Hidden Pearl

by Trueax, Rain

"Where do they live?"

  "Idaho, up along the border. My dad’s a retired cop. They headed up there for a little peace, at least that's what he said."

  "What do you believe?"

  Sharon shrugged. "I don't know. He's always thought the end times were coming. Maybe he thinks he's got a better chance at surviving it up there."

  Christine laughed. "I suppose some of the plagues and disasters mentioned in the prophecies might skip the Panhandle, but I somehow doubt it'll be that discriminating."

  "You know the Bible?" Sharon asked, her eyes snapping around with interest.

  "Some," Christine said, "but I don't think anybody will ever really know it."

  "Why not? I thought Reverend Soul did."

  "He just knows how to use it.”

  Sharon pulled on a sock. "You don’t think he’s a real minister of God?"

  Christine gave that some careful consideration, not because she thought there was any doubt about where Soul worshipped, if he did, but because she still was unsure how much she could trust Sharon. She took a wide toothed comb and began working the tangles from her long, blond hair.

  "I don't believe in his teaching."

  "He wants to marry you. He told me you'd said yes. I’d think you’d have to believe in him if you were going to marry him."

  "I have not said yes," Christine said, again treading carefully.

  "Then are you going to marry the other one?"

  "He never asked me." That at least was the truth.

  Sharon took the comb from her hand and began combing Christine's long hair, delicately working out the snarls. "You're so beautiful," she said. "I think you could have any man you wanted."

  "That's not true," Christine said, "and I wouldn't want any man who wanted me only for what I looked like."

  "At least I won't have that problem."

  'You're attractive, Sharon. You've just been beaten down too long. I think when all this is over, you'll be happier. When you are, you'll be prettier."

  "I don't know if I want it to be over for me," Sharon said after a moment. "I don't know how I can live with the guilt of what I've done, what I've seen done."

  "Time is a great healer."

  "There’s been too much." She frowned then and looked at Christine. “Did you get a chance to warn Mr. Taggert about what Reverend Soul plans to do to him when he gets back?"

  "No, but I don't think he has any doubt about the danger he faces."

  Christine had debated telling him, but with Soul listening, it wouldn’t have been easy and she had remembered the horror in S.T.’s eyes when he'd first realized what the drug he'd been given had done to him. She had been unsure whether hearing about that might weaken, not strengthen him. She still didn't know if she'd done right or not.

  Sharon handed her back the comb. Their gazes met. "I'm scared," she said.

  "Me too," Christine said. “Me too.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Using the cell phone, George made his call to his brother, then yanked open the passenger door, wrenching S.T.'s arm and wrist as he pulled him from the truck. To avoid anyone seeing them, he'd parked to the back of the bank lot.

  "Okay," he said, when S.T. was standing as well as he could with his arms still chained to the door, "you give me any trouble and this is what you'll get." He brought out a knife, flicked a button and a six inch, serrated blade snapped into place. "One of the best. It'll gut you quicker than you can let out a yell."

  "You're wasting your breath and my time."

  "My hand'll be right about here." He pressed the tip of the blade against S.T.'s back, just above where the kidneys lay. "You give me any trouble, the blade goes in."

  "And now the cuffs," S.T. retorted. “I can’t go in there like this.”

  "Smart ass.” He cuffed S.T. alongside the face. “You just remember who’s the boss here.”

  S.T. smiled. “Now could I forget a thing like that?”

  George shook his head, then smiled himself. “I keep forgetting… You’re going to get what’s coming to you.” He unlocked the cuffs using one hand, the other still holding the knife.

  When he was free, S.T. rubbed his wrists. "You finally ready?" he asked.

  George shook his head. "Half-breed, you been trouble from day one. I’ll enjoy marking that pretty face after this is over."

  "You want to finish this or should we continue standing here debating my finer qualities?" George gave him an angry shove toward the bank.

