Read Online In the Teeth of the Wind by Charlotte Boyett-Compo - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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it if you don't want to. I'll
understand if you don't. I guess I'm writing this more for me than you, but I hope you'll understand
because I need to say a few things I couldn't say before._
_"I don't know when it happened, Rhianna. When it started. I've lain awake at night trying to pinpoint
the time, but maybe that was impossible. Maybe it happened a little bit at a time and finally just reached
up and slapped me between the eyes so I'd notice. Whenever, however, it happened, I don't regret that it
did. I might not have welcomed it, might even have tried to prevent it at first, but now, now that it's
damned well too late, I find myself embracing it fully and wondering why I ever fought it._
_"I love you, Rhianna Marek. With all my heart and all my being; with every breath I take and every
pulse of blood through my veins. And, as Browning said: 'If God choose, I shall but love thee better after
death.' I guess I'm about to find out if that is true or merely poetic license._
_"No tears for me, Pretty Lady. Please. Get on with your life. Find a man who'll do right by you, but
warn him if he doesn't, I just might find a way to make him!_
_"Goodbye, Rhianna. Never forget I love you. Conor"_ "Selfish," he whispered. Pure, unadulterated
selfishness. No, he should never have written the letter. He had placed a burden of guilt on the one
woman in all the world he had truly loved and, in the doing, scarred her for all time. "Bastard," he called
himself. "If I could just do it again…"
"Talking to yourself again, brown eyes?"
He had been so engrossed in his own memories, his misery, he had not heard the door open again.
Looking up, he shielded his eyes from the glare of light streaming in.
The Colombian stood in the doorway, the syringe in hand, but that didn't mean he was going to inject
Conor with the payload.
"You're not going to give it to me, are you?"
A light snort of laughter burst from the Colombian. "No, I am not."
Conor closed his eyes, biting his lips until he tasted blood. He would not beg anymore - even if he died
screaming in agony, he would not beg again.
Almost as though the Colombian had intercepted that shaky vow, he moved further into the room.
"You've been here three weeks, now, amigo," Conor's tormentor said in a conversational voice.
"You've got awhile to go yet before I'm finished with you."
"Before you kill me."
"Oh, I have no intention of killing you." The Colombian seemed shocked by Conor's statement. "That
has never been my goal, I assure you."
Conor opened his eyes and looked up at the man standing over him. "You just want to drive me
insane, is that it?"
"Not so insane that you are not aware of what is being done to you." The Colombian reached down
and captured Conor's chin. He bent over and peered into the prisoner's eyes. "You must suffer first. That
is the way." He tugged on Conor's chin. "Then you will appreciate the freedom you will have when the
deed is done."
"I don't understand."
"I know you don't, brown eyes, and it is not yet time for the party to begin." He stroked Conor's
cheek. "It will not be long now before the drug in your veins will completely control you and you will do
anything to stop the pain." He straightened. "And when that time comes, your soul will belong to me."
Conor watched his captor leave, taking with him the blessed relief, housed within the syringe.
Alone once more in the darkness, Conor had to clench his teeth to keep the moans from escaping.
Tied as he was to the cot, he could not draw his knees up to help alleviate the cramping in his belly.
Every breath he took was an agony unto itself. His one and only hope was that his heart would just
simply cease to beat. Death was better than the torture that had become his life.
The door opened again.
"Whatcha you know, pig?" The black man chuckled. "He's gonna let you have your goodies after all."
Conor couldn't stop the hitching sob of relief that ripped out of his throat. He knew
understand if you don't. I guess I'm writing this more for me than you, but I hope you'll understand
because I need to say a few things I couldn't say before._
_"I don't know when it happened, Rhianna. When it started. I've lain awake at night trying to pinpoint
the time, but maybe that was impossible. Maybe it happened a little bit at a time and finally just reached
up and slapped me between the eyes so I'd notice. Whenever, however, it happened, I don't regret that it
did. I might not have welcomed it, might even have tried to prevent it at first, but now, now that it's
damned well too late, I find myself embracing it fully and wondering why I ever fought it._
_"I love you, Rhianna Marek. With all my heart and all my being; with every breath I take and every
pulse of blood through my veins. And, as Browning said: 'If God choose, I shall but love thee better after
death.' I guess I'm about to find out if that is true or merely poetic license._
_"No tears for me, Pretty Lady. Please. Get on with your life. Find a man who'll do right by you, but
warn him if he doesn't, I just might find a way to make him!_
_"Goodbye, Rhianna. Never forget I love you. Conor"_ "Selfish," he whispered. Pure, unadulterated
selfishness. No, he should never have written the letter. He had placed a burden of guilt on the one
woman in all the world he had truly loved and, in the doing, scarred her for all time. "Bastard," he called
himself. "If I could just do it again…"
"Talking to yourself again, brown eyes?"
He had been so engrossed in his own memories, his misery, he had not heard the door open again.
Looking up, he shielded his eyes from the glare of light streaming in.
The Colombian stood in the doorway, the syringe in hand, but that didn't mean he was going to inject
Conor with the payload.
"You're not going to give it to me, are you?"
A light snort of laughter burst from the Colombian. "No, I am not."
Conor closed his eyes, biting his lips until he tasted blood. He would not beg anymore - even if he died
screaming in agony, he would not beg again.
Almost as though the Colombian had intercepted that shaky vow, he moved further into the room.
"You've been here three weeks, now, amigo," Conor's tormentor said in a conversational voice.
"You've got awhile to go yet before I'm finished with you."
"Before you kill me."
"Oh, I have no intention of killing you." The Colombian seemed shocked by Conor's statement. "That
has never been my goal, I assure you."
Conor opened his eyes and looked up at the man standing over him. "You just want to drive me
insane, is that it?"
"Not so insane that you are not aware of what is being done to you." The Colombian reached down
and captured Conor's chin. He bent over and peered into the prisoner's eyes. "You must suffer first. That
is the way." He tugged on Conor's chin. "Then you will appreciate the freedom you will have when the
deed is done."
"I don't understand."
"I know you don't, brown eyes, and it is not yet time for the party to begin." He stroked Conor's
cheek. "It will not be long now before the drug in your veins will completely control you and you will do
anything to stop the pain." He straightened. "And when that time comes, your soul will belong to me."
Conor watched his captor leave, taking with him the blessed relief, housed within the syringe.
Alone once more in the darkness, Conor had to clench his teeth to keep the moans from escaping.
Tied as he was to the cot, he could not draw his knees up to help alleviate the cramping in his belly.
Every breath he took was an agony unto itself. His one and only hope was that his heart would just
simply cease to beat. Death was better than the torture that had become his life.
The door opened again.
"Whatcha you know, pig?" The black man chuckled. "He's gonna let you have your goodies after all."
Conor couldn't stop the hitching sob of relief that ripped out of his throat. He knew
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