Chapter Three

The Lieutenant stayed away from Marx's cell for the most part, except to open the heavy metal door like a skittish mare and shove the tray of food across the floor. If the guard wouldn't enter the cell, how the hell would he get the keys out of his grasp?

As for the good Dr. Drake, the last thing Marx needed once he got out of purgatory was a moron clinging to him like a powder monkey. He didn't have a chance of making it to Richmond with the Union army scouring the country and Darkmore on his ass while mollycoddling a man who couldn't shoot a damn gun. Let Drake believe he wanted to return to Charleston where he had enlisted. In fact, he'd tell the man he intended to re-enlist again, make up for lost time spent in this hell-hole.

True, he owed the man his life, but he couldn't allow guilt to affect his mission. If he hadn't been captured at Louisa Court House, his generals would have the maps he'd memorized by now, would have been able to counter some of the North's strategic battle plans. What were they thinking, offering to exchange five men for his freedom? In essence, they'd signed his death warrant at the prison. He shuddered. Darkmore would figure out he wasn't just another ranking drudge in the Confederate Army, but a mole from one of the most covert spy operations in the South. The box would seem like a picnic in July compared to what the Major would do to extract information from him.

He'd meet Grayson in the woods all right. He needed a horse, but soon after he'd give the man the slip and hightail it for Richmond. Unfortunately, the hapless Dr. Drake would have to fend for himself. To be fair, and to live with himself, he'd go along with the plan for a day, but then be forced to leave the man to his own means.

He thought about Grayson and his cock twitched. Without the spectacles and the closely cropped hair, the man would be considered handsome. Maybe his dark hair hadn't been cut short, but merely slicked down. Hard to tell when sitting in a windowless cell at night. He didn't miss the man's eyes behind the thick lenses. Dark green like the needles of a jack pine, a sentient aura and keen awareness resided in their depths. Beneath the white apron, shards of tense muscle had struggled for control. He sensed it, felt it, and yet one would never know from the man's calm persona.

Had he dreamed the man touched his face last night? Had the fever stole all rationale thought, or had the doctor's large, calloused hand lingered on his cheek, traced his lips? He couldn't afford to go there. He'd sworn an oath, promised to stow his carnal preferences until he'd finished serving his country. He could return to Charleston when the blood-letting came to an end, pick up where he left off—decadent, debauched nights with any man of his choice at Madame Belle's brothel.

Damnation, the questions nagged him. Who was the man and what's the real reason he needed to get to Richmond? He didn't really give a fuck about that either, except if he found out he was aiding and abetting the enemy. If he discovered the man had used him for those means, he'd take personal delight in putting a hole between his lying eyes.

* * *

Following the scent of smoke from a campfire, Marx walked into the clearing two nights later. A horned owl craned its neck and watched him pass. The mundane sound of night crickets drifted around him. No one had followed him, yet, but someone at the prison would soon discover the unfortunate Lieutenant trussed up like a turkey in his jail cell.

Grayson looked up from his perch beside the fire. Behind the man, tethered to the low branches of an oak, two horses chomped on sweet grass sprouting from the forest floor. “The ruse worked?”

“The hardest part wasn't taking the keys from him, but trying to convince him to hold my hand and read Psalms twenty-three before I died.” He chuckled. “'Bout the time he got to, 'Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,' the knife was at his throat and he handed them over real nice like.”

“You found the knife?”

“Right where you left it; in the pocket of the Union jacket. So I sat there for two days, wondered why you didn't tell me you'd concealed a weapon in the clothing.”

Grayson shrugged. “Wanted to see how resourceful you were in a pinch.”

Marx studied him through the lengthening silence, his gaze following the ribbon of firelight dancing across his granite features and emerald eyes. The spectacles weren't resting on the bridge of his nose and his dark hair hung loose about his shoulders. He must have tied it back with a strip of leather when he visited him in the cell. In two days, the man had changed dramatically. By God, he looked strong and rugged, almost intimidating. Maybe the illness and the dim light had dulled his own senses, but the stunning man hunkered down by the fire looked nothing like the well-refined physician that had appeared in his prison cell.

“You sure no one followed you?”

“Other than the Lieutenant who the hell would follow me? I woke the sentry up to show him my pass. I should have shot the man for sleeping on duty.”

