Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (28 page)

“There's a lot of red in my icon,” she said. A shadow crossed over the table as Jude leaned over her shoulder.

“It has many meanings. Fury, enchantment, time without end, and literal bloodshed. A red cloak indicates martyrdom. As a background color, it symbolizes eternal life. These are a few interpretations. There are others. For example, the pomegranate is deeply metaphorical.”

He pulled the fruit from his pocket. “It is unusual for this tree to produce in December. See the fleshy red skin? It is an old symbol of blood. The cycle of life and death. Immortality and resurrection. I am sure you know the Greek myths attached to this fruit?”

“Persephone, Hades, and the seasons,” she said.

“Look closely, my dear.” Father Aeneas pressed his thumbnail into the fruit. The gash instantly filled with moisture. “The pomegranate's juice signifies martyrs' blood.”

He set the warm fruit on her palm.

“This is fascinating.” Caro hesitated, looking at Jude for help. She didn't want to hurt the monk's feelings, but she found it hard to believe that her uncle had sent her to Meteora for a lesson in icon symbolism. “But I still don't know why Uncle Nigel directed me here.”

“So I could fill in the missing pieces,” Father Aeneas said. “You see, I have an icon that fits your triptych.”

Dots spun in front of her eyes, and her pulse whooshed in her ears.

Jude put his hand on her shoulder. “May we see it, Father?” he asked.

“Yes, indeed,” the monk said. “I keep it downstairs. Shall we go?”

A siren echoed in the distance. She dropped the pomegranate and ran to the window. Way down in the dusky valley, police cars swept up the narrow road; they forked off into different directions. One car for each monastery.

She turned to Jude and gripped the front of his jacket, her fingers sinking into the leather. “That woman called the police.”

“Who?” Father Aeneas asked.

“A long story, Father,” Jude said. “Is there any place we can hide?”

“Hide you—why? What have you done?”

“The men who killed Sir Nigel are hunting Caro,” Jude said.

Father Aeneas's beard trembled. “The police will not harm her.”

“They'll arrest her. And whoever killed her uncle will hear about it and come after her.”

“Arrest her? For what?” Father Aeneas stepped backward.

Jude squeezed Caro's hand. “Get your icon and let's go.”

“I left my bag in the cloister.” Her hands shook when she picked up the icon.

“Wait!” Father Aeneas held up one hand. “I do not know what you have done. But I will help you both. Follow me to the church, if you please.”

Jude ran ahead to fetch her bag. By the time he joined them in the church, the sirens were closer; the same two notes bleated over and over. Father Aeneas led them behind the sanctuary and slid his hand over the rough wall. He grasped an edge of the cornerstone and pulled. The wall creaked open and cool, musty air drifted out. Smooth rock steps plunged down, then curved into darkness.

“This is where the brothers hid from Turkish pirates,” Father Aeneas said, and pushed a flashlight into Jude's hand.

“Thank you, Father,” Caro said. “I'll explain everything later.”

“I'm doing this for your uncle. But please hurry,” the monk said, his voice rising. “At the bottom of the staircase, turn right. There's a cave. It's low, at the bottom of the wall. Go inside. I will fetch you when it's safe.”

Caro braced one hand against the limestone wall and stared down. The stairwell looked bottomless.

“Peace be with you, my children,” Father Aeneas said. The heavy door scraped shut, and everything went black. Even the wailing sirens snapped off. Jude clicked on the flashlight and aimed the beam over the stone wall. He took Caro's hand and led her down the steps. They looked like something poured into a mold.

“Careful,” he said at the bend. Here, the steps became steep and uneven, and he gripped her arm. A tumble down this staircase would mean broken bones, or worse. She moved cautiously, trying to shake the feeling that she was traveling into Dante's nine circles of hell. She imagined the door above them sliding open, the police swarming down.

Jude rounded a corner, and the steps ended. He aimed the light over the walls. They stood in a T-shaped corridor. “Father Aeneas said to turn right, didn't he?” Jude's voice echoed.

