Hidden Pearl (7 page)

When the man raised his fist, S.T. was ready for him, grabbed the arm and twisted, spinning the man around so that his arm was pinned against his back. "What's your name?" S.T. hissed into his ear.

"Go straight to hell."

"No thanks. I've been there." He lifted a little on the pressure he'd placed on the arm. The man sucked in his breath. "Your name?"

"Petrovsky," the man grunted. "Ed Petrovsky."

"It's kind of strange you coming here like this. Maybe you know more about what happened to my sister than you've admitted. You one of her boyfriends?"

"I didn’t have the money for that," he said.

S.T., thinking the man was calmed down, stepped away from him, releasing the imprisoned arm, and immediately knew he'd made a mistake. Petrovsky swung on him, his fist connecting solidly with S.T.'s jaw.  S.T. tried to back away, escape the punishing blows, but another battering slam landed, half stunning him, throwing him against the motel wall.

"Fight, you coward," Petrovsky snapped. S.T. ducked the blow that followed the words, and this time landed a blow of his own solidly in Petrovsky's stomach. He decided he had to make this fight short and quick or the larger man would have him for lunch. Absorbing a slam to his stomach, S.T. retaliated by a quick series of jabs, then a punch intended to lay Petrovsky across the floor. It had done the trick with lesser men, but Petrovsky was built like a bull and only shook his head.

"Too bad you didn't... fight harder for her... when you had the chance," S.T. gasped as he continued landing punches and being knocked back by Petrovsky’s counterattack.

He wondered how long before the manager of the motel would be there with the police; then he remembered the kind of motel he'd checked into and decided there'd be no police.

"I did what I could," Petrovsky snarled.

S.T. groggily realized that the two of them were too evenly matched to end this fight soon or before they were both bloodied beyond recognition.

"I never even knew where my sister was," he grated out, landing another solid blow along with the words. "I was sixteen when I left home. I only saw her a couple of times... after that."

"Liar."

"Why would I lie?"

Petrovsky cursed as S.T. landed a punishing blow. Heaving for breath, Petrovsky stepped back, his arms hanging limply at his sides at least for the moment. "How come?"

"Life. It has a way of doing that." S.T. shrugged.  He wasn't about to give Petrovsky the life history he’d mistakenly told Christine.

Petrovsky backed away, then gingerly lowered himself to the bed, his hands finally resting limply on his knees, the violent gleam gone from his eyes, replaced by uncertainty.

S.T. examined his jaw to assure himself he hadn’t broken it. "Believe or not, it's your call; but I'm telling you the truth when I say I found out she was in Roseburg when my mother called me--Monday." He sat in the chair. By tomorrow he'd have too many bruises, abrasions and sore muscles to count. He narrowed his eyes, watching the cause of his misery as the big man appeared to mull over what he'd been told.

"Maybe I was wrong," Petrovsky growled, meeting S.T.'s gaze, his left eye swollen and beginning to discolor.

"Not about everything." S.T. felt a strange impulse of generosity. Petrovsky had obviously been concerned about Shonna, cared for her which was more than anybody else in this town appeared to have done. "I should have looked for her sooner," S.T. admitted, examining his teeth with his tongue and deciding they were probably all going to remain in his mouth. His dentist would be glad for that or maybe not.

"She was a stubborn woman," Petrovsky said. "She wouldn't let me help... Probably wouldn't have let you, even if you had found her. I was wrong to come gunning for you like this, just I felt so mad at what happened."

"And what was that?"

"How much you know about Shonna?"

S.T. considered a moment. "Not a lot. I did talk to the police."

Petrovsky nodded. "Then I guess you know."

"Not what happened six months ago," S.T. said. "Something changed in her life, but nobody I talked to knew her well enough to know what or why."

Petrovsky grunted, twisting his neck and wincing. "You got quite a left hook," he grumbled.

"You know what it was, don't you?"

"Maybe. Maybe not... Maybe it was him."

"Who?"

"The devil himself as far as I'm concerned."

S.T. got up carefully from the chair and walked into the bathroom, pouring a glass of water to rinse the blood from his mouth, then drink down without stopping for a breath. It had been a lot of years since he’d had a fistfight and he hoped many more before he had another.

He poured another glass for Petrovsky, handing it to him as he asked, "Who's the devil?"

"Got a place outside of town, runs some kind of church." Petrovsky's face twisted into a grimace. "He came around, talking to her, convincing her she needed to repent." He gulped the water.

"I'm not a religious man," S.T. said, sitting again, "but I can see where that might have been true. My sister's lifestyle looked like it was heading for disaster."

"Maybe so, but he didn't care about her. Just wanted control of her. He sucks people dry then spits them out. He wants control over everybody. He's no man of God, no matter what he says."

"What's his name? Maybe I can talk to him, ask him some questions."

Petrovsky looked away. "I said more than I should." He nearly stumbled over the words. "I don't want trouble."

