The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6)

by Shapiro, Irina

  “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 enjoyed earlier.

  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 by Ame
rican military personnel after the explosion in the mountains that nearly killed her and her guide. Jo and Rhys had developed a tender friendship that had seemed on the verge of blossoming into a romance at the time of Jo’s release from the hospital.

  Quinn shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Neither one is talking, but given Rhys’s testy mood, I’d say not great.”

  “Undoubtedly, Jo is feeling vulnerable right now, and probably feels beholden to Rhys for risking his life to find her in Kabul. That’s not a promising start to any relationship, since they are not on equal footing. A lot has happened in her life in the past few months. Has she expressed a desire to return to work?”

  “She’s still recovering from the neurosurgery. Her doctor advised her not to fly as the difference in air pressure might cause a brain bleed. I hope she won’t go off on some dangerous assignment as soon as she gets the all clear,” Quinn fretted.

  “Quinn, Jo is a grown woman. I know you’re worried about her, but your sudden involvement might make her feel suffocated.”

  “I missed out on thirty-one years with her, and I’m trying to cram three decades into a couple of weeks, but I know that our friendship will take time to develop. We’re virtual strangers, and I don’t want to do anything to endanger this fragile new relationship. Don’t you sometimes wish people came with instructions?”

  “I sure do. Had you come with instructions, we might have got together a lot sooner, and you wouldn’t have wasted eight years on that unspeakable wank—”

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” the server asked, interrupting Gabe’s little tirade.

  “No, I think we’re done here,” Quinn replied, giving Gabe a sharp look. She had no desire to talk about Luke. He was the past and Gabe was the future. End of story.

  Gabe paid the bill while Quinn extracted Alex from the high chair and gathered her belongings. “It’s naptime for you, young man,” she said, kissing his soft, round cheek. “Maybe Daddy will take you for a walk while Mummy puts in some quality time with the Hand of Fatima,” she said meaningfully, smiling beguilingly at Gabe.

  “Done. I can’t wait to find out what you saw.”

  Chapter 2

  September 1588

  Coast of Ireland

  As he came to, he first became aware of the jagged stones digging into his cheek, followed by the thunder of crashing waves. The sea was behind him, the surf rushing toward him and licking his boots and thighs before retreating again. Somewhere above, a seagull cried, and a brisk wind ruffled his salt-stiffened hair. His eyes were caked with grit, and he was unbearably cold. He tried to move but couldn’t find the strength to do much more than lift his head. A moan escaped his lips and he gave up and lay his head back down, too weak to care about the sharp stones. His lips were dry and cracked, and he was terribly thirsty. He shivered violently in his wet clothes.

  After a time, fragments of thought that had been floating through his muddled brain began to gather into coherent memories, until the terror of the shipwreck returned to his consciousness, slowly and painfully. He flexed his fingers and wrapped his hand around a bunch of pebbles. He squeezed harder. It hurt, but he was grateful to feel pain. He was alive. The sea roared again, but as the noise subsided, sounds of a different nature met his ears. He heard anguished moans and the thudding of blows, the cries of seagulls and screams of terrified men.

  Rafael forced his eyes open but couldn’t see a thing as tears stung his eyes and ran down his cheeks, cleansing the delicate orbs that had been irritated by dried grit and salt water. Everything appeared blurred and distorted, but once his vision cleared, he was finally able to comprehend what he was looking at and he felt a renewed surge of panic. The sight that greeted him was like a punch to the gut. The beach was littered with men. There were hundreds of them. Some lay perfectly still as the waves crashed over them, while others struggled to get to their feet and reach dry land. Dozens of people, locals by the look of them, poured onto the beach to join the ones that were already there, kicking and pummeling Rafael’s countrymen, their eyes wild with hatred, their teeth bared. The men brandished thick wooden cudgels and knives, which they used on whomever was closest to them. Howls of pain and shock filled the desolate beach as the locals beat the survivors mercilessly or killed them outright. Blood and brain matter splattered the rocks as skulls were smashed like ripe melons. The locals who were unarmed fell on the dead and injured and tore off their clothes and boots, stuffing their pockets with whatever valuables they could get their hands on. Rafael’s training superseded his fear. Luckily for him, he’d washed up further down the beach, so the mob was still some way off. He had to get away before they reached him. Once they did, there’d be no mercy and no chance of escape.

  Rafael’s limbs quivered like jelly, but he forced himself to crawl away from the shoreline. The pebbles cut into his hands and hurt his knees, but he kept going, his eyes fixed on the wide strip of rushes in the distance. He was sure the men would search the surrounding area once their blood cooled. On the beach, he was completely exposed, but hiding in the rushes would give him a little extra time to get his bearings. He gasped for breath as he crawled, ignoring the pain and the nausea that threatened to overtake him. Eventually, he reached the cover of the tall grass and tried to crawl deeper into the growth, looking for a hollow or a ditch where he could lie low.

