“In what way?” Mary asked, mystified.
“In every way. The English way is very contrary.”
“I don’t understand.”
Walker’s eyes locked with her own, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Your God created everything, so the Bible says. He made man in His image.”
“Yes. What’s so contrary about that?”
“If man is made in God’s image, why does your God punish man for following his instincts, the instincts He gave him?”
“What instincts?”
“He gave people curiosity, then banished them from Eden for using it. He made men lustful, but your church says desiring a woman is a sin.”
“It’s not a sin to desire one’s wife,” Mary explained patiently. “God said, ‘Be fruitful and multiply.’ You can’t multiply without lying together.”
“No man can desire only one woman his whole life. That goes against nature.”
“Do people not marry in your culture? You just said your mother took a husband, and your brother married and had many sons,” Mary said, intrigued by this unusual logic.
“They do, but if they no longer make each other happy, they go their separate ways and find different partners. It’s not a sin to love more than one person. The Indians have no concept of sin.”
“How is that possible? If lust is not a sin, or adultery, how about murder? Surely that’s the greatest sin of all.”
“People kill because they must. Why should that be a sin?”
“It’s wrong to take a life,” Mary argued.
“The English take many lives. They have killed to conquer other people, to defend their own, to protect what’s theirs, and to punish for everything from betraying their country to stealing a loaf of bread, all with the blessing of their God and king—and queen, whose name my mother shared,” Walker added.
Mary stared at him. “How do you know?”
“I talk to the settlers. I ask questions about their homeland. They like to talk, especially when drunk on corn liquor.”
“The English take lives for the same reasons as the Indians,” Mary protested. She felt defensive, confused by Walker’s strange arguments.
“Is it just to hang a hungry child who stole food to survive?” Walker asked. “Surely that’s the greater sin.”
“You said the Indians kill to punish,” Mary argued.
“Yes, but the punishment has to fit the crime. To kill children is barbaric.”
Mary bowed her head, considering Walker’s point of view. The English claimed his people were savages, but he saw the English as savage, and given what he’d said, he had good reason.
“Do your people think the English are barbarians?” Mary asked, shocked to have put the thought into words.
“My people think the English are to be feared.”
“And the English say the Indians are fearsome and bloodthirsty.”
Walker laughed. “You see, that’s why my people single me out. They mistrust the English, and the English mistrust the Indians. I’m the man between, the man who doesn’t belong.”
“You belong with the Powhatan now,” Mary replied, trying to understand.
“I’m useful to the Powhatan.”
“Will you return to your tribe?” Mary asked. The thought of Walker leaving made her unaccountably sad.
“Not yet. I’ve made a study of English men. Now I’d like to learn more about Englishwomen.”
He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers, shocking her with the intimacy of the gesture.
“I’m a married woman,” Mary said sharply.
“Do you love your husband?” Walker asked. Judging by his neutral expression, he wasn’t challenging or shaming her. He was simply asking a question to which he needed an answer.
“No,” Mary conceded.
“Then you are free to follow your heart.”
He leaned forward and kissed her again. The second kiss was more intimate, more demanding. It was the first time she’d been truly kissed, and it was confusing and wonderful all at once. For just a moment, Mary gave herself up to the kiss, desperate to feel affection and desire, but then she placed her palms against Walker’s bare chest and pushed him away.
“I’m not free to follow my heart. Marriage is a sacred covenant between two people into which I entered willingly. I made vows before God. I made a promise to honor my husband and be faithful to him.”
“But you don’t love him,” Walker protested. It was his turn to be confused.
“And is that what you’re offering me? Love? You said yourself that I remind you of your mother. You’re curious, and maybe lonely. You don’t love me any more than I love you.”
