“Can’t…walk.”
“You don’t need to. I’ll carry you.” Sloan reached down, lifting Robert Powell’s wasted frame and the blankets. “Can you hold me?” he asked.
Robert tried to slip his arms around Sloan’s neck. He could not. “It doesn’t matter,” Sloan said. “The wagon is outside.”
“Wait!” Robert gasped.
Sloan saw that he was trying to indicate the bedstead.
“There’s nothing we need,” Sloan began, but Robert tried so desperately to say something that Sloan paused and lowered Robert back onto the bed. He went to the drawer and opened it.
“The paper…take it!” Robert wheezed. “Please! Guardianship…for Michael.”
Sloan nodded and stuffed the paper into his coat pocket. “All right, hold on to me, we’re going,” he said as he lifted Robert once more.
Robert didn’t reply. Sloan looked into the eyes that stared at him unseeingly. “Powell?”
There was no answer. Sloan realized suddenly that the steady wheeze of Powell’s breathing had ceased. “No,” he whispered, and he clutched him more tightly. “Damn it, man, you can’t die now! You are free!”
But Robert Powell had found a freedom of his own. Sloan laid him back on the bed and frantically sought a pulse, a heartbeat, anything. “Robert Powell, damn you!” he repeated, but his words could not elicit a heartbeat or a breath.
Sloan stood back and pressed his temples miserably between his hands, caught in a turmoil of sorrow for the man who should have been his adversary. Then he reached forward and closed the dark eyes forever. He drew the covers over his face. He wished he could still take Robert with him, but knew that his body might hinder their escape.
“God grant you peace in heaven, friend,” he said quietly. “And God grant me your forgiveness.”
He took a long, shaky breath, and then another cleansing one, reminding himself that the night’s work had just begun. Whatever the future, whatever his own desire, he had also made promises to this man that he intended to keep.
Rikky was in front, waiting for him. Sloan hurried to the wagon. Rikky was frowning. “Go,” Sloan said.
The horses started down the street. “Where’s Powell?” Rikky asked.
“Dead,” Sloan said simply, and they continued.
Rikky left Sloan at the Salem jail and Sloan walked up to the door. Rikky had learned there would be four men on duty. Two would be the men that Sloan had already met and they would have to be trussed up.
“Can’t come in here—Oh, it’s you, Lord Treveryan!” said the middle-aged guard. The man frowned. “Late, isn’t it?”
“Aye, it is, Smithens, isn’t it?” he queried cordially. Smithens nodded. Two of the other guards were seated together in a corner, drinking ale and conversing avidly. Sloan didn’t know where the fourth might be, but it didn’t matter just yet.
“Smithens, I apologize for bothering you at this hour, but I met kin of one of your prisoners this afternoon, and swore to deliver a message.” Sloan raised a brow questioningly as he fingered his pocket and let Smithens hear the tinkle of coins. Smithens looked over his shoulder at the other two. They were still in conversation.
“Seeing how it’s you, milord,” Smithens said slowly. He raised himself, fumbled about a wall peg for his keys, and beckoned Sloan to follow. “Who are you looking for, milord?”
“Smith, Philip Smith.”
“Come along, milord.”
Sloan followed the man through the first door, noting gladly that Smithens did not lock it behind him. Why should he? For the most part his prisoners were women and old men—and people still so stunned to find themselves accused that they would not think to fight.
It was very quiet as they moved along, for most of the prisoners were sleeping. Sloan looked out surreptitiously for the missing guard, but did not see him. Smithens stopped before a cell. “Smith—Philip Smith. You’ve a visitor.”
There was movement in the cell, Philip rising. He saw Sloan, and smiled broadly. “My Lord Treveryan. What a pleasant surprise.”
Sloan caught the constable’s hand, and stuffed it with coins, then indicated the door. “Would you mind? What I have to tell my young friend is of a very delicate nature.”
The constable shrugged and fitted the key into the lock. Sloan pulled his pistol from his waistband and brought it quickly down. Sloan caught the guard as he dropped, and dragged him into the cell. Taking the coins from the limp man’s hand, he said quickly to Philip, “Get the keys, and find Brianna.”
“I know where she is,” Philip said. He looked at the other two men in his cell, who were awake now and staring at them. Both were young men from Andover. “Lord Treveryan, my, uh, companions—”
