Hidden Pearl

by Trueax, Rain

  “That too,” he said when he could breathe again.

  "Why do you call me woman one minute and treat me like a child who doesn't know her own mind the next?"

  "I'm not treating you like a child. You think I'd hold a child on my lap the way I've got you? You think I'd kiss you like I just did if I thought of you as a child?"

  "Then?"

  "I don’t want to hurt you either."

  She smiled, her gaze met his. "I suspect that’s the price of loving someone." She bent to undo another button.

  "I want to believe in love," he admitted. "It's just I haven't seen much evidence of it."

  "Open your eyes."

  "They are open."

  "Are they? Life changes, Mr. Taggert."

  "Some things don't."

  "For instance?"

  "The barriers between us."

  "Only in your mind."

  "They're in my name. What kind of man do you think is named Storm Walker?" He thought of all the Indian slurs, the shame that had been heaped on his head when he was too young to deal with it.

  She smiled as she brushed his shirt more widely apart. The muscular expanse was tempting, the urge to kiss him there irresistible. Afterward, she lifted her head. "Want to know what I think of when I hear that name?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “A man is one who walks through storms as though they were spring rains. A man who brings excitement and energy with him wherever he is--a thunder and lightning man--a man who stands above others."

  He closed his eyes. He wanted to believe her so badly that his stomach hurt. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the smile on her lips.

  "Loving you makes it easy to tell you all I feel," she said. "I've never felt so free in my life. You should try it."

  And die later, he thought, because if he bared his soul to her, then found out she didn't mean it, he would not want to live. He thought again of the dirty little Indian boy, the child looking for his father in a dark bar, being pushed back out onto the street to cry in an alley. He remembered that child all too well and all his success hadn’t erased the images.

  "I don't mean to upset or pressure you," she said, snuggling back against him, her hand on his shoulder, her body against his more pressure than her words. "I just wanted you to know how I felt in case tomorrow doesn’t go so well."

  He sucked in his breath. "Don't go with us," he asked again.

  "I have to. I couldn't stay here and wonder."

  His arms tightened around her. "Christine--"

  "Hey, want to see the photos?" Hank asked, bursting into the room. When he saw them cuddled together, he stopped. "Maybe not."

  "No, now is a good time," Christine said, leaving S.T.'s lap. She smiled back down at him. "I just realized, we've got all the time in the world for this."

  S.T. followed her to the table where Hank was laying out the black and white photos. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut when he saw the first one, the beautiful, pale-skinned woman, the dark-haired man.

  "They're works of art," Christine said, patting Hank on the arm.

  S.T. stared at one of the photographs. Hank had snapped it just as he had turned toward the camera, his face fierce, a vivid contrast to the dishcloth and plate in his hands, but it was Christine who dominated the photograph. She was looking at that dark-skinned man, a playful loving expression in her eyes, her blond hair flying loosely around her face, her hands deep in the sudsy water. It would be the one he would keep, would ask to have when this was all over. Then at least for that one captured moment, he would be able to believe love did exist.

  Chapter Twelve

  S.T. parked the Silverado to the side of a dirt road about a mile east of the compound, a hill between them and the main buildings. Getting out, he checked his wristwatch, making sure it matched Hank's for time. "You sure you don't want the gun?" he asked, loading the cylinder of his .357.

  Hank shook his head. "Don't like guns.”

  S.T. shook his head as he shoved the gun into his belt. "I think I've asked you this before, but what the hell are you doing out here then?"

  "Same thing I did in 'Nam, taking care of people." Hank grinned.

  "There are easier ways to satisfy your need for civic duty," S.T. quipped as he locked the truck, putting the key on top of the back tire, hidden but accessible to any of them who made it back.

  "Yeah, but they aren't as exciting."

  "You want exciting, try a video game," S.T. shot back. He glanced at his watch again. "Okay Soul's service starts in fifteen minutes. That gives us enough time to get there, then we'll have an hour before we have to clear out."

