Hidden Pearl (4 page)

Bailey laughed. "Rapture is the word you want, I think. Since I’m still here, not possible."

S.T. lifted his eyebrows. "You never know."

Bailey set the contract on his desk. He pointed to the second clause. "If Schmidt tries to renege on his obligations, you can sue him for everything he's got... if you want. We made that contract iron clad because of the penalties you're facing if you're late on your end of it." He dropped into the chair beside Dusty.

"That's what I figured." While S.T. reread the contract, he asked Dusty to fill Bailey in on what he knew about the reasons behind the threatened default.

When S.T. looked up, Bailey was watching him. "What do you know about this bunch down in Roseburg?" S.T. asked.

"Why would I know anything," Bailey asked.

"Well since he’s putting together a big bunch down there, if he’s one of yours, you’d know and if he’s not, you would too."

"All right,” Baily laughed. “I have heard a bit. The leader's name is Peter Soul. They call themselves Servants of Grace. He's drawn people from a lot of churches. Some are planning to build homes down there on a piece of land he owns outside the city. His books are all over the place."

"Seems to me I just heard a
but
."

Bailey shrugged. "There have been a lot of groups like his. They flare up with fancy shows and promises. I haven’t studied his books or anything but it seems weird to me.”

“Like walking on water isn’t?” S.T. joked.

“Well, weirder, let’s say.”

"Hmmm. You don't know Aaron Schmidt, do you?"

"Other than his name on a contract, not at all."

"It turns out I have to go to Roseburg this week-end on some personal business. Maybe I can find out what's going on while I'm there. What would make a man take a risk like Schmidt is doing, maybe bankrupt himself because of it?"

"A lot of things. Love or power come to mind immediately," Bailey said.

S.T. snorted. “Love, oh yeah that is worth screwing up your life for.”

“It can be.”

S.T. thought about Aaron Schmidt, always ready with a joke, easy to get along with, rotund, always smiling. "Before I decide on suing, I want to know why he's doing this. Put it in writing that we'll give him a week to reconsider—with the consequences if he won’t. In my bid, I had allowed time for weather, other problems, I think we can afford that week, then we'll meet again and decide what comes next."

Bailey's face sobered. "Did you hear about Lane?"

"Just what I read in the paper. I couldn't believe it."

"What's this all about?" Dusty asked.

"Lane Brown committed suicide. Hung himself."

Dusty's expression froze. "Wasn't he the architect we worked with a couple of years back?"

S.T. nodded and looked back at Jim, meeting his gaze. "The paper said Katy doesn't believe he killed himself. Has Jayne talked to her since it happened?"

"No, but she hoped to this morning. The funeral's Thursday. Will you go?"

S.T. didn't like funerals, didn't like anything to do with the dead. Maybe it went back to his mother’s stories about the harm that can come to a man who comes in contact with the spirits of the dead. Still, this was one funeral he felt he should attend. Lane Brown had been a good man. S.T. needed to show support because even the American culture tended to be superstitious about suicide.

"I'll be there. I still don't understand though why he would do it."

"If he did."

"They said there was a note.”

“I read that.”

“No wife wants to think her husband would rather be dead than stay with her," S.T. said a cynical twist to his lips.

"I suppose not," Bailey agreed with a deep breath. "On a more pleasant subject, Jayne asked again that I have you to dinner. How about Thursday night after the funeral. We can cheer each other up—or down," Bailey offered, then smiled more broadly. "I'm waiting to hear your creative excuse this time."

"Too busy. I have to leave town Friday and there's a lot I need to do before I can," S.T. said, knowing he fooled no one.

Bailey shook his head. "You can't avoid Jayne's stroganoff forever, you know."

S.T. laughed again. "Tell her I appreciate the invite. Maybe when I get back."

"I've heard that too many times." Bailey handed S.T. two other contracts. "Read these over and get back to me if there's anything that doesn’t fit what you need. Otherwise send them back with your John Henry here." He pointed to where the appropriate lines were tagged and marked.

When S.T. was again alone, he grabbed the phone and began making the arrangements for his trip to Roseburg. Helen was still gone, and it was beginning to get to him. He knew she'd probably just gone for a long lunch, but it seemed people were always disappearing out of his life and he didn't much like it. Of course, in the case of Helen, it was most likely just a sale at one of the big department stores, but what was the reason with Shonna? Where was she? Darker thoughts accompanied his thoughts of Lane's death. If a man like Lane believed life wasn't worth living, for whom was it?

#

"Well?"

The muscular, balding man smiled. "Everything’s ready."

"Are you sure, George?" Reverend Peter Soul asked.

"We've seeded the trail."

