The Destroyers

by Christopher Bollen

  “What are they listing as the cause of death?”

  “Accidental drowning.” Rasym pats his body for a match and grows impatient when he can’t locate one. He tucks the rolled cigarette behind his ear. “That is technically what killed him. And that’s what we’d prefer his father thinks. When he comes to. If he does.”

  “What do you mean, if ?”

  Rasym turns to the view down the valley. The wind tosses a neon beach umbrella along the shore. There’s no wind up here, hot and static with the smell of dry shrubbery and only a vague sense of the sea.

  “Between you and me, and only you and me, he’s not doing so well. They’re not certain he’s going to regain consciousness. Apparently there have been complications. They’re taking him back into the operating room tomorrow. We’ll have a better idea after that surgery.” He rotates back to me. “So will you do it? All you have to do is not mention the note. Please, I’m begging you. Please just do our family this one favor.” ’

  Even the billionaire son isn’t allowed his last words. Especially the billionaire son, presuming those were his words. If Stefan mattered less, his death could be his own. I wonder, had the note remained on the screen, whether Martis would have checked the fingerprints on the keyboard.

  “Rasym, you don’t think Charlie could have been involved?”

  Rasym opens the car door and ducks inside to scrounge the glove compartment for a lighter. He returns with the cigarette burning at his lips.

  “That’s the other thing you have to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You told Sonny that Charlie was off on business in Bodrum. We feel he should be.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You need to tell the inspector that Charlie is away for work. It’s best if no one thinks he’s anywhere near the island.”

  “I already told the inspector that.”

  “Good,” he says with an unconvincing grin. “Then repeat it.” A bank of smoke gathers along his teeth. “As far as any of us knows, he is. He’s only been gone a few days. I spoke with Sonny. She understands why it’s important to maintain that belief. He was nowhere near the house when Stefan died.”

  “But Rasym, what if Charlie’s in trouble? What if he really is missing? He could be out there hurt and we haven’t even looked for him. Or what if he did have something to do with Stefan’s death? Don’t you want to know the truth?”

  Where is the Rasym from yesterday who was so sunk in regret over his lost cousin? One dose of power and all of that concern is shed. He’s bent on protecting the family more than its members. Who are the Konstantinous? Not people anymore.

  “I’m tired of lying,” I say. “I can’t keep doing it.”

  “Why is it a lie? Isn’t that the last thing Charlie told you he was doing? That he was going away on business? Don’t you see, we’re doing this for him. And once we handle this disaster of Stefan, we’re sending our own private team to track Charlie down. Quietly. And we’ll get him whatever help he needs. I promise you that.” Finally, the bullet of loss punctures Rasym. His head reels back, and he blinks his eyelids, as if holding back tears. He lets his cigarette drop from his fingers. “I don’t like this either, all right. I cared for Stefan. But I have to look out for the ones I love. This is what has to happen. We have the company to consider.”

  “Your finances, you mean.”

  His principles have already taken enough of a thrashing for my remark to draw much blood.

  “Transnationally we employ what amounts to the size of a small country. It isn’t only us on the line here.”

  I don’t imagine Rasym will be passing out Qurans and head scarves any longer. You can’t hold dual citizenship on two different religions.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Do you think Charlie is behind this?”

  Rasym clutches his keys in his pocket. His eyes close and for a while he goes still, as if trying to find sleep while standing on a long ride home in a subway car.

  “I really hope not,” he utters without opening his eyes. “I honestly don’t think Charlie’s cold enough to put his own brother in a tub and watch him sink. Maybe abstractly he could have wanted Stefan dead. But to do it himself.” He shakes his head. “Did Sonny do it? That crossed my mind. She has as much to lose as anyone. Maybe you shouldn’t have told her that Stefan was on the island yesterday. Did you mention to her where he was staying?”

  “You should try to be nicer to Sonny. She’s already lost enough.”

  His left eye opens. “I’m not obligated to like her. I’m obligated not to kick her and her daughter from the house.”

