The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6)

by Shapiro, Irina

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t look fine, if you’ll pardon my saying so. You’ll need some painkillers at the very least to get through the next few days.”

  Rhys couldn’t argue with that. He’d gladly take some pain tablets, a dose large enough to treat an elephant, if he could get his hands on it. He had a headache as well. He’d spent the past twenty minutes answering questions about his abduction, the sum total of his answers being “I don’t know.”

  Eric Hallam, Attaché to the British Embassy in Kabul, was what Rhys liked to think of as an everyman. He was the type of person who was so physically average, he could blend into any crowd, penetrate any organization without ever being noticed, and melt away as if he’d never been there at all, but Rhys was sure that he was anything but ordinary when it came to intelligence. You didn’t get to occupy this type of position if you were a middling bureaucrat.

  “Where is Jo Turing, Mr. Hallam?” Rhys asked, tired of answering questions.

  “Resting in a shallow grave, I imagine,” Hallam replied. “And so will you, if you persist in conducting this investigation.”

  “Why aren’t you conducting this investigation?”

  “Because no one has reported her missing.”

  “Her agent has. Mr. Charles Sutcliffe.”

  “Mr. Sutcliffe called the embassy last month but didn’t initiate a missing person’s report. He simply indicated that he hadn’t heard from Ms. Turing in several weeks and was concerned. He never rang back, so we assumed she’d turned up.”

  “I need to speak to the Americans,” Rhys said. “Someone high up. I don’t want to have to explain this to some low-level flunky.” He took several careful breaths, playing hide-and-seek with the agonizing pain in his ribs.

  “Good luck with that,” Hallam replied.

  “You can get me an appointment,” Rhys said, leaning back in his chair to indicate that he wasn’t about to be ushered out.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Hallam said, gathering several papers to indicate he was a very busy man and it was time for Rhys to take his leave.

  “No time like the present.”

  “Mr. Morgan, I would strongly advise you to go home to London and leave the business of Ms. Turing to us.”

  “And I would strongly advise you to pick up the phone and call your American counterpart. Work the special relationship.”

  “It hasn’t been especially fruitful of late.”

  “Make the call,” Rhys growled, tired of the verbal fencing. If the Americans had found Jo, alive or dead, surely, they’d have no problem turning her over. Or perhaps they already had. Rhys suddenly had a thought that nearly made him laugh out loud. What if Jo was MI-6? Then real life would truly be stranger than fiction. “Mr. Hallam, is Jo Turing an agent of the Crown?”

  “No.”

  “Are you quite certain?”

  “I am.” Hallam looked momentarily exasperated but picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Linda, get John Smith on the line for me.”

  “Is that his real name?” Rhys asked, trying unsuccessfully to suppress an eye roll.

  “Believe it or not, it is. John, good morning,” Hallam said into the phone. He sat down behind his desk and a bland expression slipped over his irate features. “Yeah, good. And you? How’s the family? Right. Can’t say I blame her,” Hallam said, possibly commenting on something John Smith had said about his wife. “So, she’s stateside? Lucky lady. I wouldn’t mind taking a break from the wonders of Kabul myself.”

  After several moments of banal banter, Hallam finally got to the point. “Look, John, I have a bit of a situation here. Need your help. A British journalist has gone missing and is believed to have been a victim of an ambush in the mountains. I have it on good authority that your boys found her and her hapless guide. No, I don’t know if she’s alive. Is there someone who can fill in the blanks? Right, thanks a million. I owe you one.” Hallam disconnected the call and turned to Rhys. “He’ll make enquiries.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “And what am I to do in the meantime?” Rhys asked. He knew his belligerent attitude was a defense mechanism. He was frightened, and the thought of being alone in Kabul for even one more day scared the wits out of him.

  “Mr. Morgan, as a rule, most people don’t get a second warning, or even a first, for that matter. They don’t want to kill you, whomever they are, but they will if you disregard their message.”

  “And who are they, Mr. Hallam?” Rhys asked. He still had no inkling who’d want him out of the way, and why.

