Hidden Pearl (12 page)

"May I have a tour?" she asked.

"Sure." He led her first down to the lower level, half built into the hill where he had his working studio, a library and a shop for his woodworking tools. The second level, the one she'd originally entered had a large flagstone-laid foyer, opening onto a cathedral-ceilinged living room, a two-story stone fireplace at one end. On the opposite side was the dining room, two steps above and to the back a large kitchen, which he used only sparingly. A guest bathroom, bedroom, and utility room made up the rest of the second level.

"Want to see the master bedroom?" he asked, gesturing toward a turned wood, staircase that curved up at one end of the foyer.

She smiled. "I’d rather see the kitchen," she said, heading for it. "I love it,” she said as she stepped through the door. “Wonderful, gourmet working space. You have every appliance known to modern man. What are you fixing tonight?" She lifted a lid on the largest pan where a savory sauce simmered.

"I'm no gourmet cook," he said, "but I make a mean marinara sauce."

"Smells yummy." She laid her portfolio and a briefcase on the long counter that divided the room from a second eating area.

"Did you have any luck with your keyboard cloak and dagger work?" he asked, putting the water back on a burner to bring it back to a boil for cooking the pasta.

"Not as much as I'd hoped. Our Reverend Soul is good at covering his tracks."

"You know that from the computer?"

"'I'm assuming it because of what's not on public record. He's a minister, looking for followers and donations. Men like that ought to want interviews, publicity about their work. Not Peter Soul. Their website was sparse, no real information but a lot of platitudes like the shallow articles in the local paper. I found no license to marry people anywhere and those aren’t that hard to get online for anybody. I have to wonder why he agreed to let me photograph him. There aren't that many outsiders who have been allowed into any of his compounds."

"Hmmm. Do you want something to drink?"

"Coffee would be great if you have it."

"That is the other thing I can make," he said, pouring her a cup from the pot he'd brewed just before she had arrived. "I live on the stuff."

He handed her the coffee as he told her about James Bailey's phone call, Lane Brown’s possible suicide but his wife’s refusal to accept that as possible, then the connection to Peter Soul. “I can’t say it’s all connected. But until I can say it’s not, I want to look into it.”

She stared into her cup. "You already know what I think. I think we should both stay away from that man."

"Then that's what you should do. As for me, I need to find out what happened to my sister and I will look into if there’s a connection to Lane. If he didn't commit suicide, someone not only killed him, but tried to destroy his family and reputation too."

"I already told you I don’t like any part of this.”

“Suppose he had something to do with Lane’s death. Should he get away with that?”

“It’s just I feel very uneasy about it all-- a kind of heavy dark cloud kind of uneasy."

He threw a fistful of spaghetti into the boiling water.  He felt more fear at the new feelings he was experiencing at having her so close, at watching her sip coffee in his kitchen. He liked this too much.

Christine watched him move around the kitchen. His white shirt was rolled back to the elbows, revealing muscular forearms. For once he'd let his black hair hang loose. Something about this man was right for her in a way no man ever had been. The whole thing was crazy but she felt a sense of being home in a way she had never experienced. It couldn’t last. It couldn’t work but...

"So what did you discover, besides that it wasn't what you expected?" he interrupted her reverie.

She forced her thoughts back to the scanty information she had discovered. "Using all my sources and they are not inconsiderable given the magazine I work for, I couldn’t even find his date of birth, not place nor time. Do you have any idea how suspicious nothing really is? There is really only one reason for it.”

“And that is?”

“He changed his name at some point and covered up when it happened. The first article I found treats him as though nothing came before, like he dropped into earth. Five years ago was when he began his ministry. The only thing I learned that I didn't already know is that he has a satellite ministry in Central America."

He pulled out a strand of pasta to test. "Not unusual for religions to have retreats probably."

She shrugged. “Five years ago he began gathering believers. Whatever evangelical work he's been doing in Central America apparently began at the same time he came to Oregon. Until then, his believers had been scattered, and he traveled quite a lot. Three years ago he bought land in Guatemala and five hundred acres outside Roseburg. He put up that big warehouse type structure and their population grew but hard to say to what size."

"No police record?"

"Not under the name Peter Soul. What can I do to help with dinner?"

"You can take the salad from the refrigerator into the dining room."

She was impressed when she went into the dining room and realized the table was set with attractive brown pottery, unlit candles and a flower centerpiece.  He brought in a bottle of sparkling cider. "I hope this is okay," he said apologetically.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't drink alcohol. I didn't know if you did or not. Should have gotten you some wine." He struck a match, lit the candles, then dimmed the lights.

"I drink but rarely," she said with a smile and filled the glasses while he went back for the rest of their dinner.

