The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7)

by Irina Shapiro

  By the time Rafael awoke, it was fully dark. The sky had cleared, and a gentle breeze moved through the tall grass like lazy fingers. The dogs and crows had gone, having had their fill of human flesh. The beach appeared deceptively peaceful, the dead littering the shore like hunks of driftwood. The stars above looked distant and cold, not like the bright stars of Toledo that always made him think of glittering diamonds strewn across rich black velvet.

  Rafael forced himself to stand up. He was unsteady on his feet and his clothes were still damp, but he was otherwise uninjured. What he wouldn’t give for a dry shirt, he mused, as he took in his surroundings. He had to find shelter and food while it was safe to look. Once the sun came up, he’d be exposed once again.

  Rafael froze, all his senses on high alert when he heard a dragging sound coming from the beach. He dropped into a crouch, his eyes searching the shoreline for signs of danger. At first, he thought it was a dog, but then realized the dark shape was too large and too long. It was a man, lying on his belly, his arm outstretched, one of his legs bent at the knee. The man moved his other arm forward and pulled himself up, repeating the process again and again. He crawled away from the surf and took a short break before crawling toward the rushes.

  Rafael left the safety of his hollow and made his way toward the man, who was dripping wet and muttering to himself in Spanish. He advanced slowly and laboriously, but even from a distance, Rafael could sense his determination, driven by sheer will. Rafael approached the man slowly, so as not to startle him, and called out softly, identifying himself as a friend.

  The man raised a hand in greeting, then collapsed back onto the beach, too exhausted to continue. Rafael helped him to his feet and dragged him toward the hollow, which suddenly seemed very far away, given the man’s considerable weight. Rafael didn’t recognize him, but given his age and attire, he took him to be one of the officers.

  “Your name,” the man muttered as he fixed a glazed stare on Rafael.

  “Rafael de Silva, sir. And you are?”

  “Captain Francisco de Cuéllar.”

  Rafael nearly let go of his burden but caught the captain under the arms just before he fell. He’d heard of Captain de Cuéllar; everyone in the fleet had. Captain de Cuéllar had been accused of disobedience when his ship broke formation in the North Sea and sentenced to death by hanging. He was to be made an example of, but clearly, he was still alive, if not for much longer.

  De Cuéllar stumbled and fell to his knees. “I need to rest.”

  “Let’s get you to the rushes, sir. We’re too exposed here.”

  The captain nodded and got to his feet, then staggered toward the rushes, supported by Rafael. He collapsed to his knees as soon as they reached the deceptive safety of the hollow, his breathing labored.

  “Sir?” Rafael called to him, but the captain lay on his side, closed his eyes, and sank into a fitful sleep.

  Rafael lay down next to the captain and pulled some rushes over them both. They offered no warmth or safety but provided minimal cover. He studied the man’s face by starlight. De Cuéllar appeared to be in his early forties, a handsome man with a trim beard and a hoop earring in his left ear. His tangled hair hung to his shoulders and his deep-set eyes were offset by heavy black brows. He was an imposing man, even in his weakened condition, and Rafael felt strangely reassured by his presence.

  Rafael trembled with fatigue, but sleep wouldn’t come, so he gazed up at the stars, trying to figure out if the celestial formations were the same in the north as they were in the south. The constellations didn’t look familiar, and it seemed to Rafael as if this wild land slumbered under a different sky.

  A strange rasping sound distracted him from his astronomical study, and he sprang to his feet, instantly dropping into a crouch and peering through the long grass toward the beach. Something white and long was moving toward the hollow. Rafael’s initial terror was quickly replaced by pity. The thing was another man. He was completely naked, his pale skin scratched and covered with livid bruises. He must have been stripped, beaten, and left for dead. Rafael helped the man to their hiding place, and he curled into a ball next to the captain. His eyes were open, but his gaze was unfocused, and he didn’t seem aware of Rafael’s presence.

  “What’s your name?” Rafael whispered. “I’m Rafael de Silva, and this is Captain de Cuéllar.”

  The man didn’t respond. He was shaking with cold and shock, his teeth chattering like a bone rattle. Rafael removed his damp doublet and covered the man. The shaking subsided after a time and the man fell into a deep sleep, his breathing shallow and uneven. Rafael wrapped his arms around himself and tried to rub some heat into his stiff limbs. It was only September. How could it be this cold? He tried to recall the searing caress of the sun as he’d walked along the narrow streets of Toledo, keeping to the shade to ward off the heat, his face beaded with perspiration beneath the wide brim of his hat, and his feet broiling in his leather boots. For just a moment, Rafael could almost feel the warmth of those summer days and wished he were in Spain, walking down a familiar street toward his father’s house, his mouth watering at the prospect of a good meal.

  Captain de Cuéllar mumbled something and opened his eyes, gazing at the sky for a long moment before turning to stare at Rafael. His pupils were dilated, his expression blank. After a while, he shut his eyes again and slipped into unconsciousness. Rafael pressed his ear to the captain’s chest and listened to his heartbeat. It was steady, which was a good sign. He’d pull through. He needed rest and food.

