Greek Island Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-2-3): Gripping, psychological mystery/thrillers destined to shock you!

by Luke Christodoulou

  ‘Sorry for being late. Traffic is murder out there.’

  ‘Nice choice of words,’ she enigmatically said while gazing at her wall clock. ‘I did not notice the time,’ she lied.

  ‘Analyzing me, already?’ I fell back into the armchair, aware of my sweaty forehead and racing pulse. At least, my new deodorant acted as an ally against the hot weather. The cool room helped too.

  Ariadne remained standing up behind her desk looking down at the morning paper.

  ‘Never seen you read the paper before,’ I commented.

  ‘Catching up on the political scene. Don’t own a TV,’ she said without looking up.

  ‘I hate politics. Isn’t politics just money talking?’

  ‘Hmm, I guess that’s one way of looking at it.’

  She walked over and sat opposite me, her beautiful legs crossed; her notepad on her lap.

  ‘You failed the test.’

  ‘What test?’ I asked, causing her lips to form a smile.

  ‘I wasn’t reading anything in particular. I was being silent. I wanted to see, if you could too, Costa.’ She always pronounced my name in such a caring way.

  ‘The quiet scares me because it speaks the truth…’

  ‘And what is your truth?’

  ‘I have had a hell of a year because of you.’

  ‘Hell of a good time or hell of a bad time? You have had your ups and downs, your joys and worries.’

  ‘Maybe you just gave me hell.’

  Her emerald eyes crawled all over me. Searching, analyzing my body language, my facial expressions. She calmly collected her red hair off her shoulders and collected it up into a pony tail. Her high cheekbones, reddish from the sun.

  ‘You are in a weird mood today.’

  ‘Want to play along?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘How about, today, I ask the questions for a change?’

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  ‘Personal ones.’

  ‘Costa, that would be highly unprofessional of me. We are not at a cafe. This is my place of work. I…’

  ‘I insist,’ I said, pulling out my gun and placing it on my leg.

  ‘Are you mad?’ her cool undertone of a voice jumped up the decibel scale. However, it gave off the feeling of a well rehearsed show. No emotion colored her words. No muscles twitched.

  ‘Sit down, now!’

  ‘Costa, what is this…’

  ‘Shh,’ I placed my finger on my lips. ‘My turn to ask the questions. Remember?’

  She raised both hands slowly and said ‘You’re the man with the gun.’

  ‘Were you born Maria Kontopoulou in Trikala, on the 4th of March 1975?’

  ‘My past is my own. You have no right…’

  ‘Maybe, I should have been more specific. Let’s start with a few yes or no questions, before moving on to the why’s. Were you born Maria Kontopoulou in Trikala, on the 4th of March 1975? Yes or no?’

  She sat up straight. Her eyes, not flinching, gazed into mine. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you admitted to Trikala’s CareForGirls institution at the age of thirteen, then run by the church? An institution for the mentally insane?’

  ‘Well, that is not the proper term or…’

  ‘Yes or no?’ I stressed and picked up my gun.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You left the institution at eighteen, legally changed your name, left for Germany and came back a certified psychologist.’

  ‘Do I answer to statements too? Yes. So you know my past. What are these shenanigans with the gun about?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Murder? I haven’t murdered anyone in my life.’

  ‘From what I have seen, perhaps that sentence could even be true. Innocent, though, you are not. Your actions have murdered plenty.’

  ‘Shall we stop beating around the bush, here? You come here to talk. Speak your mind freely. What is it you think I have done? What actions of mine have led to murder?’ She mocked the last word.

  ‘Giannis Keraunos.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ariadne. Don’t play me for a fool. You are too intelligent to not remember a patient of yours. 1997, Katerini. You worked in the hospital’s psychiatric ward.’

  ‘Yes, I was a rising star back then. I worked miracles.’

  ‘Giannis Keraunos,’ I insisted.