  “Maybe if more people had liked Stefan, his death wouldn’t be so easy to sweep under the rug.”

  I realize I can only speak to him like this because he needs a favor from me. Rasym stomps out his cigarette and gets in the car.

  “Maybe you’re right. We should make sure there are people who love us. They’re our protection. Stefan didn’t have many. Charlie will be glad he has you.”

  “You could still look out for Stefan. He’s your cousin.”

  “I’m not enough.” He starts the engine. “Ian, I won’t insult you by offering you money. But if you do help us, we’ll make sure you’re taken care of. I promise you that. I know you’ve been hit hard lately. Thank you for your cooperation.” He attempts a tender expression.

  I begin to walk toward the steps but quickly spin around. Rasym is making small, inept reversals in order to maneuver the car down the drive.

  “If Charlie never reappears and Mr. K doesn’t pull through, what happens to it all? Who takes over?”

  The final yank of the wheel clears the way. Rasym raises his hand in good-bye, and the red taillights smolder down the hill.

  Charlie is permanently away on business. His brother drowns by accident in a tub. It is not enough to be loved. All you’re left with is the mess of your own version of the story, and others will happily scrub it clean for you. That counts as love too, I suppose. Suicide or accidental drowning. Either is better than murder, and better is how the Konstantinous choose to live. In the distance, across the harbor, the brown monastery is lit with floodlights, like the scorched launch pad of a rocket at takeoff.

  I return to the cabin and drag my suitcase onto the bed. The connecting door to Louise’s room is open and the darkness holds a curious emptiness, which I wish her presence would break. I want to see her one last time to say good-bye. I fold my clothes and place them in the case. Another time and other places, strangers and accidents and a little lust conducted in a corner. I’ve never been to Madrid, never seen the Goyas that Sonny said reduces a visitor to tears, but I speak the language. If the planet owes you anything, it’s anonymity. After my meeting with Martis tomorrow morning, I’ll buy the cheapest ticket on any boat. It is sometimes good to be such a tiny creature in the world.

  I open the drawer of the nightstand. On a day of surprises, this one shouldn’t register as the worst. But what I find bores a hole in my heart.

  I toss the empty sweater from the drawer. The bag of cash is gone. Stolen. I cry as if I’ve earned it.

  “WILL YOU TAKE our picture?”

  An American couple, around my age, is standing by the waterfront in Skala, at the choice spot where the gray gates end and the sea comes uninterrupted to the pier. They have first-day sunburns on their forearms and the bloom of expectation on their faces. The woman in a crop top and azure shorts holds her phone out toward me, as if I’m required by some ethic of tourism to obey her command. The man in an orange Adidas T-shirt already has his smile glued on and his arm wrapped around her waist. The 10:00 A.M. sun is blaring down, and at their feet are a number of white plastic bags. They’ve already been to the shops. Flip-flops, a bath mat, two bottles of olive oil, one bottle of ouzo.

  “Just a few,” she orders when I lift the phone in front of them. “Make sure you get the boats and the sea.” A squat Greek woman stands beside them with a loose bouquet of red roses in her ha
nds. Each rose is one euro. The flower sellers usually work the cafés and tavernas at night, when romance is less frugal, but the tough economy has brought peddling out at all hours. The American couple is her best bet this morning for love. I snap some shots of the three of them, the young man and woman and their inadvertently adopted aunt. When the woman briefly scans the photos she asks me to “hold on a sec” and turns to the rose seller.

  “Can you move?” she snaps. “Mark, can you get her to move?”

  Mark drops his smile.

  “We don’t want any roses,” he tells the woman. She plucks two from her bouquet and offers them. “Nooo rooosess.” She will not be dispatched so easily. She steps closer and shakes her flowers, grinning innocently.

  “Mark, do something!” The American woman looks at me with harried kindness followed by a roll of the eyes. “I’m sorry. Just a sec!”

