Warren lost track of time in the dark basement. The waiting was awful—a countdown to crucifixion. Maybe Julian would rescue Evette and McDougall would arrest Donovan and Lohr, preventing two horrific murders. But what if they didn’t? McDougall hadn’t believed Evette the day before. Would he believe a message from her today, one delivered by a romantic rival? Would everyone but Julian assume nothing was wrong, that peace on the battlefield meant peace in Paris?
Warren knew better, and so would Evette. He wondered if Lohr and Donovan had told her their plans, wondered if she, like Warren, waited, knowing what horrors lay ahead.
He’d begun praying again in the German prison, and he prayed now in the basement. He believed in God, and he believed he would continue to exist in some way after death. But he didn’t know, and he wished he did. He thought there was an afterlife, thought there was a place where Captain Prior and Flight Sergeant Boyle had gone, a place where all the dead infantrymen now lived, a place to where he would soon journey to see his mother and grandmother again. But the doubt was there, and it ate at him the way trench foot ate away at a weakened soldier’s flesh.
Eventually a light appeared from the stairwell where Donovan had left the door slightly ajar, and Donovan returned with Lohr and a lantern. Donovan wouldn’t meet Warren’s eyes, and Lohr looked at him as if he was a package to be moved.
“The hooks are up there.”
Warren followed Donovan’s finger to a pair of jagged metal prongs sticking out of the gray brick wall. Lohr moved some of the crates to either side of the hooks.
“Donovan, don’t do this.” Warren wouldn’t beg, but he had to ask for mercy one more time.
“Sorry, Major. That’s war.”
Donovan bent down and picked up one end of the wooden plank. Lohr grabbed the other, and the two of them dragged Warren backward, eventually lifting him up against the wall, stepping onto the crates to suspend him from the hooks. They left him dangling there, his feet too high to touch the ground. Warren immediately noticed how hard it was to breathe. He could inhale, but he could only fully exhale if he pulled himself up, and that made the rope bite into his wrists.
“Nothing for his feet?” Donovan asked.
“We want him dead by this time tomorrow. No support will finish him off faster. I’m not so much interested in prolonging his suffering as I am in the shock this type of death will evoke in the papers.”
Donovan glanced at Warren and shuddered. “Have you dealt with that French girl yet?”
“No. I don’t want a trail of blood from my home to the tower. I’ll take care of her there. Better to have fresh blood for our message.” Lohr led the way out.
Donovan stopped in the doorway and turned back to Warren. “Pity you didn’t die in your plane.” Then he slammed the door, leaving Warren in darkness again.
Warren found himself agreeing with the Yankee traitor. He had watched men burn in their airplanes, seen them tumble in a free fall from twelve thousand feet when their damaged planes had fallen to pieces around them. He would have preferred that death over his current torture.
The weight of his body pulled at his arms and made it feel as if they would tear from their sockets. Far worse was the pressure on his chest. He could get some traction from the wall behind him, but not enough, and he knew he wasn’t getting sufficient oxygen. It was different from altitude sickness, and the end result would be more permanent, but he recognized the symptoms as his body was starved of air.
There was an extra agony in this type of death, a strange mix of wanting death to come to end the pain and the fight for each breath, each second of life. Being in the dark alone with his doubts made it even worse.
* * *
Warren wasn’t sure how much time passed as he was slowly asphyxiated in the basement. Torture manipulated time; it stretched out the seconds and made the minutes seem like millennia. Each breath took more effort, and each tremor of pain was a little harder to control. A dozen times he heard a slight sound, probably a rat, and his hopes soared. Would Mr. Franke discover him? The cook? But they both had the day off, and so did the housekeeper and the maid. Even if they didn’t have time off, they were unlikely to come to the basement.
Nothing changed. No one came. Why had he survived four years of war only to be murdered now? He wasn’t sure how much longer he could last. At one point, he decided to get it over with, but his body’s natural urge to breathe wouldn’t let him end his agony until every last effort was spent.
Hundreds, maybe thousands of people had been crucified before, but Warren’s mind turned to the most famous, the most perfect, and after a time, his doubts started to fade. Death came to all, but it wasn’t the end. Despite the external agony, Warren felt a peace that he couldn’t explain. He finally knew. His death would be painful, but it wouldn’t be final.
After all the other sounds, Warren didn’t think much of the soft scraping noise when he heard it. His ears were probably playing tricks on him in the dark, or the rodents were growing more bold. He paid more attention when a sliver of light appeared, then widened near the stairs. Was that what happened when one died? Was his mother or some other heavenly being coming for him? He tried to call out, but he couldn’t talk.
The light became brighter and drew closer until he recognized it as a candle on a candlestick. It trembled because Claire held it, and her hand shook. “Warren? What have they done to you?”
He had thought an angel was coming to end his misery. He hadn’t been far off. She put the candlestick on the floor and shoved a pallet against the wall. She dragged another one over and stacked it on top so it was high enough for her to reach the ropes around his right wrist. “Are you going to be all right, Warren?”
He hadn’t a clue but wasn’t capable of speaking right then.
“Say something, Warren. I’ve never been so scared.”
He managed a strangled grunt.
“I can’t get the knots out. I’ll have to get scissors or a knife, but I’ll be back.” She reached out to touch his cheek. “Hold on a bit longer.”
She scrambled down from her makeshift tower, and to Warren’s everlasting gratitude, she pushed the pile of boxes under his feet before she ran to the stairs. The change was immediate. It was still uncomfortable, but it was further from the grave. After a few breaths, he realized he hadn’t warned her about Lohr or her father. Don’t let them hurt her, he prayed in his head, hoping the men were gone. If they were, Claire was safe and Warren saved.
She came back not long after, a butcher knife in her hand. She climbed up next to him and attacked the ropes on his right wrist. Soon he was partially free. As his hand dropped, he felt a new type of agony and groaned.
“Are you all right?”
“Better.” His voice was raspy and quiet.
Claire moved to his left wrist. “It was my father, wasn’t it?”
Warren wanted to say no, but he couldn’t do that. Claire would know he was lying, and if the truth didn’t get out, Evette wouldn’t survive until morning. “Yes.”
Claire’s body shuddered with a sob. “I thought he might try to bribe you, threaten you with a scandal or something to get rid of you. I never thought he’d torture you and try to kill you. I’m so sorry, Warren. I should have married you a year ago.”
She finished sawing through the last of the ropes, and he slid down the wall. He was too weak to stand, but sitting on the pallet was a pleasant change.
“What time is it?” he croaked.
“I’m not sure. After midnight.”
“Then there’s not much time to explain. Your father is working with the League. Lohr is holding your safety over him, so your father will do anything Lohr asks. They’ve caught Evette, and they’re planning to kill her at the Eiffel Tower sometime before daylight. Do you know where McDougall works?”
“Yes.”
“He and Julian should be there. Tell them what’s about to happen. Then find the gendarmes. Then a doctor for me.”
“Let me get the doctor first.”
“No. You have to go now. It might already be too late. And be careful.”
Claire set down the knife so it was next to his hand. “In case you need to defend yourself.” She put both hands on his face and kissed his forehead, sealing Warren’s newfound belief in miracles. “You’d better still be alive when I get back.”