Lovers Never Lie

by Gael Morrison

  Natolie laughed, and said something to Sophia. The old woman cackled and herded the children faster.

  "The village is ahead," Natolie said, a grin still flashing on her face. "Bus not always goes through town. Only on market days." She shrugged. "It's too much trouble for bus to go up steep hill."

  A hilltop hideaway. Perfect for Maria.

  "Road to town," the young woman continued, pointing to her right, "is over there. This trail is short-cut."

  Even as she said the words, they topped the crest of the hill. Stacia stopped walking. Ahead of them was the church, as well as the tree. Just like in the postcard, and in the picture on Wilson's desk.

  Stacia's young friend tugged her elbow and she moved forward again, toward the village and toward the church. Her face must be white for there seemed no heat left in her body, but she mustn't show fear, for if she stopped herself from showing it, perhaps the fear would disappear. In any other circumstances, she'd have been charmed by the building's beautiful grey walls, and by the lushness of the trailing vine working its way up the stone. Incredible to see such lushness in the midst of such dryness, and the ancient graveyard on the hillside beyond had its own unique beauty. Each grave was tended, each graveside shrine filled with the pictures and possessions of the one who had passed away.

  The poets of ancient Greece would have appreciated the scene, would have composed songs in its honor. But to Stacia, a horror overshadowed the beauty. With stiff, awkward movements, she followed Natolie and her family past the church Maria had stood beside and on into the village.

  * * *

  Sophia's friend's house was small and poor, yet her two room abode held such comforting warmth and brightness, it forced Maria Argolis and the evil she represented to recede from her thoughts. It wasn't until Maria's name emerged in the stream of Greek flowing between Natolie and her grandmother's friend, that Stacia's fear flooded back.

  "Auntie Helena says Maria Argolis is bad woman," Natolie whispered, glancing worriedly at Stacia at this confirmation of her grandmother's opinion.

  "Is she in Artemis now?" Stacia asked.

  "Yes," Natolie said. Her frown deepened. "Auntie says Argolis family helped enemy during the war."

  The expression on Natolie's face told Stacia this was the worst of all possible things.

  "I have to see her," Stacia insisted, trying to force away the fear invading her limbs. "Where does she live?"

  "Beyond the church," Natolie answered reluctantly. "Then up behind the graveyard."

  Stacia peered from the doorway into the encroaching darkness.

  "I come with you," Natolie offered.

  "No," Stacia refused. Despite her longing to accept the younger woman's offer, she couldn't willingly draw anyone else into the nightmare.

  Natolie took off her sweater and placed the black wool garment around Stacia's shoulders. "It's cold," she explained, with troubled eyes.

  "Thank you," Stacia said solemnly. She placed her arms through the sweater's sleeves and pulled it tight around her. Then she walked swiftly towards the church, not daring to glance back.

  At the church, Stacia could see the roadway leading to the Argolis house, but she averted her gaze, peered into the church instead. Following a sudden impulse, she stepped inside.

  It seemed smaller than it had appeared outside, and shabbier, too, though not from lack of love and attention. The prayer books in the pews were frayed with age, and only stubs of candles lay in the box next to the statue of the Blessed Mary, but fresh flowers sat beneath the alter, and a crisp lace cloth with exquisite embroidery lay on the table holding the statue.

  The figure of Mary, with its promise of serenity and safety, drew Stacia's attention, but when she reached the statue, she saw its eyes gaped sightlessly. The colored glass which should have depicted them had been broken or lost over the years.

  Stacia slowly stretched out her hand and touched the hollow where the glass should be. Despite the statue's disarray, a calm stole over Stacia and penetrated the misery in her heart. She had lost her mother, her father, and now Andrew, too, but Mary's sightless eyes told her what her own eyes had failed to see, that she loved them all and that to love took courage. Whether Andrew loved her back or not, she had to do whatever she could to help him.

