Hidden Pearl (17 page)

"I thought people here were free to say what they thought."

"They are."

"Then, I'm just doing that."

She glared at him. "You need Reverend Soul more than you know."

"For what?"

She ignored that question. “If you keep going the way you are, you will be punished, and it will be a terrible thing that befalls you."

"Are you cursing me, Sharon?" he asked or at least that's what he thought he asked as his thoughts became confused. She said something back but he couldn't seem to make sense of it.

"How are you feeling, Storm Walker?" the voice asked, penetrating the fog that seemed to be swirling around S.T. He forced his eyes open and saw Soul standing over his bed. He lay there, trying to think of the answer to the question, then found he could no longer remember the question.

"Come over here and sit in this chair," Soul said, pulling a chair close to S.T.'s bed.

S.T. looked at it, tried to think of what he wanted to do, why he didn't want to do anything Soul ordered, but he seemed incapable of doing anything more than struggling to rise, moving to the chair, grateful it was so close to the bed.

Soul stood in front of him, he bent and S.T. felt his fingers at the thong that held his hair clubbed to the back of his neck. It was loosened, the hair falling free. He tried to move away to say he didn't want this, but Soul put his hands on each side of his face and said, "No. You may not move in any way."

S.T. found himself incapable of disobeying.

"I will help you," Soul said, his voice soft but somehow frightening to S.T.'s confused mind. He felt Soul's hands on his chest, looked down and saw him unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it apart to bare his chest. Then Soul moved behind him, his hands came down firmly on S.T.'s shoulders and began a massaging motion, working first the muscles in his shoulders, then his neck. "You were in pain tonight," Soul murmured, his fingers strong and forceful as they worked the muscles. "This will help you to relax. You must relax, let go of the tension that is holding you captive."

S.T. didn't want those fingers against his skin, but he couldn't seem to say so. Where was he? He tried to remember, tried to force his mind to reason, but he could only feel Soul's fingers as they continued to work over his muscles, stroking, touching. He was talking but the words made no sense to S.T.

"I want you to listen to something tonight," Soul said, speaking slowly, his voice not much more than a whisper. "Just some tapes. They will help you understand how important this ministry is, help you design a better building for us."

S.T. didn't want to listen to anything, wanted to move from the chair, get away from those manipulative hands, the soft words, but he couldn't make his body do anything.

Soul pushed buttons on a small tape recorder which must have already been in the room. His words took on a meditative tone. "Just sit here relaxed, don’t leave this chair. Your arms and legs are relaxed. You are totally at ease as you listen. You are open to what it says. Be open to where truth comes. Do you hear me? You must tell me if you do."

Through the confusion and disorientation, S.T. knew only one thing--he wanted to leave, wanted out of this room, but he managed to nod his head. Then he heard the voice from the tape recorder, Soul's voice. He looked at the box, unable to take his eyes away.

The door close,d and S.T. was alone with the taped voice, alone with his confusion. He wanted to move, to turn off that voice, but couldn’t make himself do it. What had been in that orange juice? Or was it something that wasn’t aspirin? It didn’t matter because whatever it was, he would have to ride it out with a body incapable of responding to his will. The words droned on barely penetrating the fog that now seemed to be enshrouding him in tentacles of steel.

#

Christine paced her room. Something was wrong. She'd known it in Portland when she'd felt the abrupt urge that she had to go to Roseburg immediately, had to get to S.T.

Well, now she was here. What good was she doing? Where was he? She couldn't ask Soul, and no one was going to tell her voluntarily. She was unsure what S.T. had been trying to do at the meeting she'd interrupted, but if it had been to anger the people, he'd clearly succeeded. Had that endangered him? Soul hadn't acted angry, but he seemed to never show any of his feelings in any visible way.

As she paced, she thought of what she might do next. How could she get to him and assure herself she was being foolish—except she was nearly sure she was not. Whatever connection was between her and S.T., she was feeling an energy that told her he needed her.

The knock at the door interrupted her furtive thinking.

"Who is it?" she asked, moving to stand near the bed, so her voice would sound as though she was in it.

"Peter," Soul said. "May I come in?"

"I'm quite tired after the long drive down. Couldn't it wait until morning?"

"Of course. How thoughtless of me. I'll see you at breakfast."

She heard nothing more but wondered if he was standing outside her door listening. Had he heard her pacing? She felt a growing uneasiness. Where had she parked her car? Where the heck was S.T.?

She looked out the window and at the dark grounds around her. "If she slipped outside, she could get to her car, but driving off wouldn’t help S.T. She had nothing she could tell the police. Okay, going off without him was impossible; so how would she get to him and convince him to go with her?

