Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series)

by Spain, Shirley

  “Victim focuses on survival, clings to captor because he has complete power over her. When the captor doesn’t use his power, victim feels grateful, hence captor becomes a good guy in the victim’s mind.” Hanging her head, she bobbled it up and down slowly as finger number four rose. “More than once I considered Marshall Watters my hero,” she admitted with a hint of disappointment. That cinched it. She was a prime candidate for Stockholm Syndrome.

  Pondering her situation, Jewels reasoned the first step to combating a potential problem was knowing you have one, or in this case, recognizing you may be susceptible to it. Now she knew. Now she could guard against it.

  “Never forget Marshall Watters is one of them. One of the bad guys,” she whispered, vowing not to allow herself to become another victim helplessly caught in the psychological trap of capture-bonding ... no matter how good looking, charming, and sexy he appeared.

  Resuming her knot picking, she loosened the final loop on the last piece of rope; the one around her left wrist. Her watch appeared from under the unraveled coils: 8:58. “Less than one short hour ago I was at Tank’s mercy,” she said, her tone remote, the stark horror of how close she had come to gruesome torture and perhaps, even death, just now sinking in.

  Instantly her mind leaped to Marshall. His heroics were not a mishmash of innuendo and wishful thinking. What he did was indisputable: Tank’s revenge was thwarted only because Marshall Watters had come to her aid. “Psychobabble,” Jewels muttered. “Maybe this so-called psychological phenomenon of trauma-bonding, is really a bunch of hooey,” she said, shaking off the Stockholm Syndrome possibility.

  Gently massaging her throbbing wrists and ankles, she noticed her skin was turning colors, a telltale sign of the furious, yet pointless, battle she had waged against Tank’s ropes. Jewels envisioned the matching deep purple bracelets around her wrists and ankles destined to brand her for the next week or longer.

  Curling her lips in disgust, she tried to imagine how in the world she was going to cover those ugly marks; how many new long sleeved blouses she’d have to buy; and how many, if any, of her current collection of dress boots would match the new blouses.

  Her mind detoured to the household chores needing to be done and business requiring follow-up at the office ... as soon as she returned home later that day.

  Knowing there was a fine line between positive thinking and denial, Jewels realized worrying about such trivialities meant she was teetering on the brink of denial. Certainly she didn’t want to surrender to the notion she would not be rescued before the Commander came to take her away and do the good-Lord-only-knows-what with her. Yet, she knew if she succumbed to doom, the fire inside giving her the courage to press forward, to foster hope, to fight for freedom, would be lost.

  The jingling of keys outside her door snuffed her mental analysis. Was Tank coming back to finish the job? Terror strangled her mind and body. Tucking her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her shins and held her breath, unable to keep her lips from trembling.

  The door swung open.

  “Marshall!” Jewels squealed bouncing off the bed and running to him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she shamelessly squashed her free-flowing breasts against his hard chest and hugged him intensely. “Thank you for saving me,” she whispered, suppressing the impulse to nibble his earlobe and swallow up his waist between her legs.

  Chuckling, “Hey, I told you I’d come back,” he said, gently patting her shoulder blades reassuringly for a few moments before peeling her hands from around his neck and gazing into her eyes. “Jewels, we have to talk. This is important.”

  Wiping her hands on her pants to dry the nervous sweat from her palms, she looked up at him, her face painted with concern.

  “It’s Tank. He’s going on trial and Cooman wants you there.”

  “A trial? Now?”

  “Yes. Right now, so you better slip on your boots ... and I brought you another bra,” he said, handing it to her and turning his back to give her privacy.

  Preoccupied with the news of a trial, she wasn’t the least astonished at having received a bra to replace the one Tank destroyed, though she did notice Marshall was wearing another black T-shirt. Damn! She wouldn’t mind if he never wore a T-shirt again in her presence.

  Quickly slipping into the bra, she crawled back into Marshall’s extra large T-shirt and wiggled her bare feet into the combat boots purposely missing laces. Tapping Marshall on the shoulder, she announced, “I’m ready.”

  Turning on his heel, he faced her.

  “Hmm. This is what I call a speedy trial,” she mumbled, a half joking tone to her voice, her eyes glistening like an infatuated girl leaving on a date with her dream boat.

