The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6)

by Shapiro, Irina

  Rhys stopped at reception, purchased a Wi-Fi code, and proceeded to an empty computer station in the café. He opened a new email and began to compose a message to Quinn. Having deleted eight possible versions of the truth, he gave up and emailed Gabe instead:

  Gabe,

  All evidence points to the fact that Jo was killed in an explosion. I will try to bring back her remains for burial. It’s the only thing I can do to give Quinn some peace of mind. Do your best to prepare her for the news. I should have more concrete information in a few days.

  Regards,

  Rhys

  Rhys had time left on his session, so he checked his email, answered several communications from work, replied to Rhiannan’s endless inquiries about his well-being, and sent messages to his mother and brother. Just before he closed the browser, a message from Gabe popped up:

  Rhys,

  Thank you for letting me know, and thank you for not telling Quinn just yet. I will do my best to prepare her, but please, allow me to break the news to her, if Jo is, indeed, deceased. Stay safe.

  Gabe

  Rhys logged out and headed to his room with a heavy heart. Jo was almost certainly deceased. The only question remaining was whether there was anything left of her to bring back to England.

  Chapter 34

  February 2015

  London, England

  Gabe deleted the email from Rhys and stared at the screen of his mobile. Until that moment, he’d believed Quinn would eventually be reunited with Jo, but the missive from Rhys had put an end to that highly unrealistic supposition. He knew he should have expected the worst, but he tended to reserve judgement until he had enough facts. How was he supposed to tell Quinn that Jo was dead? She’d be devastated. She truly believed Rhys would bring her sister back.

  Gabe grabbed Rufus’s lead and called out to the dog. He had to get out of the flat before Quinn correctly read his face and demanded an explanation, and he needed a little time to prepare a statement that would introduce the possibility that Jo was gone without conveying certainty. And, of course, he couldn’t let Quinn know that Rhys had contacted him instead of her. Gabe pulled on his coat, wound a scarf around his neck, and attached the lead to the dog’s collar, smiling wistfully at the excited puppy.

  “You are so lucky your life is not complicated,” Gabe addressed the dog as they left the flat. Rufus barked defensively, as if challenging Gabe’s comment, as they exited the building and set off down the street.

  “Don’t even go there,” Gabe replied. “I know dealing with Emma is not easy. Believe me, I know, but she loves you to bits, and you get to eat, sleep, and enjoy endless cuddles. And, you don’t have in-laws,” Gabe added, amused by the look of shock a passing pedestrian aimed his way.

  “I’m having a conversation with a dog,” Gabe muttered while he waited for Rufus to do his business against a tree. He fished out his mobile and dialed his mother. Since his dad’s death, he’d rung her every morning to make sure she was all right, but he’d been remiss the past few weeks, busy with the children, packing, and Quinn’s mercurial emotional state. He could hardly blame her, given what she’d recently discovered.

  Damn Sylvia, he thought savagely as he turned for home, raging at the woman who seemed to have singlehandedly ruined so many lives. Quinn flitted from one emotional crisis to another, trying desperately to come to terms with her newfound family while raising two small children, headlining a television program, and preparing to move to their new home. She looked overwhelmed and had been pale and listless the past few weeks. She’d been sick several times, although she tried to hide it from him. The cases she delved into for Echoes from the Past were getting to her, using up her emotional reserves, and sapping her energy. Had no one in history ever died of old age after living a happy and meaningful life? Gabe mused.

  He modulated his tone when Phoebe answered her mobile. “Hello, Mum. How are you?”

  “Nice of you to call,” Phoebe replied, her tone laced with sarcasm.

  “Mum, I spoke to you only the day before yesterday,” Gabe protested.

  “And that’s how it starts. First you call me every other day, then twice a week, and then the next thing I know, all I get is a phone call for my birthday and Christmas.”

  “Really, Mum!” Gabe exclaimed, caught between annoyance and amusement. “Surely, you can ring me once in a while.”

  “I don’t want to bother you with my geriatric problems,” Phoebe replied coolly.

