The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7)

by Irina Shapiro

  The Betrayed

  Echoes from the Past

  Book 7

  By Irina Shapiro

  Copyright

  © 2019 by Irina Shapiro

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author.

  All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Epilogue

  Notes

  An Excerpt from The Broken (Echoes from the Past Book 8)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Prologue

  His dark eyes were huge with terror and incomprehension. Tears of fear and rage slid down his cheeks and the muscles in his neck strained as he tried to break the restraints, but they were fastened securely. An unnatural hush fell over the crowd, the silence pulsing with expectation. The men watched in mute fascination as the executioner drew a sturdy iron nail from his pocket and held it against the sun-kissed skin of his victim’s wrist. A few looked away, either from squeamishness or shame, but no one left, and no one moved to stop what was about to happen. A bloodcurdling roar tore from the man’s heaving chest as the first nail was driven into the elegant wrist. Shaking violently with pain and shock, his bowels let loose and a stream of vomit erupted from his mouth. Undeterred, the executioner made his way to the other wrist and raised the hammer.

  By the time the deed was done, the man was no longer screaming. His head hung down, his chin resting against his shoulder. Crimson droplets of blood fell, as if in slow motion, painting the snow a violent red. No one moved. No one spoke. No one could find the strength to look away from the gruesome scene, which had been written and directed by their ignorance and hatred. The minutes must have ticked by, but time stood still for the men who watched their victim with bated breath. He wasn’t dead, not yet. His eyes were partially open, his lips moving, either in prayer or in a desperate plea for help, begging for mercy from those who had betrayed him.

  Chapter 1

  April 2015

  County Leitrim, Ireland

  The weather was gorgeous, spring sunshine bathing Lough Gill and the surrounding woods in a golden haze. Parkes Castle stood proudly on the shore of the loch, its gray stone walls as massive and impregnable as they’d been in the seventeenth century when the castle was built. Several people strolled along the ramparts, gazing out over the stunning countryside and posing for photos. A few of them directed curious glances toward the tent erected just beyond the car park, but most lost interest after a few seconds and returned to their sightseeing. The owners of the castle had instructed the staff to inform those who asked that an archeological dig was in progress, but nothing of interest had been found yet. Disclosing that crucified remains had been discovered would surely send nosy tourists flocking to the excavation site and distract their attention from the main attraction.

  A small group of people surrounded the trench, peering into its exposed depths, which still contained the splintered and rotted remains of the cross. The excavation had taken just over a week, which, in archeological terms, was quick as lightening. Having unearthed the remains, Quinn was eager to return to London and begin working on the new case. There was no need to excavate the entire cross. She’d taken several samples of wood to be sent to the lab, and the UCD School of Archeology in Dublin had been notified of the find, but only after the skeleton had been carefully removed from the cross, and the bones labeled and bagged. Quinn had readily agreed to share the findings with her Irish counterparts, since technically, she was on their turf.

  Quinn stood and stretched her back after having crouched by the trench for nearly half an hour. She’d never seen anything like this, at least not in person. She’d unearthed many ancient skeletons over the course of her career, but none of them had been victims of crucifixion, buried in a shallow grave in what must have been the woods outside the castle walls.

  Quinn turned to Gabe, who stood off to the side, Alex in his arms. Alex’s face was turned upward, his mouth open in wonder as he watched a pretty bird fly overhead. He lifted a chubby hand and pointed but, at only seven months, didn’t have the word for what he was seeing, so only made a sound of wonder.

  “Bird,” Gabe said patiently. “Bird.”

  “Bah,” Alex repeated, his eyes round with awe. “Bah.”

  “We need to make sure there are no similar burials in the vicinity,” Quinn said. “It’s entirely possible that this execution wasn’t the only one of its kind.”

  Gabe shook his head, the bird forgotten. “To excavate this area would take months, if not years. That kind of undertaking would require a flexible budget and unlimited manpower.” He turned to Rhys Morgan of the BBC, who was standing at the edge of the trench, staring mournfully into the pit.

  “I can’t authorize that kind of expenditure. We’ll leave the rest to UCD. Perhaps the school can apply for a government grant. Surely they’d like to know what lies beneath.”

  “They can file the necessary paperwork, but you won’t have any answers in time for the program,” Quinn replied. Once her analysis was complete, the new episode of Echoes from the Past would begin shooting within several months with an air date of November.

  “Let’s begin with this one, then, and see if you can learn anything that might give you a clue as to whether there might be others like him,” Rhys replied, brusque as ever. “I’m absolutely fascinated. I’ve never seen anything like this,” he added, his gaze sliding to the lineup of plastic bags containing the bones of the victim. “Could this have been a religious ritual of some sort?”