  ‘Mr. Keraunos was admitted into the ward by court order. After a string of violent incidents, he was finally arrested. When I met him, he was in an animal like state, with clear signs of schizophrenia and had withdrawn from any type of human communication. Doctors had pretty much given up on him…’

  ‘Until, you came along.’

  ‘Until, I came along and got through to him.’

  ‘Got through to him, alright.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Three years later he was released on good behavior.’

  ‘After, you deemed him healthy.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Yes, because everybody in their right mind, joins a monastery, becomes an abbot, brainwashes the monks into believing he has a holy book and sets them on a course of death.’

  ‘That is not my fault. Religion got to him. That happened after me.’

  ‘Really? So you deny meeting him again?’

  Her head tilted to the right. She studied me.

  ‘There is nothing you can charge me with.’

  I smiled. ‘You believe, I am wired?’

  She signed a I-don’t-know with her hands. She was a lady that took no chances.

  ‘I would even bet, you gave him the holy book.’

  She did not reply.

  ‘After all, you do have a thing about religion, right?’

  ‘Are we back to the yes or no game again?’

  ‘I bet you loved treating Father Avgoustino during your holidays in Santorini. Got a nice little vacation house out of town, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I own property there. Is that a crime? Yes, pro bono, I agreed to have sessions with the priest. He came to me. Is that a crime too?’ She acted as if she was getting bored with me.

  ‘You twisted his mind. A priest quoting Freud and teaching Kate what a Cinderella Syndrome was. I bet you saw him frequently. I bet you played your evil mind tricks on him…’

  ‘You make me sound like a witch. I talked with the old man. His religion was oppressing him. He needed a release. All I did was to advise him to deal with all the sins he could not bear to hear anymore. By all means, I did not intend for him to set his sinners on each other.’

  I sat there, quietly, staring at her.

  ‘What?’ she asked, annoyed by my silence.

  ‘I can picture you in court. All dressed up, playing your act.’

  ‘And the jury declaring me not guilty.’

  ‘You have it all planned out, haven’t you? Was your family that bad? What the hell happened to you in that institution?’

  ‘Yes. You have no idea. Hell. There, I answered all three of your questions.’

  ‘No remorse? None, whatsoever?’

  ‘Remorse? A word for the weak.’

  ‘Not even for the seven people you convinced to take their own lives?’ I started to lose my cool.

  She looked around, uncomfortable with the tension. Her fingers ran along her legs, just before her arms crossed.

  ‘I underestimated you. You are good, Captain. I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘What do you want me to say? There are too many buttons in this world. So what if I pushed a few? Weaklings, the lot of them. Coming in here, crying bout this and that. They were practically begging for someone to offer them a way out. Life was too much for them to handle.’

  ‘Oh, cut the crap, Ariadne. So righteous, aren’t you? Is that what your sick mind tells you? Why these seven? Huh? Tell me that!’

  ‘As I said, weaklings…’

  ‘Bullshit! You love your sick, manipulating games. They were all religious. You loved that. And y
ou chose them because of their names. Random killings, just like a heartless sociopath with a gun.’

  Her jaw dropped slightly. I was yelling; my face colored red by anger. I waved the gun up and down. I stood up, taking small steps towards her. With every step, I yelled a name.

  ‘Agatha. Rita. Idalia. Anastasia. Demetris. Nikolas. Eftichia. A-R-I-A-D-N-E. Ariadne!’ With the sound of her name, I raised the gun to her eye level.

  ‘Going to shoot me, Costa?’

  ‘I should. Would be doing this world a favor.’

  Her hands jumped and grabbed the end of my pistol. She placed her forehead at the end of the barrel.

  ‘Kill me then. I’ve been dead inside since I was born.’

  ‘Ariadne Metaxa, you are under arrest for conspiracy to murder…’

  ‘I promised myself, I’ll never be locked up again. And think of this, mighty Captain. How many out there have I triggered? How many are out there as we speak, ready to do the unthinkable? You cannot even begin to comprehend my elaborate plans; how deep my network goes. You dare arrest me and you will never be safe. Tracy will never be safe. I have patients ready to rape and kill at my suggestion.’ An evil smile decorated her face. Her green eyes glowing with passion.