  “Most likely, they’re drug traffickers, who are protecting their turf. Going into the mountains on your own wasn’t a smart idea. Whatever Ms. Turing might have stumbled on had clearly upset someone enough to have her and her guide shot at. The IED was an added bonus, I should think, or maybe an intentionally planted deterrent.”

  “So, what am I to do?”

  Hallam sighed. “You are to sit tight. Do not go anywhere until you hear from me. The hotel is the safest place for you right now. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Rhys replied.

  Rhys made to rise, but Hallam held up his hand. “We have a doctor on staff.” He made a call. “Giles, do you have a few minutes? Yes, I have someone here who’s run into a bit of trouble with the locals. Right. I’ll send him right over.” Hallam hung up. “My PA will walk you over. Giles is an excellent physician. Nice chap too. He’ll fix you up.”

  Rhys thanked the attaché and stepped out into the outer office, where Hallam’s assistant was already waiting for him.

  “This way, please, Mr. Morgan,” she said pleasantly and began to walk. She slowed her pace when she noticed that Rhys was struggling to keep up. “You poor man,” she said, shaking her head. “What have they done to you?”

  What they had done to him was beat the shite out of him, as Dr. McCallum put it. He bound Rhys’s bruised ribs after examining him extensively, then supplied him with a full bottle of painkillers. “Take as needed, but don’t get carried away.”

  “Are these addictive?” Rhys asked, studying the label.

  “Only if you start popping them like sweeties. Do not exceed three a day, and make sure there are at least four hours between doses. Here’s my direct number. Call me if you don’t feel better in a few days. I sincerely hope you will be back in England by then. See your own GP when you return home.”

  “Thank you, Dr. McCallum.”

  “My pleasure. Feel better, old son.”

  Rhys chuckled. Dr. McCallum was around thirty-five. He hadn’t expected to hear the outdated expression from a man his age. “Will do,” Rhys replied and left the doctor’s office. He wasn’t surprised to find Linda waiting outside. They would never allow him to wander the corridors on his own. He might be a spy. It was an amusing thought. Rhys followed Linda down to the foyer, where he said his goodbyes and left the embassy.

  It was broad daylight and there were guards posted outside the gates, but Rhys’s whole body tensed as he looked from side to side, almost expecting the black van to come racing around the corner. He hated the thought of being cooped up in his tiny room, but Hallam was right; the hotel was the safest place for him. Although, if someone wanted to get to him, a hotel full of foreign nationals wouldn’t stop them. All they had to do was walk in, find his room, break down the door, and put a bullet in his head. They clearly knew where he was staying and had most likely been watching him to make sure he’d heeded their warning.

  Dear God, Rhys thought as he drove back to the hotel, I know I don’t talk to you often, but if you allow me to get out of this hellhole alive, I promise I’ll never ask you for anything again. Well, for at least six months. Maybe three. But please, don’t let me die here, Rhys prayed as he parked the Jeep in the car park and practically sprinted to the hotel entrance.

  Chapter 30

  August 1620

  Virginia Colony

 
The sound of the door closing jolted Mary out of a deep sleep. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep since the heat inside the cabin was so stifling, she’d felt as if she were being roasted alive. John liked to keep the windows uncovered overnight to allow the night air to vent the cabin, but the marginally cooler breeze brought with it a swarm of mosquitoes that feasted on Mary as if she were their last meal. For some odd reason, John never got bitten.

  Mary scratched at a new bite on her arm and looked around groggily, wondering if it was time to get up, but the sky outside the small window showed no signs of dawn, and Travesty was still in her loft, snoring softly. Mary threw off the sheet covering her body. She was bathed in a sheen of perspiration. Even in the middle of the night, the air was thick with humidity. John had been having trouble sleeping the past few weeks, due to the heat, he’d said. He often woke in the night and went outside, sometimes to smoke a pipe, and sometimes to just sit on the bench and allow his body to cool until he was ready to return to bed. Mary allowed him these moments of privacy, not wishing to intrude. She usually turned over and went back to sleep, tired from a full day of household chores, but the cup of water she’d had after supper was making itself known. She got out of bed and walked to the door, letting herself out into the balmy night.