  Christine bent to retie a lace on her hiking boot. The scrubby oaks and pines with limited brush cover wouldn't lend much shelter to anyone. She hoped Soul wouldn't be expecting them. She wished she also believed it.

  S.T. met Hank's clear gaze then pointed to the south. "You two head for that ridge and cover the ground between there and here. I'll take the area nearer the hill."

  "I don't like us splitting up," Christine complained as he'd expected.

  "It's the smart thing," Hank agreed. "We cover more ground and are less noticeable if we don't all go together." S.T. nodded, until Hank added, "But Christine should go with you."

  "The area you're heading for is rougher. It'll take two of you," S.T. said, not adding his real reason that it was also farther from the buildings, thereby hopefully safer. It also was not where he actually expected to find graves. "Remember what you're looking for--flat stretches of fairly open ground, then freshly dug soil, anything that looks like it’s been disturbed." He hoped if he made the assumption they were going to take his orders, they would. "We'll meet here at twelve." They had agreed if any of them found what they thought were graves, they would come back after dark to explore them. There was time now only to reconnoiter the ground.

  They walked part way down an animal trail together, then S.T. gave Christine a quick kiss. He looked at Hank. "Take care of her."

  Hank nodded, then they separated, S.T. carrying the memory of Christine's eyes filled with worry as she finally turned from him. He didn't know if it was upsetting to him to remember her like that or made him believe that maybe, just maybe she did love him.

  #

  "We might as well head back to the truck," Hank muttered. "There aren't any more level places out here; and if we've seen a grave, I don't recognize it."

  Christine nodded, feeling felt tired, sweaty, dirty and frustrated at finding nothing that could end this debacle once and for all. She hoped S.T. had been more successful.

  They were almost to the Silverado when the slight noise at their back warned them they weren't alone. Before they could do more than turn, hoping it was S.T., Christine heard George's voice, "What a delightful surprise." She and Hank swung around to face George, who stepped out from behind a tree to lean back against it, a rifle cradled in his arms and beside him another tall man.

  "We trespassing or something?" Hank asked, holding out his hands innocently.

  "Or something," George agreed with a grin. He lifted the rifle and ordered the other man to search them.

  “So where’s the breed?” George asked when he was told they were clean.

  "Who?" Christine asked.

  George walked up to her and reaching out, slapped her face before she could so much as step back. The blow snapped her head back but angered her more than hurt her. George smiled at her. “You may wrap my brother around your pretty little finger, but not me. When I ask a question, I want an answer.”

  Christine put her hand up to her stinging cheek. “I don’t understand what your problem is. I brought my friend up here to see this area. He’s a photographer. I never dreamed Peter would object to our coming and taking a few photos.”

  “Where’s your camera?” George asked with a chuckle.

  “In the car,” Hank said. “We were just looking it over trying to decide where we wanted to photograph.”

 
; "It was worth a try, but no soap. Now you either tell me where he is, or this gets nasty." He stepped back a pace, pulled the trigger on his rifle, letting off a shot into the ground before he swung the gun back to point at Christine's chest.

  "No guns," Hank muttered. "Don't like guns."

  "What's wrong?" Christine turned to face him, saw the glazed look in his eyes. "Are you sick?"

  George interrupted. "It doesn't matter what's wrong, so long as neither of you move." He shifted the barrel of the gun. "Since you like guns so little, maybe you'd like to tell me where Taggert is." He pulled the trigger again, the bullet whistling between Hank and Christine.

  Hank's eyes widened at the gun now pointing at him. "I can't do it, Sarge. Don't make me."

  George frowned and looked back at Christine. "What's wrong with him?"

  "I don't know," she snapped back. "He was in Vietnam, maybe it's a flashback."

  George laughed. "Flashback, huh? You folks seem real prone to them. Wasn't that what made old Taggert go off the deep end out here? Maybe there's some kind of virus in the air."

  "This isn't funny," Christine said, hoping Hank was pretending. She didn't know, had never seen him look so dazed, so frightened. Maybe seeing the gun, hearing the shots had triggered some kind of memory. If it had, it obviously wasn't a good one.

