Desert Rose (2 page)

David muttered a harsh word, but he didn’t say anything more to her. She remained motionless on the floor in the center of her cell. And as she knelt there, her mind filled to overflowing with images of cruelty and violence, Emma suddenly wondered how long David Winslow had been incarcerated.

A uniformed guard paused in front of her cell. Her heart thundered against her ribs as she kept her eyes fastened on the scuffed surface of his boots. Hugging her tote bag, she said silent prayers and kept her head bowed.

The guard finally moved on, paused in front of what Emma assumed was David’s cell, lingered there for a long silent minute, and then retraced his footsteps. She began to breathe normally again only after she heard the cellblock door at the end of the hallway slam shut.

"Emma?"

"Yes?" She loathed the quiver she heard in her voice, but she couldn’t stem the tide of anxiety that threatened to engulf her. The consequences of imprisonment in a Middle East country considered renegade by the rest of the world were almost too shocking to fully grasp.

"The guards check the cells nearly every hour. You’ve just experienced routine rounds. That guy’s one of the regulars in this cellblock."

She managed, "I’ll have to trust you."

He hesitated before cautioning, "We’ll have to trust each other as long as we’re in here together."

Her mouth went as dry as dust. She began to shake. She couldn’t stop the violent trembling of her body or the sudden chattering of her teeth.

"Talk to me, Emma," David ordered sharply. "It’ll help you deal with the stress."

"Can’t!" she gasped.

"If you’re having the shakes, get up and move around your cell. You can walk off the tension you’re feeling. It’s normal, so don’t start thinking that you’re cracking up, because you’re not. I experienced the same thing you’re going through right now when I first checked into this hotel from hell."

She heard compassion in his rough voice, but she lacked the strength to move just yet. "I think I’d rather listen for now, if that’s okay with you. I’m still a little too shaky to do much chatting or hiking."

"Try."

"My legs feel like rubber bands right now. Soon, though," she promised. "Just give me a few minutes."

After a brief silence, he seemed to accept her decision. "Alright, Emma. You need to know the rules around here. I’ve discovered that these guys aren’t real patient if you don’t observe them. Understand?"

"Yes. Tell me the rules, David."

"Don’t ever initiate conversation of any kind, not unless you’re prepared to confess to whatever crimes they’re accusing you of having committed. Always keep your eyes averted unless ordered to do otherwise. Study a shoulder or a spot on the wall when they speak to you or if you have to answer a question. These guys consider prisoners of war and women about ten notches down from second–class citizens."

"How enlightened," she croaked.

"Have you… have you been interrogated?" he asked in a somber tone that revealed his familiarly with the experience.

She nodded, forgetting for a moment that they couldn’t see each other.

"Emma?"

"Sorry. Yes. I’ve been interrogated."

"How long did it last?"

"They started around dusk yesterday. They hammered at me all night long and then for most of this morning…" Her voice splintered, and it took her several silent minutes to slow her racing heart.

She vividly recalled the angry smack of a hard rubber hose as it snapped against her legs and arms when they’d wanted to rouse her after she’d fainted, the further humiliation of being allowed to stand before being knocked to the floor for another round with the rubber hoses, and the endless questioning by a series of interrogators who possessed less humanity than a pile of rocks.

And then there’d been the constant threat of rape. Never stated, of course, but it had been there like a separate entity in the hard eyes of the leering men who’d questioned her. She suppressed a shudder, refusing to fall apart. She’d be damned if she gave those bastards the satisfaction.

"Your breathing’s calmer now."

"Yes," she agreed. "I still don’t understand why they think I’m some kind of a spy. I haven’t done anything wrong."

"You’re tired, aren’t you?"

"Yes." Tears welled in her eyes at the concern in his voice, but she blinked them away.

"And you’re more frightened than you ever thought you could be."

"Totally."

"Me, too."

"You don’t sound scared." And he didn’t, she realized, suddenly jealous of his composure. "In fact, you sound very calm and collected."

