Hidden Pearl (43 page)

He wished he had a plan that he felt impressed by, something innovative and encouraging, but he couldn't seem to come up with one. He had decided to leave George gagged and chained to something solid down the road. It would give him a possible advantage of surprise, which he would need since he would be facing at the least three goons, four if he counted Soul, and there was always the question of how many of the ones he'd come to think of as brain-dead might join in a battle. The odds weren't in his favor, but every time he tried to come up with a better plan, he was stymied. It came down to--go in, get Christine and Hank, and get out. Not much, just everything.

#

Soul sat across the dinner table from Christine. His silent staring made her uneasy. "You are so beautiful," he said finally. "The candlelight seems to light up your hair. It's like liquid gold flowing down your back that way. You should always wear it loose."

"It tangles too easily," she said, taking a sip of water.

"And the dress I gave you. It is as perfect on you as I knew it would be."

"I appreciate it," she said, except she didn't. She wished she was wearing her jeans and sweater, anything except these delicate sandals and this filmy white thing that seemed so insubstantial, but to not yield to his desires in such a simple thing would have alerted his suspicions.

"Did you like the dinner? You didn't eat much."

"I was worried about--Hank. You did tell me he was being given food tonight?"

"Of course, my dear. I wouldn't hurt a friend of yours."

She managed to smile at that, her heart racing as his eyes seemed to penetrate her dress, to get beneath her skin. Why didn't he know what she felt for him was revulsion, not love? He seemed to intuit so many things, but in this he was fortunately blind, or was he pretending?

Christine rose from the table and walked to the window, staring out into the darkness. Where was S.T.? When he got back, she would have to do something to stop Soul from carrying out his plan. To imagine the vital, alive Storm Walker turned into a vegetable was intolerable. She would die herself first.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, walking up behind her.

"What is your church going to look like?" she lied, as she struggled to think of subjects to talk about that might distract him from the rapacious gleam she saw in his eyes. He was not quite touching her, but his very presence so close was intimidating.

"The body is the very temple of God,” he said. "I have been foolish to think I needed a temple that was made of bricks and wood. What I really needed was a holy, pure shrine to worship at, one that was alive and breathing."

She sucked in a breath. Could she hold him off, keep him away from her? He'd said he wanted to marry a pure woman. "I told you," she said, "how I feel about marriage. How I will save everything for the man I someday marry."

"But if that man is here," he said, putting his hands on her shoulder, running his fingers down her bare arms. "Then why wait?"

"Men have said that to me before."

"You are like a precious pearl, a shell around you, protecting your inner gifts, inside soft and lush, with the purity of that white pearl."

It took every bit of courage she possessed to remain where she was. "I am just a woman," she said when she thought she could speak without her voice breaking in fear.

"You are a goddess and a fit mate for a god," he whispered, nuzzling the lobe of her ear.

"You said it mattered to wait until we married. Don’t you want to marry a pure woman?"

"Well, I'm glad you had the discernment to not give away that which can only be plucked once, the precious rose of your love. I want to kiss you," he said, pressing his lips against the base of her neck.

"I can't think about that now," she whispered. "I need to know my friends are safe, that everything is all right. Then we can talk about the future."

He moved away, his stride quick and angry. "Your friends? Or that half-breed?" His mood had changed instantly. From the cajoler, he became the accuser, and the change frightened her as much as the words.

"Hank is my friend too."

"But he isn't the man in your heart, is he?" he asked. "I haven't wanted to believe you would deceive me, but you have. You give me nothing, but I know you'd give it all to him. Perhaps you already did."

"I didn't," she lied. She didn't want his anger to turn against S.T.

"Do you really think to convince me you don't love him?"

"I don't know how I could do that. You either trust me or you don't." She moved away from the window to stand opposite him, the table between them. Was he going to become violent?

He studied her, his eyes thoughtful, his breaths coming quickly. "Perhaps I was wrong about you too," he said finally.

She lifted her chin and stepped back. She remembered a vase on one of the end tables. Calming herself, she forced a smile on her lips. She needed a weapon and she needed to divert his attention. "Maybe there are ways I could prove my loyalty," she whispered.

His eyes darkened as he moved around the table toward her. "There are," he said. "If you gave yourself to me, I'd know then that you were mine in all ways."

She took a deep breath as she felt the end table against the back of her legs. "You'd think less of me," she said, putting her hands behind her back and casting her eyes down as though shyly insecure and uncertain. She no longer believed she could talk her way out of this and as through her lashes she watched him move closer to her, she closed her fingers around the piece of pottery.

"Christine," he murmured, "I knew you'd come to see my way was best. We need each other."

"I don't know. I want to believe you, but..." She looked up then into those gray eyes, saw the fire behind the pupils and almost felt paralyzed. She forced herself to smile, to wet her lips. He put his arms out, as though to clasp her to him, and she brought the vase down on his head as hard as she could.