  Pausing to catch his breath, Rafael turned to glance at the beach. The carnage continued unabated. Several of his countrymen had managed to get to their feet and were trying to fight off their attackers, but they were no match for angry, armed men, who cut through them like a knife through butter. Rafael continued to crawl until he found an indentation in the ground. It wasn’t much, but hopefully it would hide him. He lay face-down and pulled the tall grass down to cover him, hoping no one would be able to spot him from a distance. There were enough shipwrecked soldiers on the beach to keep the locals occupied for some time. Rafael laid his head on the ground and covered his ears to block out the desperate screams that tore at his soul.

  Eventually, all became quiet and still. Having slaughtered the survivors, the locals departed, leaving the beach strewn with naked and mutilated corpses. It was possible that someone had survived the massacre, but Rafael was in no condition to help anyone. He shivered in his wet clothes, his teeth chattering with cold. He was thirsty and hungry, but most of all, he was terrified. What was he to do now? Even if he made it through the night, who’d help him? Where was he to go?

  He reached into the tiny pocket sewn into the inside of his doublet and extracted the hamsa. The hand-shaped charm was the size of a grape, the gold thin and filigreed. A small, round opal was set into the palm of the hand, almost like a single eye, watching over its owner. The amulet wouldn’t fetch much, if sold, but to Rafael it was priceless. He pressed the little hand to his lips and kissed it reverently.

  “Dear God, if you can hear me, please help me,” he prayed. “I’m at your mercy, now and always.”

  Rafael stared at the charm in his hand. The locals had filled their pockets with Spanish gold, robbing the corpses littering the beach. They’d taken crosses, rosaries, rings, and even buckles and buttons. They were sure to take his hamsa if he were discovered. Rafael considered his options for a moment. If he died, it wouldn’t matter, but if he survived, he’d do anything to hold on to it. Mira had given it to him just before he left for La Coruña. It had been a betrothal gift from her mother, but Mira had pressed it into his hand, her eyes meeting his full on for the first time since they’d met.

  “I can’t take it, Mira,” Rafael had told her. He had been touched by her generous gesture but felt awkward about accepting the gift.

  “You can. Please, I want you to have it. You can return it to me on our wedding day, Rafael, and I will be happy in the knowledge that it kept you safe.”

  “Thank you,” Rafael had said, wondering if maybe, in time, he would learn to love this girl. He hadn’t been in favor of the match, hadn’t been ready to commit himself
to a girl he’d met only twice before, but his father made all the arrangements and the betrothal took place, the two young people studying each other shyly as they stood side by side. Mira was pretty, but at sixteen she was still a child, raised behind the protective walls of her family’s home. There were reasons why señor Cortéz kept Mira and his two younger daughters in near isolation, and they all knew what those reasons were.

  Given the perils of day-to-day life in Toledo, it was easier to have sons, but boys came with their own challenges, as señor de Silva was fond of reminding his sons. It was his father who’d decided that Rafael would join the army.

  “You’ll be safe in the army, Rafi,” his father had said. “You’ll be hiding in plain sight. I only wish your brother could join up as well, but he’s not strong enough for life in the military. His heart can’t take the strain. I’ve spoken to señor Cortéz. Ramόn will be apprenticed to him until he can become a master craftsman. There’s always a demand for goldsmiths.”

  “Father, I don’t want to join the army,” Rafael had argued. “I want to be a physician, like you.”

  “Rafi, please trust me in this,” señor de Silva had replied. “It is not safe for you to study medicine. You know the reasons, but you still don’t understand the danger. Physicians invite undue scrutiny, and scrutiny often leads to an investigation, interrogation, and torture. There are those who think healers are no better than witches or sorcerers. The Church never sleeps, mi hijo. It has eyes and ears everywhere. We mustn’t attract undue attention. We must blend in. By joining the army, you show the authorities and the priests that you are a loyal and patriotic Spaniard, a young man beyond reproach.”

  “Father, why don’t we leave Spain?” Rafael had asked, not for the first time. “Surely there are places where we can be free to be ourselves and worship openly. We can live our lives as we choose, without constant fear of discovery.”

  “Rafi, our family has been in Toledo for centuries. We are as Spanish as the people who’d condemn us. I will not give in to their bullying. I will not leave my home, and neither will you. This will pass, as all things pass. We must have faith. God is great. He will protect us.”