by Trueax, Rain
"Unlikely. Three would have been suspicious. He might’ve even been one of these two.” He put his arm around her drawing her close. She wrapped her arms around his waist.
Violence, even that which she was capable of doing frightened her. She didn't like the feeling of the gun S.T. had jammed into the back of his jeans. She gritted her teeth as she reminded herself it would be over. Then life could go back to normal. Whatever that would mean after meeting Storm Walker Taggert.
#
“When are we leaving?” Hank asked as they sat at the kitchen table eating his spaghetti.
"First I have a question for you," S.T. said. "What's this thing about you and guns."
"Nothing. I just don't like them. I saw enough in “Nam of what one can do to a man's guts to not want them around."
"Maybe you ought to think twice about going with us then."
"I didn't volunteer to carry a gun. So when do we go?"
"We'll wait for Sunday when he's giving his little brainwashing sessions. That'll give us time to take care of a few things first."
"Work?"
"I ought to call my office, but no, it's putting the computer and what we found somewhere safe.”
Jerry smiled. “I didn’t hear a thing. In fact I better not hear anything more from now on. Heading to bed with a book.” He sketched a wave to his partner. “Just be careful, you hear?” The look he gave him was part warning and part loving.
“Now explain this to me,” Christine said when he had gone. “Bargaining chip for what?”
“In case things don’t work out as we hope with Plan A.”
“I don’t like to hear that.”
“Which part?”
She gave him a look as Hank stuffed a chunk of French bread into his mouth before agreeing. “That is something that could be stolen—even by somebody unrelated to the Soul deal.”
"I have a safety deposit box. It’ll be easy enough to put them there."
"What if… well if it goes wrong for all of us when there? They won't do anybody any good in a bank," Christine argued.
“It’s not going to go that bad. If we find even one grave, the police will be eager to look over the evidence, maybe the real ATF will even be interested, but if for some reason we run afoul of those guys, we can use our possession of them as a bargaining tool."
"Assuming we get a chance to do some talking," Hank quipped.
S.T. shrugged. "It's risky, but I think we’re working against a check and checkmate type of adversary."
“Who you think your adversary is?” Jerry asked, taking a sip of wine.
S.T. shrugged. “Originally I thought Peter Soul. Now it seems as likely to be George. Maybe they work at cross purposes sometime which might or might not help us.”
"Strategies, point and counterpoint, tactics and reactions," Hank mused, then grinned. "I like it, but there's another consideration. From what you've said, it sounds like there are a lot of people up there. Didn't you say some of the followers live at the compound, not counting all the ones in the neighborhood?"
"True, but most of them are mindless victims themselves."
"You think they've got that figured out?" Hank asked an amused glint in his eyes.
“Probably not, but the question is can Soul count on them?"
"We have more at stake."
“The stakes are high for all of us. Look, if you’ve got a better idea, I’m open to hearing it.”
Hank shook his head. “Lay it out for me, brother.”
"There is correspondence that indicates some gun trading, now the names of four missing people, none of which do I think is going to cut it with the cops. My bet is, other than the pastor, the names represent people like Shonna--they slip through the woodwork, have a way of running out on problems, don't hold down steady jobs. In short when the police hear they've vanished, they figure--A. good riddance, B. they've run off to escape debts or enemies, C. will show up tomorrow, or D. all of the above."
"I thought you were a builder, not an expert on the forgotten citizenry of America," Hank said, pushing his glasses back on his nose to skeptically eye S.T.
"My lost soul credentials come from growing up with an alcoholic father, who had a way of disappearing from time to time. It pretty well prepared me to go looking for Shonna and hear the same things. More than nine out of ten times the authorities are right. The other times they just wait for a body to surface."
"That's terrible," Christine said with a shudder.
Hank turned and looked at her. "Life can be that way," he said, heading for the cupboard. "Anybody want some more vino?"
S.T. shook his head. "I'd face double jeopardy if I took up the bottle," he said.
Hank looked at the bottle in his hand. "We have a lot in common, my friend." He shoved the bottle back in the cupboard, then looked at S.T. "My father died of liver failure. I think after 'Nam maybe I got a little too attached to it myself. My ex-wife used it as the excuse for our divorce."
"Was it?"
"Only partly." He grinned.
Christine picked the dishes off the table. She took them to the sink and began rinsing them. "Why don't you get a dishwasher, Hank?" she asked as she filled the sink with hot sudsy water.
"It's somewhere down my list of priorities," he said. "Buy a house this old and it needs a little bit of everything to keep it propped up."
"It's a good set-up though," S.T. said, picking up a dishtowel.
"You're going to dry?" Christine asked, looking at him skeptically.
"So what's wrong with that?"
She grinned. With the dishcloth in his large hands, the image and contrast between domestic and wild was awesome--thick, black hair flowing onto broad shoulders, biceps carved and angled like a Rodin sculpture, a T-shirt stretched to its limit by a muscular chest, a torso that tapered to narrow hips, sinewy thighs in blue jeans, legs widely spread, leading the eye down to strong bare feet. She wasn't surprised when she saw the flash of Hank's camera.
