'Damn,' Andreas said without emotion.
Tassos paused. 'That's not the end of it. A few years later the parish church he'd been forced to leave burned to the ground. Arson, but couldn't tie it to anyone.'
'Just what we need. Another prime suspect with serial-killer characteristics.' Andreas was trying to sound interested. 'Anything else?'
Tassos didn't answer right away. 'We've identified two more of the victims, both Dutch. Still no Greeks. I think our killer's careful to stick to tourists.'
Silence.
'Andreas, is something bothering you? You don't seem right.'
Andreas shook his head and let out a breath. 'Do you have that letter from the mayor?'
'What are you getting at?'
'I have a message from the office of the deputy minister for Public Order for me to call him ASAP.'
Pause. 'Shit,' said Tassos.
'That's one of the words that went through my mind. I take it you didn't get a call.'
'Me? What do I have to do with this? It's all a Mykonos problem.' Tassos forced a laugh.
'I admire your sense of humor.'
Tassos sighed. 'I don't like crying so close to the end of my career.'
'I wonder how he found out.'
'I think we've been kidding ourselves thinking we could keep this quiet. Who knows, that asshole mayor might have burned us for some bullshit political reason. And, yes, I have the letter.' Tassos was sounding more defiant, and it was helping to pick up Andreas' spirits.
'Maybe it's about something else?' Andreas sounded hopeful.
'When's the last time you got a call from a ministry-level member of government?' Tassos didn't wait for an answer. 'Let's just figure out what we're going to tell him and… and…'
'I think the word is duck.' Andreas paused. 'But even if he's calling about something else, it's time to tell him. There's too much for us to run down on our own. We need help before someone else gets killed.' He waited for Tassos to say something. After all, informing Athens would end more than just Andreas' career as a cop.
Tassos spoke softly. 'I'm not going to try to talk you out of it. If you think it's time, fine. The hell with our deal with the mayor — he's probably the one who told the deputy minister anyway.'
Andreas let out a deep breath. 'How do you think I should I handle it?'
They talked for a while and agreed he'd tell the deputy minister everything in the most politic way possible — then duck. Annika was cold. That was the first thing she noticed. Her head was aching, but she didn't notice until she tried sitting up. She was on a floor on what felt like a chaise longue mattress. The room was completely dark — at least she thought it was a room. She pushed out with her hands to feel in front of her face. She touched nothing. Then she felt out around her as far as her arms could reach. Again nothing. She realized why she was cold: she was naked.
Her chest was pounding and her breathing was running away from her; she knew that meant panic. 'No!!' she yelled to herself. I'm still alive, no matter what this is. I'm still alive, she kept thinking over and over again. She thought of her mother and her father. They'd find her. She just knew they would. She fell back down on the mattress, curled up into a ball, and started crying quietly. He stood still as a granite wall, sharing nakedness with her in the dark. But only he could see. The night-vision goggles added a green cast to her body but did nothing to conceal her beauty from him.
This was his favorite moment: the instant of a tribute's first tears, when she realized she was no longer free. The drug had worked again; it always did, bringing on panic at no memory of how she'd fallen from paradise to here. He carefully moved his right hand to where he could touch himself and quietly began pulling — gently at first, until her crying ended and she finally slept — then fiercely, to the point of pain and beyond, until finally he came.
At last he felt the chill of the room again. It was always this way with a new one; just the thought of her fear drove him to fever. For now, this moment of relief was enough. Later, he'd need much more.
He stared at her for a bit longer. Reluctantly he turned to leave. There were other things to do. 'Good morning, Deputy Minister Renatis' office.'
'Uh, good morning, this is Andreas Kaldis, chief of police on Mykonos. I'm returning the minister's call.'
'Oh, yes, Chief, the minister asked that I give you a message. He had to leave for a cabinet meeting.'
I guess I'm not even worth firing personally, Andreas thought. He's going to have his secretary do it.
'He's spoken with the mayor…'
So, he is the one, that miserable two-faced bastard, thought Andreas.
