"I believe you," S.T. said through his teeth. He gestured at Hank. "He better be okay when I get back. I expect you to untie him, clean him up, and let him get into a bed."
Soul shook his head and laughed. "You never get tired of giving orders do you?"
George growled, his fists clenched. "Let me teach him a lesson. The guy's a slow learner."
"No," Soul said, "we've already discussed this, George. When this is over, we're letting them go."
George looked angrily at him and then suddenly laughed. "Yeah, I forgot about that. Okay." He took his gun from its holster and yelled for one of the guards to come in.
"We can let them both clean up. Kind of kill two birds with one shower, so to speak," he said with a grin. "If old Hank here isn't up to a cleaning himself, the half-breed can be the one to play lady's maid."
Moments later, S.T. and Hank had been freed from their bonds and pushed down a set of stairs into a basement where a locker room and showers awaited. S.T. was given a clean shirt one with cuffs to hide the damage the chains had done to his wrists. They were given no privacy to shower, then redress, but it felt good enough to be clean again, that S.T. wasn't about to object.
They didn't bother retying Hank but locked him into a narrow, basement room, not much more than a closet, with a small cot but no windows, then pushed S.T. back upstairs and to the front of the complex where a truck awaited.
“Before you go,” Soul said, take this. “You can do so willingly or with force. It’s your choice.” He held out a small white pill.
“What is it?” S.T. asked.
“Just something to keep you relaxed. Don’t worry, it’s not too much of a sedative to allow you to function.”
S.T. smiled and took it, hid it between his fingers as he pretended to swallow it. It might come in handy as he managed to get it into his pocket before he was pushed to the truck where once seated, George snapped a handcuff over his right wrist, threaded the other cuff through the arm rest, and snapped it on his left wrist, neatly chaining him to the truck, making hand signals or escape impossible. Then he was seat-belted in, further limiting his movement.
Soul watched the precautions. "Be careful with him," he admonished George.
"What do you think I am? I know what I'm doing," George snapped back. "You're the one that better be careful. If you have a brain in your head, you'll get rid of that woman."
"That's not your business."
"No? Well, it will be when she betrays you, and she will cut you down if she gets half a chance. She's too busy lusting after her dark-skilled lover here to think about anybody else." He slapped S.T.'s face in case Soul didn't know who he meant.
Soul ignored him and looked at S.T. "You behave or it won't go well for your friends here and elsewhere. George will call me when you get to the bank and again when you come back out. If too long passes between those calls, it will get ugly. Do you understand that anything you say to an official at the bank will have dire consequences?"
S.T. nodded. He watched as Soul handed his key ring to George. "The safety deposit box on this ring?" Soul asked; again S.T. nodded.
"Good. I will see you in a few hours, then." He watched George as he got into the truck. "You sure you don't want to take somebody with you?"
George gave him a cutting glare. "You think I can't handle this piece of crap even if you hadn’t given him the tranquilizer?"
"No, just..."
"Look, it's tight enough in the cab as it is, I'm not riding with Ralph on my lap."
Soul smiled. "Well then, don't forget to call. It's crucial."
When they drove off, S.T. smiled despite the handcuffs forcing his arms into an uncomfortable position. He felt a sense of relief. It would all be decided soon, one way or the other. If he couldn't overpower George before they drove back to the compound, he was dead, Hank too and maybe Christine.
He had gotten little sleep since he'd been Soul's prisoner and decided he would use this time in the truck to get what rest he could. It would further serve to convince George he’d taken the pill. The rest might be his last chance for some time. He braced his shoulder then leaned his head against the side of the truck and closed his eyes, but thoughts of Christine came to haunt him, to make sleep difficult.
When he let himself think about the risks she faced in the compound, he lost it and the ability to function. That kind of thinking could only lead to another defeat, the final one. Okay, so think about what he had to do. First get out of the cuffs, then get the small knife he’d stowed in the safety deposit box without George seeing it. It wasn’t much of a weapon; but it was his only real hope to overpower George and make sure on the return trip, George was the one wearing chains.
The one thing he knew he couldn't do was go to the police. He still didn't know who might be on the Servants of Grace payroll, but it wasn't just that. A police raid had cost the people trapped in other cult compounds their lives. He wouldn't take the chance that Christine or Hank would be caught in that kind of holocaust. Who knew what kind of suicidal set up they might have.
No, one way or another, he would go back and get them out of that building, then he'd be able to talk to the police, showing them the probable grave sites he'd discovered on his foray onto the compound grounds—exactly where he had thought they’d be found and where Lane could have accidentally stumbled across them. That ought to be enough to put an end to the work of Peter Soul. His oratory would not be enough to explain away three bodies. It would also finally provide a motive for murdering Lane.
