When you were a little boy and hadn't done what you were supposed to do, Mother made me look under all the beds in the house until I found where you were hiding. There must be a very big one in your office. WHY HAVEN'T YOU FOUND ANNIKA?
Love, Catia. This time he placed the call himself, but still it wasn't to Andreas.
'Hello, mayor, it's Spiros Renatis. How are you?' They'd met a few times but didn't know each other very well.
The mayor had no idea why the deputy minister was calling but guessed it had something to do with raising either funds or hell on his little island. Mainland politicians were always asking for his help in such matters. He never minded because he knew it gave him far more national political influence than any mayor of only six thousand voters could possibly deserve.
'Fine, thank you. How nice to hear your voice, Minister. How are you? Are we going to see you soon on our lovely island?' His voice sounded prerecorded.
'No complaints here and, yes, I'm planning to be there for the August 15 holiday,' said Spiros.
'Wonderful,' said the mayor. 'I look forward to seeing you again. Is there anything I can do to help you with your plans, Minister?' No reason to draw this out, he thought.
'Please, call me Spiros. And thank you for the offer, but we're all set.' Pause. 'There is one little thing, though, I hoped you might be able to help me with.'
Here it comes. 'Sure, how can I be of service?' The mayor was at his concierge-sounding best.
Spiros sounded tentative. 'It has to do with my sister's daughter. She's on Mykonos for holiday and hasn't called her mother. I left word with your police chief to get her to call, but so far, my sister hasn't heard from her. I can't imagine it would be that hard to find her since I told him where she was staying.' Pause. 'So, I was wondering if you could give him a call and tell him how important this is to me.'
Mihali thought he must be missing something. Spiros was the deputy minister of the arm of government in charge of police. Why was he calling him to speak to one of his chiefs? And why wouldn't Andreas call him back? There had to be more to this than the deputy minister was telling him. 'I'm surprised to hear that. The chief seems a responsive sort of guy.'
Spiros spoke quickly. 'Oh, I'm sure he is, and this probably isn't a big thing to him, and to be honest, I think my sister is a bit of an alarmist — my niece only arrived there a couple of nights ago — but after all, she's my only sister and Annika is her only child.'
The mayor smiled to himself. This guy's too embarrassed to keep henpecking away at Andreas the way his sister's doing to him. He just wants to be able to tell her he now has both the mayor and the police chief of Mykonos looking for her. 'Sure, no problem. Anything specific you want me to tell him?'
'No. He already knows her full name, Annika Vanden Haag — her father's a Dutch diplomat — and that she's staying at the Adlantis Hotel.'
It was a very warm evening, but the mayor felt a distinct chill. 'What does she look like?' he asked, his voice becoming shaky.
'Your typical tall, blond, blue-eyed, twenty-two-year-old Dutch beauty.' He sounded proud. 'Who just graduated from Yale University.'
Silence.
'Are you okay?' asked Spiros.
'Uh, yes, just looking for a pencil.' His heart was pounding.
Spiros repeated the information, but the mayor never bothered to write it down. He already knew what it meant. He kept his voice in check long enough to assure Spiros he'd get the chief to address this at once.
He hung up and stared out his window at the sea. His office was on the second floor of the two-and-a-half-story municipal building standing at the south edge of the old harbor. It was built in the late 1700s as the home of a Russian count and was the only building on the harbor with terra cotta roof tiles. It had seen the rise and fall of many ruling powers on Mykonos. The mayor's eyes drifted up to the sky. The sun had just set but the heavens were still bright. He wondered where Andreas was at that moment — and if he knew that the golden red sky was falling in on them.
At the moment it was the earth, not the sky, that held Andreas' interest. He was the first one into the crypt. He didn't use the ladder, just jumped in. It was only a few seconds more before Tassos was down the ladder but by then Andreas had found his man — and a large brown dog fiercely loyal to the master who'd rescued it from starving Mykonos winters and poisoned baits. Luckily for Andreas, in dog years it was almost as old as its master. Startled, Andreas instinctively ducked to the side as the dog leaped and missed with a midair, snarling lunge for his throat. It crashed and rolled to the floor by the base of the ladder at the feet of a surprised-looking Tassos. The dog never took its eyes off Andreas and scrambled to its feet for another run at him, but Tassos grabbed it from behind and held its snout closed while Andreas turned his attention — and gun — back on the man.
