Hidden Pearl (34 page)

"Hey," S.T. protested. "What's it with you people? Can't you just live a moment?"

"That is living
our
moments," Christine said, setting a plate into the rinse water. "You haven't seen Hank's lab. It's the real reason he doesn't have a dishwasher. State-of-the-art, a dark room to die for and enlarging equipment a big studio would be envious of."

"I suppose you'll both have your cameras with you when we head up to Soul's compound, taking pictures right up to the minute I drop with a bullet in me."

The sudsy plate dropped from Christine's hands, shattering into pieces on the floor. "You think... You're expecting..." She swallowed hard. For a moment she'd forgotten what lay ahead.

"It was a joke," S.T. said kneeling to pick up the broken pieces of crockery. "A dumb one." He tossed them in the garbage can.

"You Navajo must have as fatalistic a sense of humor as us Irish," Hank said, settling back to watch them through the lens of his camera.

"I wouldn't know," S.T. said, picking a dish from the rinse water. "I haven't been with the Navajo much."

"Maybe it's genetic," Hank mused, snapping another photograph.

"You know," S.T. said, turning to face him only to be blinded again by the flash, "I could take that camera away from you."

"Great expression," Hank said, snapping the next shot. "Aggressive, handsome, still the remnants of bruises to add interest. How about snarling a little?"

S.T. couldn't stop the hoot of laughter. "May all your photographs be washed out and empty of images," he pronounced, returning to the task of drying the dishes.

"God, that sounded like a curse,” Hank protested.

"You think?" S.T. retorted. This time when he reached for a glass, he made sure his hand brushed Christine's. When she looked up, her blue eyes wide, he smiled and captured her hand, ducking it under the water with his where he stroked her long fingers.

"A kiss would be good," Hank suggested, watching them through his lens.

"When that happens, you won't be anywhere around," S.T. promised.

"What do you mean--when?" Christine asked, trying to find the light mood the other two had managed. "Don't you mean if?"

S.T. shook his head, his gaze steadily on hers. "For you and me, it'll always be when."

"Oh no," Hank cried, "of all times to be out of film." In a shot he was off his chair and out of the room.

S.T.  grinned. “How do you think Hank and Jerry would feel about us going to bed early?” he asked as he bent and claimed her lips with a kiss that sent her senses spiraling. Hands wet with soap, she reached up to bring his head back to her when he would have stepped away.  Lips still sealed together, senses caught up in the moment, S.T. barely heard the snap of the camera or Hank's satisfied gotcha. Nothing seemed to matter but holding this woman in his arms, protecting her, melding her to him. Never mind that tomorrow might make all this impossible, for the moment he would take what he could.

#

"Now explain it all to me--from the beginning," Soul said, leaning back in his chair.

"We've been through the whole thing," George growled.

"I was hoping something would change the second time around."

"Look, Lou, I was only trying to straighten out the mess
you've
made of this."

"I've made?" Soul repeated. "I would say it's the other way around and don't call me Lou." Frosty blue eyes met his own angry gaze. Finally Soul said, "Perhaps you need a reminder of your own failures. What do you think we gained by your little venture with Lane Brown?"

"What do you think we gained with Shonna Taggert?"

"That was an accident."

"Yeah." George chuckled, his eyes malicious. "There've been a couple of those, haven't there?"

Soul stared down at his manicured nails. "Sometimes a greater good comes from an apparent ill."

George laughed loudly. "Try telling that to Taggert."

"We don't know that he knows anything about that."

"You're a bigger fool than I thought."

"Don't get nasty. Besides, even if I agree that we've both made mistakes, your last one tops mine."

George slumped into a chair. "Brannigan said they weren't there."

"And that's that," Soul asked, raising his eyebrows with disbelief. "If they were there, do you think they'd admit it after someone trying to burn a house down around them? That was just plain stupid, George. Almost as stupid as sending our brainless wonders after them."

George rose from his chair, stalked around the room, then again faced his brother. "If they weren't brainless, you think they'd do what we tell them?"

"But since they are, don't bother sending them when it requires discernment," Soul shot back.

"We're getting nowhere with our recriminations. I did what I thought best."

"We now know this computer is not my computer which means Taggert has ours. If it had burned with the cabin, there would have gone our records."

"Better gone than in the hands of the ATF or CIA."

"I think there are more pleasant options."