  "Tie 'em up," George ordered. "We'll sort this out after we've got Taggert." He grinned, the barrel of his gun now pointing at Christine. "And if he isn't already here, he will be with the gun shots."

  "You don't need to tie us up," Christine said, "We'll be happy to go with you to talk to Peter. I'm sure he'll say it's okay for us to hike out here. It isn’t like you’ve got anything to hide anyway."

  George's expression was glacial. "Yeah, what could we have to hide?" He nodded to his henchman to do as he'd been bid. Christine prayed silently as she felt the ropes tighten around her wrists. She begged silently to S.T. Stay away. She knew he wouldn’t. Even if he hadn’t been nearby, he would be after hearing the shots.

  "Hey Taggert," George yelled. "I know you're there. I can smell you. Always heard you can smell Injuns, now I know it's true. You see what I've got here, don't you?" He grinned, bobbing his rifle a little as he kept it trained on Christine. "I might just take off a toe of one of them if you don't come on down."

  There was a silence, broken only by the sound of a raven in the distance. "I know you'd like to get off a shot at me,” George yelled, “but you won't get a chance before I kill your woman—and don’t try to pretend about that. I know who she is to you. Maybe you need a little proof that I mean what I say."

  He swung his gun to point at Christine's foot. She froze as she realized he really intended to shoot her and there wasn't a thing she could do to stop him.

  "I'll start low," George said, "and work my way up."

  "Wait!" The voice she'd prayed not to hear ricocheted off the hill. Tears ran down her cheeks as she saw S.T. coming down from the rocky rise, his hands raised in the air.

  "I kind of thought that might bring you out of your hole." George laughed as S.T. walked almost to him, then stopped. "No alibis this time?" he asked then, his bushy eyebrows raised questioningly.

  S.T. said nothing, his eyes were cold, his mouth set in a hard line as George's henchman ran their hands over his body, checking him for weapons, then stepped back and nodded to George.

  "So what were you doing on private property, trespassing? Maybe looking to steal something again?" George asked as he reversed the butt of the rifle and rammed it into S.T.'s stomach, doubling him over.

  Coughing, S.T. managed to straighten up, his eyes now filled with pain.

  "Stoic bastard, aren't you?" George said, repeating the sadistic jab, this time following up with another to the side of S.T.'s head, knocking him to the ground. Christine screamed as George aimed a kick at S.T.'s stomach.

  S.T. twisted onto his side and looked up at George. “You’re pretty brave behind that gun,” he managed through gritted teeth.

  George chuckled. “Think I’m dumb enough to put it down? Tie him up.” They pushed S.T. onto his stomach and roughly tied his wrists together, then dragged him to his feet. S.T. met George’s gaze, his own hard and angry. Christine prayed he would do nothing to incite another blow.

  “What are you going to do to us?” she asked trying to divert George’s attention back to her.

  “Nothing much. Just take you back to the building.” He smiled, then looked at his henchman. “Keep an eye on ‘em. I’ll go get the truck. No point in walking all the way back… least not us.” He grinned more broadly and headed around the bend in the road.

  S.T. moved to Christine’s side, then looked at Hank. “He okay?” he asked.

  “No talking,” the guard warned, jabbing with his rifle to make his point.

  Christine shrugged to let S.T. know she had no idea. She still wasn’t sure if Hank was really having a blackout or pretending. If it was an act, it was a good one, as his eyes appeared glazed.

  “How long you been with this bunch of loonies?” S.T. asked the guard.

  The guard glared at him. “He told you not to talk.”

  “Why not? What’s talking going to hurt? You got us tied up.”

  The guard seemed to debate that with himself. “He didn’t tell you we couldn’t talk,” S.T. argued.

  The guard finally shrugged. “Just stay where you are.”

  S.T. managed a smile despite his cut lip. He looked at Christine. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “Scared half to death, but I guess that’s stating the obvious,” she said.

