Hidden Pearl (31 page)

“I just thought we should keep the vehicle a distance from the house just in case. I’ll go to the house and see if it’s clear.”

“Why? I can go too.” He grimaced as he shifted his position and undid the seatbelt.

“Let’s just take it slow just in case.” He gave her one of his looks but let her go. He definitely was in no shape to move as fast as she was if there was trouble.

At the backdoor, Christine tapped lightly and then a bit louder as she saw no one watching and Hank didn’t immediately respond. When he answered the door and pulled her inside, it was all she could do to not throw herself in his arms and start sobbing.

"Jesus Christ, you look beat, what happened?" he asked.

"Everything."

"Where's S.T.?"

"In the truck four blocks away. We ran into some trouble, Hank."

"How bad?"

"I don’t know. Someone tried to kill us last night."

If she had expected a shocked reaction, she didn’t get it. She might as well have been discussing the weather as he asked with no particular surprise or emotion, "Okay, what do you want?"

She looked up into his eyes. "It could be dangerous for you and Jerry."

"So could eating real butter. I repeat, what do you want?"

"Could we stay with you and Jerry a day or so? S.T. needs some rest. We have to figure out what comes next. We could take a motel."

"No need. Let’s go get the big guy. How well is he getting around?”

“I think fine if
he
wants to.”

"Ouch. You two been squabbling?"

"It's about all we've done since this last thing happened." She felt teary again but decided it was because of her near exhaustion and Hank's sympathetic shoulder.

"Okay, then let's go get him, get you two something to eat, then a shower. When you've slept, you're going to think everything looks a lot better."

She shook her head. "I don't think it’s going to get a lot better for awhile anyway, Hank. The reason this looks really dangerous is because it is." She remembered then what Jerry had said when he first saw the photo of George and took hold of Hank’s arm. "I meant it that it could endanger you too. Maybe you want to think about it again."

"I don't need to think about it and I knew from the first time I saw that guy Soul's picture that he was trouble. So, are you going to the police?"

"S.T. doesn't think we have enough to get them to pay attention to us.  Maybe he'll change his mind when he's resting comfortably and can think more clearly." Then again, maybe not.

#

Waking, S.T. opened his eyes finding only one worked effectively. He made a mental survey of his condition--pain pretty much everywhere, a soft bed, clothing stripped from him. He turned his head to see Christine curled up like a kitten beside him. He swallowed against the surge of emotion that filled him at finding her there. It would have served him right if she’d walked out.

He realized then her eyes were open, watching him. "This is getting to be a habit," he said.

"One you need to break.”

"I only vaguely remember getting here. Is Hank okay with the possible risks?"

"He knows what to look for. How are you feeling?"

"Like I was in a fight and didn’t win."

“You’ve been sleeping nearly a day.”

“I do like having you in bed with me when I wake up,” he said teasingly as he stroked a lock of hair back behind her ear.

“I like that myself.”

He ran his fingers over the tape that wrapped his upper chest. "You do this?"

"Hank. He thinks your rib isn't broken, but cracked. If you take it easy, you won't send it through your lungs after all. You have a lump behind your ear which he didn’t think would be a concussion if you woke up at all."

He smiled. “I like him."

There was a tap at the door, then Hank entered. "How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, not holding up any.

"Eleven," S.T.  answered.

"No concussion then." Hank grinned. "Feel like eating something for breakfast?"

Running his tongue over the inside of his cut-up mouth, S.T. assessed the situation. "If it's soft."

Hank smiled. "I'll be back. How about you Chris?"

"I'll just have what you do," she said, grinning at him.

"Pretty high cholesterol."

"So I'll live dangerously," she retorted. "It seems to be par for the course anyway."

Hank chuckled and was gone, leaving Christine to face S.T.'s troubled gaze.

"I was joking," she said.

"But it was the truth." He looked up at the ceiling. "I haven't brought you much that was good."

"You know I could have run into trouble myself when I went down there. And once we realized what was going on, it’s been my choice to be involved with trying to bring them down for it," she reminded him as she sat on the edge of his bed, taking his hand into hers. The knuckles were scraped and looked sore. Gently she brought them to her lips, kissing each abrasion.

"You might not believe this now, but this isn’t typical for how my life goes.” Then he remembered the time in Central America, and added, “Usually anyway.”

She ran her fingers up his arm to the point of his shoulder. “There have been compensations.”

He could barely think, let alone argue as he felt her soft touch against his bruised flesh. "Good there’s something on the other side of the ledger," he managed, his voice a husky whisper. Her lips were now only inches from his, her breath a stirring against his skin.

