A Solitary Reaper

by Rachael Wright

  "When will you release the name, Captain?"

  Savva stopped and tossed the keys to Stelios who trudged to the car, his face sunk into deep lines of misery. He turned back to Maria, her face bore a faint resemblance to the creased visage of Mrs. Harris. He smiled maniacally and rubbed his hands together.

  "Soon."

  "Do you suspect one of them?" she said, inclining her head toward the hotel.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Adam Harris found the body."

  "He did."

  "But, surely it was a coincidence. I'm sure most of the island knows about the trail on Mt Lepetimnos."

  "Even if they did coincidences don't exist for me ... not in a murder investigation."

  "Coincidences exist everywhere."

  "Oh to be sure, but I ignore them at my peril. Willful dismissal can mean the difference between catching a murderer or not."

  "It must be difficult ... what you do."

  "Well it's not murder everyday," Savva equivocated.

  Maria heaved in a great breath and clasped her hands in front of her. She stood upright, well dressed, a vision of classic Greek beauty, but there was something behind her, or in her. Something that tugged at Savva's heart. It was both familiar and unfamiliar, and he was filled with a nagging sensation that he'd encountered it once before.

  "I'll be in touch if anyone remembers."

  "Efaristó." Savva backed away, executed a small bow, strode to the car, and slid into the passengers seat. Stelios rounded on him.

  "What did she say?"

  Savva turned left onto the Airport Road. "She wanted to convince me that coincidences exist."

  "They don't though."

  "My thoughts exactly."

  "The Americans aren't telling us everything."

  "Yes, but why?" Savva pressed.

  "I don't know; perhaps the real reason Adam Harris moved the body? Did he know Matthias?"

  "Let's leave the Americans for a bit," Savva said. "If Jane Harris did talk to a member of staff, that person didn't come forward today. We must ask ourselves why. Did they know what Adam Harris would find at the top of that trail? Did they know when he'd go? And if they knew that Matthias' body was there why did they send Adam Harris?"

  "If it was the mafía they would want to send a message of some sort. They'd want the body found, it doesn't make sense for it to look so haphazard."

  "Yes, why not shoot him in Athens and dump his body in a busy street? Why an American tourist? Why Lesvos? Why now?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "It doesn't make sense to kill him here. We're as far out from the mainland as its possible to be. The murder will only be covered by the local press. If his death was some sort of statement there's no one here to hear it. Why was he killed on Lesvos and why was he killed two days ago? Once we have those answers we'll have our killer."

  * * *

  Savva parked at headquarters, but remained in the car after Stelios trotted inside to finish paperwork and "check up on Private Kaikas." Stelios tripped. He righted himself against the back door, pulled a stiff hand through his short hair, and peeked around to make sure no one saw. A feeling, long since buried, rose in Savva's chest. It was as though the burden, rusted and creaking with age, settled onto the old space in his heart, the space Minerva once occupied.

  She blossomed in his mind: her head of dark curls, her strong, quick legs from playing football with the island boys, the laughter which snorted its way around the table and the pinched look on Shayma's face before she fell under the contagion. If he reached out, he could brush her arm as she breezed out of the front door on her way to the pier, her thin cotton dress swirling around her legs, and the ties of her white bikini flapping in the wind. Her soft touch on his arm. The way the light glinted off her pink-lacquered nails. His own image reflected in her eyes as she leaned over to kiss his cheek.

  But Minerva disappeared, skipping down the street, and he was alone on the step, alone with the black hole. His face contorted, his head dropped to his chest, to where his heart must be. But that particular organ lay beside his daughter's, in the aquamarine waters of the Aegean.

  Savva bit his lip, stuffed his hands into his pockets, picked himself out of old memories, and drove down Karantinou Street, past layers of graffiti, and the rotating door of headquarters. He stopped at Kava Santo, bought a bottle of wine, a thick bar of Swiss chocolate, and turned the car homeward.

  Minerva laughed behind him as he passed teenagers on mopeds and mothers hauling screaming toddlers. She stood at his shoulder and called him Papa as he turned his key in the front door, as he set down the wine and hung his keys on the hook by the door. But the ceiling creaked and before he could say goodbye, she dissolved. Shayma's leather purse, was not on its hook on the hall tree, but lay, casually discarded, on the bottom step of the staircase.

