Andreas parked at the end of the road and started walking toward the house on the far side of the beach. He remembered he hadn't told his office where he was going. He should have used the radio in the car. He tried his cell phone — no signal. Just his luck to be at one of the few places on the island still without service. He kept going. He walked along waves of light brown sand that seemed to rise and fall in pattern with the deeper brown, rocky ridgelines above the beach. The sand was of the pebbly sort, not the fine sugarlike stuff on the south-side beaches. The winds on this side blew away everything but the hardiest.
He noticed the beach was set so close to the eastern side of the mountain that it must be in shadows several hours before sunset. That must explain why this place was never popular with the late-rising Mykonos crowd.
He stopped about twenty feet from the front door of a traditional round-edged — but tiny — one story, box-shaped Mykonian house. There seemed to be no one around. Not a soul, unless a steady five-mile-per-hour northeast wind counted as a spirit. Suddenly, a man bolted around the far side of the house. He was completely covered in white and moving quickly toward Andreas with a rifle-shaped object in his hand. Andreas' right hand instinctively went to his holster.
'Welcome, friend. I'm Father Paul.' The man spoke in Greek and seemed unaffected by Andreas' lurch toward his gun. He stopped and put out his hand.
Andreas took his hand off his gun but did not extend it. Instead, he nodded and said, 'Hello.' So far, it looked like Pappas was right about the guy. Definitely weird. What Andreas had thought was a rifle was a long-handled brush contraption the priest must be using to whitewash the thick exterior walls of his house — and himself, from the look of things. The man was wearing a pair of shorts, looked to weigh about one hundred-fifty pounds, five feet ten inches tall, and in terrific shape. Andreas guessed who'd moved those boulders.
'Andreas Kaldis, Father. I'm chief of police.'
'Oh, yes, I've heard of you. Sorry, but I've got to finish this last bit before I completely lose the light,' and off he ran to cover some spots by one of the small windows — and himself even more.
Andreas decided to wait until the man finished before asking any questions. He wanted to deal with him on a friendly basis, and sensed to do that it would have to be on the priest's terms. Andreas walked to the edge of the water and did what everyone else on this island did with a few moments to kill — he stared out to sea. Again his thoughts turned to his father. Damn it, why did Tassos have to mention him?
He was reaching for a cigarette when Father Paul went racing past him into the water. Ripples of white trailed behind him until he disappeared beneath the surface where, quickly, a film of white percolated above him, like an escaping halo. He must have been under for more than a minute before surfacing. He dipped his head back into the water and rubbed vigorously at his hair to get out whatever remained of the whitewash. Andreas saw now that his hair was almost as white as the paint. He was probably in his sixties, though you'd never think that if his hair were dark.
Father Paul emerged from the water as if born anew — and just as naked. He was holding his shorts in his hands, wringing them out. 'Yes, my son, what can I do for you?'
The first thing Andreas wanted to say was 'Put on your shorts,' but hey, this was Mykonos and he didn't want to do anything to spook the guy. 'I understand you look after some of the old churches on the island.'
'Every one that needs my care.' He was smiling, still squeezing and still naked.
'How many are there?' Andreas asked, his voice friendly.
Like a loving father proud of his children, the priest did not give a number. Instead he named and described each one in detail. Andreas did not interrupt, just took out his notebook and wrote what he was told.
'Thank you, Father. That's quite impressive. I have some questions about the church on the other side of this mountain.' He pointed up the hill.
'Ah, yes, my beloved Calliope.' Andreas noticed that before saying her name, he put on his shorts. 'How can I help you?'
'When's the last time you were up there?'
'June eighth.'
Andreas was surprised at how quickly he answered.
'With all the churches you look after, how can you be so certain of the date?'
'It was her name day. I always conduct mass there on her name day.'
Andreas should have known that. 'Are you the one who cleaned it and put in the candles?'
'Yes, I do that the week before celebrating mass.'