  ‘Don’t you dare threaten Tracy…’

  ‘Or what? Come on, macho man. Shoot me, shoot me!’ she yelled, standing up.

  ‘Turn around and place your hands behind your back. Now!’

  She turned slowly. My handcuffs and I approached her arms. Ariadne let out a small wild scream and ran straight for the glass wall, throwing herself at it. The glass shattered and out Ariadne went. I ran and looked down. She fell with a smile. She fell taking her demons with her. Her pale skin became one with the hot, grey pavement below. Her blood oozed out, filling in the gaps left by her brains and parts of skin tissue.

  Chapter 47

  Maria’s (Ariadne’s) story

  Trikala 1975

  ‘My water just broke,’ Irene shouted over the sports announcer who was screaming ecstatically from the TV set. She stood in the doorway, hand on belly, puddle forming between her bare feet.

  ‘Can it wait ten minutes? The game is almost over and…’

  ‘No, Andrea, it can’t fucking wait. You serious? Get your fat ass up and take me to the hospital. Now!’

  ‘You’re lucky you’re pregnant or I…’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. You’re the man. Now, let’s go get this kid of yours out.’

  He reluctantly forced himself up from the ripped brown couch, switched off the TV and looked around for his pants. He pulled up his old jeans, scratched his balls, lit a cigarette and headed for the car, leaving his wife to carry her bag.

  ‘What about the kids?’ he asked as the car’s engine came to life.

  ‘I locked all three of them in Gianni’s bedroom with a bunch of toys. My sister will come by later. I left them food and water,’ she said casually. It was not the first time the kids were left unattended.

  A few hours and a bunch of curse words later, their fourth child and first girl came into the world.

  Little Maria was sickly pale with a patch of ginger hair stuck on top of her head. Her eyes a rather dull shade of grey.

  ‘Little ugly, isn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Andrea.’

  That was the first of a long line of insults, Maria would hear.

  Both her parents kept busy with their farm all day and spent most of the night watching trash TV and drinking a combination of cheap beers and homemade wine. Her three older brothers never paid much attention to her either. Used to their own violent games, they needed no girl to disturb them with girlie things.

  Maria did not utter a single word until the age of two and she did not walk properly until the age of three, having no one to encourage or support her for either important task.

  She quickly regretted learning how to walk. It signaled the start of slavery for the little girl. As she got older, her parents forced to sweep, dust, mop, help with the cooking, scrub the toilets and do the laundry. All the boys had to do was help out with the animals. They got to play and watch television for the rest of the day, while Maria carried out her chores until the owls awoke and hooted, much to Andreas’ annoyance. He often threatened to shoot them, but as with most of his talk, it remained just that.

  The only times Maria relaxed were on Sunday mornings when the family played pretend. They all wore their best outfits and headed over to their local church. It was the only time, her mother combed her hair. It was the only time, mother smiled at her. She knew it was fake and for others to see, but it still warmed her little heart. Yes, Sundays were the best. She even got to bathe Saturday night and enjoy the feeling of waking up shiny and new. Father still did not pay any attention to her, but even that came as great news. It was far better than being ordered to do this and that all day, being smacked with every excuse and listening to his whining about how girls were worthless and hard to get rid of.

  ‘Where are we going to find money to marry off a girl?’ he whined as he drank his fifth beer.

  At age nine, Maria decided to ask her parents if she could stay on after church and attend katixitiko, the Sunday school run by the priest.

  ‘No way in hell,’ her father grunted. ‘Who will help your mother with Sunday dinner? Clean up afterwards? Sunday is a man’s rest day, if you aren’t here, your mother will have to do everything on her own. Are you that spoiled and ungrateful? You will never find a husband with that attitude!’

  ‘It finishes by half eleven, daddy.’ She hated using that word, but she needed to sweeten him up. ‘I promise, I’ll run straight home and help out. Please, daddy, please.’