'… and understands you're in the middle of a murder investigation.'
Andreas felt he should jump in before she reached the punch line. 'Yes, but I think if the minister understood the circumstances-'
She cut him off curtly. 'Chief, I'm reading the minister's message. Please let me finish, and then I will take down whatever it is you want me to tell him.' Obviously, she was experienced at keeping the condemned at bay. He was about to be drawn and quartered without getting a chance to speak. 'As I was saying, he understands you're in the middle of a murder investigation, but this matter really can't wait.'
Andreas held his breath.
'His sister is worried about her daughter, the minister's niece. She's on Mykonos and he'd like you to find her to tell her to call home.'
At first Andreas thought she was talking to someone else on her end of the line.
'It's only been a couple of days since she's been heard from, but the minister's sister is anxious. We know where she's staying, so it shouldn't be too much of an inconvenience for you to find her right away.' Her words were courteous but her tone made clear he had no choice but to act immediately.
She was the sort of condescending bureaucrat who angered Andreas — but not this time. 'Sure, no problem. Glad to help out. Can you give me the details?' He reached for a pen and wrote the deputy minister's name across the pad of paper on his desk.
For a secretary used to aggravating people, the tone of relief in Andreas' voice must have had her wondering whether she'd lost her imperious touch because she paused for an instant before responding. 'She's twenty-two years old, five feet eleven inches tall, blond hair, blue eyes…'
Andreas' heart skipped two beats. Thank God she's Greek, he thought.
'Her name is Annika Vanden Haag-'
'But she's Greek?!' he said, practically screaming the words.
His interruption clearly surprised the secretary. 'Uh, yes, Chief, her mother's Greek but her father's Dutch. They live in the Netherlands.'
Andreas thought he'd throw up. He didn't hear her next few words, and when he tuned back in it was to 'She's staying at the Hotel Adlantis.'
Andreas had never fainted in his life and wasn't about to now, but he suddenly felt that he knew just what it would feel like.
The next thing he heard was the secretary practically shouting, 'Chief, Chief, are you still there?'
'Yes… yes, thank you.'
'Do you need any more information?'
He paused; his mind was jumping among a thousand thoughts and settling on none. 'Uh, yes. Could you fax me her photo and her passport and address information?'
'Certainly.'
He took a deep breath. 'I must speak to the deputy minister.' His voice had lost its vigor.
'He's not available.'
'I understand, but the moment he is, please tell him it's critically important he call me at once.'
The secretary's tone turned icy. 'If it's that important, you should tell me what you want to tell him. That way I can get a message to him.'
Bureaucrats — all of them want to know everything. 'It's something very personal.'
In an even icier voice: 'I see. Very well, I shall give him your message. Good-bye.' She hung up before Andreas could return her courtesy.
He put his elbows on his desk and his head into his hands. Andreas was certain
their killer was at it again.
13
Annika didn't know how long she'd been sobbing or falling in and out of sleep, but she'd not heard a sound other than her own crying. She took a deep breath and got to her knees. Slowly, she stood up, raising her hands above her as she did to find what was above her. At her full height she felt the ceiling. It was about two feet above her head. Smooth but hard, like concrete. She carefully shuffled her feet along the mattress, touching her hands along the ceiling as she did. It felt the same everywhere. She thought of stepping off the mattress but had no idea what she'd find. It could be a floor, a pit, anything.
She went to her knees and inched her way forward off the mattress. The floor felt the same as the ceiling, smooth and hard. Before every move, she reached out to feel in front, above, and below her. Her feet were about three feet off the mattress when she touched a spot of something wet. There were several more spots near the first, as if something had dripped from the ceiling. They were slightly sticky, and ever so tentatively she lifted her fingers to her nose to smell what she'd touched.