“You fit to ride?”

“I walked here, didn't I?”

Grayson tossed the remainder of his coffee into the fire, rose and threw a saddle bag at his feet. “Clothing, but until we get out of northern territory, I want you to keep the uniform on. If they come across us by surprise, you can make like I'm a deserter and you're taking me in.”

“Did you bring me a gun?”

He nodded toward the bag. “In there. You might want to strap it on before we set out.”

Marx allowed his gaze to wander down the man's long legs, particularly his right where a pistol was holstered. He'd already noticed the rifle sheathed in a scabbard on the roan. “You're packing a lot of metal for a man who can only shoot well enough.”

Marx turned to him with those luminous orbs. “I like to intimidate folks, that all right with you?”

“Hey, whatever catches your fancy.”

“What about the ten men that escaped? Darkmore said they're on foot. Where are they headed?”

“You said no questions. It works both ways.”

“Quid pro quo, how's that? You answer one of mine; I'll answer one of yours.”

“Fair enough. I go first.” Marx walked toward the horses and looked them over. “You claim you looked at Darkmore's file after you examined me. Same question I asked before—why the sudden interest in me?”

“After the prison camp opened, Washington hired a medical inspector to keep his eye on Hellmira. His last report indicated the facilities lacked for care of the sick, and your name was on the list.”

“What list?”

“Sick, wounded or dying officers.”

“What column was I under?”

“Dying. My turn. What route did your men take when they left Hellmira?”

“The same one we're on. They want to go home, Doc.”

He pointed to the horses. “The gray is yours.”

Something was amiss here, but Marx couldn't put his finger on what. “How is it you came across the list?”

“The inspector happens to be my associate in town.”

Marx ran his hands down the horse's legs before hoisting himself into the saddle. “Don't tell me you're a southern sympathizer and you decided to save me because of it.”

“I'm a physician, Wellbourne. I've taken the oath to save lives, all lives.” Marx absorbed his words and watched him mount with the ease of a seasoned veteran. “Just so you know, when he returned, Darkmore planned to find out what route your men took even if he had to beat it out of you. He figures they can't have gone far if they're on foot.”

“My guess is he's already got a regiment out looking for them.”

“And soon you, so let's ride. We have to make Corning by morning, twenty miles.”

“Lead the way. I'm right behind you.”

Halfway to Corning, Marx's horse veered off the narrow road, stumbled and jolted his rider awake. “Whoa, hold up,” he called out to Gray.

His traveling companion turned in the saddle, his face lit by streams of light from a full moon. “Your mount is limping.”

“He ran into something, a pile of rocks he must not have seen.”

“Probably nodded off,” he cleared his throat. “Like someone else I know.”

Marx looked at the ground before dismounting and then picked his way back to the cluster of stones. “Can I get some light over here?”

“Hang on.” Gray blew an exasperated sigh before striking a match to the lantern hanging from his saddle horn. “What is it?”

“Not sure, ride over here with that light.” Seconds later when Gray held the lantern low to the ground, Marx's heart fell to his feet. “Ah, shit.”

“One of your men.” Gray looked at the crude marker with the man's name etched in wood with a crude instrument.”

“Graham . . . his name was Graham Kennedy, and yes, he's one of mine.”

Gray dismounted and held the lantern above the pile of rock. “I'm sorry.”

“Son of a bitch! I told him to hang on, it wouldn't be long now and he'd be home with his wife and three kids. He caught malaria from that stinking pond and Darkmore wouldn't send for a doctor.” Marx kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. “Not unless I told him about . . . .”

“About what?”

Marx lifted his chin to find questioning green eyes staring into his. “You must think I'm a stupid fucker to tell you anything. If that's why you busted me out of prison, we might as well get something straight right now. You can beat me within an inch of my life with that fancy pistol and you won't get shit from me. Not now, not ever.”

Silence loomed between them; the air hissed with tension and something Marx didn't want to admit. Desire, raw and primal. Familiarity nagged at his brain, a longing he once hungered for. Too damn tired and weak to sort through it, the thought flew from his mind like an elusive wind. Another time, another place, perhaps, but he'd be damned if he could remember where or when.

Long moments later, Gray said, “Did you tell them?”