  "Shayma?" he called to the pregnant emptiness.

  "I'm up here." Her voice trickled down from the upper story.

  Savva hesitated, then slogged upstairs. At the end of the hall, a door stood open. Savva fought against the tears–fought to keep his face a mask of innocent curiosity. Shayma stood, hunched over the bed, her bed, calmly folding hospital corners.

  "What are you doing?"

  Shayma stood, picked up a quilt, and flicked it open. The sun caught the fabric and for a moment it was suspended in light, every corner, every square of flowers illuminated so it shone.

  "Shayma?"

  "We have a guest coming to stay."

  Savva swallowed. Minerva's touch still lingered on his hand. "You have to put them here? In this room?" he growled.

  Shayma raised her eyebrows but otherwise did not comment on his tone or the aggressive jut of his chin. "The spare room is full of your files, Alexandros. I couldn't put her down there."

  "Her?" It couldn't get worse.

  He backed against the wardrobe on the opposite wall, and stared into the sun drenched attic bedroom, with its garden view, fighting against memories–against the ache in his arms, in his chest, against the searing pain in his throat. Oh the years were not long enough to forget.

  "It's a long story," Shayma said evasively.

  Her short fingers smoothed out a crease in the quilt. She plumped a pillow in a lacy white case, placed it reverently on the bed, and took a step back to admire her work as she pushed curl from her face and tucked it behind her ear. There was a crease between her brows and the tremble in her fingers. She wore a grey dress decorated with magnolias and leather sandals and diamond stud earrings. The prettiest disguise he'd ever seen.

  "Where is she?"

  "Davonna's on her way. I left ahead of them to get the room ready."

  "Why isn't she staying with Davonna?"

  "She didn't want to."

  "How old is this she?"

  Shayma deadpanned. "In her twenties."

  "I thought you meant a kid! Why's a woman staying with us in our daughter's room?"

  Shayma locked her jaw and ignored the veiled criticism. "I told you it's a long story."

  A light hammer sounded on the door downstairs. Savva's stomach roiled. "You aren't getting off that easy," he said, following Shayma downstairs.

  Shayma nudged him out of the way and opened the door. Savva's eyes fell first on Davonna who stood on the step looking harassed. Her face bore the same semi-frown as Shayma and her eyes flitted up and down the street.

  Shayma stepped aside to let them through. "Come in."

  Davonna pulled a huddled mass of dark blankets with her. A wave of lavender swirled in the air. He stood with his hand on the front door, staring, and cast his mind about for what this strange apparition reminded him of. He fell on a memory of Christos Pappas, the disgraced Golden Dawn lawmaker, as balaclava-wearing policemen escorted him into court. With that sobering thought Savva peered out into the gathering darkness looking ... for what? For a masked man to pop out of the shadows. Instead of going upstairs and interrupting what was sure to be delicate work, he went t
o sit in the back garden, to ignore the world for the next few minutes. Though the sun had passed beyond the sea, the air was dry and stifling. His normally exuberant neighbors were for once quiet under the weight of the heat. Savva picked up a black fedora that lay on a bench by the backdoor and slammed on his head. With a long-practiced and habitual gaze, he scanned the garden, walked across the terrace, pulled four weeds from where they sprouted between the flagstone, and dropped them into a purpose built trashcan by the garden gate. With a grunt he sunk into a chair and rested his feet on the wooden table.

  His eyes were closed, the fedora pulled low over his nose, the cicadas lulling him to sleep, when the back door opened, and Shayma poked him hard in the arm. He lifted the hat, propped one eye open, and stared at the two women who towered over him.

  "Now you'll tell me why we are hiding a fugitive."

  "She's not a fugitive," Shayma snapped.

  "You smuggled her into the house."

  Davonna gave a weak laugh, sat down next to Savva, and brushed out nonexistent creases in her black trousers. Shayma perched on the edge of the chair opposite. The two women shared a look and Savva pretended not to notice that neither of them denied the act of smuggling. Davonna blinked and twirled her hands in her lap. A breeze blew across the garden and a cicada thrummed in glee.

