by Trueax, Rain
"The body is the very temple of God,” he said. "I have been foolish to think I needed a temple that was made of bricks and wood. What I really needed was a holy, pure shrine to worship at, one that was alive and breathing."
She sucked in a breath. Could she hold him off, keep him away from her? He'd said he wanted to marry a pure woman. "I told you," she said, "how I feel about marriage. How I will save everything for the man I someday marry."
"But if that man is here," he said, putting his hands on her shoulder, running his fingers down her bare arms. "Then why wait?"
"Men have said that to me before."
"You are like a precious pearl, a shell around you, protecting your inner gifts, inside soft and lush, with the purity of that white pearl."
It took every bit of courage she possessed to remain where she was. "I am just a woman," she said when she thought she could speak without her voice breaking in fear.
"You are a goddess and a fit mate for a god," he whispered, nuzzling the lobe of her ear.
"You said it mattered to wait until we married. Don’t you want to marry a pure woman?"
"Well, I'm glad you had the discernment to not give away that which can only be plucked once, the precious rose of your love. I want to kiss you," he said, pressing his lips against the base of her neck.
"I can't think about that now," she whispered. "I need to know my friends are safe, that everything is all right. Then we can talk about the future."
He moved away, his stride quick and angry. "Your friends? Or that half-breed?" His mood had changed instantly. From the cajoler, he became the accuser, and the change frightened her as much as the words.
"Hank is my friend too."
"But he isn't the man in your heart, is he?" he asked. "I haven't wanted to believe you would deceive me, but you have. You give me nothing, but I know you'd give it all to him. Perhaps you already did."
"I didn't," she lied. She didn't want his anger to turn against S.T.
"Do you really think to convince me you don't love him?"
"I don't know how I could do that. You either trust me or you don't." She moved away from the window to stand opposite him, the table between them. Was he going to become violent?
He studied her, his eyes thoughtful, his breaths coming quickly. "Perhaps I was wrong about you too," he said finally.
She lifted her chin and stepped back. She remembered a vase on one of the end tables. Calming herself, she forced a smile on her lips. She needed a weapon and she needed to divert his attention. "Maybe there are ways I could prove my loyalty," she whispered.
His eyes darkened as he moved around the table toward her. "There are," he said. "If you gave yourself to me, I'd know then that you were mine in all ways."
She took a deep breath as she felt the end table against the back of her legs. "You'd think less of me," she said, putting her hands behind her back and casting her eyes down as though shyly insecure and uncertain. She no longer believed she could talk her way out of this and as through her lashes she watched him move closer to her, she closed her fingers around the piece of pottery.
"Christine," he murmured, "I knew you'd come to see my way was best. We need each other."
"I don't know. I want to believe you, but..." She looked up then into those gray eyes, saw the fire behind the pupils and almost felt paralyzed. She forced herself to smile, to wet her lips. He put his arms out, as though to clasp her to him, and she brought the vase down on his head as hard as she could.
His eyes closed, he seemed to topple, then straighten. She shifted to the right, saw a lamp and hit him with that, finally seeing him fall to the ground. She jumped back biting down on her lip to keep from crying out. It was the second time she’d hit a man in violence. She couldn’t afford to think of that nor could she afford hysterics. She had to get Hank, get the gun, meet George in the driveway, save S.T.
Remembering how S.T. had bound the men who had attacked them, she bent over Soul, and loosened his belt. She felt repulsed at touching him, but she pulled his wrists behind his back and fastened them as best she could. It wouldn't stop him for long, but it would delay him when he regained consciousness. She looked at him again. Would he regain consciousness? Had she killed him? His breathing seemed regular, which meant she wouldn’t have long before he would regain his senses. To give herself a little more time, she pulled him behind the table, so he wouldn't be visible to anyone glancing in the room.
She smoothed her hair, took a deep breath, opened the door knob, then pushed the lock button as she walked through, so that no one would be easily walking into that room. In the hall, a guard stood at the opposite end and looked up. Only guilty people run. She smiled and walked toward him.