The pounding in Andreas' voice was more because of the dog than the man. 'What are you doing down here?' Andreas demanded.
The man was kneeling and seemed surprisingly calm for one just surprised by two men with guns. 'It's my church. Hello, Tassos.' He looked to be in his seventies, with the craggy face and silver hair of an old fisherman. His well-worn black jacket and dusty fisherman's hat completed the picture.
Tassos nodded. 'Hello, Vassili.'
Andreas knew it was time to lower his gun. 'Sorry, we heard the wailing and moaning and thought someone was in trouble.'
The man struggled to his feet. 'It's my wife.' He pointed toward a small marble plaque on the wall. 'She died five years ago and we still miss her.' He gestured to the still snarling animal to come to him. Andreas nodded and Tassos let him go. The dog glared at Andreas but did not snap as it passed him on the way to his master.
'The wailing was mine, the moaning his.' He scratched the dog behind its ears. The man now looked to be in his eighties.
'Sorry, sir,' Andreas said again.
'If you were looking for me, I don't live here.' He didn't sound bothered at all — almost seemed to welcome the company.
'No, sir, we were looking for your tenant, Mr Daly.'
The man nodded. 'Tom's not here now, probably off in some mine.'
'Yes, we heard he likes old mines,' Andreas said.
'Sure does. He was pretty upset when I told him I had to close up that entrance.' He gestured toward the rear of the chamber. 'But I told him this was where Anna always wanted her church to be.' He looked toward his wife's remains. 'Tom's a good fella. He understood. Even helped me build it. Did all the work himself, sealing up the old entrance.'
Andreas glanced at Tassos, then back at Vassili. 'Do you mind if we look around?' He gestured toward the wall sealing off the mine from the crypt.
The man shrugged. 'Look all you want.'
Andreas took out his flashlight and studied the wall. It was made of two solid, four-foot-wide by four-foot-high slabs of gray-brown granite tightly fitted one on top of the other. He looked at the old man. 'Rather unusual construction for a church crypt, wouldn't you say?'
The man shrugged again. 'Tom said, "If we're going to build a church for Anna, let's do it right." Said he wanted to make sure no one could break in from the other side.'
Or into the tunnel from this side, thought Andreas. He beamed his light on the floor by the wall. Nothing there to indicate that the wall swung into the crypt — like the door it resembled — but maybe it swung into the mine. He lowered his shoulder to the wall and pushed, then gestured for Tassos to give him a hand. The two men pushed as hard as they could, first on one edge, then on the other. The wall didn't budge.
'What are you doing?' The old man sounded more curious than annoyed.
'Just making sure it's secure,' said Andreas. 'Is there another way into the tunnel?'
'I guess, but you'll have to ask Tom. I'm not much for mines. I always preferred the sea myself — until my Anna insisted I take over her family's farm. But I brought her back to the sea when I built her church to Saint Nicholas, protector of sailors.' He was rambling off i
nto reminiscences.
'I noticed the blue roof,' said Tassos.
That was a courteous way to cut him off, thought Andreas.
The man nodded, seemed to forget what he was saying, and hobbled toward the ladder. He bent over to pick up the lantern and started up the rungs. 'You done here?'
Andreas looked at Tassos and nodded. 'Yes, sir.'
Tassos stood by the ladder waiting for Vassili to reach the top rung and climb into the sanctuary. Instead, the man placed the lantern on the sanctuary floor and asked Andreas to hand him his dog. Andreas stared at the dog, which was staring at him, then looked at Tassos.
'Here, let me do that,' said Tassos, grinning. 'Vassili, since you built this church, maybe you can answer a question for me.'
'What is it?' He took the dog from Tassos, placed it on the floor, crawled off the ladder, and stood up.
