Hidden Pearl (33 page)

#

S.T. watched through a crack in the office door, Christine leaning against his back, as Hank opened the outside door and admitted two men in business suits. They projected the image and authority of government agents. They were images that would have been more successful if one of them hadn't had a bandage over his nose, indicating recent damage.

"What can I do for you boys?" Hank asked. "You know I'm closed 'til tomorrow morning."

"This won't take long." The taller of the two men flashed ID at Hank. "We're with ATF and looking for some information."

"I got a bottle of Scotch in the back cupboard. Other than that, I don't think I can help you," Hank said.

"Funny," broken nose said.

"Again, what can I do for you?"

"We have reason to think some friends of yours are in trouble. Christine Johnson and S.T. Taggert."

"I know a Christine Johnson. Other name doesn’t ring a bell," Hank said, leaning back against a desk. "What kind of trouble's she in?"

"She try to get in touch with you over the last week?"

Hank shook his head. "What's the problem?"

"There’s been a report that she has disappeared."

"Did you check her home in Palo Alto?"

The tall man stared hard at him, then looked around the studio. "We called her folks. They hadn’t heard from her.”

“Wish I could help you.”

“You aren’t worried about her?”

“Christine is more like a casual friend. I have no reason to worry about her.”

“You should try calling her.”

Hank laughed. “Christine and I share a profession, not a life. I think I’d like to know a little bit more about why you want to find her.”

Broken nose glared at him. “When did you last see her?”

Hank hesitated, as though thinking. “A week or two ago she was here developing some prints. I don’t know. Maybe a little longer. She didn’t live with me, you know.”

"She leave anything behind?"

Hank smiled. “Like what did you have in mind? Nylons or something?”

When the tall man straightened his shoulders, S.T. sucked in his own breath. Hopefully Hank wouldn’t push his lack of cooperation to the point where the men would get aggressive.

“Look,” Hank was saying with a smile, “She never even said she was planning on coming back here. Photographers like her tend to be flighty. You call her magazine to see if it’s a new assignment. Hope you didn’t scare her folks."

Before broken nose could get more aggressive in his questions, Jerry walked through the door. Jerry even in a good mood was a big, potentially mean looking man. What he saw had not put him in a good mood.

“Who’re you?” the tall man asked.

“More to the point, who are you?” Jerry asked straightening to his full, impressive height.

“We’re going. Just trying to follow up on something.”

“You boys got badge numbers?”

Broken nose headed quickly for the door, his compatriot not far behind him. On the step, Hank said, "Tell you boys what; if I hear from her, give me a phone number or something I can have her call."

The man grabbed a card from his pocket, then scribbled a number on it which S.T. was relatively sure would be a worthless number. “Tell her to call and we’ll give her protection."

"Protection? She need that?” Hank asked playing dumb. “Really sorry we can’t help you. Jer, dinner’s about ready."

"Yeah well," broken nose said, "you remember to tell her to call."

"It seems unlikely, but if I do, I'll tell her."

When the door closed, Hank shot the bolt, then pulled the slatted shutters closed, locking them too. Jerry looked mystified as Christine and S.T. came out of the office. "Great," she muttered, "now they've upset my parents."

"That is if they really called them," S.T.  said. "It could be they're hoping you'll call and they can trace it."

"How do I find out?" she asked, pacing the room. "I can't have my folks panicking about this."

"Where does your dad work?"

"He's at Stanford."

"Call there tomorrow, leave a message if you have to. They can't trace everything."

"Okay." She sucked in a breath.

"Let’s see if this is even a real number," Hank suggested, holding out the card for S.T. to look at. The card said Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, but there was no name of an agent printed on it. S.T. thought it looked like one they could have had made off a home computer—assuming theirs didn’t have the black screen of death. "I'd be willing to bet this is a message service number," he said, handing it back to Hank.

"You think they'll be back?"

"Maybe, more likely not yet anyway. They're fishing. Don't want to stir up anything more than they have to."

"Were they the men who tried to burn the Bailey cabin?" Christine asked.

"Although it was dark, I'd bet money on it--at least broken nose."

"Wonder where the third one is?" She shivered again, remembering the sound of the poker striking his skull. "You don't think I killed him, do you?"

"Unlikely. Three would have been suspicious. He might’ve even been one of these two.” He put his arm around her drawing her close. She wrapped her arms around his waist.

Violence, even that which she was capable of doing frightened her. She didn't like the feeling of the gun S.T. had jammed into the back of his jeans. She gritted her teeth as she reminded herself it would be over. Then life could go back to normal. Whatever that would mean after meeting Storm Walker Taggert.