Andreas remembered that the night before the name day, there's a celebration dedicated to the saint and the souls of the family members whose bones are buried there — though it's more like a big party, with food, dancing, and music. 'Was there a panegyri?'
He shook his head. 'No, not up there. I'd be the only one. I went to a panegyri at a different church honoring Saint Calliope.'
'How often do you visit that church?' Andreas pointed up the hill again.
Father Paul looked Andreas straight in the eye. 'The same as all my churches, twice a year — once to fix it up and once to say mass. I wish I could go more often, but I have so many to take care of and I'm only here for two months a year.'
'Which months?'
'It depends, but always July and sometimes June — like this year — and sometimes August.'
'How long have you been taking care of them?'
His eyes hadn't moved. 'Twenty years or so. I started after I built this place and came across poor, neglected Calliope. I realized at that moment there was a need for me to fill, that God had brought me here to take care of his neglected ones.'
Andreas was getting an uneasy vibe from this guy but didn't want to show it. The man didn't seem curious in the least as to why the chief of police was out here asking him all these questions. No reason to make him think I'm suspicious, he thought — at least not until I've had the chance to check him out, and the forensics are back.
'Thank you, Father. I appreciate your cooperation.'
The man extended his hand, and this time Andreas shook it. Father Paul turned and started back toward his house. 'Oh, by the way.' He kept walking as he talked. 'There is one thing I'm curious about, Chief Kaldis.'
Ah, here it comes, thought Andreas. 'What is it, Father?'
'Why didn't you ask me about the body?' Andreas kept yelling at himself as he drove back to town. He'd screwed up. In trying not to seem suspicious he'd made it clear to the priest that he was. Father Paul might be without a phone, but he was not without friends. Several had stopped by earlier in the afternoon to tell him about the body in 'his' church. The priest was not mad. Far from it. The more appropriate word was eccentric. He claimed to know nothing about the body, adding that he had no reason ever to disturb a burial crypt — and regarded even an attempt as a sacrilege.
Andreas left it at that. He knew he'd better prepare a lot better for his next round with Father Paul. No more questioning until he heard back from forensics or — God forbid — something else went wrong. The first call Catia made that morning was to her brother's wife, Lila, in Athens. Her daughter, Demetra, and Annika were like sisters. Catia could not imagine Annika going to Greece without seeing Demetra. Her sister-in-law hadn't spoken to Catia since before Annika's graduation and wouldn't let Catia say a thing until she'd heard all the details about that. Catia gave the hurried version and, before Lila could raise another subject, asked if she'd heard from Annika.
'Yes, the day she arrived in Greece. She called me for Demetra's cell phone number — to make plans to travel the islands together.'
Catia hadn't realized how anxious she was until hearing her sister-in-law's words. She let out a deep sigh of relief and smiled. Her daughter had once more shown good judgment. 'Do you know where they are?'
'I know Demetra is still in Milan. She's not through with her work-study semester at the fashion house there. I think they made plans to get together when she gets back.'
Every anxious thought came rushing back.
Catia struggled for control of her voice. 'Do you have any idea where Annika may be?'
'No, but I'm sure Demetra does. Here, let me give you her mobile number.'
When Catia called no one answered and as instructed she left a message for Demetra. Something was wrong. She sensed she'd never find her daughter this way. There was no logical reason for her feelings, only a mother's intuition. For the moment, though, Catia could think of nothing else to do but tell her husband how worried she was, wait for a call from Demetra, and — probably — throw up. The phone rang and it was Tassos. He had some preliminary results for Andreas.
'I'm impressed, Tassos — answers before lunch.'
'You'll be glad you didn't eat.' His voice was grave.
'That bad?'
'Very.'
'The woman suffocated to death… almost certainly right where we found her. She'd been prepared for burial while alive… tampons pushed very deeply into vaginal and anal cavities… far more than would be used for burial. Probably torture.' Tassos kept pausing, as if trying to grasp the meaning of his own words as he said them. 'As best as Costas can tell, she probably died somewhere between the seventh and ninth of June.'