Walker smiled at her. She’d thought he’d be upset, but instead he looked amused, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“The first time I saw you, you reminded me of my mother. She had hair like yours, and eyes the color of the sky. And her skin was like the petal of a flower from those trees you gather red fruit from. But you’re nothing like her. There was a profound sadness in my mother that never left her. I was a young boy when she died, but even I understood that death came as a relief to her. You are brave, Mary. You will not look to death to free you from your bonds. You will fight because you have a strong spirit.”
Mary’s eyes welled up and she looked away from him, unable to explain what his words meant to her. No one had ever told her she was strong, or brave, or spirited. Ever since her parents had died, she’d felt invisible, inconsequential. Her only value lay in her ability to work. Even John, who had at first seemed so pleased with her, had lost interest. He looked at her, but he didn’t see her. He never spoke to her the way Walker did, never explained anything or asked any questions.
“Why are you crying?” Walker asked, puzzled by her reaction.
“Because you see me,” Mary replied.
“Of course, I see you. I have eyes.”
Mary laughed through her tears. “You see me with your heart.” She placed her palm over his chest. His skin was warm and smooth, and she felt the steady beating of his heart beneath her fingers.
Walker placed his hand over hers and tilted his head until she was forced to meet his gaze. “It is because I see you that I understand your struggle. Vows are important, as is honor. I will not trouble you again, Mary.”
Mary gave him a watery smile. “I thought you were a savage,” she said. “Hardly more than a wild beast. You’re the most gallant man I’ve ever met.”
“I don’t know what ‘gallant’ means, but I know that you’re a woman of your word.” He took her hand from his chest and kissed her palm. “I wish you a good life, Mary Forrester.”
Mary’s eyes swam with tears. She didn’t want him to leave. She liked talking to him. He made her feel beautiful and worthy of attention.
“What if I want to see you?” she whispered.
“Leave me a sign on that tree,” he said, pointing to the oak.
“What kind of sign?”
Walker shrugged. “Tie a piece of cloth to the branch.”
Mary nodded. “All right. I will. I mean, I won’t, but just in case.”
Walker cupped her cheek. “If you need me, I’ll come.”
She nodded and watched as he disappeared into the woods.
Chapter 28
February 2015
Kabul, Afghanistan
Rhys had traveled widely before settling down to his job at the BBC nearly a decade ago, but he’d never felt as out of his element as he did in Kabul. His spirits quickly sagged once Rob departed for home, and they had already been low. There were other European reporters at the hotel, but Rhys had no desire to engage in conversation. The news about Jo had devastated him, but he couldn’t leave until he learned what had become of her remains. It was the least he could do for Quinn, who’d now never meet her twin. She’d be shattered.
Early in the morning, when waiting for a call back from the British Embassy became unbearable, he made an impulsive decision.
Given what had happened to Jo and Ali, driving into the mountains was probably the most irrational decision he’d ever made, but when he left the hotel, he reasoned that he wouldn’t get far, since there were checkpoints on the outskirts of the city and a visible military presence. Rhys had asked for a map at the hotel and pinpointed the location Ali had drawn. He mapped out his route and set off.
The morning was cold and clear, the mountains rugged and forbidding in the distance. He wasn’t sure how long it’d take him to get to his destination, but it wasn’t as if he was in a rush. Lack of purpose always made him feel restless and frustrated. At least this was something he could do. He sailed through the checkpoints, being a white, middle-aged man with a press pass, and continued toward the foothills. He’d expected to get overtaken by a military vehicle at any moment but found himself completely alone on the narrowing road that led into the mountains. He drove for two hours before finally nearing the place Ali had marked.
Rhys stopped and looked around. He didn’t dare leave the road or step out of the vehicle. As long as he stayed put, he was safe, or so he told himself as he extracted the binoculars he’d borrowed from one of the other reporters, who was an avid twitcher, and brought binoculars everywhere he went. Rhys had never cared for birdwatching, but the glasses would come in handy.