  Inside, the woman at the desk immediately recognized S.T. "How are you today, Mr. Taggert?" She looked more closely then at his face seeing the welt from the whip across his cheek. The question of how that happened was in her eyes but she was too polite to ask.

  He didn’t answer her. He’d know the answer in about ten minutes. “Just need to get into my box, Jean.”

  After she got him into his box with her keys, S.T. grabbed the computer and a handful of the small flash drives along with his knife amidst them. "That's all we need," he said with a smile.

  “Give it to me,” George ordered once they were outside.

  "At the truck." S.T. didn't slacken his pace. He knew he'd have no chance to get the knife ready, so he'd have to rely on the next best thing. At the truck, George opened the door and grabbed the cuffs, his knife never leaving his hand. He ordered S.T. to stretch out his arm to where his wrist could be cuffed back in place.

  S.T. pretended to obey, bent, then lashed out with his boot, catching George in the shins, knocking him off balance by the force of the kick. In the seconds before George could react, S.T. dropped the computer and had his own knife blade pressed out.

  George got to his feet, laughing as he looked at the small blade. "You call that a knife?"

  "I guess that's for you to find out."

  "I was hoping for a chance to gut you," he growled, an ugly smile on his lips as he jabbed at S.T. who jumped back as the blade slashed through the front of his shirt.

  "Close but no go.” S.T. chuckled as he dodged to the side and lunged forward with his own blade. Moments later, their shirts in ribbons, the two men were heaving for breath and nothing had changed.

  In a long fight, S.T. would normally have had the advantage, except for the abuse he'd been put through over the last day and a half. The other disadvantage was he didn't want to kill George. Because he needed him to make the phone call, he would only kill as a last resort, while there was no doubt as to George's deadly intent.

  "This isn't what Lou wanted," George gasped, "but it's sure goin' to feel good to me." He swept forward again with his blade, this time slicing into S.T. 's left arm high on the biceps, deep enough to draw blood.

  There was no pain, but S.T. knew any loss of blood could weaken him with fatal results. He smiled. "Nice try." With that, he lashed out with his boot, hitting the fist in which George held his knife so hard that the blade went flying.

  In seconds, he was on George, kneeing him savagely in the groin, sending him the ground and following instantly, jamming his elbow into George's throat, his blade resting against the burly man's jugular vein. "Easy to kill a man this way too," he grated out.

  "Do it," George panted, "and that woman you want so bad, she'll be the one to pay."

  "You interested in living for a little while longer?"

  George glared at him, then nodded.

  "Okay, then we'll get up now, but this blade stays against your throat. You make a funny move and I'll have to call your brother myself."

  "He'd never believe it was me."

  "It'd be worth a try though." S.T. grabbed the cuffs and snapped one over George's left wrist. He forced him to the truck and thrust him into the driver's seat, fastening the other cuff to the bottom of the steering wheel.

  He grabbed the phone but before he hit redial, he said, "You give me any trouble with this call, and I'll slit your throat before the words are out of your mouth. You just tell your brother it's okay, you have the merchandise, and are on your way back. Any more words and you�
��re dead."

  George's nod was surly, but S.T. believed with the knife against his throat, he would do as he was told, especially with his own ear also against the receiver.

  "George?" Soul's voice came over the line.

  "Yeah."

  "Well, how'd it go?"

  "Fine. We’re on our way back."

  "How come you're breathing funny?"

  "Just got back. We'll be there as soon as we can."

  Soul chuckled. "See you in a few hours for the rest of it."

  S.T. pushed the disconnect button. “Very good so far. Now give me the handcuff keys."

  George just glared at him.

  "I can cut you a little just to help you decide. You’ve given me plenty of reasons to enjoy doing just that," S.T. said, smiling when George worked his way into his pocket and handed him the keys. S.T. took the phone, then slammed the door. Before he got back in the truck, he picked up George’s switchblade and the computer which wasn’t likely functional anymore but didn’t have to be. Back in the truck, he dialed James Bailey’s private number.

