Hidden Pearl (8 page)

"All of us are searching for something," he began, his powerful voice easily carrying through the room as though on a wave of energy. "The Christ said, 'The kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls: Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it.' We are all like that man, searching for that one illusive thing. What is it? Some search for peace, others power, money, some love. Men sell all they possess for these things. They yield their souls, their very being and in the end, what have they?"

He looked around the room as though the answer might be seen out there. Christine couldn't help but be awed by his oratory, the sheer power with which he held the people rapt, waiting as though for the pearl of which he had spoken, the pearl of his words. Thusly might they have looked at those who had begun the great religions.

She had to remind herself of the instinctive repulsion she'd felt regarding this man, because now he was like a magnet drawing her along with everyone else into his thrall as he expounded on the verse he'd recited, telling them that wisdom was that pearl, that others had found that wisdom, that it continued to be brought to man today through God’s prophets. Clearly he regarded himself as one of those.

As he spoke, he used the Scripture, he spoke about God, about man's need for God, but Christine knew something was missing, something she tried to put her finger on as he spoke of giving up our individual wills for the greater one of God. Peter Soul's smile was beatific when he finally stepped back from the podium and allowed the director of singing to lead the people in the last song. Listening to the words of a hymn Christine recognized, it was one that played right into the words of the message. Give your all to the greater good. She couldn’t help but think about another religious leader, Jim Jones and his temple of doom. This kind of adoration could easily lead to that tragic outcome.

The people were then directed to their knees for a final prayer. Soul again stepped to the podium. He looked around the room, his gaze finally resting on Christine who was taking photographs and not kneeling. "We must repent of our rebellion, our times of doubt. Kneeling is humbling, think of the things you've done, the times you've rejected God's words. Dig to those depths within yourself, then ask forgiveness and vow to make today a better day than yesterday."

Christine hoped her camera’s click would not be disturbing to the devout but she was compelled to capture what she saw. She moved to one side, glad for her telephoto as she shot some of Soul as he prayed aloud, eyes turned skyward.

She could see what it was like for the others but for her, she had never felt farther from God in her life. Although she was not remotely devout, she always felt a connection to spirit but not here. Whatever was here, she had never experienced it before and was eager to escape from it.

Her next shots were of the faithful rising, hugging each other, crying. Sharon came to Christine and put her arms around her. Christine hugged her back but felt an urge to warn her to flee. She didn’t say it as she knew it would do no good. All she could think of was how soon she could leave, get away from this negative energy, that like a black hole was pulling everything toward the center where Soul stood.

Then he began walking toward her. She knew he was going to hug her before he stretched out his arms and she let him do it. His body was hard against hers, his skin cool and he held her longer than felt comfortable, but she didn’t break away. When he finally stepped back, she swallowed back her feeling of revulsion and again met his gaze.

"You will go," he said.

She nodded, afraid to trust her voice.

"But you will be back."

She wanted to shake her head, to say no, but something held stopped her Instead she said. "Of course, I will let you see the photos I took. If I don’t return, I will mail them."

"You will return." With that, he was gone and she was free to escape the oppressive environment, flee the sounds of people saying they loved each other, sounds of warmth and caring but that felt neither warm nor caring.

Outside, sucking in a breath of fresh air, staring up at the blue sky above, the white cloud that floated above the grounds of the church, it took a moment for Christine to realize Sharon had followed her.

"Isn't he so totally brilliant?" Sharon asked with a warm smile.

Christine thought of what she could say honestly. "He is a powerful speaker."

Sharon bubbled over. "Oh I know. He absolutely turned my life around, most of the people in that room too. We were all lost, but now we're saved."

Christine turned away to hide her grimace. Saved from what, for what? She shivered and wrapped her arms around her waist.

#

Christine, portfolio under one arm, camera and purse slung over the other, walked into S.T.'s office. He looked up from the blueprint strewn table over which he was bent. His dark eyes revealed nothing as he straightened, then she saw the bruises on his face, the cut on his full, lower lip. Before she could ask what he'd done to himself, he looked pointedly at the camera and smiled. "I see you've both returned to the scene of the crime."

"So we have--Scott."

"You don't give up, do you?"

"Not often. What happened to your face, Stuart?"

"A slight misunderstanding." He gestured toward her portfolio. "Aren't you glad you got your photographs last week?"

"I don't know." She tilted her head and pretended to consider his question seriously. "I don’t know. There is a kind of mystique to the face of the wounded hero."
Especially
, she thought reaching into her portfolio,
one as handsome as yours.
"I can't give you the captions yet, but since this is a photo essay, they will mostly be quite simple."

S.T. watched as she laid a black and white 8x10 on top of his blueprints. She'd taken it when he was on the construction site, his arm pointing toward a beam three stories above him. He was no expert on photography, but he knew this one looked interesting. The black and white was used to advantage in accenting his Navajo features, the length of his torso as opposed to the skeleton of the building beside him.