Tassos started up the ladder. 'Is there anything you can think of that churches built to Saints Kiriake, Marina, Fanourios, and Calliope have in common that makes them different from churches built to Saints Nicholas, Barbara, Phillipos, and Spyridon?'
The old man didn't answer, just stood silently in the sanctuary seemingly waiting for Tassos and Andreas to join him. Finally he spoke. 'I wish I could help you, but I'm not a priest.'
'I'm not talking about the saints themselves. I'm talking about how the churches are built.'
'I know of no differences except of course for the icons.' He paused for a moment. 'Come to think of it, there might be a difference, but you'd have to check with the archbishop.'
He had Andreas' interest. 'What difference?'
'I'm not sure if a church has to be built with its front door facing the setting sun on its saint's name day. Though that's the way I built this one.' He waved his hand.
'What are you talking about? Everybody knows the front door has to face west so the sanctuary faces east.' Tassos sounded impatient.
Vassili shook his head. 'No, Tassos, the front door faces the setting sun.'
'What difference does that make?'
'I see you're not a sailor.' Vassili smiled. 'The sun doesn't set — or rise — in the same place all year. It sets along a line running from the northwest to the southwest depending on the season.'
'How does that answer Tassos' question about differences between the churches?' Andreas asked.
The man shrugged. 'I'm not sure it does, but if a church has to be built with its door facing the setting sun on its name day, the ones in one group face one way and the ones in the other another.'
Andreas was puzzled. 'Why?'
'The name days for Kiriake and the three saints you said with her all fall in summer — June, July, and August — when the sun sets to the northwest. The others have name days in November and December, when it sets to the southwest. That's about all I can think of. Hope it helps.'
If Andreas still had his gun in his hand, he'd have knocked himself out when he smacked his forehead. 'Of course! They all have name days falling in the heart of-'
Tassos finished Andreas' sentence. 'Tourist season!'
Andreas shook Vassili's hand hard enough to rock him. 'Thank you very much. You've been a great help,' he said, and raced out with Tassos right behind him — leaving the old man and his dog alone again in their church.
Andreas was running on pure adrenaline, his every muscle tense, every blood vessel pounding. He barely gave Tassos time to close the car door before spinning the tires in the dirt. He knew what this meant. Saint Kiriake's name day was July 7, the day after tomorrow. If they didn't find Annika Vanden Haag by then, she'd be dead. No doubt about it. Annika felt weaker than she could remember ever feeling. She must have been drugged. No other explanation made sense to her. She needed something to eat, something to drink, but was certain if she did, she'd be as good as dead.
She tried to get up. That was when she sensed how sore and raw she was down there, and vaguely what she'd just been through. Had she been raped? Instinctively she touched herself to feel for injury, then for fluids. She found no semen there; nor on her belly or thighs. It was a small but precious moment of relief.
What's this? On the outside of her right thigh she felt a swelling. She pressed at it and instantly realized what it was. Ever since childhood her body had reacted this way at the point of an injection. Now she panicked. She realized that whenever she slept he had open access to her body.
She knew she must stay awake to defend herself. It was her only chance at surviving. If she were going to die, she'd go out fighting. She knew her family was looking for her. They had to be. There was still hope someone would find her — if only she could stay awake. He'd first used prayer to survive his daily moments of childhood terror, later he developed other, more efficient means for coping with his past. He still practiced both, as his tributes could attest to, had any remained alive.
They were all tall and blond as his sister was — or would have been. He knew just what to say to gain their trust and bring his foreign tributes down into his world among the foreign gods — and what drug to use to control them. Like his tributes, he chose his drugs for a purpose: some drugs for sleep, some for giving pleasure to his gods, some for both. There was no problem finding whatever he needed on Mykonos, this island of open pleasure. All he required lay in the bag by his feet. He was prepared for anything.
16
Annika struggled against sleep. The music was soothing and the room warmer than she remembered. Suddenly it hit her; the bastard was piping in heat and music to keep her sleepy.