  “I think you could teach a course on parental blackmail,” Gabe said, trying to suppress a laugh.

  “If that’s what it takes to get a phone call from my son. If I play my cards right, I might even get to see my grandchildren sometime before Easter.”

  “Mum, you are welcome to come to London anytime.”

  “As if I could. I’m busy decorating. I think I’ve finally settled on a color scheme.”

  “So, you’re happy with the new place?”

  “I’m filled with glee,” Phoebe replied, sounding anything but.

  “Mum, what’s wrong?”

  “Why should anything be wrong?”

  So, they were playing that game. Gabe stopped walking and pulled on Rufus’s lead. This would take a few minutes. “Mum? What is it?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. I will borrow a ladder and hang up the curtains, as well as the shelves Cecily and I bought the other day. I’m only seventy-four. Agile as a teenager, me.”

  “Mum, please don’t climb any ladders. I will come up as soon as I can and hang up everything that needs hanging, fix anything that needs fixing, and plug every hole that needs plugging. Surely you can wait a week or two.”

  “I suppose. At least there’s no body in the kitchen this time,” she replied. She was still in a huff, but Gabe could sense the beginnings of a smile.

  “Alex is rolling over,” Gabe said, hoping to distract her from her list of grievances against him.

  “Good lad,” Phoebe cried. “He’ll be walking in no time.”

  “He’s four months.”

  “You were very advanced for your age,” Phoebe replied.

  “So I hear.”

  “That boy will surprise us all. Did you know Mozart began composing music by the time he was four?”

  “Mum, I think you need to adjust your expectations.”

  “Aim high, I always say,” Phoebe snapped. “Anyway, how’s Quinn? She sounded a bit down in the mouth last time we spoke.”

  “I think her sister is dead.”

  Gabe listened to the shocked silence on the other end. “Damn Sylvia,” Phoebe finally swore, making him smile. “I do wish she’d never found Quinn. How much happier that poor girl would be without all this endless drama. And now this. This will crush her.”

  “I know. Rhys is trying to sort out the question of Jo’s remains. He’ll have her shipped home, if possible.”

  “Who would bury her if that were to happen?” Phoebe asked.

  “The Crawfords, I suppose.”

  “I though she’s not on speaking terms with them.”

  “As far as I know, she has no other family. She’s not married and has no children. Perhaps her agent has been made aware of her wishes.”

  “How sad. In my day, women that age were almost all married. They had husbands and children to look after. They didn’t traipse around the world blowing themselves up for no good reason.”

  Gabe didn’t interrupt the tirade. He knew his mother didn’t really believe what Jo had been doing was meaningless. She’d been something of a socialist in her youth and chafed against the restrictions imposed on women, but she was upset, and this was her way of covering it up.

  “Quinn is the closest thing to a daughter I’ve ever had. I can’t bear to see her hurt again.” Phoebe said with a sniffle. “First that homicidal bigot, then the heroin-addicted ne’er-do-well, and now this. The poor girl doesn’t have a single normal relation.”

  Gabe couldn’t argue with the truth. With one brother in prison
for attempted murder and Jude’s thoughtless behavior at Emma’s Frozen-themed birthday party, Quinn could really do with a bit of familial support. “There’s Logan.”

  “And he’s a lovely boy, but he’s really off with the fairies, isn’t he?” Phoebe said.

  “Mum, Logan is a gainfully employed man in a committed relationship. With a doctor,” Gabe added for good measure.

  “I know. I’m still not used to two men getting married, but times change, and we must change with them, mustn’t we? Logan is handsome, I’ll give him that. And his fiancé—like a young Peter O’Toole.”

  “Mum, I—”

  “I really must go, dear. I have chair yoga in ten minutes. Kisses to Quinn and the children.”

  Gabe disconnected the call and looked down at Rufus, who was licking his balls with great concentration. Gabe sighed and pulled Rufus toward home.

  “By the way, I forgot to tell you, Jude stopped by a few days ago,” Quinn said when Gabe came into the kitchen. She filled Rufus’s bowl with dog food and replenished his water.

