Shadow Play (32 page)

"Are you going to marry him?" Henry asked.

"I want to, but I'm afraid to. Does that make sense?" "You're frightened of giving up your life in England." "Yes."

"While in England, I had all the comforts money could buy, but I had no one to share them with. Not even a friend. It wasn't easy walking away from all that, but I did and I'm glad of it. Because now I have a friend who cares for me, not for what I am, but who I am. I imagine that loving someone, and being loved by someone, is much the same."

Sarah looked through the dark to where Morgan lay sleeping. "I think I'd like to leave Japura tomorrow, Henry."

"And forget your plans to face King?"

"That no longer seems important. " She glanced toward Morgan again. "Will he come with me, or do you imagine he will insist on facing King?"

"If he believed there was a future with you, I think he wouldn't risk confronting his old foe."

Sarah sighed and closed her weary eyes. Suddenly she felt very calm and sure, because she knew what she was going to do. What the future held she couldn't say, but she did know she'd be spending it with Morgan Kane.

DAWN. SARAH SAT STRAIGHT UP ON HER MATAS THE AIR filled with a high-pitched wail of fury.

"Morgannnn!"

She dragged on her clothes as quickly as possible, threw back the flap on the tent, and scrambled out on her hands and ~s. Fists clenched at his sides, Henry stood in the center of the clearing, glaring at the Indians. "Don't stand there and tell me none of you saw him leave. Morgannnn! Blast his hide. I should've known. I
should've
known!"

"What's happened?" she cried. "He's gone."

"Gone where?" When Henry didn't answer, she stumbled to her feet and ran to him. "Gone where?” she demanded.

He shook his head and kicked out at the kettle of boiling water. She grabbed him and spun him around. "Where has Morgan gone?" she very nearly screamed.

He shoved a paper in her face, a note from Morgan. "To King, of course. Where else?" MORGAN MOVED THROUGH THE TREES, STOPPING ONLY occasionally to search out the telltale scars grooving the smooth, light-colored bark of the rubber trees. He knew there was no chance of happening upon a
seringuero.
The rubber collector's day started at four in the morning, striking out through the darkness, a machete in one hand and a
machadinho-a
crude tapping hatchet-in the other. In a pack on his back he'd carry cups into which the thick white liquid would drain. A good
seringuero
on any other plantation could tap three hundred trees a day. Here, however, he would tap four hundred or be faced with the lash-a strap for every tree short of four hundred. This path was overgrown; therefore the trees were resting. The' spiraling scars on the trunks were healing, but in a few weeks they would be ready to be drawn from again.

He walked along the pathway, his footfalls muted by the rotting vegetation and the quiet scraping of brush across his shins. The curing huts were near. The stench of
urucuri
nuts burning, along with the stink of the heated rubber, brought about a familiar rise of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

Another half mile and he was forced to stop and rest. He was sweating profusely, and

occasionally the tremors would rack him so hard he almost lost his grip on his rifle. The pain was a throbbing fire inside every bone and muscle, but when it seemed to get so bad that he couldn't stand it, he would force his mind back to those months with King and recall the horror and pain that had been enough to turn him into an animal; then the present discomfort didn't seem so bad.

Strange how he could finally allow the memories back in. In truth, he invited them—as wretched as the recollections were. And relief came like a flood that poured through some door he had fought long to keep closed. Yet the dread was there too. And the fear. But the fever helped. It dulled reality. This seemed more like the dreams that had plagued his every night the past year. Only soon the nightmare would begin for real.

He came to a stream and followed its meandering path until the smoke from the curing huts became so strong he could hardly breathe. Judging by the sun, it was just after noon. Soon the
seringueros
would be hauling their cured rubber to the
matteiros's
wagons, and once that was done the workers would return to their huts to rest through the hottest part of the day.

He waded through the water, refusing his body's need to submerge itself in the stream's cool, clear shallows. A small conical hut sat on a rise in a clearing whose remaining trees were dying due to the poisons in the air. Even before Morgan stepped to the door, he knew what he would find.