"Breakfast," Hank yelped, kicking the door wide with his foot, his hands loaded down with a large tray.

"Good timing," S.T. muttered as Christine tucked pillows under his back to lift him into a sitting position, then moved to a chair. Hank had brought in scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. As they sipped their coffee,” S.T. asked, “Where is Jerry?”

“At work.”

“He know about all of this?”

“As much as he wanted to without it jeopardizing his ethics. What are you guys going to do now?” Hank asked.

"Go back to the compound. Hopefully talk Christine out of going with me."

"All of that when you've healed enough," Christine inserted.

"As soon as I can," he corrected himself.

"What'd you lose there?" Hank asked, leaning back against the bottom railing of the bed.

"It's what I think I'll find there." He explained his belief about what had gotten Lane into trouble. "Before I go back though, think you and Christine could get back on that computer and see what you can dig up about religious cults in L.A. seven to five years ago."

Hank snorted. "There's probably only thousands of them. Shouldn't take us more than a month or two to look through them all."

"I'm thinking of zeroing in on ones who got in trouble with the law. Enough to do some prison time, maybe."

"You figure that's what happened to Soul?"

S.T. nodded. "It’s not likely to be his name then."

"You want to tell me what you found so far?"

S.T. started to tell him, was interrupted by Christine's clarification, began again, then had to laugh when she again inserted a modification of his statement. "Which one of us is going to tell him?" he asked, leaning back against his pillows, smiling but unsure if he thought it was funny.

Christine smiled sheepishly. "You... Sorry. Unless that is you forget something." Somehow the rest of the story was relayed, when they'd finished, Hank cursed. "Gun running hypocrites.  Feel sorriest though for the folks that think they found a guy with a pipeline to heaven."

"It's a trap a lot of people fall into," S.T. agreed.

"And at all levels."

"I can’t argue with you about that.” He smiled at Christine. “Or you either.” She tilted her nose in the air but ignored his provocation.

"So what's next?" Hank asked.

"Keep your doors locked, don't trust anybody and see what you can find out about what Soul was up to before The Servants of Grace, and I'll get back there and hopefully find enough to bring the police into this."

"You mean we will," Christine corrected.

He gave her a half smile. "Yeah... we."  Actually the word was beginning to sound kind of good to him. He didn't remember ever thinking of himself in terms of a
we
. He had never wanted to before and it scared him that he might now.

S.T. sat into a kitchen chair, propping one elbow on the table. He'd awakened after another long nap to find Hank cooking in the kitchen. Gloomily he watched him frying chunks of hamburger for dinner. "You think my Silverado's still in one piece?" he asked finally.

Hank grinned, grabbed a cutting board and began slicing onions. "You saying something about my neighborhood here?"

S.T. smiled. "No insults intended, just--"

"I moved it twice while you slept. Last I saw it, it still had all hubcaps and its engine."

"I appreciate the effort.”

"I can tell." Hank's eyes began to water as the power of the opened onion reached upward, and S.T. felt a mild interest in whether or not he'd end up sobbing.

"I'm tired of always coming out the loser in fights I never wanted to begin," S.T. said, sipping at the orange juice Hank had handed him. He hadn’t been sure he’d ever want juice after the drugged one but found it was just fine when it wasn’t laced.

"Maybe you need to change the rules of the game." Hank tossed the onions into the fry pan.

"Good idea. How do you suggest I go about that?"

Hank chuckled. "Don't ask me, it's your game."

"You find out anything about Soul's history?"

Hank leaned against the stove. "It's a slow process, which due to a little cut of the cards which Chris lost, she is currently working on in the basement. I have been, however, receiving a side benefit as she explains the underground religious life in Southern California. Not a cheerful bit of knowledge, I might add."

S.T. smiled despite the fact it still hurt the swelling at the left side of his mouth.  "A lot of desperate people out there."

"You bet. Desperate and willing to part with their money. It's kind of interesting the different scams the
saintly
use to part suckers from their dollars, sometimes even their property. Be directly connected to the ultimate god for a small gift--tax deductible, of course."

"Desperate pretty well describes it."

Hank reached into the cupboard and began adding spices to his hamburger and onion mixture.

"What you're fixing?" S.T. asked. His stomach growled at the thought of something he could sink his teeth into.

"Spaghetti."

"Actually I make a pretty mean spaghetti myself," S.T. said, watching as Hank added tomato paste to the meat. "How good's yours?"