Chapter 25
English Channel
Sharyn stood alone on the open stern deck of the forty-foot fishing trawler, wondering for the hundredth time how she ended up here.
A bright V of churned wake spread out behind the boat as it cleaved through the nighttime waters of the English Channel.
Stars shone overhead, which made her feel smaller and more lost.
After escaping the Tower of London, the mysterious Laurent had phoned them. The Frenchman had been about to board a Eurostar train for London when word had reached him of a police force closing around the castle fortress. Fearing the worst, he had called to check on their status.
Upon learning of the ambush—and after much cursing—he had expedited a plan to smuggle them into France.
Sharyn’s group had boarded yet another train, paying cash at the Waterloo station, which lay only a short distance from the Tower.
Laurent had directed them to travel to Portsmouth, a city at the edge of the Channel, where he arranged for a boat to ferry them across to France, to the town of Le Havre at the mouth of the Seine.
She checked her wristwatch.
They had boarded the boat three hours ago and still had another four to go.
Traveling by Eurostar through the Channel Tunnel would’ve been far faster, but that would have also meant going through passport control, which they dared not do.
They could not risk their names pinging on some authority’s database.
Laurent had also encouraged them to take advantage of the longer transit and get some sleep. Once at Le Havre, he would meet them with a car for the last leg, an overland trip to a spot outside Paris. He would not say exactly where—which still troubled Sharyn.
Can we truly trust this man?
The worry settled like a stone in her chest. Even if he had not betrayed them, where did his true loyalties lay?
He was clearly more concerned about the damnable book than about their well-being.
For now, the two were bound inexorably together, but what about afterward?
Once he had secured the book, how important was their safety?
Sharyn sighed and pushed off the stern rail. This fretful worrying was doing no good.
And I do need to get some sleep.
The boys were all below deck, sharing a set of stacked bunks in the crew quarters.
The captain—a Swede with a wind-scoured face and gnarled beard—had offered his cabin to Sharyn and Naomi.
Otherwise, the man remained reticent and showed little interest in them, neither did his two crewmen.
The three had likely been well paid for such apathy.
She suspected this was not the first time the trawler had been involved in human trafficking.
As she headed for the door below, a cold breeze, heavy with salt, blew her hair about her face.
Still, it was better than the reek of algae and fish blood that permeated the curled ropes and folded nets that crowded the deck.
She reached the hatch and ducked through.
The wind slammed the door behind her with a resounding clap.
As she descended a steep stair to a short passageway, voices murmured from a tiny galley at the end of the hall.
She recognized Tag’s wheeze and Naomi’s sarcasm.
Clearly, I’m not the only one suffering from insomnia.
She considered joining the others, but she had escaped to the open deck to be alone, to collect herself, to balance the bloodshed and danger against their survival. Before she could reach the door to the captain’s cabin, a large shadow stepped out into the passageway from the galley.
“Thought I heard you return.” Duncan closed on her and held up a mug. “I made you some tea. Chamomile.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He lifted a flask. “Archie also paid one of the crew for something stronger. It worked for him. He’s snoring away in his bunk.”
“Tea’s fine. And we should all try to catch some sleep.”
He sighed. “Trying and doing are two different things.”
She smiled, but it was a weak effort. “That’s certainly true.”
As she stepped toward the cabin door, she became all too cognizant of Duncan’s presence. He didn’t block her, but he still filled the narrow passageway. She smelled the damp wool of his sweater, the hint of muskiness behind it. In the dimly lit space, his face was shadows, darkened by stubble.
Before she could reach the door, he touched her arm. She flinched, still too tense after all that had happened. He dropped his hand. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s not anything,” she stammered, feeling foolish. “Truly.”
“I just wanted . . . hoped to talk to you about something. In private. While we had a moment.”
“Of course.” Though tired and heart-worn, she could not deny him. “In here.”