  A sense of her own strength filled Stacia's heart and gave her the courage to leave the church. Darkness now smothered the day, and a mist had descended, whispering wetly against her face. With grim determination, she started up the roadway to Maria's house. She kept to the shadows of the trees lining the road, glad of the darkness, not wanting to be seen.

  Too soon, she arrived. Maria's house was a two-story block of grey plaster blending into the silver of the olive trees beyond. No vehicle stood in the driveway and no sound came from within.

  Stacia crept closer, pressing flat against the house, the plaster knobby beneath her fingers. She cast a swift glance into the narrow basement window to her right, but a wooden box against the glass on the inside blocked her view.

  She had to see Maria to know for certain she was in the village. Until then, she had nothing to report back to Andrew. Perhaps around the back there'd be something to indicate occupancy. She tiptoed softly, but her feet still crunched the gravel, and her breath seemed, all at once, to be coming in too swiftly.

  A glance around the back garden revealed nothing but blackness, so slowly, warily, she approached the back door. She turned the door handle and found herself in the kitchen where the smell of cooking hung heavy in the air. Crockery sat on the table, and roast lamb congealed in fat lay nauseatingly on the plates.

  Two plates, Stacia counted. There was still just the two of them; Maria and her stupid, yet strong, helper. There were two against one. Four against one if you counted their guns.

  One against nothing if no one was about.

  With that thought, a plan presented itself that was better than the one she had conceived in anger, a plan not involving heroics or the smashing down of doors or, even worse, the waving of guns. Maria might not be here, but Andrew's diamonds perhaps were.

  A quick in and out would be long enough to find the diamonds, then she would run as fast as her legs could carry her back to the village and the nearest phone. It had worked for the purse snatchers at the Athens' airport. They had got away. So could she.

  Stacia ducked beneath a braid of garlic, and edged past the table towards a door on the opposite wall. Beyond was a narrow hallway, lit only with the light filtering through from the kitchen. There were two doors off the hall to the left and three to the right. Stacia stared at them, willing them to give up their secrets. Finding Andrew's diamonds might well be as chancy as choosing the right door on a television game show.

  A wooden table stood next to the front door at the far end of the hall, and above the table hung a cross. It was incongruous to see a cross in the home of a killer.

  Stacia tiptoed down the hall and opened the far door on her left. A sitting room much like Grandmother Roberts' room had been—empty, cold, and neat.

  She retreated and worked back along the right side of the hall, sparing the bathroom a cursory glance before moving on to the study.

  It was a small, dark room, with no window to allow in the light. Papers were scattered over the desk, maps mostly, with the Mediterranean's tiny coves marked in red X's, and routes drawn from one island coastline to the next. Meaningless rows of figures and letters were scrawled down the map's sides, but nowhere in the room was the black sweater with Andrew's diamonds.

  Disheartened, Stacia returned to the hall. Before she could take another step, a sound emerged from the door opposite, a door which must lead to the basement below. With the sound terror swept into her breast.

  "Shift those crates closer to the stairs," Maria's voice barked.

  Instinctively, Stacia backed away, moving as far as possible from the door blocking her from Maria. In her movement, a board creaked beneath Stacia's foot. Her hand flew to her throat which contained her
snagged breath.

  "Not there, you fool," came Maria's voice again, irritated now, angry. "Over there so I can get by."

  By great good luck, they hadn't heard her. Not sure she still breathed, Stacia moved rapidly down the hall and tried to open the front door handle. It was locked. No exit that way.

  Footsteps sounded on the basement stairs.

  Frantic now, Stacia yanked open the door to the right and found herself staring up a dark stair-well. She hesitated, terrified to go up to the second story, sure that if she did, she'd become trapped there like a cat up a tree.

  The footsteps echoed louder.

  "Andrew," Stacia murmured, using his name like a talisman, hoping the pulse now drumming against her temples would cease, as would the perspiration running in rivulets between her breasts.

  Stacia reached for a barely discernable railing, expecting to find the warm smoothness of wood. Instead, she found the cool chill of metal. It took everything she had to keep her fingers in place and raise her foot to the first step.