"Peter said I could see Hank for a few moments. Would you show me the way and come along to protect me?" she asked, knowing he would never let her go any other way.
He looked questioningly at her, his leering gaze on her body under the thin dress. Her request obviously wasn't on his list. Probably the dress decided him. "Guess that can't hurt anything. Where's the Reverend?"
"He got a phone call. I gathered it was important." She smiled again. "He said he'd be awhile. Could we go now?"
He hesitated another precious second, then led the way down the hall to the steps that led to the basement. In a room not much larger than a closet, he opened the door to reveal Hank lying on a pallet.
She sucked in her breath, shocked at his apparent condition. "He's ill," she cried. "Has he been seen by a doctor?"
The guard stared in at Hank's limp form. "No... I don't think so. He was okay earlier."
"Well, he's obviously not now. You’re going to have to call a doctor."
"I don't know if I can do that."
"You can’t just let this man die."
The guard stared at Hank again, then back at Christine. "Okay... I'll see what I can find out."
As soon as he was gone, Hank sat up as Christine had prayed he would.
“You’re all right?” she questioned as he rose and walked to the door.
“Right as rain, if we get out of here now.”
"I hit Soul over the head, knocked him out, but if the guard finds him or he regains consciousness, we have to be gone."
Hank beat her to the door. “I been exercisin’,” he said, “when nobody could see me. I figured we’d have to move fast when we got the chance." They walked into the empty hall, waiting only long enough to close the door, then headed for the backstairs. "Where's S.T.?" Hank asked.
"He and George aren't back yet. Sharon told me that Soul plans on giving him some kind of drug that could destroy his brain. We have to get to the gun Storm hid."
Hank cursed. "How much time you figure we've got?"
"Less than half an hour, I’d guess," she said as she opened the back door, and they slipped out into the darkness. "It'll depend on how traffic was."
They began moving as fast as they could through the darkness as they tried to orient themselves by moonlight as to where they were and where they needed to go.
"This isn't going to be easy," Hank said as Christine stumbled over a root.
"We don't have any choice," she muttered, suppressing her own curse. "If only he hadn't made me wear this ridiculous dress and shoes."
Hank looked at her then. In the light of a full moon, she knew she was reflecting like a beacon. White pearl indeed, spotlight was more like it.
"What was he up to?" Hank asked.
"Seduction, I think, was uppermost on his mind," she muttered, trying to go faster and again tripping. The dainty little sandals were all but useless, but bare feet on this rugged country wouldn't get her far either.
Hank cursed again. "I'd like to brain him one myself."
She hoped Soul's men hadn't moved S.T.’s Silverado. If it was gone, her first plan would be no good. She told it to Hank anyway. "If we can get the Silverado started, we can angle the truck across the road to stop George, but that won't do us much good if we can't get hold of a weapon."
>
"Even a tire iron would be good," Hank said, putting out a hand to steady her when she again tripped.
"This is hopeless," she gasped, near to tears. "I can't keep up with you. You go ahead, find the gun and get the truck. I'll meet you back by the main road."
He stopped and looked at her. "And what are you going to do if I don't get back in time? Use that dress as a banner?"
"I'll stop him however I have to," she said, clenching her jaw. She smiled at him, adding, "Hopefully you'll be back by then with the gun and/or the Silverado."
He stared at her a moment, then began a loping run into the darkness.
#
Having left a secured George a quarter mile from the buildings, S.T. was only half-aware he was preparing for battle as his ancestors might have. He fashioned part of the ruins of his shirt into a headband to keep his hair from his eyes, kept George’s knife in his hand, then circled around the compound to come in from a direction they wouldn’t be expecting. Although he knew Hank was in the basement, if Soul's men caught him before he got Christine out of this, nothing else would matter; so he headed first for the area of the complex where he suspected she'd be held.
