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
"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
Similar Books
Green for Danger
Christianna Brand
Cat Kin
Nick Green
The Fall of Light
Niall Williams
Secrets
Nick Sharratt
Ecko Endgame
Danie Ware
Stone Virgin
Barry Unsworth
His Girl Friday
Diana Palmer