  “We don’t want.” Mark drawls out the words while waving his hands. She gathers another and now it’s three stems practically shoved against his chest. “She’s not going,” he reports.

  “God, they’re vicious. This is exactly what Tara said they were like. Remember?”

  “Don’t yell at me about it! How is it my fault?”

  The Greek woman is clever. She’s not selling roses. What she’s selling is her absence in their memories. It ends up costing Mark five euros to convince her to leave the frame, so their photo is perfect, just the woman and Mark against the sun and sea, smiling wildly, the caption already written: day two in Greece! #peaceful #sea #patmoslover #romantic #whywearealive

  I’m down to my last euros and searching the port for an ATM to withdraw the remains of my bank account. I’m poorer now than I was when I arrived. The escape boat out will have to wait.

  I pass the bomb site of Nikos Taverna where, once again, some last invisible mourner has left fresh roses on the ground. I could pick them up and sell them for one euro apiece. At a café on the corner, facing the statue of the military figure, Petros sits at a silver table. He’s in his black robe, and his aviator sunglasses reflect the furry print of the newspaper in his hands. It already occurred to me that I led Stefan straight to the priest, and if Stefan refused to pay, I’m not sure it would have been beyond the island’s holy landlord to retaliate.

  I slip into the empty chair across from him. His head lifts from the paper, his lips drawn in distress.

  “Hi, Petros,” I say dully. “How about buying me a cup of coffee?”

  He slaps his paper down and turns to the street. His fingers toy with the hair on his throat. I signal to the waiter and order.

  “Put it on his tab.” The waiter checks with his regular, and Petros hesitantly nods his consent.

  “What do you want?” he asks when the coffee arrives. He’s fidgeting, fixing the Rolex on his wrist and straightening the packets of sugar along his saucer rim. He refuses the intimacy of taking off his sunglasses. Intimidation cannot have brown eyes.

  “Did Stefan Konstantinou visit you at your church?”

  He exhales petulantly. “It is over. Do not bring up such matters again.”

  “What’s over? Did he pay you or not?”

  “It is no longer your concern.”

  “I’m guessing you heard what happened.”

  “Of course I heard,” he concedes. “Terrible. That is why it is over.”

  “And you wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”

  His breath comes as a whistle now, his sharp teeth exposed.

  “Me? I only wanted what was owed. I am not a murderer. From what the doctor tells me, it is suicide. It is not my fault what trouble that family gets into. I lease them a property. I ask for the rent on time. I mind my own business otherwise.” But he is not quite ready to mind his own business. He leans across the table. “I have watched people like them. It is always the kids of the wealthy who end up so badly. It is unhappy to be that unburdened. There are two types of people. Those with troubles and those who look for them.” He stiffens back in his seat, so rigidly it’s as if I’m talking to a spinal cord.

  “What about next month’s rent? What will you do if Charlie doesn’t pay then? More fingers? Maybe a bullet to the skull?”

  Petros collects his paper, distracted for a moment as he waves to a man in a fisherman’s cap parking his bicycle against a streetlamp. He fakes a leisurely smile.

  “There will be no next time,” he whispers. “We will not renew the lease of the dock. Too many are asking questions now. I should never have allowed it.” He reaches into his robe and tosses a few coins on the table. “You mention fingers. Your friend, Gideon, he was here that morning the bomb went off. He was sitting at the tables outside Nikos. It’s a surprise that he lives when some of our own are killed, no? Does Charlie think that he and his friends will always come away without a scrape? It was a mistake to rent the dock to Charlie. He forgets who the island belongs to.”

  “And it’s your job to show them who owns it. Did the two hippies on the motorbike need a reminder?”

  Petros doesn’t answer. He rises from his chair, and as he passes me, he taps the corner of his newspaper on my shoulder. I can smell the expensive cologne on his robe, sweet and acrid like spring in New York when all the trees are in heat. “Enjoy your coffee.” He walks from the table, slaps the back of the man in the fisherman’s cap, and the two stroll slowly along the cobblestones.