  Quinn considered the question. “I really don’t think so. I’ve heard of ritual crucifixion, but in most cases the person is tied to the cross rather than nailed, and they are taken down after a short while. Men are actually nailed to the cross every Good Friday in the Philippines, but the
y aren’t left to die, and it’s strictly on a voluntary basis.”

  “Maybe this bloke volunteered,” Rhys suggested.

  “I’ve never come across any research mentioning ritual crucifixion in this part of the world, and I’m not so sure it’s a man,” Quinn replied as she meticulously arranged the bagged bones in a rectangular cardboard box in preparation for transport.

  “You think this might be a woman?” Rhys asked, his eyebrows lifting comically.

  “I think I won’t know for sure until Dr. Scott has had a chance to examine the remains and run the necessary tests. There’s nothing more we can learn from this site. We’re done here,” Quinn said as she laid the final bag in the box and closed the lid.

  “Right. Pack it up, Darren,” Rhys said to the cameraman who’d been standing by, awaiting instructions. “Let’s reconvene at the hotel. Three o’clock, say?”

  “Rhys, we’re tired and dirty, and I need to feed Alex and put him down for a nap. I’ll ring you when I’m ready,” Quinn replied as she wiped her hands on her mud-stained jeans. Rhys rolled his eyes in exasperation and walked away, heading toward the narrow lane that was almost completely blocked by their cars. He got in, slammed the door, and drove off without a backward glance.

  “Sometimes, I think he’s almost human, and then he reminds me he’s really a cyborg,” Gabe joked.

  “Rhys has the unique ability to separate the personal from the professional,” Quinn replied. “He’s not happy about having a baby on his set.”

  Alex chose that very moment to start fussing. He pushed against Gabe and reached his arms toward Quinn.

  “He wants his mum,” Gabe said.

  Quinn pulled off her latex gloves and reached for the baby. “Come here, my angel. I haven’t forgotten about you.”

  She extracted a teething biscuit from Alex’s baby bag and handed it to the baby. He grabbed it and began to gnaw on it happily, drooling all over his hand in the process.

  It took nearly another hour to fill in the gaping trench and clear the site before they could start back to their hotel.

  “I’m famished,” Quinn announced as she strapped Alex into his car seat.

  “There’s a pub just down the road,” Gabe replied as he took the wheel of the rental car. “Let’s get some lunch. Rhys can wait.”

  “Sounds great,” Quinn said. “What do you think, Alex? Want to go out for lunch?”

  The baby continued to bite on his plastic teething ring, which he eyed with suspicion since it didn’t taste as good as the biscuit he’d demolished a short while ago.

  Half an hour later, they were settled in a corner booth at Murphy’s Pub. Alex was sitting in a highchair provided by their server, gumming a piece of bread and eyeing Gabe’s bangers and mash with undisguised interest.

  “Give him some,” Quinn suggested. “He doesn’t want his baby food.”

  Gabe reached out and gave Alex a spoonful of mashed potato. Alex smacked his lips in appreciation and opened his mouth for more.

  “I think we’re going to have to start him on table food soon,” Gabe said as he watched his son’s pleasure in discovering this new flavor.

  “I think we just have,” Quinn replied. She took a little piece of cod and gave it to Alex, who ate it happily. Once the baby was satisfied, Quinn and Gabe were free to discuss the case uninterrupted.

  “What are your thoughts?” Gabe asked.

  “I honestly don’t know. Until we have some indication of how old the skelly is, we have nothing concrete to go on.”

  “Surely you have a theory.”

  “My initial guess would be that this was a Christian person crucified by pagans, which would make the remains at least a thousand years old, but I’m not sure that theory will stick.”

  “Why do you say that?” Gabe asked, chewing thoughtfully.

  “Because of what I discovered beneath the skeleton’s pelvis.”

  “That bit of metal?”

  “I cleaned it this morning while you were still asleep,” Quinn replied. Gabe looked surprised but didn’t complain about not being shown the artifact sooner. “There was no time this morning to discuss it with you,” Quinn explained, “and this was something rather unexpected.”

  “Tell me.”

  Quinn reached into her bag and took out a small plastic bag, which she held up for Gabe’s inspection.

  Gabe let out a low whistle and reached for the bag to inspect the item more closely. “Is this what I think it is?”

  Quinn nodded. “It’s the Hand of Fatima. Looks like yellow gold with an opal at the center.”

  “So, you think the victim was Muslim?”

  “Most likely. However, I would imagine that this particular amulet would be worn by a woman, not a man, but the length and width of the bones suggest the victim was male.”

  “Could have been a large-boned woman.”

  “Yes, that’s possible, but what would a Muslim woman be doing in Ireland a millennium ago, and why would she be crucified?”

  “Perhaps the locals thought she was a witch,” Gabe suggested.

  “Crucifixion was traditionally reserved for men. What would this poor woman had to have done to deserve such a harsh punishment? If she had been accused of witchcraft, she might have been burned or even stoned, but why crucify her in the woods?”