Around a corner he saw one of the burly guards, his back to him but a gun firmly clenched in one big paw. Was that door the one behind which Christine was imprisoned? He clenched his jaw, determined to find out one way or another. Whatever he did to this guard had to be done silently.
When S.T. was still a few feet from him, the guard turned beginning to swing his gun up. S.T. lunged forward, raising his knee and planting it firmly in the man's belly, following that up with an elbow to his face. The man crumpled.
In seconds, S.T. had grabbed the gun, shoved it into his belt and had his knee in the prone man's chest, his knife pressed against his throat. "Not a sound," he rasped as the guard opened his eyes, "except to answer my questions."
The guard nodded.
"Where's Christine Johnson?"
"Don't know."
S.T. sliced the knife into the soft skin at the base of his prisoner's chin. "I know a hundred ways to make a man die--slow and painful. Some of them you guys taught me. Now, you tell me--where is she?"
"She's gone."
"Gone?"
"She tricked everybody and escaped. Reverend Soul's plenty mad. She and that friend of yours, they're both gone."
"How long ago?"
The guard shook his head. "Don't know..." When S.T. increased the pressure against his throat, the man gasped. "I swear it. This job ain't worth dying for. I don't know. Everybody's out looking for them now."
S.T. lifted his knife away from the guard's throat. Geesus, he thought trying to think what he had to do next, I'm not cut out for this kind of stuff. Don't want to hurt somebody. Don't want to get hurt. The next moment, the guard swung up, attempted to throw him off. Scrambling for the gun. S.T. used the side of his hand, bringing it down hard at the base of the man's ear, and knocked him unconscious. This time, he stripped off the man’s belt, wrapped it around his wrists, then dragged him into the first room he found with an unlocked door.
Heading out into the night, he felt a nearly disabling fear as to where Christine was. Had she and Hank escaped, found the Silverado and driven away? Was there any chance they were already safe and he could concentrate on getting himself out of this? It seemed a thousand years since he'd laid his head on Christine's lap, since they'd listened to music and talked of life and what it meant.
His world had been empty and barren before Christine brought life into it. He had thought he was living but knew now it had been a pale imitation of what was possible. When this was all behind them, he didn't know what would happen between them, if anything ever could, but he wanted to see her happy and unafraid, wanted to hear her laughter, her barbed quips that deflated his preconceptions about women, about life. He’d even like to hear her telling him what he should do.
He set out to canvas the area surrounding the buildings. If she and Hank were nearby, he would find them--hopefully without getting himself recaptured or killed. A rustle in a bush a few feet from the back door whirled him around, the gun pointed at the sound, his body lowered into a crouch. "Come out," he rasped.
"Don't shoot," a small voice begged. Only when the woman stepped into the moonlight did he recognize Sharon.
"You," he muttered, "what are you doing out here?"
"I'm sorry," she whispered tearfully. "I didn't realize I'd startle you."
"You’re lucky I didn’t kill you. Where's Christine?"
"I don't know. I... heard Reverend Soul ranting and raving about how she'd hit him, about how she had to be found, and I ran outside myself. I don't want anyone to be hurt."
"It's a little late for that. If you want to stay alive yourself, stay quiet and back in the shadows or go to your room, lock the door, and stay there. The next person to hear you might shoot first and ask questions later."
She swallowed back a sob. "I want to help. I need to help. I've done so many things wrong."
"Then stay out of the way." He headed into the blackness. The last thing he needed or wanted was someone tagging along with him, someone who might stab him in the back the first moment he got careless.
#
Christine knelt in the brush, her dress and hair as dirty as the dark clay of these hills could make it. She imagined she looked like a ragamuffin, but at least she didn't glow anymore. She kept listening for sounds coming up the road, but there was nothing. Had something gone wrong in Portland? Were S.T. and George coming back? Where was Hank?
