A Solitary Reaper

by Rachael Wright

  At his garden gate he pulled a miscreant dandelion and tossed it into the gutter. The house was quiet. A lonely, unused sort of quiet that boded a cold house and an empty freezer. He headed straight to the bedroom where he exchanged his suit for a pair of cream linen trousers and a blue short sleeve button down shirt. The fedora he hung on a hook on the back of the door. A glass of ouzo in the garden might be a welcome distraction from the trials of his boss. Savva turned to the kitchen.

  "Yiassou," the couch greeted him. Savva turned, promising himself a nap if the furniture really was talking to him. "Did I startle you?" The couch broke in two and a grey mass sat up.

  "Oh no," Savva told the girl. "It's been a long day. Do you want a cup?" He pointed to the bottle of ouzo he'd pulled from the cupboard.

  "Water's fine."

  "I was going to take it out in the garden."

  Savva poured a healthy measure of ouzo, filled another glass with water from the tap, and walked through the open glass doors to the garden without a backward glance. His neighbors, invisible behind the stone wall, were arguing about whether to listen to the news or a FIFA qualifying match. The French doors closed softly behind him a few seconds later and, still in the over-large sweatshirt, Phebe sat next to him.

  "Was it a long day?" she asked, nodding at the drink before him.

  "My boss has forgotten who he should be protecting."

  "Who is he protecting?"

  "People who can afford it."

  She cupped her glass in her hands. "Will you tell me more about her?"

  "Minerva?"

  Savva stared, unseeing, at the garden. She was waiting, patiently, for the next installment of his story, and though there was only one left, the idea of using this particular story was abhorrent. But would Minerva care? Would she admonish him with a shake of her finger? Would she keep him from trying to save more girls, by using the story of her death to frighten one into speaking? But did he want to?

  He was familiar, too much so, with the realities of pain and grief. To live again, one must talk one must share. In so many ways pain can only be understood by pain; only a person who has stood in the same spot can see the bleak horizon. Only grief can touch grief and say 'I know.' Because as great as Phebe's pain was–or what he imagined it to be–there was something greater that hovered overhead … inescapable, horrible, and familiar. The final fate.

  Alexandros drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. Minerva was there: waiting for him in the garden where neighbors on all sides argued and a young woman, who in the heat of summer swathed herself in yards of thick fabric, sat next to him with an expectant gaze. Was it imagination or did Minerva smile and nod to Phebe and wave her hand at her father to begin? She must've. No one could wave more imperiously than Minerva when she was tired of waiting.

  So he began.

  "Minerva was so intelligent, so smart. She was driven by an unending desire for knowledge. How did snowy owls hunt during the long Arctic winters? What were the effects of long-term space travel on the human body? How did Venice manage to stay afloat on a laguna? On and on her questions went.

  "I wanted her to go to Europe to study, but she was adamant she wanted to stay in Greece. So it was the University of Athens. The first year she didn't know what she wanted to do. She took all the courses first year university students take. She made friends. She came home on holidays. Her second year she said she'd met someone at university. A nice boy from a good family who wanted to be a lawyer.

  "Before she came home for the summer, she phoned me, and she wanted to get a degree in languages. All her life she'd heard stories from her mother about Syria and she knew a lot of the language. She took French and English in secondary school and was fluent in both. I was thrilled. She wanted to make a difference: to expand her horizons beyond Greece. In the same conversation, she asked if her boyfriend could come visit. Shayma prepared food for an army and shook with excitement for days before they came. I wasn't fussed. Once, when she was six, she told me: "I'm going to stay single and work a job. No kids." I have to admit that was disheartening, but perhaps she'd adopt. Of course, I didn't mind if she never married.

  "Summer came and so did the boyfriend. He was a nice boy. They made a good match. But there was something missing. When he looked at her, his eyes burned, but there was no spark in her eyes. She enjoyed his company, liked him, but there wasn't passion.

  "Whatever worries I had, I wrote them off. I was happy for her. It was a relief she wasn't head over heels in love with a boy I didn't know. Whose family I didn't know. Ambrosio was his name." Savva spat out the word and the garden darkened as a cloud covered the face of the sun.

