If there’s anyway to do it, I want my piece of nailing scum like that.”

  "Before you decide, there is something else not related to the search," Christine said. "Remember I mentioned the forums?"

  "Yeah."

  "The tip wasn’t the only message. Actually there’d been a threat earlier.” She looked into S.T.’s eyes, ignoring his growing scowl. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think it would stop you. That guy had called himself follower of the master or something like that."

  "And?"

  "The first says, 'Beware you who would search into the depths of that which you do not understand. Soul is the Antichrist. All who would attack him face power beyond the physical.' The other--'People who join Servants of Grace have a way of disappearing. If you don't want that to happen to you, stay away from those who run the work. Tell me where Zebediah Crawford, Marian Shipley, Donald Sanders, and Shonna Taggert are today.'" She stopped, glancing down at S.T.'s set face, then read the rest. "'Ask Soul about these names. They all trusted him one time too many.'"

  There was a silence that was broken only by the sound of the spaghetti sauce bubbling on the stove. Then Hank said, "You figured it was something like that."

  "I wanted to be wrong," S.T. admitted. He wanted to believe he’d have another chance to be a brother to Shonna. So much for hope.

  "There were two more," Christine said, "supportive of him, that denied the words of the others, but the wording in them was so much alike that I think maybe the same person put them in the threads."

  "I'm so sorry," Christine said when she saw the muscle twitch in S.T.’s jaw, his eyes take on a bleak cast. "The thing is anybody can post somewhere like that. It’s even possible George or Peter did it make you angry enough to come back knowing it wasn’t evidence in any realistic way."

  "So, possibly there is more than one grave up there." The thought was ugly but would likely make finding the site easier. That is if they buried them together. They would not have had to nor did they have to even bury them on their own land; but the risk of someone else finding a grave would be reduced if they could protect the site.

  "How do we find them?" Hank asked, leaving the table to stir the sauce.

  "I wish you'd both stay here," S.T. said, wincing when Christine's fingers tightened on his neck, pinching the skin. "Did you do that on purpose?" he asked.

  “Nervous twitch.”

  His grin was thoughtful. The sound of the buzzer in Hank's front office ended whatever else she might have said.

  "A customer?" S.T. asked, looking at Hank.

  "Not after six," he said, then headed for the studio.

  "Wait," S.T. said rising himself, awkwardly but adequately.

  "For what?"

  "I'll get my gun and wait in your office."

  "I don't like guns," Hank growled.

  "I have a permit for it. Sometimes they prevent worse things from happening," S.T. said, not bothering to argue with him as he headed for his room.

  "I can't believe it's necessary," Hank shot after him.

  "A lot of things I haven't thought necessary have turned out badly," S.T. said over his shoulder. "This time we won't take a chance. If it's them, bluff your way through it if you can. I won’t come out unless it turns ugly."

  Christine stared blankly at the door through which S.T. had gone. "It'll be okay," Hank said, patting her shoulder.

  "Except when?" she asked. "When can we stop being afraid? When will this be over?"

  #

  S.T. watched through a crack in the office door, Christine leaning against his back, as Hank opened the outside door and admitted two men in business suits. They projected the image and authority of government agents. They were images that would have been more successful if one of them hadn't had a bandage over his nose, indicating recent damage.

  "What can I do for you boys?" Hank asked. "You know I'm closed 'til tomorrow morning."

  "This won't take long." The taller of the two men flashed ID at Hank. "We're with ATF and looking for some information."

  "I got a bottle of Scotch in the back cupboard. Other than that, I don't think I can help you," Hank said.

  "Funny," broken nose said.

  "Again, what can I do for you?"

  "We have reason to think some friends of yours are in trouble. Christine Johnson and S.T. Taggert."

  "I know a Christine Johnson. Other name doesn’t ring a bell," Hank said, leaning back against a desk. "What kind of trouble's she in?"

  "She try to get in touch with you over the last week?"

  Hank shook his head. "What's the problem?"

  "There’s been a report that she has disappeared."

  "Did you check her home in Palo Alto?"

  The tall man stared hard at him, then looked around the studio. "We called her folks. They hadn’t heard from her.”

  “Wish I could help you.”

  “You aren’t worried about her?”

  “Christine is more like a casual friend. I have no reason to worry about her.”

  “You should try calling her.”

  Hank laughed. “Christine and I share a profession, not a life. I think I’d like to know a little bit more about why you want to find her.”

  Broken nose glared at him. “When did you last see her?”

  Hank hesitated, as though thinking. “A week or two ago she was here developing some prints. I don’t know. Maybe a little longer. She didn’t live with me, you know.”

  "She leave anything behind?"

  Hank smiled. “Like what did you have in mind? Nylons or something?”

  When the tall man straightened his shoulders, S.T. sucked in his own breath. Hopefully Hank wouldn’t push his lack of cooperation to the point where the men would get aggressive.

  “Look,” Hank was saying with a smile, “She never even said she was planning on coming back here. Photographers like her tend to be flighty. You call her magazine to see if it’s a new assignment. Hope you didn’t scare her folks."

  Before broken nose could get more aggressive in his questions, Jerry walked through the door. Jerry even in a good mood was a big, potentially mean looking man. What he saw had not put him in a good mood.

  “Who’re you?” the tall man asked.

  “More to the point, who are you?” Jerry asked straightening to his full, impressive height.

&
nbsp; “We’re going. Just trying to follow up on something.”

  “You boys got badge numbers?”

  Broken nose headed quickly for the door, his compatriot not far behind him. On the step, Hank said, "Tell you boys what; if I hear from her, give me a phone number or something I can have her call."

  The man grabbed a card from his pocket, then scribbled a number on it which S.T. was relatively sure would be a worthless number. “Tell her to call and we’ll give her protection."

  "Protection? She need that?” Hank asked playing dumb. “Really sorry we can’t help you. Jer, dinner’s about ready."

  "Yeah well," broken nose said, "you remember to tell her to call."

  "It seems unlikely, but if I do, I'll tell her."

  When the door closed, Hank shot the bolt, then pulled the slatted shutters closed, locking them too. Jerry looked mystified as Christine and S.T. came out of the office. "Great," she muttered, "now they've upset my parents."

  "That is if they really called them," S.T. said. "It could be they're hoping you'll call and they can trace it."

  "How do I find out?" she asked, pacing the room. "I can't have my folks panicking about this."

  "Where does your dad work?"

  "He's at Stanford."

  "Call there tomorrow, leave a message if you have to. They can't trace everything."

  "Okay." She sucked in a breath.

  "Let’s see if this is even a real number," Hank suggested, holding out the card for S.T. to look at. The card said Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, but there was no name of an agent printed on it. S.T. thought it looked like one they could have had made off a home computer—assuming theirs didn’t have the black screen of death. "I'd be willing to bet this is a message service number," he said, handing it back to Hank.

  "You think they'll be back?"

  "Maybe, more likely not yet anyway. They're fishing. Don't want to stir up anything more than they have to."

  "Were they the men who tried to burn the Bailey cabin?" Christine asked.

  "Although it was dark, I'd bet money on it--at least broken nose."

  "Wonder where the third one is?" She shivered again, remembering the sound of the poker striking his skull. "You don't think I killed him, do you?"