  "You call the cops and your friends are dead," George blustered.

  "I didn't have that in mind," S.T. said, listening to the ringing, relieved when he heard Jim's voice.

  "S.T.? Where the blazes are you?"

  S.T. laughed. "Right now? I'm in a truck in a bank parking lot, but I'm on my way back to the Servants of Grace compound."

  "What's going on? I thought something had happened when I didn’t hear from you."

  "It's a long story. I should have gotten to you sooner, but I've been a little pushed. First, I want you to be careful."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "There’ve been some threats. I don't know if you'd be on any hit list, but watch your back."

  "I came down to talk to him, to ask if he knew what happened to you. I wasn't in a good mood when I asked the questions."

  S.T. smiled. "Then you probably are on the list. Look, I can’t talk long." He noticed blood running down his sleeve. "I just want you to know where I'm heading and if you don't hear from me again in say--" he looked at the clock on the dash--"five hours, in other words, around midnight, call the police and tell them there are dead bodies buried on the compound grounds. A computer and flash drives that prove Soul and his buddies have been running guns into Central America are in my safety deposit box. Get a search warrant.”

  George made an angry sound and S.T. smiled. He hadn't won many victories with this bunch; this one felt good.

  "What are you talking about?" Jim asked.

  "I can't give you more now. Just do it, will you?"

  "You know I will. I could head down there myself."

  "If you do, stay back for at least the time I need, okay? And if you do come, don't come alone."

  "All right but... When are you going to explain this?"

  S.T. managed a smile despite the pain beginning in his left arm. "Maybe when I take you up on that dinner invitation some night soon. I might be bringing a guest."

  When he'd hung up, George glared at him. "We don’t have the right ones?"

  "Sure you do… copies anyway,” St. removed his shirt to slice off the tail and one arm to tie up his wound. It looked to be more annoying than serious.

  "You son of a bitch."

  "Hey, you’re brighter than you look. Get on the freeway."

  George cursed but obeyed. "You got two boxes?"

  "Three, George. Two though with computer and jumps in them. You didn't think I'd give you the originals, did you? You must think I trust you guys."

  As they drove south, he wrapped the bandage as well as he could around his arm. It wasn't much but better than letting the wound continue to bleed.

  "Pull off at the next ramp," S.T. ordered as he saw a lit interchange ahead. "You got any money with you?"

  "You going to rob me too?" George asked in an aggrieved tone.

  "I thought I'd buy hamburgers and drinks, but nobody gave me back my wallet."

  "Where you're going, you won't need it," George said, smiling with satisfaction at his quip.

  "It's a poor time to make a man mad," S.T. retorted. "You give me a bad time now and you'll go hungry."

  Taking the keys and leaving George chained to the truck, S.T. walked into the fast food place, glad nobody paid his ripped shirt and blood any attention. Back at the truck, he handed George a burger. "I'm a better jailer than you," he said, polishing off the hamburger in a few bites.

  "I'd have killed you if it'd been up to me."

  "Well, maybe that's why your brother's the boss."

  George smiled. “You do a little research on us?”

  “Some.”

  “How do you know who the boss is?”

  S.T. looked at him, reconsidering all he’d seen and heard. “I guess I don’t. You saying you’re the one responsible for all the murders.”

  “What murders?” George asked with an aggrieved innocence.

  “The game’s up, George, or should I call you Herb?”

  George cursed. “It’s not over yet, half-breed.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “We still got your woman.”

  “You’ve got handcuffs, Soul has my woman, but he won’t for long.”

  "You're going to get what's coming to you yet."

  "I'm counting on that," S.T. said, laying his head back against the seat as he directed George to get gas then start driving south again. He couldn't afford to sleep, but he needed to conserve his energy. The real trial lay ahead. What he needed now was a distraction to keep himself awake.