She nodded, straining to hear noises. There was nothing but the distant trickle of water. They moved down the narrow passage and stopped in front of a rocky outcropping.

“Is that the cave?” she asked.

“Looks like it.” Jude squatted. The opening was set low into the wall, just as the monk had said, hidden by a broad rocky lip.

“I'll take a look.” Jude crawled under the ledge. “This is a cave, all right,” he said, his voice echoing.

She pushed her bag under the rock, then crept through the opening. Jude took her hand and they moved deeper into the cave. It was so cold, her breath stamped the air and goose bumps rushed down her arms. How long would they have to stay down here? Hours? Forever? It was possible—the monk could have a stroke or heart attack. She glanced at the stygian crevices, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Jude ran the beam along the walls; stalactites soared above them, jutting from the rock ceiling. The chamber resembled a vampire's lair, with streaking shadows and gloomy chambers. She stepped closer to Jude, and the noise in her ears subsided, only to be replaced by muffled sirens.

“The cave probably opens to the outside,” Jude said. “Let's hope the gap is too small for humans.”

“Humans?” The word echoed.

“A small animal could slip through. Remember the goats we saw earlier?”

“If there's an opening, can the police see our flashlight?”

“Better not chance it.”

She heard a click, and everything went dark. “Do you think that tourist called the police?”

“The police got here too fast. Bureaucracy moves slowly.”

If not the woman, then who?
Caro shook violently.

“You're freezing,” Jude said.

Her hand bumped into his shirt, and she flattened her palm against it, feeling the rhythmic thump of his heart. “I'm scared. Talk to me.”

He drew in a breath. “I guess you've figured out that I'm a bit of a science nerd.”

“You're not.” She moved her hand down his arm, found his hand, and gave it a squeeze.

“It's true. My second year at Cambridge, I developed a crush on a girl in microbiology class. As a token of my affection, I gave her a petri dish that had grown a perfect specimen of
E. coli.
She pitched the dish into the trash bin and accused me of trying to infect her with bacteria.”

“That's the best story ever,” Caro said.

“I learned one thing.” He laughed. “Never give a dish of germs to a woman as a valentine.”

Georgi ran over the stone bridge and turned up the winding path. He paused by the circular steps and waited for the Greek officers to catch up. Their flashlight beams swept along the rocks, blending into the torches that shone upward from the ground. In the distance, police cars moved down the road toward Agia Triada, St. Stephen's, and Metamorphosis.

Georgi raised his head and sniffed. The girl's smell was strong. Now that Teo was dead, he needed a companion. He'd dumped the Russian woman at the base of one of the monasteries. She was comatose and would remain that way until blood was infused into her mouth or veins. Not likely. So he'd decided to turn the Clifford girl. She was much nicer. Shapelier. He liked a woman with curves. Wilkerson would not approve. But it would be too late. Georgi and the girl would disappear. They would reemerge after Wilkerson had turned to dust. Georgi had comrades in London who would be more than willing to help.

A policeman rounded the bend, then stopped running, as if caught in the black bead of Georgi's gaze. The man behind him stumbled. Georgi smelled their fear. He heard the blood moving through their veins.

“No need to panic.” Georgi smoothed one hand down his new jacket. He had taken it from a tourist at the Kalambaka hotel.

The policemen hung back, watching him with hooded eyes.

Georgi sighed. He couldn't communicate with these Greek pigs. He waved toward the stairs, indicating that they should go first, but they huddled against the rocks. Georgi shrugged and started up the stairs, restraining himself from streaking ahead. His knife felt hard and heavy in his pocket, knocking against his thin leg.

He reached the top long before the Greeks. From the stairs, he heard their harsh, rapid breathing as they struggled to climb the last few steps. He heard their overburdened hearts pumping.

The girl's smell grew stronger as he curved up to a terrace. A monk stood on a wooden platform beneath a slanted roof, his arms folded at his waist. The policemen staggered up, wiping their faces on their sleeves. The monk said something in Greek. The words flew past Georgi, to the men. The monk turned to Georgi.