He raised his brows and met her concerned gaze. "It’s good," he said, watching as she laid down three more, all equally interesting shots. He didn’t see them as himself but rather what they represented—a man and his creation, the work, the place, the feeling. When she put a color enlargement on top of the others, he looked more closely despite his intention to treat all this casually.

He didn't often think about how he looked, but divorcing himself from it being himself, he saw it was a photo of a handsome man, perhaps more than handsome. Vaguely he recalled there had been some sort of problem and she had captured his talking to Dusty about it, gesturing toward the construction site. The photograph had captured a fire in his eyes, an intensity of expression that forced him to look at himself in a different way. Savage? There was something of that too in the image, but another quality he couldn't put a word to.

He looked up from the photographs. "You don't need me to tell you they're very good."

"Did I capture your soul?" she asked, tilting her head.

"It appears that way. Was it your aim?"

"Of course, a photograph without soul belongs in a catalog."

“You are passionate about your subject.”

“I can be. Do your ancestors really have superstitions about photography?" she asked, "or was that just another dodge to get rid of me?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you're good at answering a question with a question."

He grinned. “Okay, being half one thing and half another, I don't have any superstitions except that I shouldn't let beautiful, blond women walk across my path on Mondays."

She smiled. "You think I'm beautiful?" She perched a jeans-clad hip on the edge of his table.

"You know you are."

"Do I?"

"Beautiful women always know exactly, to a ten spot, how much power they can wield. I don't imagine you're any exception."

She narrowed her gaze. "If so, and I don’t agree with your premise, do handsome men know the same?" She gave him a speculative gaze that traveled down his body and back, finally meeting his dark gaze. She could see the indecision in his eyes, in the wry slant to those sensual lips. He was thinking about kissing her. She was thinking the same thing. What would that be like?

Most men she'd met would have asked her out by now. She had made no secret of her attraction to him. Even if he hadn't known it before, he must have seen it in the photographs she'd taken.  Maybe it was his dual heritages that made it so difficult for her to know what to expect. Maybe it was because for the first time it mattered. Damn.

It would be safer to change the subject. "You didn't have that Saturday." She pointed to the cut above his brow. "Was it questions about your sister that got it for you?" He nodded. "Someone who didn't like someone asking questions?"

"Someone who didn't think much of a brother who had let his sister live a life like Shonna had."

“Do you have any better idea what happened to her?”

He shook his head.” Whatever it was, it doesn’t look good. I suppose she could have gone on the run. She didn’t have much to leave behind.” She could see he didn’t believe it. She fought the impulse to reach out and touch the darkened bruise on his cheekbone.

"I am sorry you didn’t get more,” she said, trying to think of comforting words and knowing they sounded hollow. “We can’t really live our life for our families. She could have contacted you also.”

His eyes darkened, his mouth tightened. "Intellectually I know that. It’s hard not to wonder though if I could have changed things for her if I had been there. If..."

His phone rang to interrupt whatever he had intended to say. She saw surprise flicker across his face. "Give me a couple, then send him in." He hung up the phone. "It's Peter Soul. There's a back door. I thought I'd give you time to avoid him."

"Why did you think I would need to?" she asked surprised.

"I remembered how you felt about your subject in Roseburg. Who else could you have been photographing?"

"You are dangerously intuitive," she accused, considering a moment about whether she wanted to face Soul again so soon. She remembered driving her rental car up the freeway, grateful to have escaped the oppression she'd felt while in his compound. She had seriously considered discarding the film she’d exposed of the reverend, not even bothering to see how it came out. Frankly, she had a pretty good idea.

She looked up at S.T.  The insight, that had so seldom failed her, told her to stay. She didn't know why it was important, but she never argued with her instincts, not when they felt this strong.

She settled into one of the wooden chairs and smiled up at him. "Unless you’d prefer that I not, I’ll stay." When Soul walked into the room, she had thought he might be surprised to see her; but if he was, he hid it well.

After introducing himself and offering a cursory handshake to S.T., he turned to her. "Fair lady." He reached out and took her hand into a firm grasp. "I told you we'd see each other soon."

"So you did."

Soul glanced at the photographs still on the table. "I see you've been busy." He spread the photographs. "These are very good." Soul straightened his eyes back to S.T. "Naturally I could not expect for myself such magnificent photos. Your subject here was clearly excellent, but if you do half so well by me, I'll be satisfied. You are quite the artist with a camera."

"How can I help you?" S.T. asked. It seemed almost too coincidental to have Peter Soul show up here the same morning he'd asked his secretary to investigate him. He had thought he would be asking Soul about Shonna but seeing him, he knew he’d not get a straight answer if he did. Wasting words wasn’t his style.