  "You know, George," he said, "the Navajo don't believe in sin like Christians do."

  "Who the hell cares about that?" After a silence he asked, "Then what do they believe in?"

  "I don't think I've ever heard it named, but it's kind of a divine justice. It's that whatever you do, you get paid back for it. You do good, good returns. You do bad, you might get the payback some other way, but you get it."

  George glanced over at him. He wasn't bright, his thinking was clearly slow, but he finally said, "You believe that?"

  "I haven’t thought much about it until recently."

  "What about forgiveness?" George asked. “You believe in that?”

  "As in from some god?” S.T. shook his head. “Not really, but I believe in justice. I have to because if I didn't, I'd know I was walking back into a hell with no hope."

  George chortled. "Yeah, well I don't think you should count much on that justice. There's a lot of powers in this world. Lou's got his that he figures works. Maybe his is stronger than yours."

  S.T. didn't ask what power that was. "You into the occult too, George?"

  "Nah. I don't believe in nothing but what I see, but I know any idea of good ain't worth nothing. Power's where it's at," George said. "That's one thing I know."

  "Then, maybe we'll find out where the real power is," S.T. said. "Because if this doesn't go good for me, it won't for you either."

  "I'll come out of it. I always do."

  "I used to think that way myself," S.T. said yawning, "but a man can learn."

  "You fall asleep, and I'll kill you," George stated, his tone flat.

  "Thanks for the warning, not that the thought hadn't already occurred to me." He smiled at George's grimace. "I'll give you one to think on. You fall asleep and you'll kill us both. Maybe we better both stay awake, so keep talking, George. I know you're not a man of words, but if you stop, I'll have to think of some way to keep you awake and it could be that Indian part of me would make me as creative as you when it came to hurting somebody."

  He heard George's voice drone on, easy to tune it out, but he forced himself to hear the words. Maybe he’d hear something that he could use when he got back to the compound of death.

  He wished he had a plan that he felt impressed by, something innovative and encouraging, but he couldn't seem to come up with one. He had decided to leave George gagged and chained to something soli
d down the road. It would give him a possible advantage of surprise, which he would need since he would be facing at the least three goons, four if he counted Soul, and there was always the question of how many of the ones he'd come to think of as brain-dead might join in a battle. The odds weren't in his favor, but every time he tried to come up with a better plan, he was stymied. It came down to--go in, get Christine and Hank, and get out. Not much, just everything.

  #

  Soul sat across the dinner table from Christine. His silent staring made her uneasy. "You are so beautiful," he said finally. "The candlelight seems to light up your hair. It's like liquid gold flowing down your back that way. You should always wear it loose."

  "It tangles too easily," she said, taking a sip of water.

  "And the dress I gave you. It is as perfect on you as I knew it would be."

  "I appreciate it," she said, except she didn't. She wished she was wearing her jeans and sweater, anything except these delicate sandals and this filmy white thing that seemed so insubstantial, but to not yield to his desires in such a simple thing would have alerted his suspicions.

  "Did you like the dinner? You didn't eat much."

  "I was worried about--Hank. You did tell me he was being given food tonight?"

  "Of course, my dear. I wouldn't hurt a friend of yours."

  She managed to smile at that, her heart racing as his eyes seemed to penetrate her dress, to get beneath her skin. Why didn't he know what she felt for him was revulsion, not love? He seemed to intuit so many things, but in this he was fortunately blind, or was he pretending?

  Christine rose from the table and walked to the window, staring out into the darkness. Where was S.T.? When he got back, she would have to do something to stop Soul from carrying out his plan. To imagine the vital, alive Storm Walker turned into a vegetable was intolerable. She would die herself first.

  "What are you thinking?" he asked, walking up behind her.

  "What is your church going to look like?" she lied, as she struggled to think of subjects to talk about that might distract him from the rapacious gleam she saw in his eyes. He was not quite touching her, but his very presence so close was intimidating.