She recoiled and nearly threw up. No doubt now what it was. He'd been there, only feet from her. He could be standing right next to her now and she wouldn't know it. All she could think of was finding her mattress. It was the only place of any comfort in whatever hell this was. Frantically, she probed out behind herself with her feet until she found it, and retreated like a frightened dog to shelter. Hours seemed to pass before Annika worked up the nerve to leave her mattress again, and when she did, she used it as her safehaven, always mindful of where it lay. Quickly she determined a few things. The space's floor and ceiling were square, with about fourteen-foot sides. There was nothing on the floor other than the mattress, but near the center of the ceiling were three one-foot-square surfaces, one smooth, two louvered. She assumed one was a light fixture and the others vents. This meant there had to be electricity. The walls were made of stone, with all the expected ridges, gouges, odd-shaped protuberances, and crevices, but they felt strangely smooth and cool to the touch — as if coated with plastic or Teflon. It made no sense to her. There was not a single interruption in the walls. Not a door or a window — nothing but stone. How was that possible? She wanted to pound on something and shout for someone to come but sensed that was what her captor expected. She decided to wait and see. That was all she could do. Wait and see. Sooner or later someone would come. She was sure of that.
He had many places from which to watch her. He'd built his dungeon that way, dug it out of an old mine tunnel and fashioned it himself, taking great care to fit its wall flush with the existing tunnel wall. It represented years of work, started decades ago, lugging all the stone, cement, and everything else without help. But there was a benefit to building it as he had: it was virtually invisible to anyone who might happen by — as unlikely as that was. Locals were superstitious and many viewed these old mines as haunted.
As far as he was concerned, they were right; for this was the realm of the ancient Egyptian gods that he honored: Serapis, ruler of the underworld, and Anubis, its gatekeeper. Andreas knew there was no time left for civilized tactics. It was bare knuckles from here on out — starting with Ilias. He told his man at the hotel to bring Ilias in to headquarters immediately. Then he called Tassos. His reaction to the conversation with the deputy minister's secretary was equally severe. He said he'd leave for Mykonos as soon as he could get to a helicopter. That's when Andreas decided to have them all brought in: the priest, Manny, Panos, and the jeweler. Panos' son too.
Additional bad news started coming in almost immediately. The officer at the hotel couldn't find Ilias, and no one there had seen him for hours. Their best guess was that he'd gone out the back and down the hill behind the hotel to the road below. He could be anywhere by now — on or off the island.
By the time Tassos called to say he'd landed, the only suspect Andreas' men had been able to locate was Manny — and that was because the taxi dispatcher said he'd come to the station as soon as he 'finished his current job.' The priest was nowhere to be found. Nor were Panos or his son, and according to an employee in his shop, the jeweler was away in Athens for a few days and couldn't be reached. Great, thought Andreas — a missing tourist and a batch of unaccounted-for suspects. Annika had no way of telling how long she'd been asleep. All she knew was she was cold — and thirsty. She also needed a toilet. She felt no hunger, at least not yet.
Her mind kept racing over the same thought: Why? She couldn't bring herself to think it was random, unrelated to something she'd done. That would mean… she stopped herself. Such thinking would lead to panic. There must be a reason. If she could think of the reason, she could think of a way out. She kept saying to herself, 'This is just a problem-solving exercise, a pure and simple problem-solving exercise.' There has to be an answer, a reason. There must be.
More time passed. She decided to move about, get some exercise. She had to do something to keep from losing her mind. She stood and stretched, then stepped across the cell. She determined she could take three long steps in one direction before having to turn. She found her stride. One, two, three, turn, one, two, three, turn, she counted to herself, then started counting aloud: 'One, two, three, turn, one, two, three, turn, one, two, three, turn.' She was moving faster and faster, almost running — almost running into panic. She had to stop. She was dizzy and bent over, resting her hands on her knees. She drew in a deep breath, let it out, and shook her head. 'Think,' she said to herself. 'Think.'
She leaned against one of the walls. It felt cool against her skin. She'd forgotten she was naked. Not important anymore. She ran her hands over the wall; it was the same wherever she touched. Hard and smooth. She walked beside it, rolling the tips of her fingers along as she did. They rolled so easily, as if on wet, smooth, shaped glass, filled with hidden textures. She was growing accustomed to the darkness.
