by Anni Taylor
“How do you know they have survived all that time?” Gray asked. “Couldn’t the group of today have just made their own symbol?”
“We discovered drawings of it in books,” replied Rico. “From different centuries. And different countries. This symbol—and the group belonging to it—has somehow been with us all that time, in the background. Like a shadow.”
“I hired a private investigator,” I told Rico and Petrina, almost whispering. “Her name was Rosemary. She found out a name. Yeqon’s Saviours. That’s all I know.”
“Yeqon’s Saviours, yes,” Rico confirmed. “After the fallen angel. That’s what they call themselves. So you and your daughter were the reason Rosemary contacted me. She didn’t tell me why.” Deep lines etched themselves across his sun-browned forehead. “You said the investigator’s name was Rosemary? You don’t mean to say she has died?”
“Yes. Murdered in her hotel room,” I told him.
Petrina gasped. “No.”
A shudder ran along my spine. “I was the one who found her. They haven’t found the person who did it yet.”
Petrina and Rico locked gazes for a moment. I couldn’t tell what they were silently communicating between themselves, but I could see the worry clearly etched on their faces.
“I’m so sorry,” said Petrina at last.
“As am I. But we will continue.” Rico rose from his seat and walked across to a bookcase that was well furnished with aged, thick books. He selected a book and brought it to the coffee table. The cover and paper seemed ancient and fragile.
He carefully turned the yellowed pages until he found a page that contained the exact same symbol that appeared on Gray’s photocopied image. The text on the page opposite was in Greek.
“You see, here it is.” He kept turning pages, stopping on a page that contained an illustration of people drowning in water, all wearing robes. And then another page, which showed dead, thin people strung up on a wall, multiple knives and implements piercing their bodies.
A tremor passed through my chest, making my heart jolt. “What is all this?”
“Nothing good.” Rico sighed deeply. “Whoever they are, they seem to deal in death. I’d repeat what we said earlier, about staying well away, but it seems you already know this. Especially after what happened to your investigator, Rosemary.”
I nodded sombrely, barely able to breathe.
He closed the book, returning it to rest on the table. “I’m sure you don’t want to see more of these images. If you keep looking for your loved ones, you could both end up like Rosemary. Or like Jennifer’s parents. That is your reality.”
“I can’t turn back,” I told him. “She’s my daughter. I can’t.”
I turned to Gray, expecting him to back me up, but his eyes were set firmly on a large piece of paper that had fallen from between the pages of the book to the floor. I’d thought it must be a loose page, but when Gray reached for it, I saw that there was a drawing on the other side.
“Could I have that, please?” said Rico sharply.
The drawing was of an island—houses on the hills in the background, fishing boats in the foreground. It was easy to tell that whoever had drawn this had painted the artwork on the walls.
“Jennifer drew this, didn’t she?” Gray raised his eyebrows.
“Yes,” said Rico as Gray handed him the painting. “Just one of her thousands of drawings.”
Gray gestured towards the paintings on the walls. “The drawing’s signed with a J. It’s the same bay as in these paintings. Is that where Jennifer lives?”
Petrina’s expression grew taut, her large eyes opening even wider. “You can’t go and see Jennifer. She cannot be part of this.”
“How do you know she doesn’t want to be part of it?” said Gray. “Maybe she never stopped looking for Noah.”
Rico stood. “We can’t place Jennifer in danger. She’s in enough danger just by being alive. In telling what we told you, we were hoping to show you what danger you’re in, in the hope of saving your lives. The more you search, the closer you move towards your deaths. I’m sorry about the loved ones you’ve lost, but you must go home to your families. What you’re doing is a fool’s mission.”
Gray rose to his feet, facing Rico. “There’s something you’re going to find out soon. The police are looking for me, under the suspicion that I killed my wife. Back in Australia. After she went missing, her car was found dumped and burned and her things buried. Alongside a knife, rope and tape from our garage. The Saviours want me in jail, and they almost succeeded. My wife and I have got two small daughters. Right now they’ve lost both of us.” His jaw pulled tight. “How many families have the Saviours destroyed? How many more are they going to destroy?”
Rico and Petrina stared at Gray with shocked, chalky faces.
My legs weak, I stood next to Gray. “Please . . . Gray’s right. If everyone keeps running scared, how will these people ever be exposed?” My voice broke. “How will it ever end?”
I knew as I spoke that I was asking too much. Rico and Petrina, for all intents, must love Jennifer as their own daughter. Now I understood the fearful expressions they’d held before. Their fear wasn’t for themselves but for Jennifer.
I also understood the thing that I’d sensed they were holding back on, the thing that would give Gray and me a direction to head in.
It was Jennifer.
56. EVIE
THE LIGHT BULB BELOW THE CLOCK had flashed green and the clock had stopped.
My knees weakened.
We’d done it.
The end of the sixth challenge.
I didn’t know yet if I was among the final six, but I was so close I could taste victory on the tip of my tongue. I pictured Gray and the girls. I could go back to them soon and make everything right. We’d buy a little house, and it would be all ours. Just one more set of challenges. All held in one night.
