Hidden Pearl (30 page)

S.T. sucked in a breath and cursed himself for being thrice a fool. When Jocelyn showed up, he should have gotten Christine out of there. As it was, she was upstairs asleep, his gun on the stand beside his bed. By the time he got to either of them, the fire would be lit.

He watched another moment, determined there were three of them. Too many, but there was no choice. Surprise would count for something in improving the odds. He lunged forward, slamming his body into the one closest, the one pouring the gasoline. The man let out a gusty breath as he was sent sprawling to the ground.

"What's going on?" another voice said, running toward them.

S.T. let out a yell, loud enough to wake the dead, hopefully loud enough to wake Christine and get her out of the house. He only prayed she would run when she realized what had happened, because he knew he didn’t have a chance of defeating three men bent on mayhem.

Half asleep, Christine forced her eyes open. What had she heard? An Indian war cry. Had she been dreaming? Where was Storm, then she heard the other voices. They'd been found. She threw back the covers and ran from her room. She was half way down the stairs when she realized she'd be of no help to S.T.  without a weapon. In the living room, she grabbed the fireplace poker, then threw open the front door, running toward the sounds of a struggle.

In the darkness, she recognized S.T.'s form as he grappled with a smaller man.  Scared to death at the sounds of violence, the fists landing, the grunts of pain, she reacted only when she saw a man trying to get behind S.T.

Lifting her poker as high as she could, Christine ran forward, bringing it down with all her strength on the man's back. He staggered and she hoped she'd knocked him out, but he turned then, facing her, coming toward her. She screamed, backing up, the poker behind her back.

"Hey, I won't hurt you," the man grunted. When he lunged, she lashed out again with the poker, sending him flat out. This time she'd hit his head. She worried for a second that she'd killed him, but the fear was instantly taken away by hearing a grunt of pain from S.T. She turned toward him just as he kicked out, landing his foot squarely in his attacker's stomach. That was followed by several successful blows to the assailant’s midriff and he was lying flat.

Christine ran to S.T. He was wheezing for breath but still managed to gasp out, "You should've... run."

"I did," she said, reaching out to touch his cheek. It felt sticky with blood.

"Were there just two of them?" she asked, looking nervously beyond him.

"Three," he panted, gesturing toward another shape on the lawn. "We have to get out of here." He bent beside the man he'd knocked out.

"What are you doing?" she asked, feeling incapable of moving.

He pulled the man's belt from his pants and used it to lash his hands behind his back. "Buying us some time. Get in the house," he ordered. "Get our stuff, the computer, the gun, back the Silverado out of the garage. There might be more of them."

She turned then and sprinted for the house, aware for the first time that she'd run to his aid in bare feet and her sleeping T-shirt. Suddenly she was shivering with cold.

In the house, she rushed to her room, pulled on jeans and a sweater, then her boots, grabbed her purse and camera, their clothing, and the gun. She threw all she could carry into the Silverado, then returned for the computer and extra drives. Moments later she'd opened the garage door and backed the Silverado out.

S.T.  waited for her by the fallen men, slinging open the passenger. He had secured their attackers as well as he could, but it wouldn't hold them long after they came to their senses.

Christine had smelled the gasoline, realized what the men had come to do and felt a renewed surge of fear as she thought of what would have happened if S.T. hadn't heard them. "Will they still burn the house?" she asked.

He held his hand to his ribs, trying to ease the pain. "Not with us gone. No point," he managed, his breath not coming easily. He guessed he'd cracked a rib--at the least.

"Are you all right?" She glanced over at him, trying to determine in the darkness how badly he’d been hurt.

He carefully shrugged into his shirt, not bothering to button it. "Are you?"

She stopped to evaluate that. "I’m fine. I can't believe I hit that man."

"What did you use?"

"A poker."

He shook his head, then wished he hadn't when his neck spasmed. Lately it seemed he was getting himself banged up every time he turned around and it made him mad.

"I hit him as hard as I could," Christine said, “but hope I didn’t kill him.”

He scowled at her.  "He was trying to kill us."

"I know, but— Do you think Soul sent them?"

"Unlikely. I don’t think he wants us dead. This smacks of George. His idea of getting rid of us and evidence. Christine, you should get on a plane for San Francisco as soon as we can get you a ticket.”

She ignored that as beneath comment. “How badly are you hurt?”

"Other than a cracked rib and some bruises, I’m fine." He didn’t mention being slammed alongside his head, didn’t feel that mattered.

"So we need to find an all night clinic.”

“I don’t need a doctor. What I can’t seem to do is get it through to you that you need to go to California. I’ll call you when it’s all straightened out.”

“Like that’s going to happen.”

"This attack tells me that, unless it was unrelated to our snooping which I consider unlikely, we have two different operatives in this and we have to be ready for either. Correction—I. I really want you out of it. I go nuts when I think something might happen to you.”