"Hey," S.T. protested. "What's it with you people? Can't you just live a moment?"
"That is living our moments," Christine said, setting a plate into the rinse water. "You haven't seen Hank's lab. It's the real reason he doesn't have a dishwasher. State-of-the-art, a dark room to die for and enlarging equipment a big studio would be envious of."
"I suppose you'll both have your cameras with you when we head up to Soul's compound, taking pictures right up to the minute I drop with a bullet in me."
The sudsy plate dropped from Christine's hands, shattering into pieces on the floor. "You think... You're expecting..." She swallowed hard. For a moment she'd forgotten what lay ahead.
"It was a joke," S.T. said kneeling to pick up the broken pieces of crockery. "A dumb one." He tossed them in the garbage can.
"You Navajo must have as fatalistic a sense of humor as us Irish," Hank said, settling back to watch them through the lens of his camera.
"I wouldn't know," S.T. said, picking a dish from the rinse water. "I haven't been with the Navajo much."
"Maybe it's genetic," Hank mused, snapping another photograph.
"You know," S.T. said, turning to face him only to be blinded again by the flash, "I could take that camera away from you."
"Great expression," Hank said, snapping the next shot. "Aggressive, handsome, still the remnants of bruises to add interest. How about snarling a little?"
S.T. couldn't stop the hoot of laughter. "May all your photographs be washed out and empty of images," he pronounced, returning to the task of drying the dishes.
"God, that sounded like a curse,” Hank protested.
"You think?" S.T. retorted. This time when he reached for a glass, he made sure his hand brushed Christine's. When she looked up, her blue eyes wide, he smiled and captured her hand, ducking it under the water with his where he stroked her long fingers.
"A kiss would be good," Hank suggested, watching them through his lens.
"When that happens, you won't be anywhere around
," S.T. promised.
"What do you mean--when?" Christine asked, trying to find the light mood the other two had managed. "Don't you mean if?"
S.T. shook his head, his gaze steadily on hers. "For you and me, it'll always be when."
"Oh no," Hank cried, "of all times to be out of film." In a shot he was off his chair and out of the room.
S.T. grinned. “How do you think Hank and Jerry would feel about us going to bed early?” he asked as he bent and claimed her lips with a kiss that sent her senses spiraling. Hands wet with soap, she reached up to bring his head back to her when he would have stepped away. Lips still sealed together, senses caught up in the moment, S.T. barely heard the snap of the camera or Hank's satisfied gotcha. Nothing seemed to matter but holding this woman in his arms, protecting her, melding her to him. Never mind that tomorrow might make all this impossible, for the moment he would take what he could.
#
"Now explain it all to me--from the beginning," Soul said, leaning back in his chair.
"We've been through the whole thing," George growled.
"I was hoping something would change the second time around."
"Look, Lou, I was only trying to straighten out the mess you've made of this."
"I've made?" Soul repeated. "I would say it's the other way around and don't call me Lou." Frosty blue eyes met his own angry gaze. Finally Soul said, "Perhaps you need a reminder of your own failures. What do you think we gained by your little venture with Lane Brown?"
"What do you think we gained with Shonna Taggert?"
"That was an accident."
"Yeah." George chuckled, his eyes malicious. "There've been a couple of those, haven't there?"
Soul stared down at his manicured nails. "Sometimes a greater good comes from an apparent ill."
George laughed loudly. "Try telling that to Taggert."
"We don't know that he knows anything about that."
"You're a bigger fool than I thought."
"Don't get nasty. Besides, even if I agree that we've both made mistakes, your last one tops mine."
George slumped into a chair. "Brannigan said they weren't there."
"And that's that," Soul asked, raising his eyebrows with disbelief. "If they were there, do you think they'd admit it after someone trying to burn a house down around them? That was just plain stupid, George. Almost as stupid as sending our brainless wonders after them."
George rose from his chair, stalked around the room, then again faced his brother. "If they weren't brainless, you think they'd do what we tell them?"
"But since they are, don't bother sending them when it requires discernment," Soul shot back.
"We're getting nowhere with our recriminations. I did what I thought best."
"We now know this computer is not my computer which means Taggert has ours. If it had burned with the cabin, there would have gone our records."
"Better gone than in the hands of the ATF or CIA."
"I think there are more pleasant options."
"I wish we'd never heard of that cursed Taggert. He's been nothing but trouble."
"Wishes won't get us far."
George snorted. "And exactly what do you think will? Don't try that spiritual mumbo jumbo on me. You know what I think of it."
"There's power in what you call mumbo jumbo, George."
George made a fist. "There's power here too. Did your power keep you out of jail before?"
"I wasn't as attuned then as I should have been. I've learned a lot."
"Games. Blasted games. That's why you haven't killed Taggert. You want to play with him. Damn it Lou, those games are going to get us both busted or worse."
"With our own builder, we would have the future in our hands. The--"
A knock at the door interrupted the argument and George lowered himself into a properly submissive pose. Sharon peeked her head in the door. "There's a gentleman here to see you, Sir."
"Who?"
She frowned, her pale skin flushed. "He appears angry and refused to give his name. Should I call the police?"
"No, just give me a minute, then send him in."