  "One of you needs to start."

  Shayma took a deep breath. "We don't know a lot. I got a call from a friend of mine who keeps an eye out on the beaches. She said a boat came in; a young woman was pulled from the sea. The girl wouldn't speak, wouldn't look at anyone. The refugees swore she hadn't been on their boat. She wouldn't stay on the beach. In the end she pulled out her identity card but held her finger over the name. She was taken off the beach and brought to the house.

  "We took her upstairs, away from all the noise and the people who terrified her. We asked questions but she wouldn't answer. Not a single word. Davonna told the girl she could stay until she felt ready to contact relatives, but she started screeching ... this wild unearthly sound. It was all we could do to calm her down again. I offered my house, said my husband was rarely home, and she would have quiet and peace. She calmed down a bit after."

  "What's her name?" Savva asked.

  Davonna and Miriam sighed and said as one, "She never said."

  "You just said she had her card."

  "She won't show us."

  Savva put his head in his hands. Davonna and Shayma lapsed into an uneasy silence. The olive trees fluttered around them. The trio took it in turns to stare up at the window above them. Over the stone walls wafted the beginnings of a loud dinner, accompanied by the neighbors usual fight about so and so's mother coming. Savva always thought it was the wife's mother, but he couldn't ever be sure. A radio turned on, the words "political suicide" interspersed among "interfering hag."

  "Is she on the run?" Davonna asked weakly. She blushed as Savva and Shayma whipped around to face her. "I thought ... she doesn't want anyone to know where she is."

  "It's possible." He turned to Shayma who also blushed. "Did you tell her what I do?"

  "I hoped to leave that part out until we can get her to open up. Not all your colleagues are as ... upstanding as you are, Alexandros."

  Savva's immediate thought was of Kleitos' complete incompetence and the dubious loyalty of the Inspector General for the Aegean Region. The Lesvos natives on the force were reasonably trustworthy. He'd known many of them from boyhood. But no one ever knew another's heart.

  No one talked. They hardly breathed. It was as if they taken a blood oath and there was no going back from what they'd just done. Davonna pulled out her phone and checked the screen with pinched eyes. Shayma memorized the garden wall. And Savva ... Savva was weary and his stomach cramped from the pressure exerted by his belt. All he wanted to do was to sink into his bed, pull the quilt over his head, and sleep.

  Savva heaved himself off the chair. "Nice to see you, Davonna."

  "Don't bother her," Shayma growled.

  Savva waved her off, not bothering to glance back. Inside, he filled a glass with water, and threw it back like a shot of ouzo. At the stairs he paused, glanced up, and listened for a sound he couldn't remember. When it didn't come, he shuffled to his bedroom; the quilt tucked in, the wardrobe doors shut, the nightstands dusted. Nothing suggested the monumental change the house and couple had gone through. He hung his suit coat on the walnut valet stand and turned back to the door.

  A mass stood there, quaking. He stopped short, his fingers froze on the latch of his lapis lazuli cufflink. A grey wool blanket was wrapped around her face like a hijab. All that remained of her features were a pair of darting black eyes. Savva smiled and hunched his back in an effort to make himself appear less intimidating.

  He stood there, risking a look into the shifting black eyes, waiting, waiting for whatever it was that was supposed to happen. Just as he opened his mouth to say something ... with no idea what it would be, the mass spoke–in perfect Greek.

  "You're a batsos?" she rasped, using the slang for police officer.

  "Yes, but I'm not working right now," Savva said, hoping she grasped his meaning.

  "I've put you all in danger. I'm sorry," she whispered and fled.

  * * *

  Savva watched the shrouded mass whip out of sight. He sank onto the bed. Shayma and Davonna's low voices echoed from the kitchen–something about a grey cat and a back staircase? The voices fell to a gentle murmur before the soft click click of Davonna's heels echoed across the house. The front door opened and closed, a few seconds later the gate creaked.

  With an almighty effort, Savva thrust himself off of the bed and shuffled to the wardrobe. He tugged off his tie and hung it on a small metal hook on the inside of the wardrobe door. Lavender perfumed the air as he ruffled a stack of thin sweaters to pull out a worn grey sweater with pilling under the arms. He'd finished buttoning a loose pair of slacks when Shayma appeared in the doorway.

