The Destroyers

by Christopher Bollen

  CHAPTER 11

  The note on my bed is written in black ballpoint.

  Ian–

  Meet me tonight 11 p.m. down at the charter dock.

  It’s unsigned, although the stationery is embossed at the top with a tilted ship’s wheel and below it, in powder-blue ink, KONSTANTINOU CHARTERS. I’m not a specialist of Charlie’s handwriting. In fact, I have nothing to go on except for the childhood diary entry I read on his boat. But those fat, puckish letters must have evolved through teenage years of frantic note taking followed by a decade of scarcely ever needing to wield a pen into the spiked, wiry scrawl across the stationery. The door to my cabin was locked when I returned, although Therese has been in to clean; the bed is made, the floors reek of Lysol, and a candle is lit on the nightstand, its orange flame reflecting on the glass sliding door. I open the drawer and rummage under the sweater. The plastic bag of cash is still safe. I walk over to the connecting door and check that it’s bolted. Charlie clearly has keys to the cabin and must have stopped by while I was out. I don’t understand why he didn’t text me, unless he lost his phone. That would explain why he hasn’t answered my calls.

  The only thing I am certain of is Charlie’s decision to remain out of sight. Otherwise he wouldn’t ask to meet late at night in such an isolated spot. Perhaps he’s waiting until Inspector Martis gets tired of sniffing around and returns to Kos with no other option but to mark the case an accident.

  I stash the note in my pocket, toss the earring in the drawer, and strip out of my clothes to take a shower. As I stand under the nozzle, it strikes me that Charlie might have arranged this meeting to ask for one more favor, one more lie to keep him hidden, one more errand that lands me in the center of everyone’s worry. Tonight could be the right moment to tender my resignation. I imagine him pulling more money from his office safe and waving it at me until I agree. What’s your price, Ian?

  My body hair is pale orange in the lather, and, for a man who barely exercises, my hip bones still jut without a pinch of fat on my waist. Even if my brain is close to collapse, at least my metabolism refuses to give up on me. It is so hard to pull out of zero. Maybe if Greece closes its doors, I could go back to D.C. with Louise and live with her in her tiny, grad-school apartment. I could take just enough cash from the Ziploc bag to buy an economy ticket and find a job busing tables in Georgetown, selling shirts in Foggy Bottom, standing outside of banks begging for signatures on renewable energy sources. I could do all of that until Louise grows tired of her degenerate boyfriend or a hacker collective finally strikes the Internet and wipes all memory of Panama clean. I’m worn thin on too many futures, a clotted hairball of possible escape routes.

  I dry off and put on a fresh pair of pants. The last clean shirt in my bag is a silk button-down the color of rubber cement. It was a Christmas present from my father and Lily, mailed to me in the new year with the receipt folded in the pocket. As I slip it on, I hear a knock on the connecting door.

  “Ian,” Louise yells. “Are you feeling better?”

  She must have returned when I was in the shower. I slide the bolt free.

  “Much,” I say. “It must have been something I ate.”

  “I don’t know why you keep that locked.” She steps into my room, bringing the coconut smell of suntan lotion with her.

  “Habit. I’ll break it.”

  The afternoon on Bence’s yacht has turned her skin hickory, with her arms ghosted by tiny white hairs. She wears a yellow bikini top that radiates through a sheer gray shirt. Her brown eyes have the dazed expression of entering a dark room after a long time in open sun. I have the urge to pull her onto the bed, and she stands in front of me smiling, as if surprised I don’t.

  “I have good news,” she says. “I changed my ticket. One more week in Patmos. I’m really pushing it. I’ll have, like, thirty hours before classes start. But you’ve got me for the next seven days.”

  It is good news. Louise is the only good news on the entire island, and I’d suggest we spend the week floating around other parts of the Aegean if either of us had the money. We’re stuck here on Charlie’s generosity. We’re already scratching the tin of our bank accounts, and I’m not sure we could scrape together the price of a hostel in any other port.

  “I thought you’d be happier.” She chews on a white gob of gum.

