Hidden Pearl (13 page)

She smiled. “I wish you wouldn’t either."

When he turned to her, his eyes were dark, warm, the expression not hard to read. She met his embrace, her own lips eager to rediscover his. When he finally lifted his lips from hers, he stared into her eyes. "None of this makes any sense to me, but..." She knew he was right but it didn’t matter.

“I better get to work,” she said rising from the sofa and leaving unanswered the question of what might yet be between them.

Christine pulled the first prints of Reverend Peter Soul from the developing bath. She laid them on the table, rolled them flat, then stared at the images. She had not been eager to develop the film, wasn’t really wanting to see the results, but she had gone to Hank and Jerry’s anyway, done what was required to bring the images to the light of day. Now she saw the proof of why she had been so reluctant.

A handsome man, his face delicately boned, his hands graceful and expressive, garbed in a gray suit, a pale blue shirt and dark tie, looked back at her. What was wrong with that? She had captured an image of him raising his arms as he taught a small study group. His eyes were alight. There was no eerie gleam of red, just a clear gray. To most people it would probably seem a successful photograph. Maybe even to Christine it was, because as S.T. had jokingly said he feared, the camera had captured the man's soul. She saw the ego, the drive for power.

She clamped down on her lower lip, forcing herself to finish the rest of the pictures. When she had laid them all out, she stepped back and looked again.

"He's evil," she whispered. "Not just a charlatan." She'd photographed ruthless men, men who had taken the lives of other men, but never had she felt as affected as she was by these pictures. She wondered then if anyone looking at these images would see what she saw. Perhaps not. Perhaps she was allowing her suspicions to color her interpretation.

"Hank," she yelled up the transom that connected the basement darkroom to Hank's studio, letting him hear timers going off even when he was upstairs. "Could you come down here and give me an opinion?"

Tall, balding and skinny, Hank Brannigan took the narrow steps two at a time and was beside her in moments. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose as he looked at the proofs spread across the long table. He nodded, studied one after another, made the sign of the cross over his chest. "Who is he?"

"The Reverend Peter Soul. Ever heard of him?"

"No and don't want to. Reverend huh?” He shook his head. “I guess when you think about it, he does kind of look like some kind of Elmer Gantry.”

“Was that nice?”

He grinned that elfin grin of his that always made her smile. “No, and neither is he. What kind of church?"

"Servants of Grace is what they call themselves.”

He looked at them again and made a face.

“Do you think anyone looking at these would see what you and I do?" she asked as she studied the images wondering whether they were safe to show to Peter Soul. Would he realize what she’d captured?

Hank rubbed the back of his neck, considering, then shook his head.  “We can ask Jerry if you want.” Jerry Welch, Hank’s life partner, a cop, was about as far from being an artist as anyone could get. How the two had found each other was one of those mysteries that Christine found beyond her comprehension, but they’d been a couple for twenty years; so clearly it worked.

“He would have a different perspective for sure, that is if he wouldn’t mind,” she said.

“Well, he might mind leaving the meal he’s preparing for us, but he’ll do it.”

A moment later Hank returned with Jerry close behind. The big man looked at the images as Hank said, “I actually envy you what you captured here, Chris, but it sends some chills down my spine.”

“In what way?” She looked to see if Jerry was going to comment, but he just moved down the row studying each photo with interest.

“Well look at those folks staring at Soul as he’s speaking. No soul. No nothing there. What a bunch. You got to wondering what they are thinking or can they think anymore?”

"He's a powerful orator."

Jerry pointed to one of the images. “Who’s that guy?"

The bulky, balding man was standing in the background, his gaze off into space as Soul was talking. "George," Christine said.

"George what?"

"They don't have last names—at least not that they tell anyone."

Jerry leaned back arms now across his chest. "Who is he to Soul?"

"A right hand man?" Christine guessed. He was always nearby, served Soul whenever needed, but said little or nothing.

"He's a dangerous man, maybe more so than the other," Jerry said.

"George?" She couldn't believe it. George seemed innocuous, part of the woodwork. He appeared to be no more than an appendage of Soul. "Why do you think so?" She looked more closely at the photo.

"Well if you go there again, watch out for that one. I have seen his type too many times. He’d kill without a second thought—totally ruthless."

She frowned. “I don’t trust any of them but really?"

“Mark my words,” Jerry said. “If you are around them much, you’ll know what I mean. Okay, dinner in five.”