“You are looking for someone?” he asked in Bulgarian.

Georgi nodded and started to explain. The monk's face twisted in revulsion. Georgi knew that look. He returned it with a belligerent gaze and held up the wrinkled fax. “Have you seen this woman?”

The monk's eyes flitted over the picture. “She was here today.”

Georgi waited for the monk to continue, but the old man looked at the Greeks and rattled off a long sentence. The words hurt Georgi's ears. He wanted to pick up a stone and crush the monk's skull.

The policemen babbled something, and the monk fixed his gaze on Georgi. “You are welcome to search the monastery. But you will not find the woman.”

“Did you see where she went?” Georgi continued to hold up the fax. “Her name is Caroline Clifford. She is a British national—and very dangerous. She has killed two people.”

“Clifford?” The monk put one finger to his lip. “A British archaeologist by this name was murdered in your country.”

“He was.” Georgi's eyelids twitched.

“And you were the investigating officer?” asked the monk.

“I work with the Interior Ministry.” Georgi stuffed the fax into his pocket and reached for his badge. He had been flashing it all night, and not one member of the Kalambaka police force had questioned it.

Wind stirred the pomegranate tree, then washed over the monk, flattening his beard. He looked like a wizard, Georgi thought.

“Shall I take you on a tour?” the monk asked. “If not, I bid you good night and Godspeed.”

The monk spoke to the policemen. They shook their heads and looked at Georgi. The monk headed toward an arched opening, his robe floating around his feet. Above him, the monastery loomed, dark and forbidding.

Liar
, Georgi thought. But the night wasn't over. He watched the monk blend into the darkness. Then he picked up a stone. He threw it over the ledge and waited for it to hit the bottom. But it never did.

Caro heard a scrabbling sound in the outer chamber. Then a broad slash of light moved in front of the cave's opening.

“Are you here?” Father Aeneas's voice echoed. “The police are gone. You may come out.”

They grabbed their bags and hurried to the opening, where Father Aeneas's sandals were visible beneath the ledge. After Jude and Caro crawled out, the monk raised a lantern.

“This way, children,” he said and turned down the corridor. “We have much to discuss. My friend Demos will be here at dawn. He will guide you out of Meteora—and Greece, if God wills it.”

They followed the monk up the stairs and waited while he closed the passageway. He strode out of the church, across the cloister, into a large room with stone walls, a domed ceiling, and a cupboard. On the left side of the room, an arched door opened onto a terrace.

“Sit,” Father Aeneas said, waving at a table piled with books.

Jude pulled out a chair for Caro, then he sat down beside her, his hand lingering on her shoulder.

“A Bulgarian man just left. He posed as a policeman.” Father Aeneas walked to a small altar table and lit a candle. Light blazed up, shining into the faces of St. Jude and the Holy Mother. The monk crossed himself and walked to the cupboard. He reached for a decanter and turned to Caro.

“The man claimed you murdered two people.”

Caro shook her head. “It's not true.”

“The Kalambaka policemen were frightened of this man.” Father Aeneas set the decanter on a tray, then added three cups. “He asked if you were here. I denied it, but I do not think he believed me.”

Jude touched Caro's arm. “We can't stay here. What if he comes back? Let's take our chances in Kalambaka.”

“I need a better disguise—red hair or a wig.”

“The chemist closed at five,” Father Aeneas said. He shuffled to the table, the cups rattling, and set down the tray. “But souvenir shops are still open.”

Caro glanced at her watch. Six P.M. Damn.

“You can stay at a hostel in Kastraki.” Father Aeneas placed a cup in front of Jude. “I'll arrange for Demos to pick you up in the morning.”

“No.” Jude held up his hand. “I don't mean to be rude. It's best if you and your friend aren't involved.”

“As you wish.” Father Aeneas lifted a cup. “I assume you and Caro are not traveling under your real names?”

Jude didn't answer.

“I do not recommend flying out of Athens with false credentials.”

“We're not going there,” Caro said, and Jude squeezed her arm.