  “I am happier,” I say. I reach my arms around her waist, her skin the temperature of a teakettle. “At least I want to be. I’m going to force myself.”

  “What’s bothering you? The general state of the world or the safety of those closest to you?”

  It’s an odd question. Before I realize she’s joking, I answer honestly. “The general state of my world is the safety of those closest to me.”

  She exhales and presses her forehead on my shoulder. Poor Ian, the rubbing forehead implies. How did I fall for such a loser twice? I get the sense she might have had a few glasses of champagne on the yacht. A little jab of jealousy passes through me that she spent the day with Bence.

  “All I meant was, you don’t have to worry,” she says. “Charlie’s been spotted. Now we can all be grateful for his continued existence. I’m expecting fireworks along the harbor when he finally returns home.”

  “Yeah, that’s good news too. It’s all good news. Still, it doesn’t answer why he’s been avoiding everyone.”

  “Sonny told me they had a fight.” It’s exactly what Miles said, and yet Sonny didn’t mention a fight when I visited her.

  “What about?”

  “Duck, I’m guessing.” Louise shrugs. “To be or not to be a father. That explains his mood the night we met for drinks. Maybe he’s trying to prove just how unreliable he is by disappearing for a few days. Sonny’s taking it rather well, considering.”

  I briefly wonder if Sonny might have visited Domitian that night after Skala to reignite their argument. But I let the thought go. It doesn’t matter anymore.

  “How was Bence’s boat?”

  “Oh, god.” She steadies her hand on her stomach. “I think it has its own zip code. The ugliest monster I’ve ever seen. There’s a pool on the back. A freshwater pool in the middle of the sea! Every surface is that sparkly shade of beige, which always reminds me of cheap makeup, but is supposed to connote money and taste. He has a crew of fifteen, all blond, none of them Greek, very young and staring at the monitors trying to figure out where the hell we were. I’m amazed we found his slip when we docked.” Her tongue works at kneading the gum. “I really shouldn’t be so awful about Bence. It was nice of him to take us out. He’s not from royalty, FYI. He’s proudly self-made. Kind of a pig about it really, blatant about swooping in and investing in countries in the midst of extreme economic crises. Guess what he said to me.” Louise raises her arm, as if swearing to tell the whole truth. “I’m not joking. I’ll always remember it. He said that for all the analysts he pays to discover opportunities in ‘emerging markets,’ the best indicator is prostitutes.”

  “Prostitutes? Like their clients spill insider secrets?”

  “No. Like where the prostitutes are from. Determine the origin of the latest crop of sex workers flowing into Western capitals—Slovenia, Romania, Sri Lanka, or wherever they’re coming from now—and that’s where to target your speculation. He said, ‘I don’t need my investment portfolio to reflect my morals.’ What morals? It was pretty fascinating, a real behind-the-curtain peek at finance. Now he’s got an itch up his ass for phone apps. And for Charlie’s yacht business. He gave a long, sincere lecture about wanting a cut of it. He swears Charlie called him about investing.”

  “I doubt he’d find Charlie’s business lurid enough. Or even in coherent shape. To be honest, I’m not sure it’s still running. Not with Charlie gone.”

  Louise cocks her head and swivels her jaw. She waits a second before continuing.

  “Anyway, that might have been why Bence invited us out. To butter Sonny up, get her on his side. You know, she’s not too happy with you right now.” />
  “Why not?”

  “She knows you didn’t meet Charlie on Domitian that morning. She asked Christos. He said not unless you met him before he checked on the boat. Sonny figures you’re aiding and abetting, stringing her along on boss’s orders.” Louise makes a tsk-ing sound. “Are you?”

  I consider coming clean, but in a few hours, when I meet him at his dock, the whole mess will be resolved—or at least explained. Charlie can do the work of patching up his lies for a change.

  “I’m officially no longer getting in the middle of their relationship,” I say. “I’m out.”