"From who? A man of God? You're a large man. I'd think the last thing you'd worry about would be a preacher." S.T. was nearly certain the reverend in question had to be Peter Soul, the man who had written the books Shonna was reading, but he wanted to hear it from Petrovsky.

"Maybe some but not that one. If he ain't the devil himself, he's in league with him. If you're half as quick with your mind as you are your fists, you'll leave this all be. I don't know he did anything to Shonna. Maybe he really did save her like he told her he could. Maybe she’s up there with him."

"A minute ago, you figured I had deserted her. Now you want me to desert her. From the books in her room, I am guessing it’s Peter Soul you’re talking about."

"In this town, you'll only hear two things about him. He's a henchman of the devil or he's an angel of mercy. Shonna figured he was the last... I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"If I come back to town, where can I find you?" S.T. asked as he watched Petrovsky rise stiffly from the bed. Neither of them were going to much enjoy the next few days.

"What for?"

"I will find out where Shonna is. I thought you might want to know."

The big man seemed to consider. "You got something to write with?" he asked, then wrote a phone number on the paper. He looked up with a faint smile that was at least half grimace. "I ain't gone up against many fighters could stand the distance with me. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"I'm a breed, remember. It’s good training." Petrovsky looked at him, nodded, then was gone.

S.T. went back into the bathroom and looked at his damaged body. Where there weren't bruises, there were abrasions. He took another shower to wash off the blood and sweat. When he'd toweled off, he lay on his bed considering all he'd been told about Shonna. The pieces fit, but weren’t answers as to what happened to her.

Edgy, wishing he had some aspirin, S.T. opened one of the Cokes, then reached for the newspapers. A local paper wasn't particularly thick and he tackled it first. The cover story caught his attention.

"Reverend Soul turned my life around," read the lead. S.T. skimmed the article about how the pastor had helped a handicapped man who was suicidal want to live again, given him a job, rejuvenated his life. The last paragraph was so laudatory, that it might as well have been referring to Mother Theresa.

"I would have killed myself," Richard Brenna told the reporter, "but now I know I have something to live for, that God cares about me. I just wish everyone could find what I have through Pastor Soul. He's a modern prophet. Anything I can do to further his ministry is going to be my lifework."

The article ended by promising that for the next month there would be more articles on Peter Soul from the perspective of those in the community who were being touched by his life—whether positive or negatively.

S.T. stared at the diverging cracks in the ceiling. Outside he could smell the odors from a nearby pizzeria, traffic was going by the window, and down the street he heard a couple arguing. Those sensations were clear, not confused, but the truth of Reverend Soul seemed beyond simple analysis.

  S.T. knew he would meet him because he now believed Soul held the answer to where Shonna went. He wouldn’t meet him though without more information. He would go back to Portland in the morning and Monday set his secretary to looking up everything she could find on this self-ordained modern prophet. Only then would he come back and confront him.

He turned out the lights; but instead of thinking of Shonna's apparent disappearance or the enigma of Peter Soul, he thought of Chris Johnson. It had been a long time since he'd daydreamed about a woman, yet he found himself doing just that about the blond photographer. It was foolish to think about her, to look forward to seeing her, talking to her again.

At an early age, he’d learned to not care too much, not get too interested in any woman. The lesson had been reinforced throughout his life. He would see Ms. Johnson on Monday, approve the photographs of him--no matter how awful they were--then make sure he never thought about her again.

#

"Wait until you hear him speak," Sharon, painfully thin, young and so enthusiastic, whispered to Christine. "You will be so in awe. First Day services are always special here."

Christine managed a smile. After two days spent with Soul and his people, she didn't doubt Sharon's words—where it came to the congregation anyway. She had learned people in Soul's inner sanctum were all disciples of him as much or more than of anyone or anything else. They believed totally, to the point of mindless adoration. She'd yet to learn the last name of one of them and wasn’t even sure their names were birth names. It was as though they were reborn when they'd become members of the ministry.

She had come to wonder again and again how anyone could accept another human being with such mindless worship, but she knew from the rapt expression on Sharon's narrow face as she stared at the pastor sitting on the small dais that it was true of her. Love? Not of the sort a woman felt for a man, but something equally strong and compelling locked these people into Soul's realm.

Christine turned to look around the auditorium. The overall complex for the Servants of Grace was little more than a huge, metal warehouse, one end broken into hallways, cubicles for offices, cafeteria, and sleeping areas. At the other end there was this big, square room. Currently it was filled with what seemed nearly a thousand people sitting on folding metal chairs, faces rapt at the song they were singing. There was no way to deny the spiritual power she felt charging through the room. Exactly what it was was more debatable.

She watched Peter Soul as he listened intently to the singing, not singing himself, his eyes closed.  She wished she knew what he was thinking, then decided she didn't. When his blue eyes opened, he appeared to see beyond the room, beyond the people before him.

When the song ended, Soul strode to the podium, grasped it with both hands. An open Bible was before him but he didn't look at it. All eyes in the room seemed glued to him, waiting and he waited with them. His breaths were steady, seemingly pulling air into his lungs as his jaw clenched, then relaxed.