  Marshall frowned. “This is serious, Jewels,” he warned, gently grasping her elbow to escort her into the hallway.

  Jewels’ face colored red. Clearly, her comment had been inappropriate ... within moments the reason would become apparent.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  SATURDAY, 0942 HOURS. Jewel’s two-sizes-too-big boots clip-clopped against the stone floor as Marshall marched her past several occupied theater-style rows of folding chairs toward the front of the cafeteria that doubled for a meeting hall, or courtroom when necessary.

  A large black desk and two metal chairs, positioned to face the crowd, were elevated on a portable wooden stage rising about three feet above the main floor. General Cooman was seated behind the desk and appeared to be wearing a black judicial robe. A walnut gavel and sound block lay in front of him on the desk. Clearly the judge, Jewels thought.

  Leftover breakfast foods had been stashed, dishes rinsed and loaded in the commercial dishwasher, and the stainless steel buffet tables had been emptied, cleaned, and pushed next to the restaurant-quality stove, oven and refrigerator on the far side wall. The cafeteria turned courtroom was silent as a funeral parlor. No one whispered. Or smiled.

  Marshall escorted Jewels up the plank steps and motioned for her to have a seat in one of the two chairs positioned in front of the judge’s desk, but off to the side.

  Squirming in the cold metal chair, Jewels nervously cleared her throat a few times.

  Marshall sat next to her. Without looking at her, he rested his hand on her arm and squeezed. Not a tender, reassuring squeeze, but a threatening you-better-not-do-that kind of a squeeze. The kind of squeeze an embarrassed parent might give a child who was impolitely staring at a strange-faced dinner guest.

  Reading his tacit message, she stared forward. Silently. Perfectly still. Like everyone else in the room.

  While doing her best to imitate a block of granite, she observed that all of the men in the room, about twenty total, were well armed. In addition to their sidearms—a semi-auto of some type—each had a rifle either slung over his shoulder or across his chest. It appeared the preferred weapon of this militia was Colt’s AR-15. Nice weapon, she thought, reminded of her own Colt AR-15 HBar locked in her gun safe.

  All the men in the room were dressed identically: woodland green battle dress uniforms, a military cap that matched the BDUs, and shiny black combat boots that laced up to the middle of their calves. All of the men, that is, except for two: Marshall Watters and Doc Callahan.

  The reason Marshall didn’t carry a gun was because he was a prison guard, Jewels figured. But why would he wear a black T-shirt and black pants instead of camo clothes? Hmmm. Black. Prison. Maybe Marshall Watters wore black for intimidation value. Maybe he wanted prisoners to fear him; to think of him as an executioner ... the leader of a death squad. The thought caused Jewels to shudder involuntarily.

  Marshall felt it. Looked at her. Widened his eyes and crimped his forehead as if seeking an explanation.

  Shrugging it off, she focused her clothing analysis on Doc.

  Callahan stood tall next to the to cafeteria entry, wearing stereotypical doctor garb: a white lab coat, dark dress pants, even a stethoscope around his neck. Made her immediately think of Peter guarding the Pearly Gate
s on Judgment Day. Wanting to let out a gut-bellowing burst of laughter at the absurd analogy, she smartly bridled the urge especially given the grave circumstances. Thinking about Doc, she realized a tinge of fondness had blossomed in her heart for Leo Callahan. His hands were healing hands, not killing hands, which was why he wore a white lab coat and he didn’t pack a gun, she concluded.

  Chaos suddenly erupted in the hall from a yet-to-be-seen source. Commotion. Shouting.

  Jewels recognized the voice. It was Tank’s. He was angry. Arrogant. Spewing every foul word she ever heard. His vile rantings were heavily seasoned with the racket of chains being violently dragged and slammed on the floor, like a mega dose of terror from the ghost of Marley threatening the unsuspecting Scrooge. And just as quickly as an apparition materializing, Tank was visible. Thick chains dangled from his neck to his hands, to his waist and legs.

  A modern-day Frankenstein of sorts, popped into her mind. Gawking wide-mouthed, a speck of righteous satisfaction festered in her innards. The bastard was deservedly chained like a monster.