  S.T. leaned forward as though to kiss her cheek. “Gun’s behind that big rock,” he whispered. “No, don’t look. Just remember it.” He stepped back and met the guard’s questioning gaze. “She’s scared. Do you have to wave that gun around like a green kid?”

  “He told me to watch you.”

  “And you’re doing that. What do you think we could do anyway?”

  Christine looked around trying to make it look as though she was simply straightening a kink in her neck. When she saw the rock, she let her gaze wander on past it. Tied up as they were, she didn’t know what good it would do, but better up there than having been taken from S.T.

  S.T. sagged a little and Christine turned quickly back to him. “Maybe… broke a rib,” he grunted. Before he could do more to lure the guard closer, hoping he could somehow knock the man down and get the gun, he heard the truck approaching and knew it was too late.

  The truck pulled to a stop near them and S.T. shot a quick glance at Hank as George and another man opened the doors. How much help was Hank going to be to Christine or himself? When Hank's gaze met his, S.T. had his answer. It was a ruse. The question still remained whether Hank could actually use a gun if he got free. He might be exaggerating his reaction to the shots, but he obviously had no use for firearms. Would he use one to save even his own life?

  George chuckled as he ordered the guards to put Christine and Hank into the back of the pickup. “But you breed,” he said looping a rope around S.T.’s neck, tightening the knot until it was snug, rough against his skin, “you can run along behind or be hung. I hope you can run because I don’t want to miss the rest of our fun.” He chuckled.

  #

  Christine paced the length of the small room into which she'd been imprisoned for what seemed hours. Although her hands had been freed, she had seen no one since being locked into a room with a window too narrow for anyone to escape through.

  Where were S.T. and Hank? What had they done to them? She bit her lower lip to stop the tears. It would do no good to cry. Somehow keeping a cool head was her only hope now. The door opening startled her, causing her to turn around.

  "I've brought you something to eat," Sharon said, her own eyes red, her cheeks flushed.

  Christine nodded and sat on the bed to take the tray. A hearty soup and a vegetarian sandwich. She had no appetite, but she knew she should eat to keep her strength up. She l
ooked skeptically at the juice.

  "It's all right," Sharon said, sitting on a small chair at the other side of the room.

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's not drugged. I figured you knew what we'd done before and were afraid we'd do it to you, but we won't." Sharon stared at the floor and swallowed hard.

  "What's going on?" Christine asked as she ate the soup. "Where is S.T.?"

  "He the one they call the half-breed?" Sharon asked, visibly struggling to hold back tears.

  Christine pushed the food tray away. "What happened to him?" she asked, feeling as though her heart had been clenched by a giant fist.

  "He's... He's all right, I guess," Sharon said, her voice breaking on a sob.

  I guess? Christine knelt in front of her, taking the girl's thin arms in her hands. "Tell me. You have to tell me."

  Sharon looked up then, her face crumpling as she sobbed. "I didn't want to do it... I was mad at him before because of what he said, but I didn't want to do it."

  When the girl stopped, Christine forced herself to swallow back her panic. "Sharon, what did you do?"

  She looked up then, fear in her eyes. "But what if he finds out I told you."

  "Who? If who finds out?" George or Peter Soul? Who was in control now?

  Sharon met her gaze. "Reverend Soul."

  "He'll not find out from me," Christine said, forcing a commanding tone to her voice. "Now tell me, what happened to S.T.?"

  "I went into the room. I didn't know what they were doing. Nobody told me. I had heard voices, went to see what was happening. I wish I hadn't gone. I wish I'd never gone in there. I saw him hanging by his wrists, the half-breed. His chest was bare, his arms held up by chains." Her voice grew dreamy, the tone unrelated to the horror of her words. "They were hitting him."

  "Who?"

  "George and Ralph. Then I saw Reverend Soul was there too. He was sitting on a chair at the edge of the room. He looked up and saw me. He told me he didn't like what was happening anymore than he could see I did, but that heathens need to be disciplined, had to be made to repent. He said it would only last until he repented of his evil."