"Are you nuts?" George asked as soon as Sharon had shut the door.
"Innocent men aren't afraid of strangers."
George huffed, then headed for the back door.
"Where are you going?" Soul asked.
"Remember what you said about innocent men?" With that he was gone.
Soul turned in his chair to face the outer door. He straightened his spine, meditatively preparing himself to face whoever would walk through.
The tall, skinny man was not smiling, nor did he offer his hand to Soul as he rose to greet him. "How can I help you, Mister--"
"Bailey. I was a friend of Lane Brown's."
Soul frowned, pretending to think. "Ah yes, my erstwhile architect."
"It doesn't appear to be healthy to be your architect," Bailey shot back, not sitting when Soul gestured him toward a chair.
"I don't know what you mean?"
"Where's S.T. Taggert?"
"Why would I know the answer to that?"
"Wasn't he your architect too?"
"No contracts have been signed yet."
"So, do you or do you not know where he is?"
"I do not. Are you afraid something has happened to him?" Soul asked, his mind racing ahead and wondering if either Christine or Taggert had been injured in the attempted murder. Maybe it had gone more successfully than he feared.
Bailey ground his teeth together, his fists clenched. "I think you know more than you're admitting about where he is... what happened."
Soul studied him a moment. "You're a nervous wreck, my good man. You need to relax, get in tune with yourself."
"If anything has happened to S.T., I'll be back," he said, slamming out of the room.
Soul stared at the closed door, half startled when it reopened. "Are you all right?" Sharon asked.
He managed a smile. "Fine."
"That man... What did he want?"
"Just another poor soul in need of solace."
"Then he came to the right place," Sharon said, closing the door.
Soul sat at his desk. He tried to concentrate, internalize his thinking so he could hear the voice, the one that told him what to do, that gave him direction.
"Well?" George asked, again disturbing his train of thought before he could get anywhere with it, as he lumbered back into the room, sitting down.
"It was James Bailey. Lane Brown’s friend. Taggert's lawyer."
"It was his place they were hiding in."
"Yes." Soul leaned his chin on his cupped hand, staring at the desk. "He says he doesn't know where they are. He was worried."
"You think he went up there to check on them and saw signs of the struggle or the spilled gasoline?"
"He didn't say."
"They haven’t contacted him yet obviously. Maybe we ought to clear out of here?"
"I already told you what I think about that idea. We’ve put too much into this."
"I don't want to go to prison."
"Why should either of us. Taggert has no evidence that we're mixed up in anything illegal. If he did, the police would already be here. No, we just have to be patient." He smiled. "Taggert will be back. Our part is to be ready when he comes."
"Are you through playing games?"
Soul met George's troubled gaze. "Yes."
#
"What are you thinking?" Christine asked, walking into Hank's living room where S.T. sat alone, staring into the darkness.
He looked up, his eyes troubled. "That I wish you wouldn't go with us tomorrow."
"Okay cross out that question. Want to know what I'm thinking?" She smiled and sat next to him, curling against his long frame.
"I'm afraid to ask."
She put one hand around his neck, tangling it in the black hair, then reached up and kissed his neck, unbuttoning a button to pull the shirt wide enough to get at the junction of neck and s
houlder. "It's a good thought," she whispered against his skin.
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Coward."
"Sticks and stones can break my bones," he murmured, his senses coming painfully alive at her light touch.
"They can."
"Names only hurt when they're accompanied by fists."
She sat back a little so that she could see his profile. "Then why are you so afraid of loving me?"
"Were we talking about love?"
"Haven't we been? Without using the word, haven't we both been?"
He sucked in a breath. "You're a tease."
“I am but one who follows through.” She bent forward again, this time kissing his jaw, the faint bristles tickling her lips. "Are you trying to scare me away?"
"I've tried. It didn't work." He knew he had never wanted to succeed.
"Maybe you didn't want to," she said reading his mind as she ran her finger over his full lower lip, across the width of his mouth. "Tell me about what you do want," she whispered.
"Tell or show?" he asked his smile slow and sensual. “Where’s Hank?”
"I think he's developing those photographs he took of you and me."
He groaned. "You two and your cameras." As her finger brushed along his jaw, teasing up to circle his ear, he swallowed. "You're not playing fair, woman."
"Why do you call me woman?"
"Because you are." He bent forward, his lips against hers as he lightly kissed her, then pulled her onto his lap, his arms coming around her like bands of steel. "You're a woman in every sense of the word."
No matter how hard he clasped her to him, it couldn't be enough for Christine. She wanted to say something she knew she might lose the chance to say if she didn’t do it now. When he finally released her, she whispered, "I love you."
He ground his teeth together against the leap of hope. "You think you do."
"Why would you think I don't know my own mind?" She played with a button on his shirt, loosening and rebuttoning it, then fascinated by the muscular chest she'd partially uncovered, she loosened it again, followed quickly by another.
"We're in a difficult situation. It tends to make people cling together."
She grinned. "Most of the time we seem to argue when that happens,” she said putting her arms back around him, her one hand at the back of his neck, her other threading through his hair as she claimed his lips in a kiss mimicking the one he'd given her.