Still the blast of fetid heat set him back. He gasped for breath and better prepared himself for the inferno before moving in again. The emaciated figure of an old man stooped near the blazing fire, sweat pouring down his wrinkled cheeks. A cloud of smoke permeated the enclosure, and from the man's twisted hands a long pole protruded. He revolved it over and over a pit as the rubber coagulated on the end, forming a pillow-shaped loaf.

As he sensed Morgan's presence, he looked over his shoulder and blinked rapidly, doing his best to see through the smoke. His eyes widened briefly at the sight of his visitor, but when he appeared to hesitate in his routine, Morgan said, "Don't stop, Papa. The wagon will be here soon."

Stiffly, the old man swung the pole away from the smoke and tossed it down with the others near the door. Then the warning bell on the advancing wagon rang, and Morgan slipped out of the doorway and into the cluster of trees surrounding the hut.

From where he hid he could easily watch the advance of the lumbering wagon. He recognized its driver, Marcoi Chavez. Chavez had come to King's plantation the same time as Morgan, and for a while, during their long journey to Japura, they had been friends. That friendship had ended, however, as soon as each man was assigned his respective job. Morgan was chosen to work inside the organization, as King's personal assistant, secretary, companion, and bodyguard. Chavez was sent out to work in the fields along with the other slaves. His resentment for Morgan had grown with each grueling

task he was assigned. But Chavez was not like the naive and easily frightened Indians King rounded up from the floresta. He had brains and wits enough to realize what it took to get himself out of the rank and file of slave labor.

And that was cold-blooded, gut-wrenching cruelty. A
taste for blood and perversion, and a delight in causing pain. But although he was recognized for such attributes, and rewarded for them, he soon realized that he was never going to be anything more than a
matteiro
in King's organization. He was never going to make it to
la casa blanca.

He wasn't
pretty
enough to suit King's particular tastes.

So he took out his anger on the peons, and when Morgan found himself demoted to
matteiro,
making him even with Chavez, a bitter feud began between them. Not only was Chavez unsurpassingly brutal, but he held one hell of a grudge. He wasted little time in seeing to it that the news of Morgan's kindness to the
seringueros
was passed on to King, who believed the peons deserved little better than death for falling short of their daily ^quotas. When learning Morgan had overlooked such shortcomings, going so far as to lie on the tally sheets when recording the workers' production, King had called him to the house and demanded he list the workers who had not been producing to capacity. When he refused he had been handed over to Chavez for punishment.

Now, sinking back against the sweating wall of the curing hut, Morgan slid to the ground to wait out Chavez's visit. He prayed that the sadistic bastard wouldn't take to Chico with the whip. He didn't have the energy to stop him, and besides, he had to lie low until he decided what he was going to do about King. Even that seemed a monumental task for a mind burning with fever, and memories.

He tried to imagine what he might have done had Sarah agreed to marry him. No doubt about it, he would have called off this scheme to destroy King, concentrated on gathering up her precious seeds, and gotten out of Japura* as fast as he could. But she hadn't agreed. So he was right back where he'd started. With nothing to build his life on. Hopefully, Henry would realize the futility of attempting to follow him—he wouldn't risk Sarah's safety on such a foolish and pointless venture. Henry would wait for a few
days, maybe a week, and when Morgan didn't show up he'd find a way to get Sarah back down the river.

Voices drifted to him, distorted by distance. They seemed to shimmer like the waves of heat radiating off the sweltering earth. Closing his eyes, he fought the urge to tumble back in rime, yet as Chavez's voice rose, barking orders to the weary old man loading his stores into the wagon, the memory dragged Morgan down, and down, to the place where he had buried the pain and the twisted recollections of that day more than a year
ago.

He was hauled from the house by several of King's men .He saw Chavez standing near the scaffold and for an instant he felt a huge relief that they were going to kill him outright as opposed to torturing him. Then Chavez uncoiled the whip. His legs seemed to freeze and he stumbled; his escorts were forced to grab him around the waist and carry him because he couldn't find the strength to walk.

The house bells were ringing. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine that he was back at the orphanage on Sunday morning and the bells of the cathedral were calling in the flock for worship. Only these bells were ringing out to announce a break in the workers' routine, calling them in from their tasks for one purpose only.