When they were seated, she sniffed appreciatively of the sauce. “Smells delicious,” she said.

“A little of this and that,” he said as they filled their plates.

She tasted the sauce, then nodded with approval. “Just enough garlic,” she commented. “Some people ruin it by too much.”

“I suppose that’s in the taste of the beholder. I know some who don’t think it’s possible to add too much garlic.”

“If you do, you can’t taste the other spices. Hmmm oregano, basil, rosemary maybe a smidgen of thyme. What is that other one?”

He grinned. “A wise chef never reveals his tricks.”

She made a face at him and settled into eating. “The more I didn’t learn about Soul, the more I wished I could convince you not to go to that compound.” She knew by the set of his jaw that she couldn’t and was wasting her breath.

"I did have another idea that might help to understand his operation better,” she said. “There are some spiritual type sites that let people pose questions. I can ask there about the Servants of Grace. Pose it possibly as someone upset with the group. It might find malcontents.”

“Would he know who was looking?”

“Depending on his internet savvy, he’d have a general idea, but I don’t think he’d be able to find a name or even an email. There are some detective sites also and many of them let you find out who is searching for you as well as give you info if they can find it.”

"None of it is likely to come before I have to go south."

She felt her uneasiness grow. He definitely should not go. "Why don’t I go instead of you? I met a few of them last time. Maybe I can find something from one of them about Shonna. Although I think they are renamed to make that difficult. You could give me a general description to see if someone like that seemed to just disappear and then disappeared." She didn't want to face Peter Soul again, but she was nearly certain better her than S.T.

His laugh was short and not amused. "Oh I like that and I can cower in my bedroom in fear while you do that, okay?"

"It's not like that."

"Sounds like it to me."

"You know it's not. It's just I have a bad feeling about you going there."

"So you've told me. Eat your spaghetti, woman, before it gets cold."

They finished the meal in polite chit chat and silence. He made them some espresso and they took it into the living room. She settled onto a long white sofa, watching as he knelt in front of the fireplace to light the fire. Outside, Christine heard the rain beginning. It was a soothing sound, as soft and reassuring as the now crackling flames.

He settled back on the sofa, close but not too close. "Have you used your detective site on me?” he said one end of his mouth tilted cynically.

"You will tell me what I need to know."

"Storm Walker." He watched for her reaction, half expecting a little laugh. It didn't come.

"How did your mother come to choose that name?" she asked, fighting against the urge to reach out and touch him.

"Who knows. She sure wasn’t thinking about how it’d go over in school. I had it legally changed as soon as I could to my initials—S.T.”

"I like the name Storm. It suits you." She smiled softly. "You've walked in storms all your life, haven't you?"

“I’ve had a few.”

There was a silence.

"Why didn't you tell me your name when I first asked? I figured it must be something real bad like Seymour,” she teased.

He shook his head. "I don't know. At first, it was a game, then I figured you'd laugh. Later... maybe I didn't want you to have any stronger hold over me than you already did."

"Do I have a hold on you?"

"And you claim to be an intuitive woman," he retorted.

"I am and there
is
something between us that isn’t explainable, isn’t there?"

He grinned. “Oh I think I might be able to come up with a few reasons. You really don’t care that I am a breed, do you?”

  “Most everybody is a mix of something.”

He suddenly realized he’d been carrying a lot of baggage from his childhood that really didn’t matter. Staring into the fire, briefly he decided to tell her more. There was his childhood, a drunken father, the times of being on his own, then being taken under the wing of a contractor and finally his successes as he went to college and began to work on his own projects.

She stopped fighting the urge and reached out, her fingers lightly brushing his jaw. "Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

“It should be a man who hasn’t done well with relationships.”

“I was thinking more a man of nobility.” When he would have laughed, she put her fingers on his lips. “It’s not the knight in shining armor kind but the everyday kind. People who do what they must no matter the cost. Someone who keeps his word no matter what the cost. You haven’t wanted to love anyone, have you?”

"Love!” he gave a snort. “I hope you weren’t expecting that from me. From what I have seen love only leads to pain. Ask Katy Brown, whose husband just killed himself, whether love is good."

Christine smiled. "She might surprise you about that, Storm." Trying out his name for the first time, she liked how it sounded. She saw by the surprise in his eyes that he wasn't sure he did. "It’s obvious that I can’t stop you from going to Soul’s camp,” she said when he was silent. “I will go too but not with you. I’ll say I am there with the proofs for him to okay. We can try to fool him although I am not sure it’ll work.”

“You see him having supernatural powers.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not so much that but a man who has learned to read people better than most and he uses that."

"I wish you wouldn’t go.”