was upstairs. "Could you come down here and give me an opinion?"
Tall, balding and skinny, Hank Brannigan took the narrow steps two at a time and was beside her in moments. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose as he looked at the proofs spread across the long table. He nodded, studied one after another, made the sign of the cross over his chest. "Who is he?"
"The Reverend Peter Soul. Ever heard of him?"
"No and don't want to. Reverend huh?” He shook his head. “I guess when you think about it, he does kind of look like some kind of Elmer Gantry.”
“Was that nice?”
He grinned that elfin grin of his that always made her smile. “No, and neither is he. What kind of church?"
"Servants of Grace is what they call themselves.”
He looked at them again and made a face.
“Do you think anyone looking at these would see what you and I do?" she asked as she studied the images wondering whether they were safe to show to Peter Soul. Would he realize what she’d captured?
Hank rubbed the back of his neck, considering, then shook his head. “We can ask Jerry if you want.” Jerry Welch, Hank’s life partner, a cop, was about as far from being an artist as anyone could get. How the two had found each other was one of those mysteries that Christine found beyond her comprehension, but they’d been a couple for twenty years; so clearly it worked.
“He would have a different perspective for sure, that is if he wouldn’t mind,” she said.
“Well, he might mind leaving the meal he’s preparing for us, but he’ll do it.”
A moment later Hank returned with Jerry close behind. The big man looked at the images as Hank said, “I actually envy you what you captured here, Chris, but it sends some chills down my spine.”
“In what way?” She looked to see if Jerry was going to comment, but he just moved down the row studying each photo with interest.
“Well look at those folks staring at Soul as he’s speaking. No soul. No nothing there. What a bunch. You got to wondering what they are thinking or can they think anymore?”
"He's a powerful orator."
Jerry pointed to one of the images. “Who’s that guy?"
The bulky, balding man was standing in the background, his gaze off into space as Soul was talking. "George," Christine said.
"George what?"
"They don't have last names—at least not that they tell anyone."
Jerry leaned back arms now across his chest. "Who is he to Soul?"
"A right hand man?" Christine guessed. He was always nearby, served Soul whenever needed, but said little or nothing.
"He's a dangerous man, maybe more so than the other," Jerry said.
"George?" She couldn't believe it. George seemed innocuous, part of the woodwork. He appeared to be no more than an appendage of Soul. "Why do you think so?" She looked more closely at the photo.
"Well if you go there again, watch out for that one. I have seen his type too many times. He’d kill without a second thought—totally ruthless."
She frowned. “I don’t trust any of them but really?"
“Mark my words,” Jerry said. “If you are around them much, you’ll know what I mean. Okay, dinner in five.”
When they were gone, Christine forced herself to steady her nerves. She had to prepare herself to face Soul again without revealing her inner feelings. She was unsure she could do it, then she thought about the times they'd already met and his apparent unawareness of her disgust of him. Perhaps his ego, which she judged to be massive, would blind him to her true thoughts as effectively as she hoped it would blind him as to the true nature of the photographs she would be showing him. But now George too. Who the heck was George to Peter Soul?
#
Trying to get her card into the slot to let her into her motel room, Christine could hear the ringing of the phone. "Just keep holding on 'til I get there," she muttered, finally getting the door open. She threw the portfolio on the bed and grabbed the receiver.
"Christine? I almost gave
Tall, balding and skinny, Hank Brannigan took the narrow steps two at a time and was beside her in moments. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose as he looked at the proofs spread across the long table. He nodded, studied one after another, made the sign of the cross over his chest. "Who is he?"
"The Reverend Peter Soul. Ever heard of him?"
"No and don't want to. Reverend huh?” He shook his head. “I guess when you think about it, he does kind of look like some kind of Elmer Gantry.”
“Was that nice?”
He grinned that elfin grin of his that always made her smile. “No, and neither is he. What kind of church?"
"Servants of Grace is what they call themselves.”
He looked at them again and made a face.
“Do you think anyone looking at these would see what you and I do?" she asked as she studied the images wondering whether they were safe to show to Peter Soul. Would he realize what she’d captured?
Hank rubbed the back of his neck, considering, then shook his head. “We can ask Jerry if you want.” Jerry Welch, Hank’s life partner, a cop, was about as far from being an artist as anyone could get. How the two had found each other was one of those mysteries that Christine found beyond her comprehension, but they’d been a couple for twenty years; so clearly it worked.
“He would have a different perspective for sure, that is if he wouldn’t mind,” she said.
“Well, he might mind leaving the meal he’s preparing for us, but he’ll do it.”
A moment later Hank returned with Jerry close behind. The big man looked at the images as Hank said, “I actually envy you what you captured here, Chris, but it sends some chills down my spine.”
“In what way?” She looked to see if Jerry was going to comment, but he just moved down the row studying each photo with interest.
“Well look at those folks staring at Soul as he’s speaking. No soul. No nothing there. What a bunch. You got to wondering what they are thinking or can they think anymore?”
"He's a powerful orator."
Jerry pointed to one of the images. “Who’s that guy?"
The bulky, balding man was standing in the background, his gaze off into space as Soul was talking. "George," Christine said.
"George what?"
"They don't have last names—at least not that they tell anyone."
Jerry leaned back arms now across his chest. "Who is he to Soul?"
"A right hand man?" Christine guessed. He was always nearby, served Soul whenever needed, but said little or nothing.
"He's a dangerous man, maybe more so than the other," Jerry said.
"George?" She couldn't believe it. George seemed innocuous, part of the woodwork. He appeared to be no more than an appendage of Soul. "Why do you think so?" She looked more closely at the photo.
"Well if you go there again, watch out for that one. I have seen his type too many times. He’d kill without a second thought—totally ruthless."
She frowned. “I don’t trust any of them but really?"
“Mark my words,” Jerry said. “If you are around them much, you’ll know what I mean. Okay, dinner in five.”
When they were gone, Christine forced herself to steady her nerves. She had to prepare herself to face Soul again without revealing her inner feelings. She was unsure she could do it, then she thought about the times they'd already met and his apparent unawareness of her disgust of him. Perhaps his ego, which she judged to be massive, would blind him to her true thoughts as effectively as she hoped it would blind him as to the true nature of the photographs she would be showing him. But now George too. Who the heck was George to Peter Soul?
#
Trying to get her card into the slot to let her into her motel room, Christine could hear the ringing of the phone. "Just keep holding on 'til I get there," she muttered, finally getting the door open. She threw the portfolio on the bed and grabbed the receiver.
"Christine? I almost gave
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