  “You can’t be out if you’re working for him. Isn’t he expecting a good solider?” Before I can defend myself, Louise spins around in a room suddenly tinted sepia. She grabs my hand. “We’re missing the sunset!”

  We step out onto the terrace, Louise tugging me toward the edge. The sun is a Vaseline smear along the gray striated knife of land, the whole sky bloodshot in reds and oranges.

  Louise takes her phone from her pocket. “It’s so beautiful,” she says. “It’s like I forget how beautiful the last one was, and I’m seeing a sunset for the first time.” She snaps a few shots, the colors on the screen muddy, in no way replicating the miracle of a fireball descending below the horizon. The chirring of insects rises around us, like an impatient roar in an arena, cheering on the night.

  “How are the posts?” I ask her.

  “Posts?”

  “Your vacation photos. Are they getting an appropriate number of likes?”

  “Oh, yeah. The one I took of you and Charlie the day you arrived, a bonanza of likes. Someone commented that you looked like two outlaws who escaped into paradise.” She jams her fingers into my side. “Don’t make fun of me. Don’t act superior just because you’re not on social media. I hate that new form of snobbery. As if you appreciate life more if you never share it.”

  “I’m not making fun of you.”

  “This trip is special. Europe isn’t a place I get to visit like the rest of you do.”

  I stand behind her, arms around her, feeling the smallness of her bones and the dampness of her hair on my chin. Another day. And there are seven more of them, and eventually all of the anxiety of the moment will be forgotten, and I’ll have Louise’s permanent record of muddy sunsets, and maybe I’ll wonder why I didn’t ask her for more than the time of a ticket pushed back.

  In the distance, the monastery darkens on the hill, and I imagine the candles lit and the prayers in the dungeons, men moving silently in their robes through chilly corridors that hold no exit.

  “Do you want to hear something funny?” I ask. “Something Charlie and I did as kids?”

  I don’t know why I tell Louise about Destroyers. Maybe it was the escaping comment or the need to share an embarrassing fact that would make her laugh at my expense. Or maybe it’s because all thoughts on Patmos eventually lead to Charlie. I explain the rules and our favorite locations. I describe the killers in black balaclavas, number variable, who enter with rounds of gunfire. I list a few of our wilier strategies: the smoke of burst fire extinguishers for cover; hiding inside coat bags so our feet don’t touch the ground; turning appliance cords into trip wires; the dead janitor’s heavy body, flipping it over to locate a master key. Louise listens silently, not even grinding her gum, and she continues to stare out at the sea after I finish.

  “Were we demented kids?” I ask. “Describing it out loud, it is kind of sick.”

  “Not sick. Not any sicker than most games kids play. You don’t want to know the tortures my brother and I inflicted on my dolls. I admit to slicing off their fingers and giving them buzz cuts. But it was my brother who ended every scenario with a Dream House hanging.”

  “I guess it’s light fun when you’re little. Playing at how awful life can be.”

  She’s quiet for a minute. The faint breaking waves echo up the valley.

  “It’s not light,” she finally says. “Haven’t you ever watched children play? They’re insanely serious.” She takes a receipt from her pocket and spits her gum into it. “I often think I should have noticed those early warning signs. Not with me, but my brother.” She shakes her head, clenching my knuckle like a rosary bead. “I told you I didn’t go to grad school right away. But it wasn’t exactly by choice.”

  “That never did make sense to me.”

  “My brother had problems in Lexington, and I went home to take care of him. Each time I moved away, off to another city, he’d eventually relapse, and my parents, god bless them, couldn’t handle it. So I’d go back again, and that would be another six months off my life. It got to the point that every time I packed up somewhere, I assumed it’d be temporary. Thus the ‘finding myself’ trip. All you can do is find a few spare parts when you know you aren’t staying long.”

  It occurs to me that as close as we’ve gotten in the past week and as much as Louise espouses sharing and the needlessness of the bolt on the door, she’s kept our relationship on her terms. She hasn’t slept a single night in my bed, as if to wake up next to me would certify a contract she enjoyed drawing up but never intended to sign. She’s learned to be cautious. Why bother with the aching fingers of practicing a new instrument, if it’s only going to be ripped away?

