Murder in Mykonos

13

Annika didn't know how long she'd been sobbing or falling in and out of sleep, but she'd not heard a sound other than her own crying. She took a deep breath and got to her knees. Slowly, she stood up, raising her hands above her as she did to find what was above her. At her full height she felt the ceiling. It was about two feet above her head. Smooth but hard, like concrete. She carefully shuffled her feet along the mattress, touching her hands along the ceiling as she did. It felt the same everywhere. She thought of stepping off the mattress but had no idea what she'd find. It could be a floor, a pit, anything.

She went to her knees and inched her way forward off the mattress. The floor felt the same as the ceiling, smooth and hard. Before every move, she reached out to feel in front, above, and below her. Her feet were about three feet off the mattress when she touched a spot of something wet. There were several more spots near the first, as if something had dripped from the ceiling. They were slightly sticky, and ever so tentatively she lifted her fingers to her nose to smell what she'd touched.

She recoiled and nearly threw up. No doubt now what it was. He'd been there, only feet from her. He could be standing right next to her now and she wouldn't know it. All she could think of was finding her mattress. It was the only place of any comfort in whatever hell this was. Frantically, she probed out behind herself with her feet until she found it, and retreated like a frightened dog to shelter. Hours seemed to pass before Annika worked up the nerve to leave her mattress again, and when she did, she used it as her safehaven, always mindful of where it lay. Quickly she determined a few things. The space's floor and ceiling were square, with about fourteen-foot sides. There was nothing on the floor other than the mattress, but near the center of the ceiling were three one-foot-square surfaces, one smooth, two louvered. She assumed one was a light fixture and the others vents. This meant there had to be electricity. The walls were made of stone, with all the expected ridges, gouges, odd-shaped protuberances, and crevices, but they felt strangely smooth and cool to the touch — as if coated with plastic or Teflon. It made no sense to her. There was not a single interruption in the walls. Not a door or a window — nothing but stone. How was that possible? She wanted to pound on something and shout for someone to come but sensed that was what her captor expected. She decided to wait and see. That was all she could do. Wait and see. Sooner or later someone would come. She was sure of that.

He had many places from which to watch her. He'd built his dungeon that way, dug it out of an old mine tunnel and fashioned it himself, taking great care to fit its wall flush with the existing tunnel wall. It represented years of work, started decades ago, lugging all the stone, cement, and everything else without help. But there was a benefit to building it as he had: it was virtually invisible to anyone who might happen by — as unlikely as that was. Locals were superstitious and many viewed these old mines as haunted.

As far as he was concerned, they were right; for this was the realm of the ancient Egyptian gods that he honored: Serapis, ruler of the underworld, and Anubis, its gatekeeper. Andreas knew there was no time left for civilized tactics. It was bare knuckles from here on out — starting with Ilias. He told his man at the hotel to bring Ilias in to headquarters immediately. Then he called Tassos. His reaction to the conversation with the deputy minister's secretary was equally severe. He said he'd leave for Mykonos as soon as he could get to a helicopter. That's when Andreas decided to have them all brought in: the priest, Manny, Panos, and the jeweler. Panos' son too.

Additional bad news started coming in almost immediately. The officer at the hotel couldn't find Ilias, and no one there had seen him for hours. Their best guess was that he'd gone out the back and down the hill behind the hotel to the road below. He could be anywhere by now — on or off the island.

By the time Tassos called to say he'd landed, the only suspect Andreas' men had been able to locate was Manny — and that was because the taxi dispatcher said he'd come to the station as soon as he 'finished his current job.' The priest was nowhere to be found. Nor were Panos or his son, and according to an employee in his shop, the jeweler was away in Athens for a few days and couldn't be reached. Great, thought Andreas — a missing tourist and a batch of unaccounted-for suspects. Annika had no way of telling how long she'd been asleep. All she knew was she was cold — and thirsty. She also needed a toilet. She felt no hunger, at least not yet.

Her mind kept racing over the same thought: Why? She couldn't bring herself to think it was random, unrelated to something she'd done. That would mean… she stopped herself. Such thinking would lead to panic. There must be a reason. If she could think of the reason, she could think of a way out. She kept saying to herself, 'This is just a problem-solving exercise, a pure and simple problem-solving exercise.' There has to be an answer, a reason. There must be.

