Hidden Pearl (20 page)

S.T. let Christine drive the Silverado to Portland because he was unable to hide from himself or her the fact that his ankle was painful and swollen enough that it had been all he could do to pull on his boot that morning. Looking up as Christine edged the truck into a parking space, S.T. saw Hank Brannigan's studio was in a renovated Victorian in one of Portland's eastside mixed business and residential neighborhoods.

Christine pulled the keys from the ignition but made no attempt to get out. "Before we meet Hank, I was wondering how I should introduce you."

"What do you mean?" Was she afraid to admit they had a relationship, wanted to pretend they were mere acquaintances? It wouldn't be the first time someone had hidden their personal connection to him. He wanted to think it didn't hurt, but he couldn't hide the expression.

"What's wrong?" She frowned and took hold of his arm before he could open his own door.

"How did you want to introduce me?” he asked.

Well, is it as Storm Walker or S.T.? " She pushed a heavy lock of his long, black hair behind his right ear.

His mouth dropped. "That’s all? Why does it matter?"

"Storm is how I’ve come to think of you. Hank would like that name… but if you prefer it can be S.T.”

"I don’t really give a damn either way. You see me as a half-breed?”

“I see you as you.” She shook her head. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you." She reached over and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. "Be nice," she ordered, then opened her door.

On the sidewalk leading to Brannigan's doorstep, S.T. wanted to walk tall, but instead, he limped badly, unable to force his leg to cooperate with his need to protect his pride, what little was left of it.

"Hey Chris," the tall, balding man said as he pulled open the door. "I wondered when you'd be back." When he looked behind her and saw S.T. his homely face broke into a broad grin. "Who's your friend? Hey, I already know you. Glad to meet you in the flesh so to speak." Brannigan struck out his hand.

“We met before?” S.T. asked taking Hank’s hand for a firm shake.

“In the photos Chris took. Beautiful shots." He tilted his head, studying S.T.'s face, then scanning down his body. "I wouldn’t mind shooting some studies of you myself. Gratis, of course."

Before S.T. could get past his surprise, Christine said, "You do remember I told you he doesn't take kindly to cameras? Where’s Jerry?"

"He’s out but should be back.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “In an hour or so. Why don’t you like having your picture taken? With a face like that, you owe it to the world." Hank barely seemed to blink as he studied S.T.’s face. "All those sharp bones and angles. I don't suppose you'd let me photograph you in buckskin maybe with a feather."

"You've got to be joking," S.T. shot back.

Hank laughed. “I do? Chris told me about you and the camera. Just like to joke around a little… Of course, if you’re open to no clothes on a river bank, I’m your guy. Anybody ever catch you buck naked?”

“Not with a camera." S.T began to recognize Hank's offbeat sense of humor and found at least a modicum of appreciation for it. He gave Christine a telling look. "At least I don't think so." She smiled innocently and said nothing.

"So what'd you do to your ankle?" Hank asked.

"Wrenched it," S.T. said.

"Or broke it," Christine put in. "He won't go to a doctor."

"Want me to look at it?"

"You a doctor as well as photographer?" S.T. asked. "Or do you just like looking at-- swollen flesh?"

Hank laughed loudly. "I was a medic in 'nam. Did a lot of quick patch-ups. Come on back to my kitchen. I'll take a look." Hank led the way down a narrow corridor to his private quarters, then glanced back. "You think about that modeling thing though. You could make good money at it."

The kitchen, a large yellow room with long, black-topped counters, glass fronted cupboards, a round oak table at one end, was filled with the fragrant smell of freshly brewed coffee. S.T. wondered how strong his will power was going to be. He'd always said he wanted to get off the brew. He'd gone since Friday morning without a cup, but did he now want to stay off it?

"If he changes his mind on the modeling," Christine said, linking her arm possessively with S.T.’s, "I have first dibs." For good measure, she added a firm grip on his biceps.

"So that's the way of it." Hank shook his head. "All the good ones are taken," he said, leaving it up to S.T. to decide how he meant that as he grinned like a tipsy leprechaun, which, with his bowling ball shaped bald head and slightly pointed, prominent ears, was how S.T. was beginning to see him.

"How about coffee?" Hank asked S.T., pouring Christine a cup.

S.T. felt the desire well up in him. One cup. What could one cup hurt? When he took it, he saw by the knowing expression in Christine's eyes that she hadn't forgotten his earlier comment that he would give up the brew. Just as well she be forewarned that where it came to will power, he didn't think his would take any awards.

"Sit down on that chair," Hank gestured. "We'll get that boot off and have a look at the injury."

Overriding S.T.’s protest, Christine and Hank soon had him seated, his boot painfully pried off, his sock removed, jeans rolled up his calf, and his foot resting on a chair, while Hank heated some sort of salts in a pan of water.