  John wasn’t by the cabin. She looked around, wondering where he might have got to, then thought he might have gone to the privy. Well, she’d find out soon enough. She knocked softly on the door, but there was no response from within. Mary pulled open the door. The outhouse was empty, the interior so suffocating after a day of baking in the hot sun that she momentarily considered relieving herself behind a bush. Who would know? But there could be something in the grass, like a snake, or some insect just waiting to bite her bottom.

  She sucked in a deep breath and went into the privy, finishing her business as quickly as humanly possible. She released her breath once she stepped outside and looked around. She needed to go back to bed; tomorrow would be another long day filled with never-ending chores and mind-numbing boredom, but Mary couldn’t bring herself to go back in just yet. The yard was bathed in silver moonlight, the night peaceful and still. She sat down on the bench and looked up at the velvety sky. The stars twinkled like a swarm of light bugs, the light distant and dulled by the humid air, the silence interrupted only by a chorus of cicadas.

  Mary rested her head against the wall of the cabin and sighed. She hadn’t seen Walker since the day he’d kissed her by the creek. That was well over a month ago, and although she prided herself on doing the right thing, some small part of her regretted her rashness in turning him away. She was lonely in a way she’d never been. When she was a child, she’d had her parents. When she’d lived with Swithin and Agnes, she’d had the girls and several neighbors she could call on when she had a few minutes to spare.

  There had been one couple in particular, the Morelocks. Michael Morelock was a cooper, a trade highly valued in a port town. His wife, Susan, looked after the house and helped her husband by taking orders and negotiating the prices for his barrels. But she was also a skilled midwife and was often called upon to help the women of the parish in their time of need. Master and Mistress Morelock, who were both in their sixties, had been parents to three sons, but by the time Mary had made their acquaintance, they no longer had any living children to care for. They were the closest thing Mary had to parents, and as Mary grew into a woman, Susan kept a watchful eye on her, worried that Swithin might take an unhealthy interest in his comely niece, particularly once Agnes passed. Mary was grateful for their company and sincere concern and made sure never to leave her encounters with Swithin to chance. Mistress Morelock warned her never be alone with him in his chamber or sleep in a place where he might have access to her without disturbing his young daughters. Sleeping with her cousins had been a trial at times, but it had kept her safe, and their innocent affection often made up for the lack of a more mature love in her life. She missed the girls and hoped Mistress Morelock was looking after them the way she had looked after Mary when she’d been orphaned.

  Even on the ship to Virginia, she’d had constant companionship. The women were all different and often got into disagreements, but they’d also told stories, shared anecdotes, and had a few laughs, especially when they speculated on a wife’s marital duties. The conversations started out seriously enough, but after a few minutes someone would say something bawdy and the women would dissolve into giggles, desperate for any kind of diversion to take their minds off the great unknown. As miserable as conditions had been, Mary sometimes missed her days aboard the Lady Grace, and she missed Nell and Betsy.

  Mary had established early on that she would never have that type of easy relationship with Travesty; and Simon, although not as odious as Swithin, was motivated by something other than a desire for company. Mary had worked in a tavern long enough to recognize a glance of appraisal followed by a spark of lust. Simon’s suggestive comments had grown bolder, so she made sure never to be alone with him for fear of finding herself in a compromising situation. Simon was handsome, to be sure, and very confident of his appeal, but there was something beneath the playful exterior that put Mary on guard. He was watchful and calculating, and although he seemed loyal to John, she didn’t think he’d pass up the opportunity to grab something for himself, even if it went against the interests of his master.

  Mary stood, somewhat reluctantly. She’d have liked to enjoy the beauty of the night a bit longer, but she needed her rest, and her eyelids were heavy. She was just about to open the door when she heard a noise. It sounded like an intake of breath, followed by another. She looked around. Where was John anyway? Could he have walked away from the cabin and hurt himself somehow?

