Clutching the earring, I climb the ladder. Christos sits at the restaurant on the shore, his bony legs crossed. He spots me and gets to his feet, stumbling around the tables and a cluster of tourist bags. We meet halfway along the dock, by a row of plastic buckets where dead sardines float on their stewing surfaces.
I flash the earring. “I found this. Charlie had it on in Skala.”
Christos studies it skeptically. “Sonny earring,” he replies, plucking his earlobes. “Charlie no.”
“That’s not what I mean. He had it with him. It proves he came back to the boat that night. And you said he wasn’t here early the next morning?”
He must sense hostility in my voice because his skeptical expression passes from the earring onto me. He begins to cluck, like a lawn mower cord being pulled to jump-start an engine.
“He not there,” he hollers as he flails his hands. “Domitian empty.”
“Was there a mess? Or any sign of a struggle when you checked that morning? Did your daughter clean up anything toppled over? Christos, did she clean up blood and not tell anyone?”
I shouldn’t have included Vesna in my accusations, but the rush of anxiety has turned my questions into swinging fists. Christos’s face reddens. Then it pales. As I’m reaching out in apology, he grits his teeth. I find I don’t have the courage to touch his shoulder. My hand hovers in front of him, as if to prevent an attack.
“My Vesna, she do nothing but clean. What you say not tell of blood? No blood there. Nothing. Empty. We do our job only.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I found small traces—”
“We not work for you. We work for Charlie. Charlie and Mr. Konstantinou. Who are you, eh?” He flicks his fingers against my bicep.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I can’t find Charlie. No one can. I’m trying to figure out where he is.”
“He gone. Not on boat. I come, he not there. But Charlie—” He can’t summon the words in English, tapping his palm roughly against his chest. I know the words. Charlie is strong, Charlie is an adult, Charlie is a free man, Charlie can take care of himself. I nod, wishing I could believe that. But Christos is right about one thing: he does work for the Konstantinous and not for me. If, by chance, Charlie is hiding out on the island, purposely out of sight, he might have asked Christos to keep that secret safe. In any case, I’ve already lost the captain as an accomplice in concern. He eyes me distrustfully, like I’m a cyclone he could get sucked up in.
“This not okay,” he grumbles. His eyes are already off me, glaring at the rocking, black-oak sixty footer, clearly regretful of letting a stranger on board. “I want speak Mr. Konstantinou.”
“Fine. I understand that. But will you let me know if you see Charlie? Or let Sonny know? Or anyone? Or will you just tell him to come home? I didn’t mean anything about Vesna. I’m sure you’ll see her soon. And Helios too.”
Christos shakes his head, digs his feet deeper into his flip-flops, and strides down the dock. “I only speak Mr. Konstantinou!” he shouts.
I’ve managed to offend the one man who could have been a crucial ally. When is the moment that doing nothing serves a crisis better than throwing yourself blindly into its midst? I almost convince myself to stop the search. But as I climb onto my bike, I stare down at the earring. It’s the only proof I have of Charlie’s existence after I last saw him. At some point after midnight in Skala and before Christos arrived early in the morning, he was on his yacht. And he wasn’t alone. For the first time, I let myself imagine a scenario that would explain his failure to meet the charter boat to Bodrum and the long days of silence since: Charlie taken by surprise in the galley, injured or incapacitated, weighted down and thrown overboard, erased underneath the waves. The imagination is a wild dog. It runs happily toward the meanest end.
In the distance, Domitian glides from the port, its sails wrapped around its mast, the motor churning a sapphire wake. Christos is moving the boat to Skala. Here on a holiday island, nothing, not even a room, stays in place.
MILES IS THE one person I can think of who had a reason to visit Charlie that night on his boat. Thankfully, his mansion sits directly opposite the taxi stand at the entrance to Chora. I doubt I’d be able to find it otherwise. The egg-white awning, ripped on one side, shades a door scabbed with pistachio-green paint. The slender, whitewashed mansion rises three stories. The tall windows of the first two floors give way to the small square windows of a garret, from which top-forty hits blare, mingling with chanting prayers from a nearby shrine. Unlike most houses, no antique knocker decorates the door. There’s only a rusted screw that once held one.