She smacked at her face with her good hand, but that only worked until the stinging passed; then she felt even sleepier. She thought of her family, but that flooded her with thoughts of how sad they'd be if they couldn't find her.
She needed something to occupy her mind, to keep her awake. She stood up and twisted her head for a few minutes, squatted through a set of deep knee bends, and did some warm-up stretches. Her hand wasn't hurting as much as before. Maybe it isn't broken after all, she thought, or maybe I'm just used to playing through pain. She didn't give a damn that she was naked before an audience. She had to prepare herself.
Her mind was on a brutal, bloody intramural soccer match during her freshman year at Yale. Two older assholes tried knocking her out after her first score. They were relentless but missed their chance; one lost two teeth and the other gained a broken leg while Annika scored two more goals and a 'don't-mess-with-me' reputation. But that was against adversaries she could see, could challenge with her strength. Now there was none to face but time, and the only victory was not to succumb to sleep.
And so she began: over and over she replayed every move, every feint, every pain, every score; she was determined to win again or die trying. He was running out of time.
About thirty feet down the tunnel from her cell was a heap of construction odds and ends. He rummaged through the mess until he found a length of beat-up garden hose and an almost finished roll of duct tape. He carried them back to a World War II-era gasoline generator used for powering light and ventilation. It vented to the outside through an old air shaft. He turned on a flashlight and turned off the generator.
He disconnected the vent pipe from the generator's exhaust and used the duct tape to secure the garden hose in its place. The exhaust connection was about twice the diameter of the hose but the duct tape gave it an airtight fit. Picking up the other end of the hose, he walked back to the cell wall, pulled on his night-vision goggles, and looked through one of the slots. Inside the cell, each slot was faced in the same smooth, painted stone that covered the rest of the inside walls. He'd built them to swing up and into the cell — like mail slots — so fingers pressing from inside would not find them.
She was jumping about naked in a determined little routine. He watched her silently. She kept repeating to herself, 'I can beat you, I can beat you.' He turned away, slid the garden hose into the end of a wider hose used for drawing fresh air into the cell, walked back to the generator and turned it on.
The mayor was waiting for them when Tassos and Andreas returned to the police station. He was sitting in Andreas' office and jumped up the moment they walked in. 'Have you heard about the deputy minister's niece?' he blurted, nearly apoplectic.
Andreas shot a worried glance at Tassos and looked back at the mayor. 'What do you mean?'
'She's missing. The deputy minister called and told me he'd asked you to look for her.'
Andreas held up his hand and said, 'Calm down. I know, and we're looking for her.'
'You know what this means?' Mihali didn't sound any calmer.
Andreas sat down in his chair before answering. 'Yes, I'm afraid I do.'
Tassos pointed the mayor to the chair in front of the desk. 'Sit down, Mihali, we have a lot to talk about.'
Uncharacteristically docile, the mayor now did as he was told. Tassos closed the door and went to sit in the other chair.
Andreas ran his fingers through his hair, then rubbed his eyes. 'I figure we have twenty-four to thirty-six hours before she's dead. No more.'
The mayor looked like a deer in the headlights. 'Why? Why do you say that?'
Andreas spoke as if in a trance. 'All of his victims were killed during the tourist season. All the bodies were found in churches with saints having name days in the tourist season. The coroner set Vandrew's time of death to within twenty-four hours of Saint Calliope's name day — and we found her in Saint Calliope.'
'Perhaps you'll recall that the Scandinavian girl supposedly killed by the Irishman' — Tassos paused long enough for the mayor to wince — 'was murdered on the name day for Saint Marina.'
'Another tourist-season saint,' said the mayor.
'And another of Father Paul's churches,' said Andreas.
'Do you think he's the killer?' asked the mayor.
Andreas shrugged. 'All I'm sure of is she'll be dead in a matter of hours if we don't find her.' He leaned forward and picked up a pencil from his desk. 'It could be any of several suspects… or all of them… or none of them… and I don't have a fucking clue where any of them are.' He threw the pencil against a wall.
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