I wanted to scream in relief, but I was beyond that point.
Bring on the boat.
Take me home.
The door of the sixth challenge room slid across.
The four mentors bowed as we reached them, smiles flickering on their otherwise serious faces.
Sister Rose placed garlands of flowers around our necks, and we shook hands in turns with the mentors.
“You got to the end.” Brother Vito clasped my hand in both of his. “Be proud, Evie.”
It was yet another velvety night out here in the garden. Everything still. No breeze at all ruffling the leaves. Everything in suspended animation. I could believe the stars and moon had stilled in the sky.
We waited breathlessly to hear whether we passed through into the final six or not.
“You two kept your cool and you figured things out,” said Brother Sage to us. “You used teamwork and courage and trusted your intuition. You are in the final six.” His smile spread wide.
Richard didn’t hold back. He bellowed as if he’d just won a war. I joined in—our cheers and whoops sounding like a huge crowd of people were invading the garden instead of just us.
We turned then as four other people joined us. Cormack, Yolanda, Louelle and Hop. Thomas and Mei hadn’t made it.
“Yes! You two got through!” Cormack gave a low whoop, giving a celebratory punch to our shoulders and then turned to the mentors. “How can we thank you lot for what you’ve done for us? May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. That’s an old Irish blessing. My grandmother’s Irish, God bless her.”
“Your gratitude is more than enough thanks,” said Sister Dawn. “Now, you can take your time returning to the dormitories. I realise you’re excited.”
“The dorms?” said Richard, deflated. “No celebration?”
“I’m afraid you’ll need your rest,” Brother Sage told us. “The final set of challenges will take everything you’ve got. And then comes the celebration.”
The other mentors gave us warm parting smiles and nods before they stepped away.
/> Richard collapsed onto a swinging chair that hung from a nearby tree. “They’re certainly sticklers for routine.”
“I’m too wired to go back to the dorm and sleep.” Cormack walked behind Richard, launching himself onto the back of the chair, making it swing high into the air. He whooped again, this time in a loud voice. “I’ll not get a wink anyway.”
“Me either.” I wriggled into the swing seat opposite Richard. “Not yet. We should just stay out here a while.”
Louelle stood apart from us, her arms crossed and staring at the sky. I couldn’t decide whether I thought she was odd or lucky. She seemed to always be in her own space, not bothered by what was happening around her.
Yolanda’s eyes brimmed with excitement. “We’ve done it. The next six challenges are just for fun. They have to be. We’ve already won. We won, people, we won!”
Hop looked exhausted and dazed, leaning against a small tree, but he cracked a smile at Yolanda’s enthusiastic speech.
Cormack began singing the “Leaving on a Jet Plane” song at full pelt.
“With that voice, everyone will be glad you left,” Richard remarked.
“Shut your face,” Cormack told him. “Or I’ll serenade you with the whole thing. Or I would if I knew all the words. Maybe I’ll just substitute different words, for your listening pleasure.”
“Maybe I’ll box your ears before you get a word out,” said Richard. “Let the grownups have some relax time.”
“Do your worst,” Cormack said. “I’ll be on my way to see Kara in a few days. Nothing’s going to give me a frownie face.”
Richard shrugged. “Still beating that dead horse? One thing I know is money, and I can tell you she comes from money. Girl like that is not going to take up with someone from the wrong side of the tracks. Sorry to be the one to give you the bad news.”
“Piss off, Richard. You bitter little bastard.” Cormack, still smiling broadly, jumped from the chair, almost sending Richard careening sideways into a tree.
Richard emerged from his seat. “Yeah, well, life made me that way. Stick around long enough, and it’ll make you that way too.” He paused, tilting his head. “Hang it. This is supposed to be a celebration. Wine and women and song and all of that. Well, maybe just the wine for me. Hold the women and song.”
Cormack whistled, nodding and slapping his thigh, seeming to instantly forget that he was angry with Richard. “Yeah, where’s the wine this time? We’re just supposed to go to sleep like good little children? Well, I don’t want to be good.”
Richard gave a devious wink. “Me neither. What about we sneak down to the cellar for a bottle of good, home-brewed monk wine?”
“What a sterling idea. I wouldn’t be a good Scotsman if I didn’t have a drink to celebrate a win,” said Cormack in a slightly hesitant tone, as if trying to convince himself that Richard’s idea was a good one.
Richard let out a victory howl. “Let me drink enough, and I’ll be Scottish, too, before the night’s out.”
Hop spoke for the first time since we’d left the sixth challenge room, threading his finger nervously through his short black hair. “What got us here in the first place was not making good decisions. I’m not doing anything that might jeopardize things now.”
I pressed my lips together hard. “Yeah, we’re too close to walking out of here.”
Richard and I had already been lucky not to be found in the walkways between the walls. No one even knew we’d done that.
“What are they going to do?” Richard drawled. “We can say we were just trying to do as they asked, but we were too excited to sleep. Like kids on Christmas Eve. So we needed something to help us sleep. That’s where booze comes in.”