  Rafael almost laughed at the idea. How nice it would be if some friendly locals took them in and allowed them to sit by a roaring fire while their hosts offered them bucket-sized helpings of something delicious and hot. And wine. Lots of wine. Rafael swallowed back the saliva that flooded his mouth and willed himself not to think about food. It would be his undoing. He shut his eyes, determined to fall asleep. Eventually, he succeeded.

  It was still dark when Rafael woke, but a narrow sliver of pearly gray shimmered on the horizon. He was stiff with cold and needed to empty his bladder. He took care of business, then came back to check on his companions. The captain was breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling as he slept. His face was relaxed, and the deathly pallor of last night had been replaced by a scarlet flush. The nameless man lay motionless beneath Rafael’s doublet, his face still as an effigy. Rafael moved closer and touched his hand. It was cold, the fingers stiff. He pressed two fingers to the man’s neck, but there was no pulse. Rafael said a silent prayer for the soul of the departed and took back his doublet, which was now dry. He pulled it on and moved closer to the captain, distancing himself from the corpse.

  We have to go, Rafael thought suddenly. We can’t still be here come morning.

  He shook the captain gently. “Captain, wake up.” It took a few tries before Captain de Cuéllar finally opened his eyes. “Captain, we have to find a better hiding place,” Rafael said. “We’re too exposed here. The locals are bound to come back in the morning.”

  The captain nodded and slowly got to his feet. He didn’t ask about the other man, just crossed himself and turned away, surveying their surroundings. “That way,” he said, and the two men stumbled off, moving away from the beach and toward a clump of trees in the distance.

  Chapter 4

  April 2015

  London, England

  Quinn pushed Alex’s pram down the corridor, thankful he’d fallen asleep just as they arrived at the mortuary. The familiar smell of death and carbolic accosted her, and she tried not to breathe too deeply as she continued toward Dr. Scott’s office. This time, she’d made an appointment, since finding him in the middle of an autopsy was not a sight she relished. She’d seen plenty of human remains, but in her line of work, they were mostly brittle bones and empty-eyed skulls. Fresh cadavers turned her stomach, and their organs, displayed in various containers independently of the body, made her want to run for the door and into the fresh air, where gentle sunshine sho
ne from a cloudless sky and the city pulsed with life. She tried not to dwell on how easily life could be snuffed out, but she knew the reality—here today, gone tomorrow. It was important not to put things on hold and assume there’d be time to return to them later.

  Quinn had briefly questioned her decision to go on the pill after she’d weaned Alex. Perhaps she shouldn’t put off having another baby. There was never a perfect time; one simply adjusted, as they had done with Alex, who hadn’t been planned. Gabe was ready for another child, but he hadn’t been the one to suffer the crippling symptoms of preeclampsia or undergo an emergency cesarean section in the middle of the night. It had taken months for Quinn to start feeling like her old self again, and she wasn’t ready to relinquish the freedom of being alone in her body. Besides, Alex was only seven months old. There was time yet.

  “Quinn,” Colin Scott called out as he saw her walking down the corridor. “Good to see you. And how’s our honorary archeologist?”

  “He’s well. Taking a nap,” Quinn replied. “I think I’ll speak to Rhys about billing Alex’s hours as a consultant on the program,” she joked.

  “His input is invaluable.”

  Quinn followed Colin into the lab, where the skeleton they had excavated in Ireland was laid out on the slab. “Where’s Dr. Dhawan today?” Colin’s assistant, Sarita Dhawan, normally performed most of the tests on the skeletal remains and logged them into the system. She was usually present when Quinn came by, and the lab seemed strangely empty without her.

  “Sarita’s in Mumbai. Her brother is getting married next week. She showed me her wedding sari. Absolutely gorgeous—peacock blue embroidered with gold thread,” Colin said. “She didn’t say so outright, but I think there’s someone her parents wish her to meet.”

  “Really? A prospective bridegroom?”

  “I think so. I hope it works out for her, as long as I don’t have to lose her as my assistant,” Colin added, grinning. “I don’t think she wants to move back to India. She loves it here.”

  “And speaking of weddings, have you and Logan set a date?” Quinn asked as she parked Alex’s pram by the far wall, where the fluorescent lighting wouldn’t disturb his sleep, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

  Colin’s face fell and he shook his head. “We were going to get married this summer, but I don’t think that’s going to happen now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Logan has managed to secure a spot for Jude at the Winthrop Rehabilitation Centre. After Jude’s overdose, he doesn’t want to take any chances on an outpatient methadone program. He wants to help your brother get clean and stay that way.”

  “How much does this facility cost?”

  “More than Logan can afford. Much more. Sylvia’s offered to pay half, but Logan doesn’t want her to dip into her retirement savings.”

  “I’m sorry, Colin. You must be disappointed.”

  “I am, but I support him in this decision. Jude needs help, and not the kind of help the NHS can provide.”

  “Do you think it’s possible to fully rehabilitate a heroin addict?” Quinn asked, hoping against hope that Colin would assure her it could be done.