"I wish we'd never heard of that cursed Taggert. He's been nothing but trouble."

"Wishes won't get us far."

George snorted. "And exactly what do you think will? Don't try that spiritual mumbo jumbo on me. You know what I think of it."

"There's power in what you call mumbo jumbo, George."

George made a fist. "There's power here too. Did your power keep you out of jail before?"

"I wasn't as attuned then as I should have been. I've learned a lot."

"Games. Blasted games. That's why you haven't killed Taggert. You want to play with him. Damn it Lou, those games are going to get us both busted or worse."

"With our own builder, we would have the future in our hands. The--"

A knock at the door interrupted the argument and George lowered himself into a properly submissive pose. Sharon peeked her head in the door. "There's a gentleman here to see you, Sir."

"Who?"

She frowned, her pale skin flushed. "He appears angry and refused to give his name. Should I call the police?"

"No, just give me a minute, then send him in."

"Are you nuts?" George asked as soon as Sharon had shut the door.

"Innocent men aren't afraid of strangers."

George huffed, then headed for the back door.

"Where are you going?" Soul asked.

"Remember what you said about innocent men?" With that he was gone.

Soul turned in his chair to face the outer door. He straightened his spine, meditatively preparing himself to face whoever would walk through.

The tall, skinny man was not smiling, nor did he offer his hand to Soul as he rose to greet him. "How can I help you, Mister--"

"Bailey. I was a friend of Lane Brown's."

Soul frowned, pretending to think. "Ah yes, my erstwhile architect."

"It doesn't appear to be healthy to be your architect," Bailey shot back, not sitting when Soul gestured him toward a chair.

"I don't know what you mean?"

"Where's S.T. Taggert?"

"Why would I know the answer to that?"

"Wasn't he your architect too?"

"No contracts have been signed yet."

"So, do you or do you not know where he is?"

"I do not. Are you afraid something has happened to him?" Soul asked, his mind racing ahead and wondering if either Christine or Taggert had been injured in the attempted murder. Maybe it had gone more successfully than he feared.

Bailey ground his teeth together, his fists clenched. "I think you know more than you're admitting about where he is... what happened."

Soul studied him a moment. "You're a nervous wreck, my good man. You need to relax, get in tune with yourself."

"If anything has happened to S.T., I'll be back," he said, slamming out of the room.

Soul stared at the closed door, half startled when it reopened. "Are you all right?" Sharon asked.

He managed a smile. "Fine."

"That man... What did he want?"

"Just another poor soul in need of solace."

"Then he came to the right place," Sharon said, closing the door.

Soul sat at his desk. He tried to concentrate, internalize his thinking so he could hear the voice, the one that told him what to do, that gave him direction.

"Well?" George asked, again disturbing his train of thought before he could get anywhere with it, as he lumbered back into the room, sitting down.

"It was James Bailey. Lane Brown’s friend. Taggert's lawyer."

"It was his place they were hiding in."

"Yes." Soul leaned his chin on his cupped hand, staring at the desk. "He says he doesn't know where they are. He was worried."

"You think he went up there to check on them and saw signs of the struggle or the spilled gasoline?"

"He didn't say."

"They haven’t contacted him yet obviously. Maybe we ought to clear out of here?"

"I already told you what I think about that idea. We’ve put too much into this."

"I don't want to go to prison."

"Why should either of us. Taggert has no evidence that we're mixed up in anything illegal. If he did, the police would already be here. No, we just have to be patient." He smiled. "Taggert will be back. Our part is to be ready when he comes."

"Are you through playing games?"

Soul met George's troubled gaze. "Yes."

#

"What are you thinking?" Christine asked, walking into Hank's living room where S.T. sat alone, staring into the darkness.

He looked up, his eyes troubled. "That I wish you wouldn't go with us tomorrow."

"Okay cross out that question. Want to know what I'm thinking?" She smiled and sat next to him, curling against his long frame.

"I'm afraid to ask."

She put one hand around his neck, tangling it in the black hair, then reached up and kissed his neck, unbuttoning a button to pull the shirt wide enough to get at the junction of neck and shoulder. "It's a good thought," she whispered against his skin.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Coward."

"Sticks and stones can break my bones," he murmured, his senses coming painfully alive at her light touch.

"They can."

"Names only hurt when they're accompanied by fists."