His eyes closed, he seemed to topple, then straighten. She shifted to the right, saw a lamp and hit him with that, finally seeing him fall to the ground. She jumped back biting down on her lip to keep from crying out. It was the second time she’d hit a man in violence. She couldn’t afford to think of that nor could she afford hysterics. She had to get Hank, get the gun, meet George in the driveway, save S.T.

Remembering how S.T. had bound the men who had attacked them, she bent over Soul, and loosened his belt. She felt repulsed at touching him, but she pulled his wrists behind his back and fastened them as best she could. It wouldn't stop him for long, but it would delay him when he regained consciousness. She looked at him again. Would he regain consciousness? Had she killed him? His breathing seemed regular, which meant she wouldn’t have long before he would regain his senses. To give herself a little more time, she pulled him behind the table, so he wouldn't be visible to anyone glancing in the room.

She smoothed her hair, took a deep breath, opened the door knob, then pushed the lock button as she walked through, so that no one would be easily walking into that room. In the hall, a guard stood at the opposite end and looked up.
Only guilty people run.
She smiled and walked toward him.

"Peter said I could see Hank for a few moments. Would you show me the way and come along to protect me?" she asked, knowing he would never let her go any other way.

He looked questioningly at her, his leering gaze on her body under the thin dress. Her request obviously wasn't on his list. Probably the dress decided him. "Guess that can't hurt anything. Where's the Reverend?"

"He got a phone call. I gathered it was important." She smiled again. "He said he'd be awhile. Could we go now?"

He hesitated another precious second, then led the way down the hall to the steps that led to the basement. In a room not much larger than a closet, he opened the door to reveal Hank lying on a pallet.

She sucked in her breath, shocked at his apparent condition. "He's ill," she cried. "Has he been seen by a doctor?"

The guard stared in at Hank's limp form. "No... I don't think so. He was okay earlier."

"Well, he's obviously not now. You’re going to have to call a doctor."

"I don't know if I can do that."

"You can’t just let this man die."

The guard stared at Hank again, then back at Christine. "Okay... I'll see what I can find out."

As soon as he was gone, Hank sat up as Christine had prayed he would.

“You’re all right?” she questioned as he rose and walked to the door.

“Right as rain, if we get out of here now.”

"I hit Soul over the head, knocked him out, but if the guard finds him or he regains consciousness, we have to be gone."

Hank beat her to the door. “I been exercisin’,” he said, “when nobody could see me. I figured we’d have to move fast when we got the chance." They walked into the empty hall, waiting only long enough to close the door, then headed for the backstairs. "Where's S.T.?" Hank asked.

"He and George aren't back yet. Sharon told me that Soul plans on giving him some kind of drug that could destroy his brain. We have to get to the gun Storm hid."

Hank cursed. "How much time you figure we've got?"

"Less than half an hour, I’d guess," she said as she opened the back door, and they slipped out into the darkness. "It'll depend on how traffic was."

They began moving as fast as they could through the darkness as they tried to orient themselves by moonlight as to where they were and where they needed to go.

"This isn't going to be easy," Hank said as Christine stumbled over a root.

"We don't have any choice," she muttered, suppressing her own curse. "If only he hadn't made me wear this ridiculous dress and shoes."

Hank looked at her then. In the light of a full moon, she knew she was reflecting like a beacon. White pearl indeed, spotlight was more like it.

"What was he up to?" Hank asked.

"Seduction, I think, was uppermost on his mind," she muttered, trying to go faster and again tripping. The dainty little sandals were all but useless, but bare feet on this rugged country wouldn't get her far either.

Hank cursed again. "I'd like to brain him one myself."

She hoped Soul's men hadn't moved S.T.’s Silverado. If it was gone, her first plan would be no good. She told it to Hank anyway. "If we can get the Silverado started, we can angle the truck across the road to stop George, but that won't do us much good if we can't get hold of a weapon."

"Even a tire iron would be good," Hank said, putting out a hand to steady her when she again tripped.

"This is hopeless," she gasped, near to tears. "I can't keep up with you. You go ahead, find the gun and get the truck. I'll meet you back by the main road."

He stopped and looked at her. "And what are you going to do if I don't get back in time? Use that dress as a banner?"

"I'll stop him however I have to," she said, clenching her jaw. She smiled at him, adding, "Hopefully you'll be back by then with the gun and/or the Silverado."

He stared at her a moment, then began a loping run into the darkness.

#

Having left a secured George a quarter mile from the buildings, S.T. was only half-aware he was preparing for battle as his ancestors might have. He fashioned part of the ruins of his shirt into a headband to keep his hair from his eyes, kept George’s knife in his hand, then circled around the compound to come in from a direction they wouldn’t be expecting. Although he knew Hank was in the basement, if Soul's men caught him before he got Christine out of this, nothing else would matter; so he headed first for the area of the complex where he suspected she'd be held.