  "Was he kind?" she whispered.

  "He was polite."

  "Is there a difference?"

  "Being polite is learned, curated, and easily manufactured. Kindness is bred into the soul. But if we saw the subtle difference, we ignored it. We were too happy to have Minerva home and we didn't think there was a cause for concern.

  "One morning Minerva announced she and Ambrosio had hired a boat and they were going to sail around the island. Go swimming. Ambrosio had a lot of money, so he could pay for a nice one, and he'd taken sailing lessons since he was a boy. I walked Minerva to the door. I remember like it was yesterday. She wore a dress, that wrapped around her, the ties of her white bikini poked out of the top, flapping in the breeze. Her hair was wound up on the top of her head in a loose bun. She was radiant. Why wouldn't she be? She'd finally found her passion. She was young. She had a handsome man on her arm. I pecked her on the cheek. Mumbled something about being careful. It was early and I'd just ended a night shift."

  Savva closed his eyes and leaned against the chair. His skin rippled with memory. He put his hand to his cheek to cover his quivering bottom lip. Long minutes passed. Phebe squirmed in the chair. The radio-loving neighbors fought about the precise rareness of the lamb roasting on the barbecue. When at last Savva spoke, his voice was harsh and the words caught in his throat.

  "Minerva wrapped her arms around me, squeezed, skipped across the garden, took Ambrosio's hand, and walked down the street to the beach. It was the last time I ever saw her …”

  The neighbors stopped arguing. The cicadas were quiet. The olive trees and the bougainvillea leaned forward, all anxious for what came next. But Savva sat with his eyes closed and waited. And waited.

  "What happened?" Phebe whispered. Her glass sat abandoned, full, the sides slick with sweat.

  "She died."

  "But what happened?"

  Savva sighed. He put his hand under his chin and stroked the hairs there. "She died, and Ambrosio Latsis went home to Athens."

  "But … Minerva?"

  "What happened to you, Phebe?"

  Phebe sat up and flung the hood off her face. Savva saw her face for the first time. It was thin and pale with a smattering of dark freckles across her nose. There was a hole above her top lip, which must've once held a diamond stud. It was a face full of fear. Her eyes were wild. The sound of her name on the breath of a stranger.

  "How do you know?"

  "It is enough that I know. Tell me what happened to you. I want to help."

  Phebe shrank back, her eyes flashed; she wrapped her arms around her thin chest, and refused to meet his eyes. The scent of rosemary and olives drifted across the garden as a breeze returned to taunt the sweltering islanders.

  Without preamble her words gushed out. "I met someone who had connections in Athens and Europe. A good job and one night I …” she stopped abruptly. "How do you know my name?"

  "A friend of mine."

  Phebe's hands trembled. "The one who came to the house?"

  "Yes," he replied. The details didn't matter.

  "I can't tell you anything. They'll find me."

  "They aren't going to find you. You're safe here. Do you know the names of the people who took you?"

  Phebe shook her head, her dark hair flying.

  "Do you know why they took you?"

/>   Again she shook her head no.

  "Do you know a man named Anthony Goldstein?"

  She shook her head for a third time. "You're all in danger."

  "No, I'm not. I'm well-known on the island. They can't get to me. They wouldn't dare."

  "They can get to her," Phebe shrieked, raising a trembling finger and pointing it at the house.

  "Shayma?" Savva breathed.

  "Yes."

  "Nothing is going to happen to either of you."

  "Is that what you told your daughter?"

  Savva recoiled. Phebe shoved her hands through her hair. She pulled on her cheeks. She was utterly demented. Her mouth opened, and Savva stood, but she sprang away and disappeared into the house. A minute later the curtain in the upstairs window dropped down. Against his better judgment, Savva turned away from his glass of ouzo and followed her. He stood at the entrance to Minerva's room.

  "He took her out on the boat,” he started. “They were gone all day and into the evening. At 10 p.m., headquarters called and said Ambrosio was railing about a boat and how he'd lost Minerva in the confusion. I told Shayma to stay at the house, in case she came back. Ambrosio dripped on the floor, seaweed was wrapped around one shoe, there were long scratches on his face and his shirt was torn.