  Towering motionlessly in the doorway of the cafeteria, Tank surveyed the room until his dark eyes focused on Jewels. Without warning, he attacked, bursting into a leg-iron restricted sprint toward her, his hands stretched out in front ready to grab. “I’m gonna fuckin’ cut your fuckin’ eyes out! Fuckin’ slice and dice your fuckin’ face. Then fuckin’ fuck your brains out. You no good, filthy, cunt, bitch!”

  Screaming, Jewels’ eyes bugged. Before he could advance to within arms’ reach of the stage, she catapulted out of her chair and scrambled over Marshall, blasting him so hard he fell backward out of his seat. Seeking protection from Tank’s wrath, she dashed to the three foot open space between Cooman’s chair and the back edge of the stage and crouched down.

  Buck-jumping onto the stage in front of Cooman’s desk, Tank pounded several hate-filled punches at it, causing the chains binding his arms to violently clank as they crashed against the metal desk.

  Hanging onto the back of the unflinching Cooman, Jewels peered over his shoulder. She watched as the strength of four men heaving the chains locked around Tank’s neck was required to halt his attack and drag him off the stage.

  Tank’s beady eyes bulged. A purple glow washed his ebony face with rage. The hideous wound on his cheek cracked beneath the stitches, oozing blood. “Get out here, you fuckin’ cunt! Get out here! Right now, Bitch!” he furiously demanded, spitting globs of frothy saliva on Cooman’s desk.

  The guards muscled Tank back toward the door.

  Cooman lengthened his neck, looking behind him for Jewels who was cowering at the back of his chair. “It’s okay now, Miz Andrasy. You can come out.”

  Seeking confirmation it was safe to come out from hiding, she glanced over at Marshall standing near the front of Cooman’s desk, presumably poised to engage Tank and protect her had the guards not been able to control him.

  Looking back at her and apparently reading the doubt in her eyes, Marshall strolled over, offered his outstretched hand. “Come on, it’s safe,” he reassured.

  Reluctantly, Jewels took his hand. Slowly rising from behind Cooman’s chair, her eyes were immediately drawn to Tank standing back by the door, heavily restrained, and now gagged with a rubber ball similar to what he had used on her she supposed. How ironic.

  Jewels reclaimed the seat on stage she had moments ago fled. Marshall sat next to her.

  Signifying court was in session, Cooman pounded the gavel. “It is hereby ordered that Gerald Whitlock, also known as Tank, immediately have his eyes gouged out with a hot poker for crimes committed against Miz Andrasy, who shall have the privilege of performing the punishment herself.”

  Radically, Jewels swiveled her head between Cooman and Tank. Rocketing to her feet, fists thrust downward at her side, “No. I can’t. I won’t,” she protested, hysteria in her voice.

  Cooman’s seaweed eyes narrowed. “Is it not true you had intended to rip out Tank’s eyeballs when he attacked you at your home?”

  Panic stole Jewels’ features and mind. “Well, yes, that’s true but, that was—”

  “Here’s your chance,” Cooman interrupted, his eyes skewering her with a penetrating chill. Turning to Marshall and the guards holding Tank, “Take them to the disciplinary room.”

  Marshall immediately rose, swiftly latching his big hands onto the back of Jewels’ arms.

  “No! Get your hands off me,” Jewels yelled, waging war against Marshall’s powerful grip.

  Pulling her close to his chest, he held her securely. “Stop fighting me,” he warned, his voice low. “Otherwise the general’s going to order you cuffed and gagged ... and I’ll do it.”

  Despite his earlier heroics, Jewels knew, without a doubt, Marshall Watters would slap handcuffs on her, clamp her mouth shut, or do whatever he was ordered to do. Therefore, reluctantly, she surrendered to his hold.

  Cooman had been watching Jewels. His eyes cut to Marshall. “Do you have her under control?”

  Intensifying his grasp on her arms, he gave her body a vigorous jerk, slamming her back against his chest in an obvious display of his overwhelming power.

  Head snapping back, Jewels let out a startled whimper. Though her muscles were tight, she refrained from physically resisting him. Avoiding a gag and handcuffs trumped any desire to combat his fierce hold.