  “I don’t know,” Colin replied with a sigh. “It takes a very strong person to swear off the one thing they can’t resist. Jude wants to get clean, but he’s weak, and he’s vulnerable.”

  “He needs to stay away from Bridget. She’s his kryptonite.”

  “It’s not Bridget he can’t resist, it’s the heroin. There will always be another Bridget, and another Harry.”

  “Who’s Harry?” Quinn hadn’t heard that name before in relation to Jude.

  “Harry’s his dealer. Or one of them, at any rate. But we all have our weaknesses, don’t we?” Colin said.

  “That we do. I just hope they won’t ultimately destroy us. So, what can you tell me about our victim?” Quinn asked. Colin was clearly ready to change the subject, and she hoped to be finished at the mortuary before Alex woke from his nap.

  “Not much. He was completely unremarkable.”

  “He? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I thought it might have been a she.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Quinn rooted in her bag and held up the bag containing the Hand of Fatima. “I found this beneath the body. This is more of a feminine symbol, in my experience.”

  “It might not have been his,” Colin said.

  But it was, Quinn mentally replied, feeling a deep sadness steal over her at the thought of that frightened young man and his desperate need to keep the amulet safe.

  “Anyway, what we have here is most definitely a male skeleton. The victim was in his late teens or early twenties at the time of death. According to carbon-14 dating, he lived sometime in the mid-1500s. I didn’t find any traces of past injuries. He was a healthy young man.”

  “Were you able to obtain any DNA from the hair?” Quinn asked.

  “Yes. Thankfully, one of the strands had an intact follicle that yielded some results. According to DNA sequencing, he was primarily of Iberian descent with traces of North African and Middle Eastern heritage. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. He was of average height and build for that time period. He was right-handed, and the ridges on his wrist indicate that he practiced some sort of manual labor. Given where he was discovered, I’d say he was a soldier, and the ridges were created by wielding a sword.”

  “And his diet?”

  “He enjoyed a plentiful diet during his formative years, mostly meat based, so it’s likely that he came from a well-to-do family.”

  “Is it possible to tell if he ate pork?”

  Colin grinned. “Now you’re asking for miracles. I can tell if the diet was predominately fish, meat, or plant based, but I can’t tell if he enjoyed his bacon.”

  “Anything else you can tell me about him?” Quinn asked, disappointed.

  “Not really.”

  “What ultimately killed him?”

  “Exposure, dehydration, and shock, which probably led to cardiac arrest. The nails appear to have been driven in sideways to penetrate the wrist. The pain would have been excruciating, and as there was no footrest on the cross, his weight would have put additional pressure on his already mutilated wrists. Had his feet not been tied firmly to the vertical bar, his ligaments would have torn, and he would have fallen off the cross.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that this young man suffered a horrific, prolonged death.”

  “What I’m saying is that he must have royally cheesed someone off.”

  “I agree with you there,” Quinn said as she accepted the folder containing a printout of the results. “This is only the second time the remains of a crucified individual have been discovered. The first time was in 1968 in Jerusalem, and the only reason the remains survived was because the family must have taken the victim down and buried him. Most victims of crucifixion were left on the cross as a warning to others, and then thrown into a pit along with other decomposing remains.”

  “My guess is that after this man died, someone pushed the cross down and buried it in a shallow grave. Based on your photos, the cross wasn’t large, just tall enough to crucify this poor bloke. And whoever disposed of him didn’t care to be bothered with taking him down and burying him in a proper grave. Over time, the remains were buried deeper under layers of soil, rotting vegetation, and branches, which is why no one found it until now. How did you come across it?” Colin asked.

  “The remains were found about a quarter of a mile from Parkes Castle, which is one of the most popular attractions in County Leitrim. The owners decided to expand the car park to accommodate increased traffic during the tourist season. The remains were discovered when the workers began clearing the woodland. The curator of the castle called Rhys’s Echoes from the Past hotline after the Garda ruled it out as a recent crime. He loves the program and thought the added publicity generated by the episode wouldn’t do the castle any harm.”r />
  “Well, I can’t wait to see how you spin this,” Colin said. “You have an amazing talent for taking a few random facts and molding them into a riveting narrative. It’s almost as if you know exactly what happened to these people.”

  “I only come up with a plausible theory and then see if the facts fit,” Quinn replied. She was saved from further explanations by Alex, who woke from his nap and sat up in his pram, looking around with annoyance.

  “Look who’s up,” Quinn said as she smiled at the baby. “It’s almost time to feed him, so I’d better get going.”

  “My regards to Gabe,” Colin said as he walked Quinn to the door of the lab. “I’ll let you know if anything else turns up, but I think this is about all I can tell you about this fellow.”

  “Thanks, Colin. See you soon.”

  Chapter 5

  Jo Turing slid into a corner booth and ordered a pot of Earl Grey and a scone. She liked this little café. She could watch life going by while enjoying her tea. She liked watching life. In fact, she felt most comfortable behind the lens of her camera. Quinn would probably say she was hiding, and to some degree she’d be right. Jo had been hiding for a long time, ever since the night her adoptive brother Michael had forced himself on her and shattered all her illusions of safety, family, and love.