I’m about to knock when the door swings open and three attractive Asian vacationers bolt into the daylight. They litter the air with smiles and loud voices singing along to the upstairs pop music. Two men and a woman, barely out of their teenage years, step back to close the door and study me. Their sunglasses are diamond-encrusted. The woman’s hair is bone-marrow white and plaited in neon barrettes. Their swimsuits are adorned in the garish tartans and mismatched stripes of popular European fashion brands.
“I think I have the wrong house,” I say.
They find my mistake hilarious, jostling each other by the shoulders. Or maybe they’re just wildly happy to be on Patmos. They speak to each other in clipped Mandarin, which induces further laughter, and one guy attempts to twist the other’s nipple.
“No, Ian, you have the right house,” a voice booms from behind them. Miles ducks his head from the darkness, gaunt-cheeked and puffy-eyed. He smiles in embarrassment and turns to the three beachgoers. “You have your key? I leave it locked.”
“Okay, captain,” one of the young men says, saluting sarcastically.
Miles beckons me into the hallway. A crooked staircase leads to a sun-drenched landing, but we remain on the ground floor, passing along the peeling, brick-tiled hall.
“Who were those three?” I ask.
“Guests,” he replies nonchalantly. “I’ve been renting out the top two floors this summer on one of those destination websites.” He takes my silence as an accusation. “Not all of us can pray to the patron saint of richer friends when we’re having trouble.”
“I’m not judging.”
His face eases a bit. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. We’re a tiny anthill up here, everyone crawling on top of each other. Even if Charlie hadn’t mentioned my recent difficulties the other night, I’m sure you would have heard about it sooner or later.” The memory causes him to massage his punching hand, as if still trying to relax it out of a fist. “The new renters are Chinese kids. Fuerdai. You know, the children of the Beijing elite. You wouldn’t believe what they’re willing to pay.” Miles seems to want me to be impressed with his boarders, as if their money reflects onto him. “This house was built in 1429, owned by the farming and sheep-rearing gentry, thus the northern view of the valley. It’s my father’s house, but I’m the one who comes every summer. And, honestly, what do I need all the extra rooms for? Really, I see it as an ethnological experiment,” he adds. “What’s left of ethnology anyway. Some advice. Don’t rent to Brazilians. They aren’t housebroken. They shattered a seventeenth-century whale-oil lamp and didn’t even bother to sweep up the glass.” He glances at me, shame weighing on his face, as if he had never imagined himself part-innkeeper, part-domestic policeman. “It’s only for this one summer!”
“There’s nothing wrong with taking in guests,” I assure him.
He stops at the door to his quarters. “We’ll talk more about it in a minute.”
We enter a large, sparse living room, the light a dusty gray through the grime-mottled windows. White sheets are draped over two long couches, as if Miles hasn’t found the energy to release them from their winter hibernation. The décor is sea themed—ceramic starfish, abstract prints of blue blotches that approximate the shapes of fish, a coffee table mosaicked with mirror and seashells, large knots of fishermen’s rope. It’s the same design s
cheme that infects the mansions of the Hamptons and Cape Cod, weekend homes where the senile wealthy surround themselves in reminders of where they are. The only unexpected feature is a giant canvas sac hanging from the ceiling by a chain; it vibrates from the upstairs music. The chandelier has been bagged, protecting the heart of the house, like the pouch of internal organs stuffed inside a store-bought turkey. Clearly, Miles didn’t expect to entertain this summer, but the swaying gray canvas over our heads exposes his desperation even more than his boarders did. The elegance of a gold and crystal chandelier would dangle like a reminder of better days.
Duck is sprawled on the floor, half hidden behind the coffee table in a tangerine jumper. She’s coloring on a sketch pad, duplicating two figures from a glossy magazine, pushing hard on a peach marker while her head rests dreamily on her arm. Miles’s pause on any discussion of his finances is purely for the benefit of a seven-year-old. Maybe he worried the news would get back to her mother.