Louelle turned to Richard. “The gate to the cellar’s got an old rusted chain and lock on it. I checked.”
“You alcoholic, you,” said Richard, tutting playfully. “Then how on earth do the monks get down there? Must be another way.”
I caught Richard’s eye in alarm, silently warning him not to tell about the secret passages. If the others found out, they might accuse us of looking into the challenge rooms and gaining an advantage. The mentors might strip Richard and me of our win. It was better left unsaid.
The side of Richard’s face twisted into a grin when he saw my discomfort. “Or . . . we just find something to cut the chain.”
“I’ve seen bolt cutters in one of the garden sheds,” said Cormack, raising his eyebrows like a comedian telling a joke.
“Bolt cutters, hey?” Richard thumbed his goatee. “What are we waiting for?”
“I don’t think you should do this.” Louelle stepped in front of Richard. “I won’t be drinking. I’m not going back to my family with alcohol on my breath. Never again.”
“Well, the demon alcohol is not my vice, Lou. And I demand a celebration. I’m not going to see any of you after this.” He softened his tone. “We won’t empty their cellar. Just a few bottles.”
He, Cormack and Yolanda hi-fived each other and stepped off in the direction of the sheds.
Louelle and I exchanged tense glances. It wasn’t just what they were planning to do that had me worried but the fact they wanted to do it at all. Had any of us even learned anything in our week here? Were any of us really changed? What if I went back home and started doing the same thing all over again?
Louelle tipped her head to the side, looking up at the sky again. “Something feels . . . off.”
“Off?” Hop asked.
“You don’t feel it?” A frown drew her eyebrows together. “When I was a kid, Mama used to drag me and my brothers to church every Sunday. We all hated it. But it felt like people were trying, you know? Trying to be good, even if they weren’t. It felt warm and safe. But this place, it doesn’t have that feeling.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing Louelle hadn’t spoken. I wanted to be encased in a winners’ bubble and on a high. But the victory already felt hollow in some way I couldn’t put a name to. I glanced upward sharply at the bulkhead that stretched across the garden. Was anyone watching us from there right now?
“It’s fine,” I said sharply. “It’s just that the challenges have shaken us. Maybe we should stick with the others.” I started walking, wanting to shake my sudden unease. “Let’s go. Hop, are you with us?”
“Guess I am.” He managed half a grin, but the apprehensive expression in his eyes contradicted it.
We met the other three as they returned with the bolt cutters and headed into the monastery together.
“Changed your mind, eh?” said Cormack.
“No, just keeping an eye on you lot,” I quipped.
“Hey,” Richard said in a stage whisper. “The mentors will have gone to bed, way down the other end of the monastery. They won’t hear us. We’ll just head down the stairs, grab a couple of bottles of red, race back up again.”
Like a bunch of petty thieves, everyone’s shoulders seemed to hunch a little as we made our way along the hallway.
The monastery interior was as silent as a tomb, as alien to me as on the night I arrived.
Pressure bore in on me from all sides, the hexagons bearing against each other. Was Brother Sage right? Was everything scripted, predicted by numbers? I could almost sense all the working parts of the monastery. The metronomes ticking away in synch. The garden stream running in an endless circle. The centre of the monastery and the tiny burning flame. The smallest, most inconsequential thing loomed large in your mind here, everything examined in isolation, under a microscope, from six different angles.
Love could be destroyed by numbers.
Minutes: the time it took for the blood clot to trigger the minor stroke that would momentarily take a driver’s vision away and cause him to crash the car.
Seconds: the amount of time it took for Ben to go from alive and laughing to dead.
One second: the time in which it could take Gray to say to me, I don’t love you anymore.
57. GRAY
WE ARR
IVED ON SIKINOS IN THE middle of a rainstorm. The island where we hoped to find Jennifer. White, block-shaped houses were set into bare hills. The air was steaming hot.
The Vasilious hadn’t told us Jennifer’s address, but they’d seemed resigned to the fact that things had been set in motion and that we needed to talk with her. But they hadn’t wanted to be complicit in just handing her over to us.
We’d found out her full name easily enough—Jennifer Bloom. A simple internet search for her paintings was enough to tell us her name and that she lived on the Greek island of Sikinos. Constance and I had studied Google maps of the island, locating the exact bay that Jennifer painted so much. It’d taken eight long hours by boat to get here.
Now, we just needed to find her.
The shops were shuttered against the storm, with only one café open. Constance and I made a beeline for it and stood dripping under the awning.
I peered inside the window. The café carried paintings on the walls—paintings that matched Jennifer Bloom’s. A man in his sixties or seventies sat outside on a stool, smoking a cigar.
“Hello?” I called, crossing to him. “We’re looking for Jennifer Bloom.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.” His accent was thick.
“She painted the pictures inside your café. We were told she lives here.”
“I don’t know,” he said again in a casual voice.
“Is there anyone about who would know?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I made a guess that the locals had been asked not to give away her home address to any strangers on the island. Or maybe he didn’t like giving away information for free. I was considering trying to give him a tip when Constance stepped up behind me.
“This is getting us nowhere,” she whispered.