  “Should I check the silver?”

  “Come on, don’t be like that. He’s struggling. He’s really trying to get clean.”

  “Why do I feel like there’s more?” Gabe asked. He knew he sounded like a world-class prick but talking about Jude set his teeth on edge.

  “I invited him to come back. He wants to see Emma.”

  Gabe opened his mouth to protest, but bit back his response, recalling Rhys’s email. Quinn was going to need all the support she could get, and if trying to help Jude made her feel better, who was he to deny her that small bit of emotional satisfaction?

  “Sure, of course,” he said instead. “Bygones and all that.”

  “Really?” Quinn exclaimed. “You know, Luke always did call you St. Gabe to annoy me, but you’re becoming saintlier by the day,” she said as she slid onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “I’m not a saint, Quinn. I’m a mere mortal who’s trying not to—pardon the expression, I picked it up from an American student—lose his shit. If another relative comes out of the woodwork, I’ll have to seriously rethink this marriage.”

  Quinn buried her face in his neck, but she was shaking with laughter. “No more long-lost relations. You have my word. If I find out that I’m a triplet, or my mother had another set of twins a year later, I will draw a line under the whole bloody family tree and walk away.”

  “And I’m next in line for the throne,” Gabe replied, pulling her closer. He was about to kiss her thoroughly when Emma ambled into the kitchen and made a face when she saw them.

  “You two are really embarrassing. Always at it, just like Maya’s parents. Call me when you’re done.”

  Quinn dissolved into giggles. She slid off Gabe’s lap and leaned against the worktop, still grinning.

  “Think we should meet Maya and her parents?” Gabe asked, looking as if he’d just been informed he needed a root canal.

  “Perhaps not just yet,” Quinn replied and was rewarded with a look of gratitude. “For some reason, I don’t think the meeting would go well.”

  “I almost miss Aidan,” Gabe joked.

  “Me too.”

  Chapter 35

  August 1620

  Virginia Colony

  The summer dragged on. Mary’s flesh seemed to be melting off her bones as she sweated day after day in the airless cabin, clad in garments more suited to a colder climate, the ever-present flame in the hearth driving the temperature higher. By evening, her chemise was crusted with dried sweat and her hair was limp and lifeless. No amount of cool water relieved her relentless thirst, and her normally good appetite was all but gone, her body unable to hold on to anything but the simplest foods.

  Travesty seemed to handle the heat better, her face set in grim lines as she baked bread, made pottage, and boiled milk before skimming off the curds to make cheese. She kept a bucket of water in the corner and splashed her face every time she grew too warm. Mary took to doing the same. The water warmed up after sitting in the cabin all day long, but it was still refreshing, especially after she’d been standing next to the hearth for so long.

  Having seen to the animals, mucked out the stalls, and watered the vegetable garden, all before the sun rose well above the trees, Mary helped herself to a cool drink and settled in to churn the butter. In the meantime, Travesty had cleared up after breakfast, washed the crockery, and started on the day’s bread. She was about to turn her attention to the wild turkey Simon must have pilfered from one of Walker’s traps when the door to the cabin flew open.

  John supported Simon as he helped him inside. Mary gasped at the sight of Simon’s blood-soaked hose and pale, sweating face. His hands were shaking, and his eyes were half closed, as if he were barely conscious. Mary became flustered, unsure what to do, but Travesty simply instructed John to lay Simon on the bed and remove the hose. A deep gash that looked like a wide smile dissected Simon’s shin. It was bleeding profusely and soaked the towel Travesty had placed beneath the calf in minutes.

  “Elevate his leg,” Travesty said as she brought the bucket of water from the corner.

  “He cut himself with the scythe while harvesting the bottom leaves of the tobacco,” John explained. He looked pale and nervous, his eyes darting from Travesty to Mary. “Shall I fetch the physician?”

  “There’s naught the physician can do here,” Travesty replied. “The bleeding is slowing down already, now the leg is lifted. All he needs is a poultice to keep the wound from festering and a thick bandage. That’ll fix him right up. It’ll take at least a week for the wound to close properly. I can sew it up,” she said, her head tilted as she studied the cut.