When they were gone, Christine forced herself to steady her nerves. She had to prepare herself to face Soul again without revealing her inner feelings.  She was unsure she could do it, then she thought about the times they'd already met and his apparent unawareness of her disgust of him. Perhaps his ego, which she judged to be massive, would blind him to her true thoughts as effectively as she hoped it would blind him as to the true nature of the photographs she would be showing him. But now George too. Who the heck was George to Peter Soul?

#

Trying to get her card into the slot to let her into her motel room, Christine could hear the ringing of the phone. "Just keep holding on 'til I get there," she muttered, finally getting the door open. She threw the portfolio on the bed and grabbed the receiver.

"Christine? I almost gave up," S.T. said.

She felt a glow of warmth at his deep voice, the husky tones that he gave to even a simple saying of her name. Where it came to this man, she could see she was rapidly losing all reason. They hadn’t yet made love but she knew that was going to happen and not in the distant future.

"I'm glad you didn't," she said, recognizing the huskiness in her own voice.

"I was hoping I could catch you before you headed back to Soul's," he said.

"Why?"

"Because I have been thinking about it. I really don’t want you to go."

"So you aren’t going?" she asked, shifting the receiver so she could unload her camera bag and purse, then shrug out of her damp coat.

"I have to but you don’t. There's no reason for you to go."

"Oh really," she teased sitting on the bed. "How long do they say this rain is going to last?"

"It's Oregon. Who ever knows," he said. "You are afraid of him. You told me so." She smiled at his refusal to be put off by small talk.

"Yes, and you ought to be too, but I've been afraid before and it hasn't stopped me."

"Use commonsense," he retorted, his voice impatient.

"I resent that. What about you? Are you using commonsense?"

There was a silence. "I can do this better if I don't have to worry about you," he said finally.

“I have thought about this also. I think you need me to be there... I'm trusting you to do what you have to, why can't you trust me?"

She heard his growl of frustration. "Geesus, I hate arguing with a woman.”

"Arguing isn't much fun anyway you go about it," she said. “How was your day?"

"Busy... frustrating... I kept thinking about you."

She smiled. “How many hours on the rack did it take to get that confession out of you?"

"Just a good workout at the gym," he muttered.

"It will be okay for us to both go,” she said, not believing it. “It seems you have to do it and I think I can help.”

"Will you at least promise to be careful down there? Make sure he never guesses you are interested in what happened to Shonna."

"Of course, I’ll be careful. Can you say the same?"

"It’s not like I want to put time into doing this, but I can’t think of another way. I will watch my back."

"You actually have a smattering of survival instinct?"

"Thanks," he retorted. "When will you come?"

"You’re going in the morning?"

“Afternoon. He asked me to stay through the week-end. It ought to give me time to find out whatever I'm going to."

She didn’t like that. She had hoped he’d stay elsewhere. She bit her lip. "All right, I suppose it would be too coincidental if we both showed up at the same time. I'll wait until the next morning. I developed the film today. I'll call him tomorrow and let him know when I'm coming."

There was another silence. "Don’t stay long. Just in and out, okay. No staying overnight.”

“You are too much,” she said forcing a small laugh.

“You said he’s dangerous.”

“I think he is but I think it’s you he wants.”

“You a psychic?”

“I have my moments.” 

“And this is one of them?”

“It doesn’t take being one to see how this all is coming together with you the one in the lens. I think there is something very wrong down there—psychic or otherwise.”

“He wants me to design a building and put it up for him. If he wants me to do his work, he’s not likely to be a danger to me.”

"I really don’t like this. Really. I know you are thinking I’m silly but please watch yourself, Storm. We have barely gotten to know each other. I’d like to see that we get that time."

"Of course, and don't call me that by mistake around Soul."

"But I can otherwise?"

"If you like, I guess that's up to you." His voice had grown husky again.

"I do like."

There was a silence. "Good night, baby. See you soon." Then the connection was broken, except it wasn't, not really. She stared at the phone in her hand. She had never known a connection like she had with this man. What was it?

She lay back on her bed, aware of tears in her eyes. This was silly. She felt like crying. That was sillier. She didn’t feel fear exactly but something, something new had entered her life. She remembered the warmth of his voice over the phone, the husky timber, the tenderness.

Damnation. She knew what she was feeling. It was a desire to protect him, to ease his way, to do things for him that she had never expected to want to do for a man. This was not going right at all. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. This was the wrong time, the wrong man. Would he even survive the storm into which she sensed they were both walking?

She showered, then wrapping a robe around herself; clicked on her computer to check the bulletin board on which she'd put the request for information on Peter Soul.

It took a few moments to punch in the information. She hadn’t actually expected a response so quickly; then she stared at the words on the screen. "Those, who pry into things, people and situations that are none of their business, do not live long--Friend of the Master."