  After that, it was easier. The instinct to put as much distance as possible between Maria Argolis and herself forced her onward. She blindly felt her way, tried to listen for other sounds, and focus her attention away from the pounding of her own heart.

  As she climbed, she counted the steps. There were only twelve, but there seemed more. The upstairs hall when she reached it was like the one below: long, narrow, and dark, with more black rooms to each side.

  From below there now came no sound at all.

  The room opposite the stairwell had an open door, the master bedroom from all appearances. A chill swept Stacia's body, for suddenly she knew. If the sweater was anywhere in the house, it would be here in Maria's bedroom, the place every woman kept what was important.

  She listened again for the sound of footsteps. Again, she heard none. She tried to gauge if she had time to look for the diamonds and if she did, would she have the courage to attempt it. Clenching her fists, she slipped across the hall.

  The faint odor of lilac hung in the bedroom. Stacia's stomach lurched. It had been the lilac perfume which had first drawn her to Maria, the lilac which had reminded her of Stacia's own grandmother. The scent now spelled danger.

  She stood motionless and let her eyes grow accustomed to the room's deeper darkness. A muted light came in at the window, a reflection, perhaps, from the village below, where other people sat safe in their houses, talking and laughing with the people they loved.

  Love. She could almost feel Andrew's hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his fingers and the strength of his soul. She pushed away her longing and felt her way towards the bed, not daring to turn on the overhead light lest its glow shine through to the grass outside.

  The bed was not made, its covers were flung back and its pillow dented. A suitcase lay at its foot with a pile of clothes heaped beside it. But it was the bedside table which drew Stacia's gaze, for on it was the sweater. She took it up, its soft folds of wool warming her hands.

  A broad sweep of light suddenly illuminated the room, causing shadows to dance against the far wall. Stacia ducked to the floor, her heart pounding against the sweater she held crushed to her chest.

  She crawled to the window and peered out into the night. A truck had arrived, and was now backing toward the front door. Stacia crept back into the hall, and crouched there, listening. She heard the front door open, and her skin turned to ice.

  "Maria," a man shouted. "Are you ready?"

  This surging of blood and numbness of limbs must be how it felt to have a heart attack. The more intently Stacia listened, the faster her heart beat.

  "You took your time," Maria answered, her voice increasing in volume as her feet echoed along the downstairs' hall.

  Heavy boots thumped towards Maria's voice. Adrenaline surged through Stacia. She had to get out, but there seemed no escape. Muffled footsteps now sounded behind a door at the far end of the hall. There must be a back staircase, which, like the front one, connected the two floors.

  There was no time to think, no time to plan. Stacia darted across the hall and down the front stairs, not caring now whether or not anyone heard her. She flung open the door at the bottom and saw that the hall was empty. For an instant, relief swept through her. Then she tried the front door, and her relief turned to panic. Whoever had come through had re-locked the door behind them.

  "Who's there?" Maria shouted, her voice a frozen shard that pierced the ceiling separating them.

  Stacia ran towards the kitchen, but saw through its open door a man standing with his back to her peering into the garden. She plunged down the stairway leading to the basement, hopefully a place filled with nooks and crannies into which a person could squeeze. Instead, she found a whitewashed box of a room with a single bulb illuminating its surface. Wooden crates were piled high along the walls.

  She twisted, turned, then twisted again, but there was no place to hide.

  The footsteps pounded closer.

  * * *

  Andrew slammed on the brakes and for the umpteenth time cursed the mountain road. God alone knew how Stacia's bus had made it around these bends. With one hand on the horn and the other on a crucifix, no doubt, that seemed to be the way things worked here on Crete.

  It was getting dark. Andrew's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He had to find Stacia, had to keep her safe. This wasn't a game where the shots fired were blanks. He took the next curve faster than the last.

  Maria Argolis walked slowly down the basement steps, one hand on the railing, the other on her gun, a gun whose barrel was trained on the center of Stacia's forehead.