  “No,” Simon moaned. “Please, don’t.”

  “Suit yourself,” Travesty replied, as if she were offering him an extra helping of stew.

  “Let’s wait and see, shall we?” John said. “You might have to grin and bear it, Simon, if the wound is too deep.”

  Simon didn’t reply. He closed his eyes and seemed to drift off, exhausted by hours of hard work, oppressive heat, pain, and loss of blood.

  “You’ll have to help me out in the field, Travesty,” John said. “I can’t afford to lose days of work.”

  Travesty looked none too pleased but nodded in agreement. “As long as the mistress can look after Simon.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Mary replied. She watched as Travesty washed out the wound, smeared it with the foul-smelling poultice she kept on a shelf by the hearth, and wound a length of linen around Simon’s leg. Simon’s eyes remained closed and his breathing was ragged, but Mary was sure he was awake.

  “What’s in that?” John asked, taking a step back.

  “Lard, wild garlic, and honey,” Travesty retorted. “If you don’t care for the smell, step outside.”

  John didn’t leave, but moved over to the table and sat down on the bench furthest from the hearth. “Simon will have to sleep here for the next few days,” he said. “He can’t climb a ladder to his loft in the barn.”

  “We can sleep in his loft,” Mary offered. Perhaps it’d be cooler there.

  “You go on. I’ll sleep here with Simon, in case he needs anything during the night.”

  Mary inclined her head. Of course, John would wish to remain with Simon. Most likely, Simon had shared John’s bed before Travesty came along and they’d had to begin hiding their relationship. How much easier it must have been when it’d been just the two of them. Not for the first time, Mary wondered if Travesty knew. She never let on, and Mary didn’t expect any confidences. Travesty understood the value of silence and would do nothing to betray John. Her livelihood depended on him, and by her own admission, she owed him a debt of gratitude. She was biding her time until her indenture was up, and she could finally take her place among the free women of the colony.

  Mary did sleep in the loft that night but returned to the cabin early in the morning to find John stretched out next to Simon, his arm across Simon�
�s stomach. The opening of the door woke him, and he yanked his arm back, pretending it’d been an accident.

  “How is he?” Mary asked.

  “He slept well. I think he’ll be all right,” John replied, clearly relieved Simon’s injury wasn’t more serious. He touched Simon’s cheeks gently. “He’s not fevered.”

  “Thank God,” Mary said. John needed Simon to work the land. He couldn’t afford to lose a strong pair of hands during this crucial season.

  Simon slept through breakfast but woke after John and Travesty left for the tobacco field. “May I have a drink?” he asked Mary.

  “Of course.” Mary poured him some ale and brought it over to the bed. Simon accepted the cup, drank the ale in one swallow, and handed it back to her. Mary nearly lost her footing when he grabbed her around the back of her legs to keep her from moving away from the bed.

  “Come here then, fair Mary, and give me a kiss. It’ll make me feel stronger.”

  “How dare you?” Mary sputtered. “What would John say if he found out?”

  “Not too much, I suspect,” Simon replied with a careless shrug. “Don’t act so indignant. If you’d ever had a real man, you’d know what you’re missing.”

  “And you are a real man?” Mary demanded. “I know all about you, Simon. I saw you and John together. You’re a sinner and a sodomite.”

  Simon looked up at Mary’s furious face and smiled. Even with his face flushed and covered with dark stubble, and his hair mussed, he was attractive. “I’m not a sodomite, but your husband is.”

  “Takes two to do what you were doing,” Mary snapped.

  “Yes, it takes two, but only one is doing the deed, and I’m not the one.”

  “What difference does it make?” Mary asked, confused.

  “Oh, it makes a world of difference, my girl. I like women. Always have. But John can’t get aroused by a woman. It’s a glimpse of a hard, quivering cock that does it for him. It’s me he thinks of when he lies with you. It’s the only way he can do his duty by his comely wife. Now I wouldn’t need much encouragement. Come here and I’ll show you.”