'Saint Calliope's name day!' Andreas blurted out.
'Yes.' Tassos went silent for a moment. 'He confirmed she was in her twenties, Caucasian, blond, blue-eyed, and almost six feet tall.'
None of this was news. Andreas waited for the other shoe to drop.
'Preliminary pharmacology results show a strong indication of methamphetamine.'
Instantly, Andreas felt he knew the reason for Tassos' mood. 'Crystal meth! The same as in your body from ten years ago! The Scandinavian girl.'
He didn't have to see him to know Tassos was nodding. 'Yes… but I'm afraid that's not all of it.'
'Not all of it? We've got two dead bodies ten years apart in what probably are ritual killings. How much worse can it be?' His voice exuded anxiety.
Tassos paused again. 'In churches as old as this one there was no separation of the bones in a burial crypt; one generation was piled on top of the next. That's why it's not surprising we found the body lying on old bones.' Another pause. 'We know that the last member of the family who built that church left Mykonos more than sixty years ago. We should check to see if anyone remembers the last time someone was buried there.'
'Why?'
'Well, we have a little problem, my friend.' Tassos was using the sort of voice cops use when they're about to drop a bomb on a buddy. 'The bones are too young.'
'Are too what?' Andreas sounded truly puzzled.
'Young. New, not old, not ancient. Recent, recent, recent.' Tassos seemed to be forcing himself back to cop-banter — a defense mechanism employed against the horrors of their job. Andreas let him go on.
'The bones don't belong in that crypt. Most of them were well over a hundred years old, some a little younger. Then we have the five-, ten-, and fifteen-year-old ones.'
'The what?' Andreas' pulse was racing.
Tassos' voice was deadly serious. 'I am afraid we have more than a ritual killing on our hands.'
Andreas held his breath.
'The only information we have as yet on the three sets of bones is that they are skeletal remains approximately five years apart.' Andreas could hear him drawing a breath. 'And they most likely are all of young women… tall young women.'
Andreas felt his throat closing. This was unheard-of. Greece had never had one of these before. Ever. 'A serial killer,' Andreas heard himself say, stunned.
'You and I must meet. Do you have time if I come over around four?'
Andreas thought it strange how someone as senior on the force as Tassos had put the question. He took it as a nervous courtesy intended to make things not seem as real and urgent as they were — as knights might have spoken to compose themselves before charging blindly into dark caves after monsters.
Andreas nervously tried to lighten the mood. 'I'll try to squeeze you in between my motorbike-accident review and meeting with the hotel association's president over weekend parking restrictions.'
Tassos chuckled. 'Thanks. I know how busy you are.' Then he added, 'Welcome to Mykonos — isn't that what you said when we met? And I bet you thought it would be boring.'
Andreas grinned. 'Yeah, right.' He paused and refocused. 'Any luck with an ID on the dead woman yet?'
'We should have something by the time I see you. We think she's Dutch. A girl matching her description hasn't been heard from in weeks. Her father got Interpol involved, and we should have a positive ID by the end of the day. Her parents thought she was somewhere in the Mediterranean, possibly Greece, but no one knew just where.'
'If you give me her name, I'll get someone started on trying to find a connection here.'
'Sure, let me get it for you.'
Andreas' head was spinning as he waited for Tassos to find the name. A serial killer in Greece — on Mykonos! The island and its reputation for tolerating all sorts of sinful behavior will be damned by the Greek Church and vilified in the Greek press as spawning this horror and shaming all of Greece before the world. Shame was the appropriate word, too, for now it was a world news headline story: SERIAL KILLER SECRETLY HAUNTS MYKONOS FOR DECADES. From fame to infamy in an instant. The hunt, the capture, the trial would be consumed by a crazed, feeding-frenzy media led by the European Union and Americans — which sent Greece its most sought-after tourists. And if the killer was never found…
'Here it is. Helen Vandrew. See you at four.'
4
Catia had not expected to hear back from Demetra so quickly. She'd just hung up with her husband — and alarmed him to no end — when Demetra called.