He peered into the binoculars, scanning the area inch by slow inch. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find. Surely, if Jo’s body was lying out in the open, someone would have seen it by now. The steeply rising mountain terrain offered up nothing. The dry, rocky mountainside was an unbroken vista of brown, occasionally dotted with a smudge of green from a particularly stubborn weed or sapling. Rhys saw craggy fissures higher up and assumed some of them were caves, but it was difficult to tell from his vantage point.
There were no signs of life, not even the orange blur of fox fur or the burrow of a groundhog, if they were native to Afghanistan. The sky was clear as well. Not a single bird had entered his field of vision, not even a pigeon or a sparrow. After approximately half an hour of staring at the unrelenting background of dun-colored dirt, Rhys set aside the glasses and made a very careful U-turn, scrupulously avoiding the sides of the road. That was where explosives were frequently buried, according to Rob.
The return trip to Kabul took much longer, since it was more difficult to enter the city than leave it. The line at the checkpoint was at least thirty cars long and moved at a snail’s pace, but eventually Rhys made it back to the hotel, tossed the binoculars on the chair, and threw himself down on the bed, physically and mentally exhausted. What he’d done was so monumentally foolish, he could hardly admit it to himself, and he thanked his lucky stars for having returned to the hotel in one piece. A part of him was relieved he’d found nothing, but he was also disappointed. It was as if Jo had vanished into thin air. Rhys sank into the lumpy mattress and fell into an uneasy slumber.
It was late afternoon by the time he woke up. His back ached, and his emotional fabric was in tatters. He hadn’t learned anything new this day, but he felt heavier somehow, more lethargic. He sat up slowly and ran his fingers through his hair. He wanted nothing more than to throw his few possessions into his case, drive to the airport, and get on the next flight out of Kabul, but he couldn’t leave until he had something concrete to tell Quinn. He knew her too well to believe that she would simply accept Jo’s death, especially when there was no body. Quinn would never find peace unless he could present her with irrefutable proof that Jo was gone.
Rhys stood and walked to the window, pushing aside the hideous apricot-colored curtains. The sky just above the distant mountaintops was a palette of pink, lavender, and gold, but the city spread out below was already shadowed with the deep purple of a winter evening. Rhys grabbed his coat and headed for the door. He was hungry but had no desire to eat at the hotel restaurant. The kebob place Rob had taken him to was a ten-minute walk from the hotel, and he felt like getting a breath of air. The tiny room made him claustrophobic and depressed.
The street was practically deserted. Darkness came early in February and people retired to their homes, undoubtedly safer behind their flimsy, bullet-strewn walls. Rhys walked along at a brisk pace, eager to get to the restaurant. The place was small, but lively, and although he’d resented the festive atmosphere so soon after learning of Jo’s death, he longed for a little cheer this evening.
Rhys was a few minutes away from his destination when a windowless black van turned the corner. It was driving slowly, as if the driver were looking for an address or landmark. Normally, Rhys would have ignored a passing vehicle, but something about the van’s deliberate slowness and grime-covered plates made the hair on the back of his neck rise. He quickened his step, hoping it would simply pass him by.
As he neared the junction, the vehicle drove past him and disappeared around the corner. Rhys breathed a sigh of relief. He was overly anxious, his nerves on edge in this city that was like a violent video game, where the bad guys kept coming, and the good guys kept trying to keep them at bay. What would anyone want with him? He was just another foreigner, a faceless dot in an overpopulated metropolis.
Rhys stopped and waited for the light to change before he could cross the street. He saw the bright lights of the kebob restaurant just up ahead. The screech of tires startled him, and he looked back, surprised to see the van racing toward him. It must have made a circle and come back around. The vehicle stopped next to him, the side door slid open, and two men jumped out. They were dressed entirely in black, dark caps pulled low over their eyes. Rhys could have sworn they were European.