"I’ve just had more practice at this. Fear and fatigue work in their favor," he reminded her. "The secret is to use their system against them. Never overtly challenge your captors, simply undermine their tactics."

"You’re trained for this, aren’t you?"

"Yes, but it doesn’t always…" He broke off, not bothering to complete the sentence.

"It doesn’t what?"

Silence followed, stretching out into a tautness that seemed to speak volumes. He finally said, "It doesn’t always matter."

"Have you been tortured?" she asked.

"Part of the package."

Hard, dismissive, clipped–sounding voice. Matter of fact tone. She felt more chilled than before. She didn’t ask what they’d done to him. It was enough that she knew what they’d done to her—their cruelty would be much worse for a man— especially a man in uniform who represented a foreign power.

"Emma, your innocence is your best defense."

"I hope so."

He resumed his guidance in a measured deep voice, and she slowly responded to his patience and rational advice. She would try, she promised herself, to imitate his calmness even though she felt anything but calm.

"Your training was thorough," she observed sometime later.

"Survival school. It’s mandatory for all aviators."

He paused. She sensed that he was carefully weighing his words. She wondered why, but she didn’t press him. She also wondered about David Winslow, the man. Because she couldn’t see him, she gave into the impulse to speculate. His voice implied that he was a large man. Not a pretty man, she decided, but rugged and big and broad shouldered. Emma sighed. She felt safer somehow with his sturdy image forming in her mind.

"Look, I’ll teach you as much as I can, but I doubt you’ll need the lessons. Keeping a woman in this hellhole isn’t real bright, but then I’m not too impressed with their concept of military behavior. Half of the people I’ve encountered here are inept or inexperienced. The rest are just plain mean, and they’re the ones you’ll need to survive." David exhaled, the sound weighted by the experience of his own captivity. "But it’s more likely that they’ll just feed you poorly for a few days, try to intimidate you, and then release you to one of the embassies on good terms with the U.S. Probably the Canadians or the Brits."

She flashed on what they’d already done to her. "What about you?"

"Don’t worry about me." His voice sounded flat. "There’s no percentage in it."

"But I know you exist. If they put us next to each other, perhaps they have other plans for us. Maybe they intend to use us as the star attractions in some horrendous media event." She made a choking sound. "These people televise beheadings, for God’s sake!"

"Don’t anticipate the worst. Just plan for it."

"An old Montana saying?" she snapped.

"Just common sense."

She relaxed incrementally. "I’ve been told that I lack that particular characteristic."

"Really."

"Yes. Sam thinks I’m hopeless, but then I suspect he believes that all women are hopeless."

"Sam?"

"The bane of my existence."

"Sounds like a strange relationship," he observed.

"Your typical love–hate, but I secretly adore him."

"I don’t like the guy already."

Emma laughed with soft affection. "He’s alright, just opinionated."

"You deserve better."

Startled by his sharpness, she pointed out, "You don’t know me well enough to know what I deserve. Sam’s like any…"

"You’re right," he cut in, "I don’t know you at all."

"… big brother," she finished in a whisper as she shrank back from David’s sudden brusqueness. She felt tense and frightened again. What had she said to provoke such an abrupt change in him?

"Try to rest, but don’t use sleep as an escape from what’s happening in here. When you’re awake, get up and move around your cell. Exercise is crucial for a positive state of mind. Keep your circulation flowing and your body strong, even if you aren’t given decent rations. It’ll help to distract you when the hours drag."

"I’m hungry," she admitted in a small voice as she absently smoothed her long black hair away from her face.

"Ditto. Don’t expect too much. The menu is limited to boiled vegetables in a watered–down broth, crusts of bread, that kind of thing. I’ve had rice a few times, but not with any regularity, so don’t count on it, either. Service is erratic, but someone usually shows up with what passes for food around here at least once a day. I’ve lost some weight. You probably will, too, unless your people can get you an early release. Who are they, by the way?"

"Child Feed. It’s part of the Samaritan Foundation. We focus on humanitarian issues that impact children across the globe, especially if there’s a situation involving warfare or natural disaster population displacement."