  "I asked him what happened. He said they'd fallen asleep and the boat had hit a rock. In a minute it sunk. Minerva disappeared and in the confusion he was hit on the head. He was knocked out and when he came to he swam and swam, looking for Minerva, until he couldn't anymore and found a farmer who took him to the police station.

  "Ambrosio cried and quivered. I patted his arm and said we'd find her. We called in boats and looked all night where the boat sank. There were rocks all over, so it was possible that the boat had hit them, and ripped a hole in the hull. Officers scoured the shore for any sign of her. I stayed out all night until we could get a dive team. Shayma was beside herself. I sent a female officer to the house to take care of her.

  "The dive team finally came at 4:32 a.m. They'd been on another accident. I watched the divers go into the water. The faint outline of Ambrosio's boat was visible beneath us; it shimmered in the water like a mirage. I couldn't tear my eyes away. I wasn't thinking. I didn't realize there was no hope. They came up a few minutes later pulling–"

  Savva paused and steadied himself against the doorjamb. His head reeled, transported back to the police launch, tossed on the waves. He tasted the tang of the sea. The sight of black hooded figures rising from the black water.

  "They took her from the boat. They rose out of the depths, Minerva suspended between them. Only the top of her bikini was still on. I jumped forward, all I could think was that she was in my arms–safe again. I yanked off my coat, desperate to protect her, to warm her. The water poured off her in rivers. I slipped and fell on my knees. I rubbed her back, sure that any moment she'd gasp for air. I forgot she'd been down there for hours. One of the divers brought over a long thick blanket and laid it over her body. Only strands of her hair poked out, brown and wet against the white deck. They took her to the hospital. And I was driven home to tell Shayma.

  "Ambrosio left after he gave the police a statement. His father ordered a private jet, and no one could stop him. I went to the morgue and formally identified Minerva's body. I wasn't in charge of the investigation–procedures and all. The pathologist, he retired last year, came to my house one night with her file tucked under his arm. Minerva was raped and then hit on the head. There was no water in her lungs."

  "What does that mean?" Phebe whispered from the shadowy corner.

  "She was dead before the boat sank. Ambrosio's story was a lie."

  "But?"

  "He left Lesvos and never came back. When my captain pressed for charges to be brought, he was transferred away. That's how I ended up with Colonel Kleitos–my current boss."

  "What happened to him? Ambrosio?"

  "Oh, his family's in petroleum and shipping. No one could touch him."

  "But Minerva …”

  "It's what happens when the rich are protected; when those who can speak out don't; when victims remain controlled by fear."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Stelios walked into headquarters the next morning to find Eleni at her desk, eyes perilously close to her computer screen, and the top two buttons of her uniform shirt undone, revealing a white undershirt. He pulled his tilefóno from his pocket to check the time, just to make sure he hadn't sleep-walked to work in the middle of the night: 0450 hours. Too early to be up, but too late to go back to bed.

  He plopped onto his chair. "How are you already here?"

  "I set my alarm for four," Eleni answered without removing her eyes from the screen.

  "Why?"

  "To go on a run before I came in. I wanted to get an early start."

  "It's not even five!"

  She peered over the top of the computer; only her eyes and forehead were visible. "Why are you here so early then?"

  "Couldn't sleep."

  "Sure … Sir."

  He rolled his shoulders and ignored the tacked-on sarcastic deference. "Have you found anything?"

  "Yes, I did,” she said, motioning him closer. "I emailed my fathers's uncle, he works … well I'm not entirely sure what he does, something about handling state records, but he told me there are over a hundred girls who've gone missing from Greece in the past year."

  "What?"

  "Yes."

  "Does Savva know?"

  "Well first it was too late, or is it too early, to call."

  "Call him." Stelios turned on his heel and ran straight into Savva. "Theé mou!"

  Savva rubbed his forehead. "Watch where you're going, Booras."

  "Sorry, Sir, I didn't hear you come in."