  Stacia pressed flat against one of the wooden cartons. Her stomach knotted. If she was Alice in Wonderland, the boards would reform to make a barrier. But this was no fantasy where safety came on demand. She stared into Maria Argolis's eyes. This was real.

  "You should have left well enough alone, my dear," Maria said, her voice softly menacing.

  Stacia stood as still as she was able, afraid to move, or even to breathe, lest the gun erupt as it had before.

  "And where's Mr. Moore?" Maria asked, her voice scratching the nerves along Stacia's spine.

  She shrugged in response, not trusting herself to speak.

  "Is he here?" Maria demanded.

  "No." Thank God, he wasn't. No matter how much she longed for the comfort of Andrew's arms, she couldn't bear to see him hurt.

  The satisfaction in Maria's eyes almost hid the shadows on her face, the signs of stress in her voice, and the lack of sleep. She laughed at Stacia's answer, but the laughter was hard and grating.

  "It's better this way," Maria said. "He'll suffer more alive than dead, as he did the last time, when his wife was killed." Her eyes glittered with malice. "Did he tell you about that?"

  "Yes," Stacia whispered.

  "He thought it was my brother who killed her, my brother, who's still rotting in jail because of Andrew Moore. My brother." Maria screamed the last words, as if her brother were the important one, not the woman he had killed. She seemed half mad in the glaring light of the uncovered bulb, for her eyes burned in the icy whiteness of her face.

  Maria pointed to the hard cement beneath Stacia's feet. "Pick up the sweater," she commanded.

  Stacia bent at the waist, her body so stiff with fear, she almost couldn't bend at all. Her fingers were stiff, too, and when she grasped the black sweater, she found her arm shook.

  Remaining where she was, Maria gestured curtly to her helper, who had appeared on the stairs behind her. He descended the steps two at a time and snatched the sweater from Stacia's hand. As he did so, his gaze roved insolently over her body.

  "Take her upstairs," Maria directed. She grabbed the sweater her helper threw. "Lock her in my study, then get back down here and load the weapons into the truck."

  "Weapons?" Stacia repeated.

  "They're in the crates behind you." Maria's smile was reptilian.

  The crates Stacia had imagi
ned might help save her. Her head swirled.

  "The best weapons money can buy," Maria gloated. "Or should I say diamonds."

  The dizziness extended to Stacia's limbs, causing her to sway as though she were at sea.

  "You use diamonds to buy weapons?" she asked. Andrew's diamonds?

  "It saves selling them when they're hot. Diamonds for weapons, weapons for money."

  "But who are the weapons for?"

  "I don't ask," Maria snapped. "It doesn't pay to be too inquisitive in this part of the world. You should have learned that by now." Her face took on a knowing expression. "That bombing in Athens...."

  "Was a bomb you supplied?" Stacia's stomach churned as she remembered the fear on fellow passengers' faces.

  Maria shrugged.

  "Three people were killed." Stacia didn't even attempt to keep the horror from her voice, a horror seeping into the marrow of her bones.

  "As long as I'm paid, what does it matter? They can blow each other to kingdom come for all I care."

  Andrew would care. She cared. Stacia pressed her eyes shut. If she could call to mind Andrew's touch and warmth, perhaps it would help, would make her feel less alone. But it was impossible to dispel the images the weapons conjured up, of shooting, and bombs exploding, of people dying.

  "Why not shoot her here?" Maria's helper growled. "Why take her upstairs?"

  Maria turned her flinty gaze on him. "Do as I say," she snapped.

  The man's fingers bit cruelly into Stacia's arm, and he jerked her toward the stairs. As he dragged her past Maria, she felt the evil emanating from the woman and every nerve in her body screamed in protest.

  On the top step she stumbled and fell to her knees, jarring her leg against the door sill. The man jerked her up again, and yanked her along the hall, taking as little care as he would with a sack of potatoes. Once in the study, he shoved her into a chair and bound her hands and feet.

  There was no question of a struggle. Not with Maria following behind, her gun trained on Stacia's back, and death in her eyes. She squeezed past Stacia's chair, something new in her hand now.