Rhys took a step back, but the men were upon him before he could formulate a coherent thought. They pulled a bag over his head, yanked his arms roughly behind him, bound them with a strip of plastic, and shoved him inside. Rhys fell onto his side and pulled his knees up to his chest to protect his vital organs. The floor of the van smelled sweet, a sickening odor that made his head swim. Opium, Rhys thought. He’d never actually smelled it, but had seen its distinctive scent described several times in popular literature.
The van lurched as it pulled away, speeding down the street. The men talked quietly between themselves, but Rhys couldn’t understand a word. He thought it was one of the Eastern European languages. They definitely weren’t Afghans.
“What do you want with me?” he demanded, his voice muffled by the bag over his head. “I’m a British journalist.”
“We know you are,” one of the men responded.
So, it wasn’t a mistake. He’d been taken deliberately. Rhys tried freeing his hands, but the plastic strips bit into his skin. They couldn’t be loosened, like rope. He’d seen those types of restraints used in action films. His feet were free, but there wasn’t much he could do. Just when Rhys thought his kidnappers would take him out of the city, the van stopped abruptly. He tensed as he heard a set of footsteps somewhere above his head. The driver must have remained seated, ready to go at a moment’s notice. This was Rhys’s one chance to save himself. He opened his mouth to speak, desperate to engage his kidnappers in discourse, but strong hands yanked on his ankles, straightening his legs.
Rhys had a few seconds to react to this development before a heavy boot struck him in the stomach, making him cry out in pain. He gasped for breath, the dusty fibers of the bag making him cough as they landed in the back of his throat. Rhys sputtered, tears streaming from his eyes as he doubled over in pain. The boot kicked him in the knees, forcing his legs to jerk away and expose his stomach once again. Rhys was kicked several more times, each blow leaving him breathless and gasping for breath. The pain in his stomach was excruciating, and each breath was an agony on his bruised or broken ribs.
Rhys curled into a ball and his attacker allowed him to remain in that position. Moving behind, he kicked Rhys in the lower back, aiming for his kidneys. Rhys jerked involuntary, throwing his head back and lowering his knees. Another kick followed. Rhys heard a roar. It took him a moment to realize the sound had come from him. Hi
s mind seemed disconnected from his body, maybe because of the opium he’d inhaled, but the pain enveloped him like an iron shield, solid and impenetrable. He was crying and whimpering between coughs, but he wouldn’t give his attacker the satisfaction of pleading for mercy. It’d probably just spurn him on.
Rhys closed his eyes tightly and saw the image of his daughter as he’d seen her on the antenatal scan. She’d been alive then, moving slowly, her feet like flippers making ripples in the amniotic fluid. She’d lifted her hand and moved it toward her face. Her fingers had been splayed, tiny and perfect. Rhys didn’t care if she’d been his. She’d felt his.
Elizabeth, Rhys thought groggily, using the name he’d secretly picked for her. My Elizabeth. I’m coming, sweetheart. We’ll be together soon. He braced for another kick, but the assault stopped.
“This is your one and only warning, Englishman. Stop asking questions about things that don’t concern you and go home.”
The van stopped moving and Rhys was unceremoniously tossed out. He couldn’t break his fall with his hands, so he landed on his side, slamming his head against the pavement. His restraints were clipped, and then he heard the screech of tires as the van pulled away.
Rhys remained immobile for a few minutes, unable to gather enough strength to stand. He was vulnerable and exposed, but he needed to catch his breath. His back and stomach were on fire and he could barely draw breath. Finally, Rhys pulled the bag from his head and looked around. He’d been dumped in the same spot where he’d been snatched. He saw the lights of the kebob restaurant glowing warmly in the dark night, but he was no longer hungry.
Chapter 29
“You are lucky to be alive, Mr. Morgan.”
“I’m acutely aware of that,” Rhys replied acidly. The pain had dulled to a steady throb, as long as he didn’t make any sudden moves. He could only take shallow breaths, but thankfully, his ribs didn’t appear to be broken.
“Do you require a doctor?”
The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6) Page 19