“Hello, Duck,” I say. “How’s it going?”
She glances up at me, her eyes phosphorescent blue over sunburned cheeks. “Hi, Ian.” Now I’m the one submitting to the clout of a seven-year-old. I feel strangely honored that she remembers my name.
“What are you coloring?”
“People.”
I make a show of studying her work, leaning my head sagaciously to the side. Duck is not yet of the age where every artistic attempt is torturously private, concealed by a guarding arm or a shielding shoulder. As with her toplessness on the beach, she hasn’t yet learned the American virtue of deep shame in exposure.
Peach splotches cover the sketch paper, approximations of two celebrities caught paparazzi-style in Mediterranean water. They must be European celebrities because I don’t recognize them, and without any clues to their importance, they condense into lopsided specimens, not particularly attractive, hardly worth the photographer’s mesmerized focus. They’re human flesh blobs on vacation, and Duck’s bloated, fish-slop rendering is deft.
“You want a drink?” Miles asks. “I have a bottle of vodka open, and grapefruit juice in the fridge.”
“No, thanks. I’ve been drinking too much.” I take a seat on one of the couches.
“I had a friend who visited last summer,” Miles says as he wanders to a small bar in the corner with its bottles and decanters organized like a home chemistry set. Alcohol is one luxury Miles isn’t skimping on. “She neglected to warn me that she was in AA. Or I neglected to warn her that there was no such thing as an AA meeting in the Dodecanese. She lasted thirty hours before booking herself on the next boat. Abstinence is not exactly the culture here.” He pours himself a vodka and falls onto the opposite couch.
“We haven’t gotten to talk much since you arrived,” he says, smiling tartly as he takes a sip. “How are you liking Patmos? It’s the holy island. You can feel it vibrate.” I’m beginning to wonder how much of the island’s renowned vibrations are due to alcoholic shakes.
“To be honest, I’m worried about Charlie, about why he hasn’t come home in the past few days. Between you and me—”
Miles widens his eyes and motions toward Duck to caution me about saying anything upsetting. I have nothing to say to Miles that isn’t upsetting.
“Charles will be fine,” he swears. “Didn’t you see him two mornings ago?”
I clear my throat, unsure whether Miles is calling my bluff. “But I haven’t since. Not a word since. And really that was only a few hours after we were all in Skala together so it hardly counts. He’s”—I avoid the word missing—“out of touch.”
“Well, you know how he can be. Or perhaps you don’t anymore. From what I understand, you two haven’t seen each other in several years.” He swills the vodka in his glass. “I’ve watched him closely the past few summers. He’s just blowing off steam. For a man who works in tourism, he tires quickly of all of the socializing and commitments. He’s getting some distance, no doubt to antagonize Sonny. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s holed up in a hotel room on the other side of the island, laughing at all of us. It’s only been a couple of days. You know how his kind can be.” He wipes his hand down his chest. “Irresponsible.”
I stare at the lonely drinker in front of me. I want to tell him about Charlie missing the boat to Bodrum, about his empty yacht with the chessboard midgame, about the fact that Charlie’s own charter staff hasn’t heard from him. But these are all upsetting topics to mention in front of Duck. So is the single glaring incident that might render Miles the prime suspect should Charlie actually be declared missing: the last time anyone saw Charlie, Miles punched him in the face. In the fire of that thought, his swollen eyes and haggard cheeks take on the appearance of festering guilt. But I don’t directly accuse Miles of visiting Domitian that night, in case the conversation might upset a child.
“Where’s Sonny?” I ask instead. “She called me a zillion times last night, but I haven’t heard from her today.”
Miles takes a hard sip and checks on Duck. There’s a fatherly devotion in the way he watches out for her, one ear and eye radar–ing for signals of the slightest distress.
“Sonny’s gone sailing for the day,” he says simply. “She brought Louise with her. On Bence’s boat. He invited her this morning. At first she said no. But then she figured, why not? Bence has one of those wretched mega-yachts, where everything transforms by remote control. What’s its name? Velociraptor? Something savage and meat-eating.”