#

“When are we leaving?” Hank asked as they sat at the kitchen table eating his spaghetti.

"First I have a question for you," S.T. said. "What's this thing about you and guns."

"Nothing. I just don't like them. I saw enough in “Nam of what one can do to a man's guts to not want them around."

"Maybe you ought to think twice about going with us then."

"I didn't volunteer to carry a gun. So when do we go?"

"We'll wait for Sunday when he's giving his little brainwashing sessions. That'll give us time to take care of a few things first."

"Work?"

"I ought to call my office, but no, it's putting the computer and what we found somewhere safe.”

Jerry smiled. “I didn’t hear a thing. In fact I better not hear anything more from now on. Heading to bed with a book.” He sketched a wave to his partner. “Just be careful, you hear?” The look he gave him was part warning and part loving.

“Now explain this to me,” Christine said when he had gone. “Bargaining chip for what?”

“In case things don’t work out as we hope with Plan A.”

“I don’t like to hear that.”

“Which part?”

She gave him a look as Hank stuffed a chunk of French bread into his mouth before agreeing. “That is something that could be stolen—even by somebody unrelated to the Soul deal.”

"I have a safety deposit box. It’ll be easy enough to put them there."

"What if… well if it goes wrong for all of us when there? They won't do anybody any good in a bank," Christine argued.

“It’s not going to go that bad. If we find even one grave, the police will be eager to look over the evidence, maybe the real ATF will even be interested, but if for some reason we run afoul of those guys, we can use our possession of them as a bargaining tool."

"Assuming we get a chance to do some talking," Hank quipped.

S.T. shrugged. "It's risky, but I think we’re working against a check and checkmate type of adversary."

“Who you think your adversary is?” Jerry asked, taking a sip of wine.

S.T. shrugged. “Originally I thought Peter Soul. Now it seems as likely to be George. Maybe they work at cross purposes sometime which might or might not help us.”

"Strategies, point and counterpoint, tactics and reactions," Hank mused, then grinned. "I like it, but there's another consideration. From what you've said, it sounds like there are a lot of people up there. Didn't you say some of the followers live at the compound, not counting all the ones in the neighborhood?"

"True, but most of them are mindless victims themselves."

"You think they've got that figured out?" Hank asked an amused glint in his eyes.

“Probably not, but the question is can Soul count on them?"

"We have more at stake."

“The stakes are high for all of us. Look, if you’ve got a better idea, I’m open to hearing it.”

Hank shook his head. “Lay it out for me, brother.”

"There is correspondence that indicates some gun trading, now the names of four missing people, none of which do I think is going to cut it with the cops. My bet is, other than the pastor, the names represent people like Shonna--they slip through the woodwork, have a way of running out on problems, don't hold down steady jobs. In short when the police hear they've vanished, they figure--A. good riddance, B. they've run off to escape debts or enemies, C. will show up tomorrow, or D. all of the above."

"I thought you were a builder, not an expert on the forgotten citizenry of America," Hank said, pushing his glasses back on his nose to skeptically eye S.T.

"
My lost soul
credentials come from growing up with an alcoholic father, who had a way of disappearing from time to time. It pretty well prepared me to go looking for Shonna and hear the same things. More than nine out of ten times the authorities are right. The other times they just wait for a body to surface."

"That's terrible," Christine said with a shudder.

Hank turned and looked at her. "Life can be that way," he said, heading for the cupboard. "Anybody want some more vino?"

S.T. shook his head. "I'd face double jeopardy if I took up the bottle," he said.

Hank looked at the bottle in his hand. "We have a lot in common, my friend." He shoved the bottle back in the cupboard, then looked at S.T. "My father died of liver failure. I think after 'Nam maybe I got a little too attached to it myself. My ex-wife used it as the excuse for our divorce."

"Was it?"

"Only partly." He grinned.

Christine picked the dishes off the table. She took them to the sink and began rinsing them. "Why don't you get a dishwasher, Hank?" she asked as she filled the sink with hot sudsy water.

"It's somewhere down my list of priorities," he said. "Buy a house this old and it needs a little bit of everything to keep it propped up."

"It's a good set-up though," S.T. said, picking up a dishtowel.

"You're going to dry?" Christine asked, looking at him skeptically.

"So what's wrong with that?"

She grinned. With the dishcloth in his large hands, the image and contrast between domestic and wild was awesome--thick, black hair flowing onto broad shoulders, biceps carved and angled like a Rodin sculpture, a T-shirt stretched to its limit by a muscular chest, a torso that tapered to narrow hips, sinewy thighs in blue jeans, legs widely spread, leading the eye down to strong bare feet. She wasn't surprised when she saw the flash of Hank's camera.