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.