“I was too tired,” Duck declares from the floor. “I’m tired of the sun.”
Miles’s news stuns me. Nothing in Sonny’s afternoon of yachting jibes with the frantic girlfriend who phoned me nearly thirty times yesterday. Charlie goes missing two days, she’s hysterical; on day three, she’s diving off a remote-controlled dinosaur. What is the attention span on this island for the disappeared?
“You look surprised,” Miles proclaims. “I was too. Who would want to be stuck on a boat with that Hungarian? Maybe Sonny went because she knew it would piss off Charles. They sailed to Marathi, a tiny island to the east. Great family-run restaurant there, Italians but they pretend to be Greek. I’m sure Bence will be trying to charm Louise out of her—” He fingers his jacquard shirt. “She doesn’t strike me as the type to be charmed.”
“I thought Sonny was worried about Charlie.”
“Oh.” Miles tosses his hand. “She came to her senses. She thinks the same as I do. That Charles is purposefully staying away to punish her. You remember how he treated her in Skala. Not very nice. Apparently, they had one of their arguments right before we all met up. She didn’t tell me what it was about. But this morning she found something in her bag, an item that proves Charles has been to the house while she was out. They play these childish games with each other.” The hand-carved queen. I could shoot myself for putting it in her bag. I meant it as a sign of affection, but now it’s another lie I’ve buoyed to give the impression that Charlie is alive and well. It is far too simple to fool the willing. “You know,” Miles says, “when you play too many games as a couple, nothing’s sacred. Everything, even avoiding each other, can be written off as a joke. It’s possible to treat love too lightly.” A fleeting storm crosses Miles’s eyes, cutting through the calm in his voice. One second he’s relaxed and jovial, the next sullen and jumpy. I’m not sure which to blame on the vodka.
“Charlie could have put that item in her bag before he vanished. That hardly confirms anything.”
“No, Sonny said she used that bag right after Skala and it hadn’t been in there. But that wasn’t the real confirmation.”
“What was?”
“I saw Charlie this morning,” Duck announces as she switches markers.
“What? You did?” I rise from the couch. “You saw Charlie?”
“Yeah. Miles and I were down in Skala buying supplies.”
“Groceries,” Miles clarifies. “And magazines. Duck, remember not to show those magazines to your mother. You know how depressed they make her.”<
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“Charlie was on the other side of the square. At the entrance to where the real people live. Behind the stores.”
“Patmians,” Miles schools her. “We’re all real people. Even Charles.”
“Patmians. Whatever,” she gripes. “He was standing, like, fifty feet away. Or what’s the length of a pool? I yelled to him. I yelled, and he turned around and looked at me and ran off.” She slaps her sketchbook. “He ran away when I called his name.”
“Are you sure it was him?” I ask.
“Yes,” she whines. “It was Charlie. He saw me, and he ran away. Why would he do that?”
“You can be very frightening,” Miles teases. “He was probably scared you were going to ask him to buy you something.” Duck rolls her eyes. Miles turns to me. “I was in the shop, so I didn’t see him.”
“Are you absolutely sure, Duck?” I plead, almost standing to get a full look at her. “You’re telling the truth, right? It couldn’t have been someone else?”
She is not too young to suffer doubters. “Why doesn’t anyone believe me? Mom asked the same thing. I swear I saw him. He was dressed funny, like in black. And he had on a baseball cap. But it was him! A stranger wouldn’t run away when you called their name.”
“Nor would most familiars,” Miles adds. “But that sounds like Charles all right. That’s Charles all over.”
“It was him! I swear. I saw him!”
“Can I hug you?” I ask, extending both arms. Duck shakes her head, not even giving the offer a second’s thought. My whole body is warm with relief. Charlie is safe. He’s on the island. Of course, he’s on the island; he didn’t take his charter boat out. Even the resentment I feel for him is warm now.
The Destroyers Page 30