"I know the outfit. One of the few organizations that actually uses all of its donations for the people it serves, which is saying something in this day and age."

"That’s why I work for them."

As they talked she worked her hair into a loose braid that trailed down the center of her back to her waist, appreciative of the information he provided in his steady, matter–of–fact voice. She found herself liking him and his willingness to share his strength.

"How long have you been here?" she asked when he finally fell silent.

"Too fucking long!"

She flinched. "How long, David?"

"Fifty–seven days."

Stunned by his reply and amazed by his endurance, she released a ragged sigh. Nearly two months of captivity, and David Winslow still possessed courage and the ability to be compassionate to a total stranger.

Emma finally found her voice. "Have you been allowed to speak with anyone from a friendly embassy?"

He didn’t respond.

"David?"

"No," he ground out. "They haven’t let me speak to anyone. You’re the first…" An odd sound escaped him. "… the first person I’ve spoken to since I was captured and brought here."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

She smiled. "For being so patient with me. You could have ignored me, and I wouldn’t have blamed you."

"Not my style, Emma."

His gruff voice made her want to hug him. She promised herself that she would someday. "I’ve already sensed that about you. You’re a…"

"Christ! Not the N word."

She laughed, and then she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. "No, not the N word. Actually,
decent
was the word that popped into my head."

She heard him clear his throat, then the sound of his footsteps as he paced back and forth in his cell. Uncertain what to say next, she shifted and tried to find a comfortable position while she waited for him to speak to her again.

Because her jeans and blouse were already filthy, Emma didn’t dwell on the grime embedded into the cell’s floor. Instead, she tugged her cape around her shoulders like a shawl to ward off the damp winter chill. And she reminded herself to take deep breaths each time she felt a wave of fear start to crash over her.

"Emma?"

"Yes?"

"They didn’t… you weren’t…"

She understood what he was asking. "I wasn’t raped, although… although for a while I expected to be. As things stand, I know the possibility still exists. I won’t pretend it doesn’t. The guards just tried to terrorize me by hauling me around like a sack of grain, slapping me, or knocking me off my feet when I wasn’t tied to a wooden chair in the interrogation room."

She heard him exhale. Relief? Worry? She couldn’t quite define the sound, but she definitely understood the crude word he uttered a heartbeat later.

"What about you? Did they hurt you?"

"Doesn’t matter."

"Of course, it matters!" she exclaimed despite his dismissive comment. "Tell me the truth. Were you mistreated? I heard other people being tortured during my interrogation. So don’t think lying to me will make me feel any better, because it won’t."

"They used me for a punching bag during the early days, but I’ve pretty much healed."

His negligent tone served to arouse her concern. "What did they do to you?" she pressed.

"What you’d expect in this type of a situation… just the usual shit."

"The usual," she echoed in disbelief. "Perhaps it’s ‘the usual’ with some back–alley criminal element or terrorists, but not among civilized people capable of talking to each other. I don’t care how different cultures are," she insisted heatedly, "violence isn’t necessary and shouldn’t ever be condoned. Were you given medical care?"

"Emma, relax." His voice reflected his amazement at her outburst. "You can’t change what’s already happened. Besides, a medic took care of me. He reset my dislocated shoulder, sutured the worst of the cuts, and gave me some pills. Hopefully, they were antibiotics."

"How are you now?" she questioned in the determined tone she used on intransigent government officials when they tried to thwart her efforts on behalf of refugees.

"Fine, so change the subject."

She sensed that he’d suffered far more than he was willing to admit. And she also sensed that she had just entered into an oddly intimate relationship with David Winslow, despite the fact that they couldn’t see or touch each other.

"With a little luck, the scars will fade and I won’t scare all the kids in my neighborhood when I get home," he muttered.

She laughed at the wry note in his voice. "I like your attitude."

"Self–pity won’t cut it in here. I figured that out right away."

"Remind me of that if I start to act like a big baby."