"Stick it in there," he said, lifting S.T.’s leg as though he wasn't capable of doing it for himself. When his foot met the water, he understood why the hand had been there. It was to keep his leg down and foot submerged.

"Ouch!" he yelped, hoping Hank would relent, but he didn't.

"Got to be hot. When this cools, we'll pack it in ice. Tomorrow you'll barely remember it happened."

"If I survive the burns.”

Hank glanced pointedly up. "You know," he said, "you two would look great together in a photo series--blond and dark, delicate and muscular. Quite a lot of neatly opposing angles." He lifted his eyebrows. "Maybe a wedding present--me to you."

Christine laughed. "Good grief, Hank, are you trying to chase him off?"

“Nah, just never can resist a joke.”

“We are going to need some help with computers when Jerry gets back.”

“He’s your man then.” Hank sat back, releasing S.T.’s leg, which since the water had cooled sufficiently, was no longer necessary to hold down.

An hour later when Jerry walked into the house, they did the polite introductions and then asked him about the computer problem. "We need to know how to get past a lock-out code, then interpret what I expect could be encoded information."

"You know that's illegal," Jerry said, scratching his chin as he sat back with a skeptical look.

"We don't want to steal anything," S.T. said.

"Don't matter. Prying in somebody's computer that way is against the law." S.T. thought for a moment Jerry would refuse to help them, but instead, he asked, "Why you want to do it?"

S.T. considered only a moment. Both men were entitled to know what this was about. The further he got from the compound, the more fantastic his suspicions felt. It wasn’t as though Soul had a widespread network, or did he?

Succinctly, he told them about The Servants of Grace, about his sister, the doubts regarding Lane Brown's death, his connection to this project, and finally, reluctantly, his own drugging.

When he'd finished, Jerry whistled. "That's some story."

Hank looked at Christine. "Soul that other guy you were photographing?" When she said he was, Hank nodded, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Do it for them, Jerry.”

Jerry studied them for a moment. “Okay... What's the time frame you expect to have?"

S.T. shrugged. "I’m guessing, of course. Anything from a couple of minutes to an hour, depending on what happens outside."

"Not enough."

"It has to be."

Christine hated listening to their talk and imagining S.T. stepping back into that compound. He wouldn't be able to talk his way out of it if he was caught in those files. Her feeling of the evilness in Soul returned to haunt her. If he was willing to use drugs with so little concern for their effects, what else might he be capable of? Poor Lane Brown.

She looked up when she realized Hank was asking her a question. "Could you repeat that?" she asked. “I was out in space.”

"Do you want to stay here until things straighten out?"

She looked from him to Storm. Decision time. How deeply did she want to be involved in this? "Why?" she asked to give herself a moment to think.

"It would be safer than your motel room. I don’t see Soul figuring out about your friends here," S.T. said without much expression. "It could be that if I get into the compound something will go wrong. If he finds out, the uh... situation could turn nasty, and to be honest, I'm not totally convinced he bought my story about why you helped me."

"So?"

"So, you'd be easy to find in a public hotel. Not so easy here at Hank's."

"You men have worked that all out. Taken care of my weak-willed female thinking for me? How tidy."

"Woman," S.T. growled, "you know it's not like that."

"Isn't it?" She was tired of him trying to make the decisions for both of them. Hadn't she been the one who had been right before about the danger of going into Soul's nest? Hadn't she protected him, almost literally dragged him from that danger? Hadn’t she lost her camera because of him? And she really loved the features on that camera, her familiarity with it. Whatever she bought to replace it might not have the same feel.

"Here, Hank and Jerry could protect you," S.T. said, not missing her anger, but bulling his way ahead anyway.

"Actually it won't be necessary because when you go back to the compound, so will I!"

His surprise quickly turned to a scowl. She repressed the grin it almost brought to her lips.

"You will not," he said through his teeth.

Hank interrupted the argument as he handed S.T. a towel to dry his foot, then an ice bag. "Hold this in place long as you can stand it. Let it go, put it back."

"Your treatment is worse than the injury.” He winced as he applied the ice to his overheated flesh.

Hank chuckled. "You want to walk on that soon, you do what old Doc Hank says." He grinned. "As for the other thing. We’re not going to get between the two of you, and sure not going to sit here and listen to you battle it out, 'specially not when I already know the last chapter; so, Jerry will hit the computer and see what he can figure out." Then they were gone and S.T. was left facing Christine, who quickly moved away from the table to rinse out her cup in the sink.

He was determined to try and sway her thinking. He propped his leg back up on a chair as he warily watched her. He debated what words might work. Impressing her with the danger would only convince her he shouldn't go either. He'd seen from past experience how hard it was to change her from a route she'd determined to take. Maybe he could convince her she'd be in the way. That would insult her. Better insulted than dead.

“Would you rather I was with you and you knew exactly where or prefer wondering when I was going to show up when you least expected it?” she asked before he could get in his first volley.