Her hands moved onto the second wall. The sensation was the same. There was now a rhythm to her walk. She felt a comfort in the walls. Around and around the cell walls she went. She was drifting into her third loop when it happened: 'Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang.' Whatever she'd kicked was bouncing across the room. It hadn't been there before — she was certain of that. Her heart started pounding and her stomach churning. She wanted to throw up. It was fear. He was back. Invading her space, again.
She sensed she'd started to laugh — a rolling, building laugh she could not stop. Had she lost control of her mind? She had to do something. She screamed, 'My space. My space?' I must be going mad, she thought. She forced herself to think of her parents. They were real, this wasn't. She had to deal with what was real. She took a deep breath and another, then stepped forward toward where she'd heard the sound. Two tentative steps ahead, she stepped on something. It didn't clang. It gave under pressure from her foot.
She knelt and reached out slowly, as if putting her hand into the murky bottom of an unknown pond. It was cylindrical and flat at one end with circumferential ridges and indentations midway along its body. At its other end she felt… 'a bottle cap,' she said aloud. It was a plastic bottle of water, or at least felt like one. A liter bottle. She clutched it in her hand, stood up, and stepped forward again, this time more boldly.
Her foot struck a new object. This one clanged against the floor and she reached for it without hesitation. She knew what it was. A bedpan. She wanted to throw it at a wall. But she needed it. And she needed the water, if it was water. She wondered what else — what other kindnesses, she snickered to herself — her tormentor had in mind for her.
As if he'd read her mind, she heard a sound. He was here, she thought. She heard it again. It sounded like a mail slot swinging open at the bottom corner of the wall behind her. Then she heard a rough scraping along the floor coming from the same direction. Something was moving toward her. She turned and backed away from the sound. It kept coming. Now she was against a wall. Annika knew she had to fight — she had no choice. She leapt forward screaming, 'Bastar
d!' throwing the bottle and bedpan at the sound. She lashed out scratching and punching in a wild chase around the room, searching for confrontation, some physical body to attack. All she found was a wall with one of her punches. The pain was instant. It felt like she'd broken her left hand, maybe her wrist too.
She screamed and clutched at the pain. That made it hurt more. She stumbled into another wall, then tripped over the bedpan and instinctively thrust her injured hand out to break her fall. She screamed again and rolled onto the floor and into a ball, clutching again at her hand. 'Why? Why? Why?' she shouted. There was no answer. She started sobbing.
Annika had no idea how long she'd lain there feeling sorry for herself — maybe minutes, maybe seconds — but she knew she had to regain control. She turned onto her right side and slid backward along the floor. She had to find the mattress, to find some way to use it to ease the pain. Suddenly, something touched the back of her thigh. She screamed and jerked away. A minute passed. Nothing moved. Slowly, she brought herself to a sitting position facing the thing she'd touched. It had to be what made the sound. Carefully, Annika cradled her left hand across her lap and reached out with her right. She found it.
It was about the size of a shoebox. It wasn't very heavy and — her heart plunged — it was tied with a ribbon. It was a gift. She stared straight ahead into the darkness. The man was mad.
Now she knew she was going to die. He never quite understood why the scraping sound of a long-handled, wooden pizza-oven paddle delivering a gift box of chocolates created such panic. But it always did, and so he used it as a tool for conditioning his tributes to accept the unfamiliar. That was important, for there were many more unknowns yet to come. Annika sat on the bare floor, the water bottle held tightly between her thighs. She moved her good hand along the bottle, checking for anything unusual. Finding nothing, she fingered the plastic cap. It seemed anchored to the bottle and unbroken. She carefully twisted it and heard a snap as it separated from the bottle. Slowly she removed it and sniffed the contents. No odor. With her good hand she poured a little on one thigh. No pain. She rubbed at the liquid. It felt like water. She sniffed again and tentatively took a sip. No taste, no pain. She drank.
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