  “You think that’s where our victim died?” Gabe asked.

  “I do. No one would dig a grave large enough to bury a cross. If someone wished to give this person a proper burial, they’d have taken them down first. It stands to reason that the victim was crucified in the woods and left there. In time, the cross fell backward, and the remains were buried beneath layers of soil and vegetation.”

  Gabe smiled happily. “This case is going to be fun,” he announced. “Sometimes, I really love this job.”

  “Yes, researching a crucifixion certainly beats dating pottery sherds. Whoever this person was, their story must be an interesting one,” Quinn replied.

  “More for us than for them, I would imagine.”

  “Not an end I’d wish for,” Quinn agreed.

  “Will you consult with Jo?” Gabe asked carefully.

  Quinn set down her fork. It would be a dream come true to work with her twin sister, but Quinn didn’t think Jo would want to get involved. They’d been reunited only two months ago and were still feeling their way around one another. Having been separated at birth, they had yet to get to know each other on a more intimate level and become comfortable sharing their thoughts and feelings.

  Quinn was eager to plunge right in, but Jo was more reserved and often noticeably withdrew when Quinn became too inquisitive or tried too hard to encourage a closer relationship. Quinn didn’t judge her. Jo had trust issues, and having suddenly met not only her twin sister but her biological parents and half-brothers, she was overwhelmed. More so because she was still recovering from life-threatening injuries sustained during a photojournalism assignment in Afghanistan.

  Quinn had to tread softly so as not to spook her skittish sister. Asking Jo to use her psychic gift was probably not a good idea. Jo shared Quinn’s ability to see into the past when holding an object belonging to the dead, but unlike Quinn, who used her gift to learn more about her subjects and fill in the blanks in their life stories, Jo refused to touch anything that might trigger a vision and had no interest in exploring her unusual gift.

  Quinn understood only too well. For a long time, she had felt just the same and wished she could be normal, for lack of a better word. It was only after discovering the remains of their ancestor Madeline Besson, who had been erased from their family history because of her mixed blood, that Quinn had finally made peace with her gift and decided to focus on giving a voice to people who could no longer speak for themselves.

  “I’ll tell Jo about the case, but won’t ask for her help,” Quinn replied. “If she offers, I’ll gladly accept.”

  “Do you think she will?” Gabe asked.

  “No.”

 
; “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Quinn replied. “I’m thrilled to have her in my life and will proceed at whatever pace she’s comfortable with. There’s a lot to take in, and I don’t blame her for feeling ambushed, especially by Sylvia.”

  “Has Jo spoken to her?”

  “They’ve spoken briefly, but I believe the word that best describes Jo’s attitude toward our birth mother is ‘glacial.’ She blames Sylvia for abandoning her and isn’t interested in hearing Sylvia’s side of the story. At least not yet. I’m glad to see her getting to know Seth though. They seem to be forging a genuine bond.”

  “She’s taken to Emma too,” Gabe said.

  “Yes, she promised to help Seth with Emma this week.”

  Emma, who couldn’t bear to be parted from her new puppy, Rufus, had asked to remain in London with her grandfather, who would be returning to New Orleans at the weekend. The two loved spending time together despite not being biologically related, so the solution worked out for everyone. Logan had promised to stop by as well, and had taken Seth, Emma, and Jo out for pizza last night. It gave him an opportunity to spend time with his newly found sister without the awkwardness of a one-on-one meeting. Jo seemed to feel more comfortable when part of a group, so everyone tried to give her the space she needed to get to know her family members at her own pace.

  “I’m glad Emma is not here,” Gabe said. “I would hate for her to see something as gruesome as that burial site. It would distress most adults, not to mention a five-year-old child. Good thing Alex is too young to understand what he’s looking at.”

  “Not when it comes to food,” Quinn replied, deftly moving her plate of uneaten chips out of Alex’s reach. “I think he might be too young for fried foods. I wouldn’t want him to get a bellyache.”

  Alex clearly did not agree and let out a wail of protest, but Quinn held fast and handed the plate to their server when she passed by. “There, all gone,” she told the baby. “How about some milk?” She handed Alex his bottle and he latched on, sucking with great concentration.

  “And how are things between Jo and Rhys?” Gabe asked.

  Rhys, who had used his press credentials to get into Afghanistan, had been the one to track down Jo in Kabul and then follow her to a medical facility in Germany, where she’d been transported after the explosion in the mountains that nearly killed her and her guide. Ali Khan had been taken to a local facility for treatment, but Jo had been flown out to Germany, since the Americans initially believed her to be one of theirs and wanted to ensure she got the best possible care. Jo and Rhys had developed a tender friendship that had seemed on the verge of blossoming into a romance by the time Jo returned to London.