She pulled off her skirt and blouse; but instead of putting on a T-shirt for sleeping, she slipped into a pair of jeans, flannel shirt, sweater, and hiking boots, at the last minute shoving her car keys and wallet into her jeans pockets. She didn't know what she was preparing for, but she moved to the window and looked out into the rainy darkness as she called out to him without words. She felt confidence suddenly. His energy would draw her to where he was.

#

"Storm Walker." The voice, although not audible, penetrated the haze entrapping him, got past the droning sound of Soul's teachings.  His only hope seemed to lie in that new voice, and he struggled to hold onto it, to understand what it was saying.

"You must stand up."

S.T. felt confused, dazed, his eyes barely able to focus, but he obeyed the command, followed it as it told him to go to the window and open it. He felt dizzy, his steps uncertain, but he managed to get the window open, to stick his head out and suck fresh, cold air into his lungs.  The rain fell on his head, but couldn't clear away the webs that held him unable to think for himself.

He looked down then and saw the ground far below. Second story, he reasoned, proud of himself for being able to ferret out that simple fact. He had to go out the window, had to get away from Soul's voice, but it was a ways down, maybe not a full story but an unknown distance. Still after the rains, the ground should be soft. He was relieved he could reason out that simple fact.

"Get down. Out of this room." He knew what the voice said was true and edged himself out the window, his hands weak, his whole body shaking as he lowered himself as far as he could before he let go and fell to the ground. Instead of being soft, it was rocky and he landed badly, his ankle twisting, the pain sending him to him to his knees, then flat out, sending another pain spiraling into his body as his arm landed against another rock.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, struggling to his knees, to his feet, then leaning back against the wall of the building.  He had no idea where he was and his right leg was now throbbing.

The woods, he thought bewilderedly. Get into the woods, and they wouldn't find him. But something held him. He wanted something in the building. What was it? 

"Storm." This time he knew the voice. It was one he had known forever. He didn't remember her name; but if she was with him, he could go now. He straightened, grimacing at the pain.

"We have to get out of here." Her arms went around him, giving him her warmth and strength.

"Yes," he muttered, unsure of where they were, where they had to go, but he understood the urgency.

Christine blessed the rain that, although it was soaking them both, masked the sounds of their movement. She tried to assess his condition. He seemed dazed, seemingly drugged, his skin felt like ice, and his clothes were already soaked, his black hair hung lankly around his face.

Okay, no point on wondering what had happened to him. They had to get away from this compound and now. She remembered S.T.'s Silverado had been parked farther from the house than her rental car. There might be more chance of starting it and getting away with no one being the wiser.  She felt of his pocket and was relieved to feel the bulge of a key ring.

The walk to the truck seemed to take forever; S.T.'s much larger body seemed a heavier weight against her arms and shoulder with each step, then at last they were there. She shifted him so that he leaned against the side of the vehicle, then dug into his pocket for the keys. Whatever had happened to him, he would be no help to her, but he was able to lever himself into the passenger seat when she told him to do it. She reached across to fasten his seat belt thinking as she did it that a seat belt was the least of their problems.

She got behind the wheel and started the engine. By now if anyone heard them, she didn't care. She just wanted to get out of there as she found the lights, pushed her foot down hard on the accelerator and felt the powerful truck surge forward. She hadn’t driven a truck for awhile but it was like riding a bicycle, not that hard to pick back up. It wasn't until she was turning onto the main road that she realized that although she had her wallet and keys in her pocket, she'd left behind her camera and equipment in the rental car. She smiled wryly. A month ago, she'd have never believed she could have forgotten her camera for anything or one. Life had changed.

She adjusted the rear view mirror to make sure no one was following them, then let out a sigh of relief. When she looked over at S.T., slumped in his seat, her sigh turned a groan. Did he need a doctor? Anywhere near the compound who could they trust? What emergency room technicians might be members of The Servants of Grace? Would Soul come after them? If he did, the first place he would be likely to try would be an ER?

She turned the truck onto a side road, went around another bend, then found a wide enough spot to pull into. She switched on the overhead light, lifted his head gently, tilting his chin to examine his chiseled features again for visible injuries. He was soaked to the skin, now shivering.

"Storm, can you hear me?"

His eyes blinked open, the pupils dilated, his eyes black. His gaze met hers, but she didn't think he saw her. She ran her hands over the back of his head, through the thick wet hair, feeling for any swellings that might indicate head injury.  This was not acting like any concussion she’d seen. He had to have been drugged.

"Do you know what happened to you?" she asked, pressing her finger against his neck and counting the pulse beats. She wasn’t really surprised when he didn’t answer her. His pulse was strong--fast but steady. She saw blood on his left wrist. She felt a moment of panic as she realized she had nothing with which to make a bandage, but when she examined the gash, it didn't appear deep; the bleeding had stopped. He had been limping. The boot hid his ankle from her view. Not likely broken since he put weight on it; so most probably twisted or sprained. Nothing life threatening.