  Smiling confidently, “You see, Sir, no problem,” Marshall responded, forcefully marching Jewels toward the cafeteria door.

  “Very well. Punishment to be executed immediately. All are ordered to attend. So let it be written, so let it be done,” Cooman said with authority, banging the gavel, signifying court was adjourned.

  Despite the dismal circumstances, “The Ten Commandments” classic movie popped into her mind, thinking of the actor who had played Rameses. Crappy Yul Brynner impersonation, she thought regarding the so let it be written, so let it be done, catchphrase.

  Chapter Thirty

  1007 HOURS, SPOF DISCIPLINARY ROOM. “You bastards,” the prisoner snarled, struggling with the guard binding his hands behind his back. “You’re all nuts. Insane wackos. This isn’t what I signed up for and I’m surprised you’re buying into this bullshit,” he growled at the two other men standing guard, AR’s aimed at his chest.

  After the guard finished tying his hands together behind his back, he attached a long thick rope around his wrists, tossing the free end it over a steel beam that spanned the ceiling of the twenty-foot width of the disciplinary room.

  Grease Monkey was being prepped for the strappado, deemed the most painful and terrifying form of torture of the twenty-first century ... even worse than water boarding.

  With the rope over the beam to act like a pulley, upon Cooman’s order, he would be hoisted up by his wrists and suspended in the air. The fact his arms were behind his body would most likely result in the dislocation of his shoulders. For extra pain, if so ordered by Cooman, weights would be added to his dangling feet.

  Commotion outside. “Tank’s here,” one of the guards said, motioning for the other two to open the door.

  Cooman entered, surveyed the prisoner, smirked. “You’ll have entertainment and then an audience for your own punishment,” he said, motioning toward the door.

  Holding Jewels by the back of her arms, Marshall guided her inside. Widening her eyes at the sinister vibe of the area, her attention was drawn to the prisoner standing across the room with his hands tied behind his back. Presumably the other guest Marshall had mentioned.

  Like everyone else, he was dressed in woodland green camos. Broad shoulders and a thick chest stretched the T-shirt across his pecs. His body was solid and compact, reminding her of a badass football player. With his head drooping, thick messed up black hair concealed his face.

  Opposite of where the prisoner was standing, a bank of a dozen folding chairs were lined up in two rows near the wall next to the door where she was standing. A variety of metal shackles dangled from anchors in the stone wall to
her right. Also to her right, but closer to the folding chairs, a thick wooden post with massive eye-hooks near the top, was cemented into the corner. Whipping post, she thought.

  A hostile-looking wooden table, about the size of a double bed, sat in the center of the room. It, too, was dressed with numerous massive eye-hook anchors near the edges. Next to the table on the floor, a bio gel fueled fire bowl was heating up a fire iron.

  Shivering at the ghoulish sights around the room, she focused her attention on the prisoner.

  Raising his head, he glanced over at her.

  After a fast double take, “Kirk?” she quizzed with surprise.

  “No, dear Jesus, God! Jewels,” he blurted out, terror in his voice, eyes bugging.

  Cooman, Watters and the guards exchanged perplexed glances.

  Lurching toward him, but Marshall held her back, she quizzed in disbelief, “What are you doing here?”

  “Sharon was his squeeze,” Cooman coolly stated. “And we’ll be helping him keep his oath, too.”

  Knowing that meant he was going to be killed, “No,” Jewels shrieked, shaking loose of Marshall’s grasp and dashing across the room toward Kirk.

  Marshall bolted to run off after her, but Cooman grabbed his shirt, stopping him.

  Throwing her arms around Kirk’s neck, she hugged him for a moment. Pushing back, she caressed the side of his heavily whiskered face, gazing into his familiar warm eyes. “I’m so sorry, but I think it’s my fault Sharon’s dead,” Jewels confessed, breaking down and burying her head in his shoulder.

  Kirk wagged his head negatively. “It’s not your fault, Babe.” Kissing the top of her head, he rested his head on hers.

  “Oh, Kirk,” she sobbed, wrapping her arms around his waist, her body engulfing his.

  Abruptly he raised his head, pitching his body forward to shove her away from him.

  Staggering back, Jewels gazed at him. Lips quivering, hurt decimating her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know Sharon and you—”