“I'd be dead by now if I had.” He mounted again and blew a breath of air through his lips.

Gray swayed the lantern over the dirt around the ground. “Don't you want to say a few words over him?”

“You're the one with all the compassion. I leave that up to you. And what the hell are you looking for?”

“Two nights ago,” he said under his breath.

“Two nights ago what?”

“The night before last it rained and their footprints were washed away. The only ones here now are yours and mine.”

It wasn't the first time the man had surprised Marx. A pistol and rifle had replaced the glasses, and right now Gray looked like a tracker from the Indian Nation. Damn, who was this man and why in the hell was he traveling with him through Union territory? The man knew something. Had he been sent to portray the savior only to drag the drawings from his head once he let his guard down? Hell, he could wait until frogs turned into blue elephants before he'd tell the man anything.

“Say your piece over Kennedy's grave if you want, Doc, and let's get moving. Be dawn soon.”

Gray mounted again and headed west, calling out over his shoulder, “Corning is a mile up ahead. “We'll rest in this hidden pine grove for a few hours, and then stick to the woods tomorrow.”

Now how in the hell did he know about the pine grove? Marx dug his heels into his mount's side and stayed two steps behind him. The sooner he ditched the enigmatic Doctor Drake, the easier he'd breathe.

* * *

Darkmore rushed through the door of the barracks, stripped off his gloves and slapped them against his thigh. “Lieutenant Glenn! Get your sorry ass in here!”

Grim-faced, the Lieutenant gave a curt salute. “Reporting, sir.”

“Tell me my courier was mistaken when he delivered the message Wellbourne has escaped.” Darkmore tossed his gloves onto the desk and paced the small area of his office.

“I'm afraid he did, sir. The man tricked me into believing he was about to breathe his last. The next thing I know the bastard had a knife at my throat and forced me to unlock his cell door.”

“A knife? Jesus, where would Wellbourne get a knife, Lieutenant?”

“I swear on my sacred mother's grave—”

“Think, you moron. Wellbourne has been in solitary since my men pulled him from the box. Is he a magician, a wizard?”

“No, sir. Only one person could have brought him the knife.” He hesitated. “And the Bible, the clothing—”

“Bible?” Darkmore's eyes narrowed. “Clothing?”

“Yes, sir. And a forged pass.”

“I should put you in the box Lieutenant. Sweat the stupidity out of your addled brain.” An image of Doctor Drake standing before him rose. “Only one person visited him in my absence, isn't that right?”

His Lieutenant offered a feeble nod.

“Drake.” He advanced on Glenn until they stood nose to nose. “And where is our good doctor now?”

“Missing as well, sir.” Lieutenant Glenn looked at the floor. “The sentry said a man appeared at the gate with a pass signed by you. We believe now that man was Marx Wellbourne.”

“Bloody hell.” Darkmore leaned in. “You will find out who this Dr. Drake really is, do you hear me Lieutenant? I don't care if you have to tear apart the office the man shares with Doctor Murdock. I want to know when Drake came to Elmira, through what means, and what Murdock knows about him.”

“I questioned Murdock this morning. Drake came to Elmira about two months ago, shortly after Wellbourne arrived at the prison. Murdock knows little about his past, said he arrived with a letter of recommendation from a minister and the sheriff from an obscure town in Massachusetts.”

“And Doctor Murdock took Drake on as his partner?”

“Yes, sir. Why wouldn't he, sir? Elmira was in dire need of another physician.”

Rage beat through Darkmore's chest. Drake had hoodwinked them all, including him. What timing. The prison needed a physician to treat the flea-infested prisoners Washington ordered to Elmira, and Murdock needed an assistant. His voice a snarled whisper, he looked into the Lieutenant's eyes. “You will see that my horse is fed, watered and groomed, and then you will assemble a column to hunt down the nefarious Doctor Drake and my prisoner. We leave at daybreak.”

With another click of his heels and a salute, the Lieutenant replied, “Yes, sir. We will find them, sir. I'm sure of it.”

“The only thing I'm sure of, Glenn, you'll be reduced to private if we don't and I'll personally see that you're relegated to latrine duty from sunup to sundown.” He turned from the man with clenched fists, headed out the door and called out over his shoulder. “Daybreak, Lieutenant, and you better hope we find them.”