There was a lesson to be taught.

Tight metal bands were locked about his wrists; then he was lifted up to the whipping block and the bands were attached to hooks that protruded from the frame overhead. His ankles were bound by ropes that were threaded to metal hops at the base of the scaffold. The clothes were cut from his body
—
every last stitch
—
and tossed away. He hung there, spread-eagled in midair, as the men, women, and children gathered around, their faces mirroring his own fear, every one of them recalling their own experiences with Chavez’s whip.

Then Rodolfo was there, elegant in his splendid white suit, his breathtaking golden hair like a halo as he moved through the sunlight to stand before him. The
patrao
watched
him with those hypnotic blue eyes, like fire and ice, one moment burning, the next freezing
—
but always terrifying in their beauty and evil.

"Morgan," he seemed to whisper. "My dear Morgan, you must know how this grieves me. To imagine your back opened this way breaks my heart. Spare us this torment. Confess who you're protecting and allow them to suffer frothier own crimes."

He couldn't respond even if he wanted to. His throat was too dry and tight with fear.

"Morgan," King said. "Look about you. Do you see any of the people you're protecting stepping forward to spare you from this punishment? They knowingly took ad-vantage of your generosity and now they would have you suffer in their place. That's because they aren't your friends, as you seem to think. Whereas I.. .1 would save you from this if I could
—“ I
thought you would, in turn, see our relationship in a different light." He swept Morgan's hair back from his brow with cool, gentle fingers. "Let's put this misunderstanding behind us. We both know I don’t really give a damn about this bunch of laggards. We'11 forget all about them if you'll just agree to give me what I want... which is you. Your friendship, your loyalty, your soul. In turn, I'll make your every dream come true. All of them: wealth, respect, a sense of worth, a place to belong to forever and ever...

and love. I love you. This ordeal grieves me more than you know.'.'

Morgan looked directly into those deadly blue eyes and rasped, "Go to hell."

King's mouth stretched into a tight thin line across his face. "Very well." He spun on his heels and walked away, up the path to the casa. There he paused and, turning back, hesitated in the doorway. Morgan watched the wind whip his coat and lift his flowing hair about his shoulders, and/or an instant he was tempted to call out
—
so tempted...

But he wouldn't. He had his pride. His dignity. His man-hood, even if he had nothing else. He had fought all his
life to retain some sense of worth despite the rejections and disappointments. He had begged only once in his life and that had been when his mother walked away, leaving him alone on the orphanage's steps, and he wouldn't do it again. Never again. Not even when the captain of the
Mindoro
had strapped him to the mainmast and whipped him for insubordination. He had never wept or pleaded or begged for mercy, and he wouldn't start now. Not when he'd watched the others' faces as they wept for pity and an end to their torment; recognizing how the shattering of their self-worth had left them empty shells that walked and talked and looked like men, but inside were goddamned zombies.

He wouldn't beg, by God, and he wouldn't give in to King's perverted demands. He'd rather die.

Then King was gone, swallowed by the formidable house, and Morgan was left staring at the doorway with fear closing in on his chest like a suffocating weight.

The first lash cut into his buttocks and the forked tip coiled around his thighs like a serpent, nipping dangerously close to his genitals, which drew in to his body in shock and pain. His body lurched and the metal clamps bit into his wrists as painfully as the whip. As the whip retreated, then snapped out again, and again, the agony mounted. The veins stood out on his forehead and throat in his effort not to scream. He wouldn't give Chavez that satisfaction. But the blows continued until the world was blazing red fire and his body had begun to tear at its bonds like a mindless animal caught in the jaws of a trap.

He'd begun fainting between the blows. Each strike that cut into his back pulled him briefly back to consciousness with a new surge of excruciating agony. The pain rolled over him in crest after crest, pulling him out, dragging him in. Then they stopped and someone threw water over his face, forcing him awake. The yard was silent. The workers watched from their distance, sad-faced but closemouthed. King had been right. No one had dared to step forward and suffer for his own crimes.