  He paused and took on his thinking pose. She had started to win him over.

  ‘Oh, Andrea, let her go,’ her mother stuck up for her. A rare occasion. ‘It’s church. And besides, today, Maria’s teacher told me that she is excellent in class. Her best pupil!’

  Andrea groaned something about women not needing a brain, before reluctantly agreeing she went to katixitiko. In the heat of the moment, Maria leaped forward and for the first time in her life, she hugged her father. Andrea was caught off guard and patted her on the head, calling her a good girl.

  ‘She isn’t a dog, Andrea,’ his wife laughed.

  Next Sunday and every Sunday after that, Maria eagerly awaited for the liturgy to be over and Sunday school to start. Her brothers picked on her and called her a number of names ranging from ‘religious nerd’ to ‘virgin Mary, the ugly version’.

  Maria did not care.

  She cherished the moments she sat in a circle with another fifteen kids and listened to Father Anastasios retell stories from the Bible and from the life of Greek Saints.

  She glowed with joy, knowing that there was someone in her life that truly loved her, and that was Jesus. He became the one she turned to, late at night, when after a tiring day of chores and put downs, she needed a release. Someone to talk to.

  She loved Father Anastasio for introducing her to a new world of endless love and kindness. Used to cleaning up, she would stay for another ten minutes, after school was out, and tidy up the small room beside the elderly man’s chambers. She tidied their books neatly back on their shelves, pushed chairs back into position and washed the plastic cups left by the children in the dirty sink. She wished she had more time to stay on. The whole place begged for a good scrub. Father Anastasio was left a widower, many years back and as a man from a different era, he did not maintain his humble home well.

  One rainy spring day, the kind with bright rainbows, Maria was busy washing up the same plastic cups she had washed so many times before, over the last two years. She stood by the sink, enjoying the view outside. Maria had turned into a fine, young lady. Beautiful porcelain skin, red, straight hair and emerald eyes full of life.

  ‘Anything else I can do, Father?’

  ‘Oh, my dear. You have done plenty. Now it’s my turn to repay you,’ he smiled.

  It had be
come Maria’s favorite part of the day. She rushed and picked up a brand new picture Bible from the top shelf and passed it on to Father Anastasio, who was sitting in his large, green armchair. She sat on his lap and placed her head on his chest.

  ‘David and Goliath,’ he said, giving weight to his voice. Maria gazed at the picture of the skinny youth with the slingshot, standing so brave opposite the enormous, menacing giant.

  Father Anastasio was a great storyteller. A natural, with a voice that would be envied by the most experienced CNN news reporters. She had sat on his lap countless times before and listened to how Adam and Eve lost paradise, Moses parted the sea, Abraham nearly killed his son, Samson lost his hair, and of course, about her hero, Jesus.

  This time, they held the book together. Father with his left hand and Maria with her right.

  ‘… Then David rushed forth, slingshot in hand…’ Father Anastasio read, while placing his right hand upon Maria’s leg. She thought nothing of it, at first. She even curled up more into his arms.

  She did not feel as comfortable, when his hand travelled slightly up her thigh. Neither did she feel comfortable, when at the end of the story, Father Anastasio’s hand brushed against her breast as she stood up.

  ‘Have a nice day, child,’ he said as if nothing had happened.

  Maria ran home that day.

  Reaching the gate to her home, she wiped her tears and shook off her confused state. She had chores to do.

  Late at night, she lay in her bed wondering if she had mistaken Father Anastasio’s intentions. He was rather old and he did love her like a daughter. She must have misjudged him. She could not accept that Father Anastasio, her Father Anastasio was one of those men.

  Next Sunday took its time to arrive.

  Her anticipation prolonged its arrival. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she sat through mass and Sunday school staring at the clock. Half past eleven. Finally, everyone left and she was alone with him. She tidied up in a rush and quickly picked up the colorful children’s Bible. She hopped on his lap and opened the book. She held the book with both her hands, leaving his hands free. She needed to test her theory. She needed to prove he was her saintly guardian.