Deep within, Soul felt a glow of satisfaction. He twisted in his chair to stare out the window, his hands steepled across his chest. If the bait was
not
taken, Soul had another plan in mind. One way or another he would bring him. No one else could fulfill the dream he had been given. Time was limited.

He looked up then. "We've had some disturbing failures recently, George, but this makes up for it."

"It just takes time to bring about our Lord's work," George said, lowering his lashes to hide his expression, "but I think we're there."

"It must be."

"So you've said."

"And you don't agree?"

"Is it mine to agree or not?" George asked.

Soul smiled, thinking the sarcastic tone had been barely hidden. "You're right. It's not necessary at all. My ways and thoughts are deeper than yours can ever be." He looked up and met George's gaze, his own smile cynical. Did he really believe what he said? "Your piece of puzzle is only to believe and know that much depends on this.
Our
master has told me this."

"I swear by all I hold holy that I've done as you asked."

Soul looked up, saw the smirk, but chose to ignore it. "I trust you more than anyone, George."

"As it should be."

When he was alone, Soul stared out the window, thinking of the various aspects he'd brought into play, the snare he'd laid so carefully. Soon it would come to fruition. This one would not be the first nor the last to find the web entwined about him before he knew into what he'd walked. It served his Lord’s work and was worth it.

The ringing phone interrupted his satisfied musings. "Ms. Johnson is here, Sir," Sharon said.

"Send her right in," Soul said, rising to greet her at the door, pleasantly surprised to find such a tall, beautiful woman with the camera bag. "This is a pleasure," he said, reaching out his hand. “May I call you Christine?”

Christine nodded as she stretched out her hand to take his. Although his fingers were finally formed, long, thin and white, almost immediately she felt a chill at touching his flesh.

Her cursory examination told her Peter Soul was thin, not much taller than she, his hair a pale blond, lighter than her own. She studied his face. The handsome, finely molded features gave her no reason for the uneasiness she had instantly felt. Then she looked into his eyes, saw the gray color, but behind that what seemed to be almost a glowing fire. She swallowed hard against the urge to turn right around and leave with no photos. She'd been around many different sorts of people.  Some admittedly evil. She'd never experienced the instant disquietude with which this man filled her.

"After I saw your portfolio, I knew you were the right person to record our work here. I am so glad you agreed to come. Our Lord blesses those who bless his work," Soul said, his hand now gesturing toward the stuffed chair in front of his desk.

Christine sat, managing a smile with some difficulty. “You do understand this is part of a series of young shakers and movers in the Pacific Northwest?” she asked wanting no misunderstandings or maybe a way out of doing the photos. She was unsure which.

“Of course. That’s fine.”

When Soul was seated, she again looked into his eyes. This time they seemed a simple gray. She decided her imagination had been running away with her Perhaps the light had somehow reflected oddly, explaining that strange glow. Her perturbation was less easy to explain away, but she hoped talking to him would reassure her.

"May I get you a cup of tea?" Soul asked, motioning again with his hand, this time toward a pot and two cups on a warming tray.

"Herbal would be nice if you have it."

He smiled. "We don't drink anything with poisons in it."

"Poisons?"

"Like caffeine, alcohol, additives."

"Of course."

"Peppermint?" he asked, lifting a sack for her approval. When she nodded, he dipped a silver tea holder into the bag, carefully filled it, then lowered it into the tea pot.

"Now," he said again sitting. "Where should we begin?"

"Well, I do have a few questions."

"Ask to your heart's content, fair lady."

“You are building up a sizeable membership. That has led to some being suspicious about exactly what is going on with your people.”

He smiled. “It’s human nature to doubt. Anyone who goes against the tide is suspected. Jesus Himself was crucified.”

“So you consider yourself to be a Christian church?” When he nodded, she bent to retrieve a small notebook from her bag. "I have some quotes by those who say it’s not." She knew she might have just blown the interview with that statement but she'd felt compelled to make it.

His smile broadened. "I have never asked for a vote of popularity," he said easily, sliding back in his chair and crossing one leg, so that his ankle rested on his knee. Although he was dressed in a fine gray suit, he seemed casual and at ease. She had a feeling it was deliberate. This man was excellent at his use of body language, effectively communicating whatever he chose. She wondered if he ever relaxed enough to be himself--whatever that was.

"You are quite popular. Charismatic might be a good word to describe the way people fall in your thrall."

"In God's thrall," he corrected.

“Like Jim Jones perhaps?”

“Not at all. I don’t try to entrap people.” He smiled benignly. “This is about the Lord’s work, not mine.”

She smiled and nodded, yielding him the point. "How large is your ministry?" she asked, choosing the word carefully.

"As wide as the world," he said, throwing his arms wide. "I consider everyone to be my ministry, to be in need of the wisdom God has given to me."