The hardest part was not to run back to the buildings, not to see them as a refuge. If she'd had any intention of that, it would have ended when she saw the flashlight in a gully not far from where she crouched. The light grew closer and she could distinguish voices.
"We're not going to find anything until morning," the man she knew now as Ralph said.
"He said to keep looking and we will." He shone the light down the road and Christine pushed herself back into the shrub she'd hidden behind. When she heard them let out a yell, she thought at first she'd been seen and almost ran, but her moment of panicked paralysis saved her. They'd seen something farther down the road and ran toward it. She scrambled on her knees, staying low but she had to know what they'd found.
"George," one of the voices said, "what happened?"
She saw them pull a gag from George's mouth and realized with fear that he'd been only a few hundred feet from where she'd been hiding. Did he know she was nearby? It was no time to stay and find out. While they tried to figure out how to unfasten the handcuffs that held him to the tree, she scrambled backward and, when she was far enough from them, began running. At first she had no idea where she was going, then she recognized the hill behind the buildings and stopped.
Turning to head another direction, she was stopped by strong arms that grabbed her, a hand over her mouth almost instantly cutting off her startled scream. She kicked back, connecting with shins and hearing a husky growl. Only then did she go limp. Tears in her eyes, she twisted in his arms, her lips hungry to find his, to convince herself that she was being held by him, that he was alive and with her.
Their lips met, tears intermingling, their hands desperately clasping each other closer. She didn't know how long they clung together, but finally he put her from him. "You're all right?" S.T. whispered.
"Only now," she whispered, barely suppressing a sob against his bare chest. He pulled her into the cover of a small grove of trees. "What happened?" she asked when he stopped.
"No time to go into it now."
"I saw them trying to get George free... Oh Storm, I love you. I love you so much." Again she pulled his head down for his kiss. One hand on his biceps, she felt the cloth tied round his arm, the dampness on it. Her startled awareness penetrated even the sweet haze of being kissed by him. She pushed away. "You're bleeding." It came out like an accusation.
She saw the flash of his white teeth. "You look a little the
worse for wear yourself."
She remembered then the dirt she'd smeared all over herself. "Camouflage," she whispered, pressed back against his chest, feeling his arms close around her and recognizing for the first time that in his right hand he held a gun.
He chuckled almost silently. "Good trick. I barely saw you. Thought it was a little dirt bug at first."
"There is no such thing," she said, reaching up to stroke his hair, then felt the cloth tied around his forehead. "Is this another bandage?" she asked.
She felt his smile against her fingers. "Headband."
She foolishly wished she could see his bronzed body in the light. She could only imagine the striking image he had to make, hard, muscular body ready for battle. Then she thought of what battle meant and linked her arms back around his waist.
"What do we do now?" she asked. His plan better include her because she wasn't leaving him again.
"Where's Hank?"
"He went after the gun and Silverado, except if he'd been able to get the Silverado started, he should have been back before this."
"They might have done something to it to keep it from working."
"Tell me what happened to your arm?"
"George had a knife."
"You were stabbed?"
"Sliced a little."
"How little?"
"Practically nothing. If you stay low here, I'll go after Hank. About midnight, Jim Bailey is supposed to call the police if he hasn’t heard from me. Maybe we'll get some backup up then." He was still uncertain how much he could rely on the local police.
"I won't leave you," she said, clinging to his arm.
"I don't want that either, but what if Hank's in trouble." He looked down at her flimsy sandals, then took in the dress that was more than a little bedraggled. "Where'd you get this outfit anyway?"
"Soul," she whispered, the word laced with disgust.
She saw S.T.'s eyes narrow. "What happened?"
"Nothing in the end. He thought I was his little pearl. I hit him over the head and ran out. That's when I got Hank out of the closet they'd locked him in."
He gritted his teeth, suppressing the words he wanted to say. He knew she wasn't telling him everything and what he suspected Soul had wanted to do made him want to kill him all over again. He couldn't leave her alone, couldn't take the chance of Soul getting his hands on her.