  “What kind of relapse?” I ask hesitantly, afraid of spooking her into silence.

  “He was an addict. Is an addict,” she clarifies. “The worst stuff, the stuff that’s burning cigarette holes right through every family photo album in America. It’s like headlights to deer. It stops people. It doesn’t knock them over. I wish it did that. It just leaves them standing, vacant and twitching.” She lets go of my knuckle. “That’s what it did to Luke. It deleted him from our lives, even if he was still just sitting on the couch. Well, he’s clean now. He has been for a year. But you’re constantly waiting for the news that he isn’t, and the worst part is, he knows you’re waiting, and the whole thing becomes a flinch test. Will today push you over edge? How about tomorrow? Meanwhile, congratulations on washing the dishes and driving to and from the grocery store. It’s like talking about the weather to a ticking bomb.”

  She turns to me. I expect tears in her eyes, but there aren’t any. It’s an old wound. I hug her anyway, worming my hand along her shoulder bone.

  “I’m not sad, Ian,” comes her muffled, midhug retort. “I’m not asking for pity. I just wanted to explain. I felt like I was making no sense to you without that information. I guess that’s why I’ve been so noncommittal about everything. Law school for one.”

  “I get it.”

  She pulls away, apparently for the urgent need to run her fingers along the stone ledge, feeling for sharp edges.

  “I keep asking myself what the limit is? How many times you can rescue someone from the same river? If he does it again, I’m honestly not sure I’ll . . .” She trails off. “What about you? Why did you mention that game you and Charlie played as kids? You think that’s what he’s doing now?”

  I don’t follow. “I haven’t been aware of any gunmen.”

  “No, but maybe he’s running away from something worse than a seven-year-old.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But I don’t know what that would be. There’s a detective from Kos who’s hoping to ask him a few questions.”

  “A detective? The police?”

  “Because of that motorbike accident. But it can’t be that. All the guy wants is to ask if Charlie saw anything.” There’s no reason to alarm her with details. “I really don’t know Charlie as well as I thought. I’m not even sure if I’m going to keep working for him. It’s not the secure employment I signed up for, with him vanishing like this.”

  “So you’ll quit?” she asks almost hopefully.

  “It’s not that simple. I’m screwed if I do. I need the money. I just want Charlie to come back and tell me what’s going on. But quitting might be more practical. He might do this all the time for all I know. Maybe he is playing Destroyers. He wasn’t very good at it. He had
a knack for making bad choices.”

  Louise opens her mouth, her lips warped on a word.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “If I did quit, if I did go back to the States”—I’m squeezing the tail of my shirt, on the verge of backing down, every defender in my brain advising me to abort the next sentence, don’t say it, retreat, retreat—“maybe I could try D.C. That could be a good place to start over. After all, you’re there. We could see each other, or—”

  “Ian.” She breathes, stepping forward. It is only a few feet between us but it feels like miles.

  “It’s just an idea.”

  She grabs my arm. But just as quickly, she loosens her grip. “I don’t know if that make sense.”

  “No, you’re right. It doesn’t.”

  “We’ve only seen each other again for a few days.”

  “It was a stupid suggestion.”

  “It’s not stupid. It’s just fast. I care about you, very much—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I lift my arm to touch her face, but my jerking movement knocks her hands away, which ultimately feels like the more appropriate reaction. “Sorry. Forget I brought it up. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” But the logic of don’t what baffles both of us.

  “I’m, I’m . . .” She licks her lips and starts again. “I’m on my own in D.C. For the first time I’m trying—”

  “You don’t need to explain. It’s been great having these days with you here. It’s been wonderful.” I’m already writing her a postcard. There’s a picture of Patmos on the front. I’m even about to list a few vacuum-packed memories: sharing a motorbike, lying in the sun. It’s not a postcard. It’s a eulogy, and no one reads those more than once.

  “Let’s talk about it when I leave in a week, okay?”