"Like I’m crazy to see men hitting you. I know you want me to leave. You have said it. Now you have to understand I am not going anywhere at least until I know you’re safe too."

"Woman, don’t be a fool --"

She interrupted. "If I want to be a fool, I will be one. I care about solving this as much as you do. I didn’t like hitting a man with a fireplace poker, but I am glad I did… even though I didn’t want to kill him despite what you might think I should want. Incidentally, you didn’t kill anybody either, did you?"

"Not that I know of," he said through set teeth.

"You need a doctor to look at your ribs!"

"Heaven help me.”

#

The sun rising made Christine aware she'd been driving several hours, and she still didn't know where to go. She cast a surreptitious glance toward S.T.  who had been sleeping fitfully for the last hour or so and wished she hadn't. In the dawning light, she saw that the damage to him --dried blood, cuts, swollen lumps, growing bruises, his arm still protectively cradling his ribs. He needed medical help, food, somewhere safe to rest, and she didn't know where she could find any of that. Who could they trust? Had Jocelyn, the Bailey’s neighbor been one of Soul’s followers or had they found them some other way?

She and S.T. hadn't been able to talk about anything sensibly because every other word out of either of their mouths was angry. She supposed their brush with death made that to be expected. Except, wasn't great danger supposed to bring people closer, not tear them apart? Regardless of what the stories she'd read said about reaction to trauma, it appeared for them every time they faced danger and survived, they ended up fighting afterward. She debated for a moment whether that was her fault or S.T.'s but since there was no way to decide the issue, she left it to go back to the real problem--where could they go?

They were a few miles out of Sisters, a small, Eastern Oregon town. Whatever else they would do, here they had to get gas. She shot another nervous look at the nearly empty gas gauge. She hoped the attendant wouldn't look too closely at the sleeping man beside her and start asking questions.

"S.T."

"Uh..." He groaned, opened his eyes or at least the most serviceable one. "Where are we?" he asked, grimacing as he straightened to look around.

"Sisters. We need gas. Are you going to be okay?"

He met her gaze, his eyes cloudy with sleep and pain. He nodded.

The attendant was either as sleepy as S.T. or he was used to seeing a lot of unusual people in his station because he gave S.T. no more than a quick glance.

"Where should we go? We can't keep driving forever,” Christine said after they were back on the highway.

"I know that," he snapped. He ran his fingers through his hair.

"How about Hank's?"

"Drag him into this?"

"I don't see how it would do that. How could they find out about Hank?"

He sucked in a breath as he shifted in the car seat. "How did they find the cabin?"

"If they can do that, he's in danger anyway. Better we let him know how much."

He considered that a moment, unconsciously rubbing his side. "I guess I don't have a better idea."

"Sometimes I get the feeling you only listen to me when every other possibility has already been proven wrong."

"You're still determined to fight, aren't you?"

“Since we met, you’ve done nothing but tell me all the reasons I shouldn’t want to be with you. Shoving that half-breed talk down my throat until I’m sick of hearing it. Me thinks the man doth protest too much."

Before he could respond, she made a low throaty sound, one that didn't indicate pleasure. "I've done everything I can to help you, to convince you I don't feel that way. I'm tired of groveling!”

He gave a short, angry laugh. "Groveling? Are we talking about you? Is that the woman who pushed her way into my office, shoved her way into my life?"

He didn't add stole his heart because he was unwilling to give her that much leverage over him, but he knew it was true. Seeing her running into the fight, poker raised to defend him, had taken away his last doubts about his own feelings. The fact that they were impossible did nothing to take away the yearnings. He could only cover them with anger, and he was doing the best he could to hold onto that.

"All right then, master," she said her voice cold enough to freeze ice cubes, "where do you think we should go? I can't keep driving forever. You need to have your ribs checked. We need food. In your superior wisdom, what do you suggest?"

He scowled at her and tried to think. Going to his friends didn't seem like a good idea. Soul had found out about the Bailey’s cabin. What else did he know? She was right, not that he wanted to admit that. They needed to take a chance with someone they trusted and Hank came as close to that as anyone he could imagine.

"All right," he muttered.

"What? I didn't hear that."

Her tone was sarcastic and made it less than tempting to repeat his admission, but he did it anyway. "You’re right. We'll go to Hank's. It's the only place I can think of either."

"Complete capitulation," she retorted, casting him what he interpreted as a gloating glance. "I can hardly believe it."

"Neither can I." He closed his eyes, hoping he could sleep again but doubting it because of the protesting muscles and injuries. He remembered now why he'd stopped getting in fights as a kid. Win or lose, his body always lost.

#

Christine parked the Silverado four blocks from Hank's studio. “What’s wrong?” he asked looking around and trying to assess if there was danger.