  I finish my coffee and take the steps up to the police station. The terrace at the top is empty, the cabinet shrine open, and a column of fresh water bottles is wrapped in plastic, awaiting the next influx of remanded visitors.

  “Inspector Martis,” I say to the officer behind the desk. He points to the glass office as if I’ve been expected. Martis is on the phone, the cord wrapped around his elbow. He indicates with a nod for me to take a seat as he reclines in the chair shouting jovial Greek into the receiver. He’s gotten a haircut. A militant side part lends his chubby face a boyish rebellion, and the whiskers of his mustache have been cut in a straight line high above his upper lip. He will no longer be able to bite at it. He yanks the phone from the unwilling crook of his neck and places the phone on its cradle, the warmth of the call lingering in his expression.

  “Mister Bledsoe,” he says, “thank you for coming. The last time I saw you in Skala, you were running away from me.”

  “I thought I saw someone I knew.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, it is a small island. There will be a next time.” He braids his fingers over his belly and studies me. I think he might be on the verge of asking why I haven’t sent him a friendship request on Facebook. But the cheer drains from his face. “The Konstantinous,” he says with a long sigh. “Not so fortunate as we thought, are they? This Stefan, he travels from very far away to kill himself in his family vacation home. Perhaps he wanted one last time where he spent summers as a child.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He looks at me shrewdly. “Although the doctor and I have been hounded this morning by a solicitor from Athens who demands his death be declared an accident. Even a Konstantinou’s end is a matter of legality. We are accustomed to their many requests in life, but now it extends to their preference of death.”

  “Maybe they want to bury him in a Christian cemetery.”

  His fingers scratch the back of his head.

  “You were the one who found him, yes?” I nod. “I ask because you’ve been helpful to me. A little window into a family that resists. I’m not expecting you to betray your confidences. But out of curiosity, was there anything that suggested to you that his death was deliberate?” Deliberate to whom, Martis doesn’t say.

  I pretend to recall the scene, my eyes drifting over the photos on the tops of the filing cabinets. “No. Just papers spread around the room. And then I walked into the bathroom, and there he was in the tub. That’s really all I know.”

  Martis waits, as if more will be remembered if he gives me time. Time seems to be t
he great decider in Greece. He finishes rooting his tongue around his gums for missing specks of his breakfast and speaks.

  “His suitcase and personal items were found in the closet. It appears he had just come to the house to put his things away, be sloppy about his papers, take too much pain medication, and run a bath. His medication was for his knees. From years of tennis, his cousin told me, although he also suffered from depression.”

  I think of the old medication vial that was on his bathroom sink the first day I arrived. I try to recall if it was still there when I found his body. But all images of that moment gravitate to the contents of the tub, and I squeeze my eyes shut to erase the drowned man from my mind.

  “No one saw him arrive,” Martis says.

  “If he did deliberately take his life, he probably knew he wouldn’t have the house to himself for long. But you can’t blame the family for preferring to believe it was an accident.”

  “No, no,” he assures me. “I do not blame them. I blame no one. I am sympathetic to the family’s suffering. Barring any unforeseen results, the doctor has agreed to list it as an accident. I hope that will provide some comfort.”

  This is the second time Martis has invited me to the station to chat about a death that has been officially deemed an accident. And as with the hippies on the motorbike, he seems hazily unwilling to accept the official report. The two hippies must be buried by now, and Martis is still hanging around Patmos getting his hair cut and waiting for his suspicions to magically resolve.

  “It only surprises me how quickly the Konstantinous have released their solicitors. Most families want answers. Most families are not so ready to supply them.”

  “The Konstantinous aren’t most families.”

  “That is true,” he says somberly. “But a little doubt is to be expected. I checked the flight manifest at the heliport on the island’s military base. Out of curiosity. Stefan comes by private helicopter a week ago. Does that not seem odd to you? Stefan is on the island for a week before he goes to his family house and decides to take his life. Why did he not go to his house right away? What was he doing all those days by himself?”