The pills. They dull the pain, and everything else, including my thoughts. They make me immune to emotion when I’m on them and ill as hell when they’re wearing off. Fighting a war in my mind is a strange kind of torture, I think I much preferred shooting the Kaiser’s men, at least I knew where I stood and could get a moment’s rest when I wasn’t on the front. The weeks of walking, popping a pill, and plodding on have left me with another fear: that I’ll never rid myself of this beast on my back, constantly goading me to nip the pain. I need the pills, can’t do without them, and don’t want to. I’ve traded the devil, the laudanum, for two crutches, one at my side and one in my pocket.
Carlisle says my walking will only improve as I “learn the leg” and find my minimum routine dose with the pain pills. It’s so easy to say.
But the pills aren’t the thing I’ve grown most attached to in the months since I left the hospital. She’s like no one I’ve ever met. The idea of moving out, of saying goodbye terrifies me. I know what I want to do: take her by the hand, board a ship, and sail away from Gibraltar, away from the war, away from the past, and start over new, some place safe, where our kids can grow up without a care in the world.
It’s almost three, and I haven’t taken a pill all day. I want my head clear when I talk to her. I don’t want to miss a thing, regardless of the pain, in my leg or in my heart.
I will need all my wits. Maybe it’s her British upbringing, with its stoicism and dry humor, or maybe it’s the two years of working in the field hospital, where emotions are just as contagious and dangerous as the infections they fight, but the woman is damn near impossible to get a read on. She laughs, she smiles, she is full of life, but she’s never out of control, never lets a word slip, never betrays her thoughts. I’d give my other leg to know how she really feels about me.
I’ve been thinking about my options and making what arrangements I can. The day after that demon Damien Webster came to call, I wrote three letters. The first letter went to the First National Bank in Charleston informing them to disburse the balance of my father’s account to the West Virginia Children’s Home in Elkins. I sent the second letter to the home notifying them to expect a contribution and that in the event the bequest does not reach them directly, they contact Mr. Damien Webster regarding the matter as he was the last person known to have access to the account. I truly hope they will receive the funds.
The final letter I wrote to the City Bank of Charleston, where my own funds are held. I received a reply letter a week-and-a-half later, informing me that my account totaled $5,752.34 and that there would be a certain fee for sending the sum via cashier’s check to Gibraltar. I had fully expected to be nicked on my way out the door, as banks often do, and I replied immediately thanking them and requesting they send said cashier’s check with all possible haste. A courier came round yesterday with it.
I also received the balance of my paltry Army salary, most of which the Army holds for you while you’re off fighting. I was honorably discharged last week, so it’s the last money that will arrive.
All told, I have $6,382.79 — a far cry from what I’ll need to support a wife and set myself up. I’ll have to find sedentary work, most likely something in banking or investing, possibly in something I know — mining, maybe munitions. But those kinds of jobs are only to be had by a certain type of man, with the right type of connections and the right type of education. If I had my own capital, I could make a go of it, and with a little luck, a strike — coal, gold, diamonds, copper, or silver — money wouldn’t be a problem. $25,000 is the goal I’ve set. It won’t give me much room for error.
I hear Helena open the door, and I walk out into the small anteroom to greet her. Her nurse’s uniform is covered in blood, and it strikes a strange contrast with the kind smile that spreads across her face when she sees me. I’d give anything to know if it was a smile of pity or one born of happiness. “You’re up. Don’t mind the clothes; I’m just going to change,” she says as she rushes out of the room.
“Put on something nice,” I call to her. “I’m taking you for a walk, then dinner.”
She pops her head out from the door frame to her bedroom. “Really?” The smile has grown, and a hint of surprise has crept into it. “Shall I lay out your uniform?”
“No. Thank you, but I’m done wearing a uniform. Tonight is about the future.”
CHAPTER 76
Situation Room
Clocktower HQ
New Delhi, India
Dorian paced the room, waiting to see the telemetry from the drones. The bank of screens sparkled to life one by one, revealing a monastery nestled in a mountainside.
The technician turned to him. “Should we do a few passes to find an optimal target—”
“No, don’t bother. Hit it just to the right of the base, doesn’t have to be exact. We mostly just want to set it on fire. Have the other drone follow behind and film the aftermath,” Dorian said.
A minute later, he watched the rockets fly from the drone into the mountainside. He waited, hoping to see Kate Warner run out of the burning building.
CHAPTER 77
Kate set down the journal and strained to see what was happening in the distance. It sounded like explosions. A rock slide? Earthquake? Past the farthest mountain range, smoke rose into the sky, white at first, then black.
Could the Immari be looking for them?