She opened the door and led him into the captain’s quarters. Due to the economy of space, the cabin was no bigger than a walk-in closet. It held a narrow desk, cluttered with papers, charts, and logbooks, all crammed next to a double bed. The scent of cigar smoke clung to every surface and fabric.
She squeezed to take a seat on the bed, while Duncan dropped into the desk chair. “What is it?” she asked.
“I . . . I feel stupid bringing this up.” He shook his head, then let it hang. His voice dropped to a pained whisper, nothing like his normally cavalier demeanor. “But I didn’t know who else to talk to.”
“About what?”
“I shouldn’t feel this way, but I can’t shake it.” He lifted a hand, which tremored slightly, then lowered it again.
She recalled the same tremble as he held his pistol at the edge of the Tower Green.
She suddenly suspected the source of his angst and distress.
They had seen too much death over the past twenty-four hours.
And now, with ample time to ponder, Duncan clearly struggled with his own actions of the past night, especially in regard to the life he had taken.
And not just him.
She pictured her assailant’s body falling backward through the tower doorway, the ruins of his face after being shot. She also heard the wet smack of bone and flesh on stone after Duncan threw his man over the parapet.
While she had downed many an opponent during her training, she had never killed anyone.
And no doubt, neither had Duncan.
“I mean what we did . . . it was warranted, of course,” he whispered as if sharing a piece of his heart. “We had no other choice, right?”
She wanted to offer him absolution, but she struggled to do the same for herself. Instead, she had crammed that guilt and ache down deep, an emotional crutch that had served her in the past.
Bury it and deal with it later—or never.
Still, that seldom worked. Pain always churned back up, often in harmful ways. And for Duncan, who had seemingly led a charmed life, he had not developed the scarred walls to hold in that much guilt and emotional ache.
To help him, she let her own guard down and placed her hand on his knee.
Her father had warned her how taking a life, even when justified, wore on a soul.
With too much time on hand, she could not help but wonder: Did those men have family?
Wives who loved them? Children who needed them?
Parents who took pride in them? Ultimately, did they believe their cause was as righteous as our own?
She knew cops got counseling after a shooting. Soldiers masked their actions with veiled jargon—engaging, bagging, dropping—avoiding a term far more weighted.
Duncan voiced it now. “Does this make us murderers?”
After her upbringing, she had gone through therapy and countless talks over coffee with her Al-Anon sponsor to address the guilt that came from walking out of a fire, maybe burned, maybe scarred, but alive.
She reached to Duncan’s bowed head and lifted his chin, to force him to stare her in the eyes, then answered his question. “No, it makes us survivors. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She read the pain shining there, knowing no words could truly lessen it. Only time held that power. Still, he swallowed hard and nodded. She leaned her brow to his, two survivors, grieving what it took to stay alive.
“I . . . I remember,” he said softly, “my grandfather shared wartime stories. They were accounts of misery in the trenches, of the sounds and terror of battle, of happier moments captured in between. But he never . . . he never . . .”
“Told about the deaths at his hand. My father was the same way.”
“When I was twelve or so, I once asked him how many Nazis he had killed.”
“What did he say?”
Duncan sighed. “He mumbled that the enemy weren’t Nazis, mostly just boys as terrified as he was. When I pressed him again, he claimed to have killed no one. But I knew he was lying. And he knew I knew it. And I never asked him again.”
“You let him keep his secret, his dignity. He no doubt fought bravely, but it’s hard to take pride in killing another.”
Duncan lifted his face, still keeping close. She caught a hint of whiskey on his breath, then a moment later, she tasted it on his lips, his tongue. She could not say who initiated the kiss, only that it was necessary.
He shifted to the bed and sat beside her, pulling her closer, drawing her fully to him.
They fell into the blankets, finding a language, a comfort, that could only be spoken without words.
Their hands and mouths sought out the tenderest spots.
He hardened in response, but even then, it was less passion than compassion.
They needed to feel, to accept a truth that lay beyond guilt.
We’re still alive.