  "Isn't she staying for dinner?" he said.

  Shayma bit her lips to hide a smile. "Davonna? I wondered, but between you and me, I think she has other plans."

  "Other plans? With whom?"

  Shayma sat down on the edge of the bed and gave him a pointed look. "With a gentlemen,"

  "Her neighbor ... Ioannis?"

  "Oh no, a younger gentleman. Of the police persuasion."

  "Ah," he said. "So you know ..."

  Shayma beamed and clapped her hands. "Won't it be great if it works out between Davonna and Thanos?"

  "Thanos? I thought you were referencing me."

  Shayma snickered. "You're not much younger than Ioannis."

  Alexandros sat next to his wife. The bed creaked and dipped as he lowered himself down. Shayma's body tilted towards his. "Are we going to talk about her?"

  Shayma lifted her gaze and, though it was slight, he caught a glimpse of a smile. It filled the room as strongly as the lavender had. He knew what it was without having to think: responsibility of another soul. It was why she'd put the girl in Minerva's room.

  Shayma put her hand on his. Her fingernails were neatly trimmed, she could never grow them long, and there was a white spot on the nail of her left thumb. "There's not much to say. She needed a place; that was obvious."

  "What's your plan?"

  "I don't think I have one other than letting her rest." She patted Savva's hand and stood. "Shall we eat?"

  From the refrigerator came a glass container of berries, a tub of yogurt, pita bread, a bowl of olives, and a salad heavily made up of cucumber. They settled into an old dance and they only ones who knew the steps. Alexandros circled his wife, like a moon, setting the table, paving her way, until at last the dishes were laid out. Shayma stood behind her chair as Savva popped an olive into his mouth. In rapid motion she pulled a wooden tray from the cabinet above the refrigerator, loaded it with food, and took it upstairs. Savva sat and piled his own plate as the sonorous sounds of his wife's voice drifted down the staircase.

 
When she returned, they ate dinner in silence. Savva sent her to bed early in a fit of goodwill. He stood at the kitchen sink, scouring the insides of bowls with a sponge, and the vision of Matthias propped against a rock, played on a loop in his mind. What was he doing there? What was he doing there? What were they doing there?

  The sky had long since gone black by the time Savva pulled on a pair of thin sweatpants, slipped into bed, scooted over, curled his arms around his wife, and held her against his naked chest. Shayma snored. He'd never be so crass as to tell her. But then she yelped and flung her arm out and smack, it fell full on his nose.

  Alexandros rolled over and pulled the quilt up to his chin with a frustrated grunt. Across the room, light from the streetlamp filtered in through the gap in the curtains. It hit the opposite wall and Savva stared at the artificial light until his eyes closed and he stopped thinking of dangerous girls and dead mafía hit men.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Stelios leaned back in his chair, kneaded his neck, and peered out the window to the pink and gold sky. Kaikas sat across from him with her head propped on her left hand while the right worked the mouse. Stelios held open his left eye and reoriented the contact that felt glued to his eyeball. The contact was still as dry and uncomfortable so he rooted around in his desk drawer for the small bottle of solution he kept for moments like these. Saved, Stelios thought. He popped out the contact, rubbed it in the fluid and then placed it carefully back in. Absolute heaven.

  "We're going to be here for a while. Should I order food? Pizza maybe?"

  Stelios glanced up. Kaikas nodded to a mass of take-out menus on the filing cabinet between their desks. Settling in for at least another two hours with nothing but databases and Kaikas to keep him company sounded like absolute misery, but he dreaded the empty house more.

  "Pizza's fine," he mumbled, and turned back to his computer, wincing at how much he sounded like Savva.

  After Kaikas had placed the order and returned to her desk Stelios asked if she'd found anything. They'd been at this for hours, ever since Savva'd dropped him off and had gone to do whatever it was his boss did when he didn't want to be in the office. Stelios went upstairs to find Kaikas knee deep in the national crime database searching for references to their victim. Matthias, Stelios reminded himself. That's how Savva liked it. Keep the crime personal. That's how the killer operated. There was always a connection the between the killer and the victim.