#
As the water beat down on Christine's bare skin, she was grateful for the opportunity to shower and wash her hair. Although the toilet in a small closet off her room had taken care of her most basic needs, it had been too many days since she'd been really clean. With her hair, even two days without washing it, left it straggling limply around her face.
For a reason for which she could only be grateful, Soul had allowed Sharon to go with her and the two talked as they showered, then toweled off.
"Tell me about your family," Christine asked, as she pulled on the fresh jeans and clean, tan sweater that had been provided for her.
"Not much to tell," Sharon said, dressing slowly in slacks and a blouse. "My mother's dead. My father's remarried."
"You don't see him much," Christine guessed.
Sharon shook her head. "He's busy." She scrunched her thin lips together. "He never had much time for me or my sister. Everything was for my brother."
"Where do they live?"
"Idaho, up along the border. My dad’s a retired cop. They headed up there for a little peace, at least that's what he said."
"What do you believe?"
Sharon shrugged. "I don't know. He's always thought the end times were coming. Maybe he thinks he's got a better chance at surviving it up there."
Christine laughed. "I suppose some of the plagues and disasters mentioned in the prophecies might skip the Panhandle, but I somehow doubt it'll be that discriminating."
"You know the Bible?" Sharon asked, her eyes snapping around with interest.
"Some," Christine said, "but I don't think anybody will ever really know it."
"Why not? I thought Reverend Soul did."
"He just knows how to use it.”
Sharon pulled on a sock. "You don’t think he’s a real minister of God?"
Christine gave that some careful consideration, not because she thought there was any doubt about where Soul worshipped, if he did, but because she still was unsure how much she could trust Sharon. She took a wide toothed comb and began working the tangles from her long, blond hair.
"I don't believe in his teaching."
"He wants to marry you. He told me you'd said yes. I’d think you’d have to believe in him if you were going to marry him."
"I have
not
said yes," Christine said, again treading carefully.
"Then are you going to marry the other one?"
"He never asked me." That at least was the truth.
Sharon took the comb from her hand and began combing Christine's long hair, delicately working out the snarls. "You're so beautiful," she said. "I think you could have any man you wanted."
"That's not true," Christine said, "and I wouldn't want any man who wanted me only for what I looked like."
"At least I won't have that problem."
'You're attractive, Sharon. You've just been beaten down too long. I think when all this is over, you'll be happier. When you are, you'll be prettier."
"I don't know if I want it to be over for me," Sharon said after a moment. "I don't know how I can live with the guilt of what I've done, what I've seen done."
"Time is a great healer."
"There’s been too much." She frowned then and looked at Christine. “Did you get a chance to warn Mr. Taggert about what Reverend Soul plans to do to him when he gets back?"
"No, but I don't think he has any doubt about the danger he faces."
Christine had debated telling him, but with Soul listening, it wouldn’t have been easy and she had remembered the horror in S.T.’s eyes when he'd first realized what the drug he'd been given had done to him. She had been unsure whether hearing about that might weaken, not strengthen him. She still didn't know if she'd done right or not.
Sharon handed her back the comb. Their gazes met. "I'm scared," she said.
Using the cell phone, George made his call to his brother, then yanked open the passenger door, wrenching S.T.'s arm and wrist as he pulled him from the truck. To avoid anyone seeing them, he'd parked to the back of the bank lot.
"Okay," he said, when S.T. was standing as well as he could with his arms still chained to the door, "you give me any trouble and this is what you'll get." He brought out a knife, flicked a button and a six inch, serrated blade snapped into place. "One of the best. It'll gut you quicker than you can let out a yell."
"You're wasting your breath and my time."
"My hand'll be right about here." He pressed the tip of the blade against S.T.'s back, just above where the kidneys lay. "You give me any trouble, the blade goes in."
"And now the cuffs," S.T. retorted. “I can’t go in there like this.”
"Smart ass.” He cuffed S.T. alongside the face. “You just remember who’s the boss here.”
S.T. smiled. “Now could I forget a thing like that?”
George shook his head, then smiled himself. “I keep forgetting… You’re going to get what’s coming to you.” He unlocked the cuffs using one hand, the other still holding the knife.
When he was free, S.T. rubbed his wrists. "You finally ready?" he asked.
George shook his head. "Half-breed, you been trouble from day one. I’ll enjoy marking that pretty face after this is over."
"You want to finish this or should we continue standing here debating my finer qualities?" George gave him an angry shove toward the bank.
Inside, the woman at the desk immediately recognized S.T. "How are you today, Mr. Taggert?" She looked more closely then at his face seeing the welt from the whip across his cheek. The question of how that happened was in her eyes but she was too polite to ask.