More time passed. She decided to move about, get some exercise. She had to do something to keep from losing her mind. She stood and stretched, then stepped across the cell. She determined she could take three long steps in one direction before having to turn. She found her stride. One, two, three, turn, one, two, three, turn, she counted to herself, then started counting aloud: 'One, two, three, turn, one, two, three, turn, one, two, three, turn.' She was moving faster and faster, almost running — almost running into panic. She had to stop. She was dizzy and bent over, resting her hands on her knees. She drew in a deep breath, let it out, and shook her head. 'Think,' she said to herself. 'Think.'

She leaned against one of the walls. It felt cool against her skin. She'd forgotten she was naked. Not important anymore. She ran her hands over the wall; it was the same wherever she touched. Hard and smooth. She walked beside it, rolling the tips of her fingers along as she did. They rolled so easily, as if on wet, smooth, shaped glass, filled with hidden textures. She was growing accustomed to the darkness.

Her hands moved onto the second wall. The sensation was the same. There was now a rhythm to her walk. She felt a comfort in the walls. Around and around the cell walls she went. She was drifting into her third loop when it happened: 'Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang.' Whatever she'd kicked was bouncing across the room. It hadn't been there before — she was certain of that. Her heart started pounding and her stomach churning. She wanted to throw up. It was fear. He was back. Invading her space, again.

She sensed she'd started to laugh — a rolling, building laugh she could not stop. Had she lost control of her mind? She had to do something. She screamed, 'My space. My space?' I must be going mad, she thought. She forced herself to think of her parents. They were real, this wasn't. She had to deal with what was real. She took a deep breath and another, then stepped forward toward where she'd heard the sound. Two tentative steps ahead, she stepped on something. It didn't clang. It gave under pressure from her foot.

She knelt and reached out slowly, as if putting her hand into the murky bottom of an unknown pond. It was cylindrical and flat at one end with circumferential ridges and indentations midway along its body. At its other end she felt… 'a bottle cap,' she said aloud. It was a plastic bottle of water, or at least felt like one. A liter bottle. She clutched it in her hand, stood up, and stepped forward again, this time more boldly.

Her foot struck a new object. This one clanged against the floor and she reached for it without hesitation. She knew what it was. A bedpan. She wanted to throw it at a wall. But she needed it. And she needed the water, if it was water. She wondered what else — what other kindnesses, she snickered to herself — her tormentor had in mind for her.

As if he'd read her mind, she heard a sound. He was here, she thought. She heard it again. It sounded like a mail slot swinging open at the bottom corner of the wall behind her. Then she heard a rough scraping along the floor coming from the same direction. Something was moving toward her. She turned and backed away from the sound. It kept coming. Now she was against a wall. Annika knew she had to fight — she had no choice. She leapt forward screaming, 'Bastard!' throwing the bottle and bedpan at the sound. She lashed out scratching and punching in a wild chase around the room, searching for confrontation, some physical body to attack. All she found was a wall with one of her punches. The pain was instant. It felt like she'd broken her left hand, maybe her wrist too.

She screamed and clutched at the pain. That made it hurt more. She stumbled into another wall, then tripped over the bedpan and instinctively thrust her injured hand out to break her fall. She screamed again and rolled onto the floor and into a ball, clutching again at her hand. 'Why? Why? Why?' she shouted. There was no answer. She started sobbing.

Annika had no idea how long she'd lain there feeling sorry for herself — maybe minutes, maybe seconds — but she knew she had to regain control. She turned onto her right side and slid backward along the floor. She had to find the mattress, to find some way to use it to ease the pain. Suddenly, something touched the back of her thigh. She screamed and jerked away. A minute passed. Nothing moved. Slowly, she brought herself to a sitting position facing the thing she'd touched. It had to be what made the sound. Carefully, Annika cradled her left hand across her lap and reached out with her right. She found it.

It was about the size of a shoebox. It wasn't very heavy and — her heart plunged — it was tied with a ribbon. It was a gift. She stared straight ahead into the darkness. The man was mad.

Now she knew she was going to die. He never quite understood why the scraping sound of a long-handled, wooden pizza-oven paddle delivering a gift box of chocolates created such panic. But it always did, and so he used it as a tool for conditioning his tributes to accept the unfamiliar. That was important, for there were many more unknowns yet to come. Annika sat on the bare floor, the water bottle held tightly between her thighs. She moved her good hand along the bottle, checking for anything unusual. Finding nothing, she fingered the plastic cap. It seemed anchored to the bottle and unbroken. She carefully twisted it and heard a snap as it separated from the bottle. Slowly she removed it and sniffed the contents. No odor. With her good hand she poured a little on one thigh. No pain. She rubbed at the liquid. It felt like water. She sniffed again and tentatively took a sip. No taste, no pain. She drank.