'Mother told me you're worried about Annika. Don't be. I spoke to her a few days ago. She's fine.' Demetra sounded her typical, bubbly self.
Catia's heart felt lighter — but not completely relieved.
'Where is she?'
'Patmos.'
Patmos was a beautiful, eastern-Aegean Greek island very near Turkey, reachable only by boat. It was a well-kept secret among the world's elite seeking seclusion and quiet, but not one Catia would have thought suited her daughter's mood after a breakup. Annika liked distractions when she was upset: parties, athletics — anything to keep her mind off what was bothering her. Patmos was not that sort of place. On its hillsides, Saint John wrote the apocalyptic Book of Revelation, and the island remained dominated by the church in more ways than just the massive mountaintop monastery named in his honor. 'Why Patmos?'
'She said she'd never been there and wanted to go.'
'Do you have a telephone number for her?'
Pause. 'No. She called me.'
Catia sensed a conspiratorial silence among cousins. Annika probably told Demetra not to give her mother the number. Catia thought of pushing the issue but decided not to. As long as Demetra and Annika were in touch, things were fine for now.
'Please, ask her to call me the next time you speak to her.'
'Sure. I'll be seeing her the day after tomorrow.'
Catia was relieved at hearing that but also surprised. 'You're going to Patmos?'
'Oh, no, too boring,' she giggled.
'Where are you meeting her?'
'Mykonos. I think she gets there tonight.' Annika thought she'd never get over catching Peter in full thrust with that Bulgarian tramp — the one he'd dismissed as being as base and uninteresting as her bought-and-paid-for tits when she dropped her entire string-bikini-clad package next to them poolside their first day in Sicily.
She'd also never forget that bastard's words the next morning: 'I'm not feeling very well, but don't worry about me, honey. Please, go out and see Siracusa. Call me when you're ready for lunch, and if I'm feeling better, I'll meet you.' A very unladylike urge to inflict severe bodily harm raged through Annika each time she thought of the moment she swung Audrey Hepburn-like into their hotel room loaded down with food and wine for a surprise, romantic lunch together in Peter's sick bed.
She felt it all: betrayed, rejected, used, and victimized. Worse still, she felt somehow it was all her fault, that she must be a real loser as a woman if the man she thought her soulmate could so easily lie to her just 'to fuck a tramp.' She unconsciously said the last words aloud and quickly looked around to see if anyone had heard. She'd spoken in Dutch — perhaps that's why no one seemed to notice. Or maybe she didn't speak loud enough to be heard above the hum of the ferry's engines. She looked out toward the horizon from her seat in the protected, glassed-in section of the foredeck. They should be in Mykonos around midnight. She'd try to catch a little sleep. That might help her forget, or at least temporarily rid her thoughts of him.
She'd been trying to forget for weeks. First she tried a long ferry ride from Bari to Patras staring into the sea. That didn't work. Then a long bus ride to Athens across Greece's Peloponnese staring out at the countryside. That didn't work either. In Athens she'd hoped to surprise her cousin Demetra. They always made each other feel better. But Demetra wasn't there, and though they talked by phone, it wasn't the same thing.
Annika was too embarrassed to call her parents, and her mother would know instantly from her voice how utterly devastated she was. They would insist she come home immediately. She needed to get over this first — this bastard Peter. She went to Patmos thinking perhaps a spiritual place might help. It didn't. Then she called Demetra and they agreed what she needed was something quite different from spiritual comfort — and Mykonos was the perfect place to find it. Tassos was surprisingly prompt for a Greek. Only fifteen minutes late. He seemed agitated, preoccupied. Andreas led him upstairs to his second-floor office. It was bright and sunny and faced away from the road, but the view was not as great as the weather. It overlooked the backyards of Mykonos' working class — the people who never could afford to vacation here. Rusted skeletons of cars and trucks once kept for parts sat ignored in the midst of scratched-out gardens and scraggly goats. Stray cats ranged everywhere.
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