  Mary followed the sound. It came from the direction of the barn. She walked quietly, her bare feet making no noise on the packed earth. She peeked into the barn, but all was quiet, so she continued around the side. The yard was enclosed by a fence made of wooden rails to keep the farm animals in and wild animals out.

  Mary stopped abruptly, concealed in the shadows. Simon was leaning heavily on the rail directly behind the barn. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and his pale skin glowed in the moonlight. His head was bowed, and his breath was coming fast. His breeches were around his ankles and he was stroking himself furiously as John made free with his body, his cock sliding in and out of Simon’s backside. Both men seemed to be lost in the act, completely oblivious to Mary’s shocked gasp. She clamped her hand over her mouth and retreated, terrified of being seen.

  She hurried back to the cabin and threw herself on the bed, turning her face toward the wall. Hot tears of anger and humiliation slid down her cheeks. She’d never seen two men together, but she knew enough to understand that what she’d witnessed was an act of sodomy. Perhaps that should have been the greatest shock, but what stunned her more was the look on her husband’s face. No longer aloof, his eyes had burned with desire, his mouth partially open as he panted with lust. John’s hands had gripped Simon’s hips firmly, and he’d driven into him with a force that bespoke a total lack of control. She’d never seen ecstasy up close, but knew it when it slapped her in the face. John had never looked like that when he lay with her. He had the glazed eyes of a dead fish, and his mouth was usually pressed into a thin line, as if he found the act distasteful. Perhaps he did.

  Mary buried her wet face in her pillow. Was that why John had married her? What better way to hide a sin of that magnitude than to conceal it beneath a guise of decency? She was his cover, his ticket to safety. Governor Yeardley had passed strict morality laws once women began to arrive in the colony. A man could be put in stocks if he so much as kissed his wife in view of others. What would the governor decree if he learned of John and Simon’s transgression? Would they be put in stocks, flogged, or worse? She was sure it wasn’t the first time they’d engaged in sodomy, and it wouldn’t be the last. Was the pleasure they got from it worth the risk? Judging by what she’d seen tonight, the answer was a
resounding yes.

  Mary stuffed a fist into her mouth to muffle her crying as John came stealthily back into the cabin. He got into bed and was asleep within moments. She needn’t have worried that he’d hear her crying. Nor would he care.

  Mary inched further away from his hot body. She didn’t love her husband, but she’d been prepared to honor and obey him. But now, he repulsed her, as did the sharp reek of his sweat and spilled seed. John had betrayed their marriage. He had betrayed her, and she no longer owed him her obedience or respect. She had to think of herself now, and her future.

  Chapter 31

  When morning came, Mary didn’t utter a word of reproach. What was the point? It wasn’t as if John would be repentant. He was in good spirits, enjoying his breakfast and talking to Simon about his plans for the day. Neither man paid much attention to her or Travesty, who went about her business with her usual efficiency.

  Mary poured Simon more ale and watched him from beneath hooded lids. Simon accepted the ale and looked up to nod his thanks. As expected, his gaze slid to her bosom, taking in the sun-kissed flesh above the neckline of her chemise. John never looked at her bosom. As she turned away from the men, Mary wondered if John might be coercing Simon. Simon was John’s to command until his indenture contract was up, and they had been on their own for a time, before Travesty joined them. Could this be all John’s doing?

  Mary bid the men a good day as they rose from the table and headed for the door. She was glad to see the back of them. She tore off the bedlinens and filled her basket. “I’m going to the creek,” she told Travesty.

  “I’ve never seen anyone spend so much time laundering,” Travesty muttered, but nodded and went back to what she was doing.

  Mary walked to the creek and tied a scrap of fabric to one of the lower branches of the great oak before turning her attention to the linens. She hoped Walker would come, but it wasn’t likely. Not this soon. She stripped off her clothes and took a dip in the creek to cool her burning flesh before reluctantly returning to the cabin to begin her other chores.