  "A likely story," Savva said. He waved Eleni off. "I heard what you said. The first thing–"

  Savva paused when a loud ring echoed around the squad room. He shoved his hand into his pocket. "Savva."

  "Captain, it's Maria Iliadou."

  Her voice shook. A million possibilities flooded his mind, but he forced a calm, "Yiassou."

  Maria plowed over him without preamble. "My father's gone."

  "Gone?" Savva growled, waving his subordinates in, and seizing a notepad from the corner of his desk. "What do you mean gone?"

  "He didn't bring the boys home until late last night. We argued because he kept asking what was wrong. I think I had him convinced until he took the trash to the bin outside. Our neighbor saw him and ran over. I watched from the window. He dropped the trash bag and came back in, his face livid, and asked what 'that Savva boy, who's always in the papers, was doing here?'

  "I told him you were here about the man who was murdered and that one of the guests at the hotel had found the body and you wanted more information. Somehow he pieced it all together. He asked whether Matthias was the boys' father. I said yes. He wasn't surprised. He didn't blink, didn't yell, but before I could explain, he went to his room, got a coat, and left," she hiccupped.

  "What time was this? Where did he go? Did he say?"

  "No!" she moaned. "I tried to ask him, but the look on his face. It was horrible. I don't know where he's gone. But why'd he leave anyway? What did he do?"

  Savva paused. It was vital they get this last piece of information before she went into shock. "Maria, when you left Athens in 1987, do you remember why? Did you father give a reason?"

  "No, he never talked about it.” Her voice spasmed. Exasperation clung to every word. "What does it have to do with anything? What does it have to do with Matthias?"

  "I'm not sure," Savva lied. "Private Kaikas is headed to your house. If you remember anything, tell her, and she'll relay it to me."

  "Alright."

  "What time did he leave?"

  "I'm not sure … midnight, I think."

  "Where are the boys now?"

  "Asleep."

  "Good," Savva said. "Keep them inside until you hear from me."

  He put d
own the phone.

  Stelios' hand rested on the handgun protruding from his black leather holster. "What is it, Sir?"

  "Her father's missing. A neighbor told him we were there."

  * * *

  Savva turned to Kaikas. She was in the process of rewinding her unruly hair back into a bun. Her young face was a mask of professionalism but her dark eyes searched his hungrily both for answers and reassurance.

  "Get over there and make sure no one leaves until you hear from me. Maria must know where he's gone. Take a uniformed officer with you. If her father comes back, keep him there. We don't have anything to arrest him for, yet, but I want to question him … understood?”

  "Yes, Sir."

  Kaikas' black boots whipped around the corner. Savva listened as she hailed a uniformed officer who'd just stumbled into the squad room–bleary eyes hovering over the lid of a pungent latte.

  Stelios peered at the map of Mitilini on the back wall. He traced his fingers past archeological sites and restaurants and fields of burgeoning crops. "Where do you think he went, Sir?"

  Savva stared at his long-limbed partner, no longer a gangling trainee, but a police lieutenant full of purpose and adrenaline. He turned to the window and contemplated the dark morning, his mind raced, picking it's way over the island. His computer, which he'd failed to turn off last night, pinged.

  "We know so little about him," Savva whispered. "He was in Athens in 1987 …”

  "Sir!" Both men turned to see Kaikas, chest heaving, in the doorway. "I got an email from the Land Registry Office; Lambros Iliadou's name was on the property deed of the building where Yorgos Michel was murdered.” She produced a photograph of the man standing next to his daughter after the hotel changed management.

  "He killed Matthias," Stelios said harshly. “It was revenge all along for Matthias being mafía."

  "Yes, Matthias was the thirteen year old boy who murdered Yorgos Michel in Athens. But now, in exacting that revenge, Lambros Iliadou has murdered his daughter's partner and his grandsons' father."

  Savva thanked Kaikas and sent her on her way. He shuffled back to the window and gazed over the streets of a quiet Mitilini to the softly undulating sea and to the hills; tinted blue in the early morning light. It was Lambros Iliadou he’d seen the first morning at the hotel; clutching a rucksack and nervously (upon reflection) meeting Savva’s eye.