The Divided Child (23 page)

           
His
expression turned grave.
 
“Yes, I
heard what happened last night.”

           
“I
suppose you think it’s just another unhappy coincidence?”

           
He
hesitated, and then said, "To be honest, Christine, I don't know what to
think.
 
Drivers in this country
are
a reckless lot, and it
is
plausible that a would-be thief would be more
reckless still."

           
"But
this is the second close call Michael's had this week!"

           
Robert’s
hazel eyes were somber.
 
"I
know.
 
And I confess, I’m
worried.
 
That’s why I’m back. I
find the whole situation very troubling.”

           
I
felt a rush of impatience.
 
"It's a damn sight more than that!
 
Next time Michael might not be so lucky.
 
The killer might succeed."

           
"If
there is a killer," he countered quietly.
 
"Despite the events of the last few days, I'm still not
convinced there is."

           
"I
know," I snapped, "there's no motive."

           
"Unless
you think it was Geoffrey behind that wheel."

           
"Of
course I don't!"

           
"You
needn't scowl at me like that.
 
It's precisely because I think Geoffrey incapable of hurting Michael that
I find it so difficult to believe these mishaps are anything but the accidents
they appear."
 
He reached out
and touched my hand.
 
"Still,
I appreciate your concern for the boy."

           
"I
can't help it.
 
He's a
sweetie."

           
His
hazel eyes twinkled.
 
"And so like
his uncle."

           
I
studiously ignored this last comment.
 
"I also know how tough it is to lose one’s father at this
age."

           
Robert's
expression sobered.
 
"Yes, the
poor lad has had a difficult time of it.
 
Still, I'm not sure you're doing him a favor by remaining here.
 
Demetra seems determined not to let him
out of her sight while you're on the premises."

           
"Then
I'll just have to convince her I can be trusted," I said.
 
"In the meantime --"

           
One
sandy eyebrow fluttered upwards.
 
"Yes?"

           
"Perhaps
you could speak to her as well?"

           
He
flashed me a wry smile.
 
"I’ll
do my best."

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
Robert
stayed to dinner.
 
And whether it
was his influence or simply that Demetra decided there was safety in numbers,
Michael was granted leave from his room and joined us at the table.

           
He
looked so pale and withdrawn when he entered the room, I felt a pang of
concern, but he became more animated as the evening progressed, especially when
Robert invited Demetra for a walk on the beach and suggested Michael be allowed
to stay behind and join me in a game of chess -- under Helen's watchful eye, of
course.

           
I've
never been better than an average chess player, but Michael was quite good, and
it took little pretending to turn our game into a genuine contest.
 
I was mourning a lost bishop and
considering my next move when Michael leaned across the board and inquired in a
loud whisper, "I say, Miss Stewart.
 
Is it true?
 
Did you really
break the bank at the casino?"

           
"Where
in the world did you hear that?" I asked.

           
He
grinned.
 
"Uncle Spiro told me
this morning."

           
"I'm
afraid he was exaggerating a bit."

           
"He
was?” he said in disappointment.
 
“Oh, well.
 
I suppose I
should have known.
 
Uncle Spiro
tends to rally one a bit.
 
He once
told me his grandfather was Lord Byron's illegitimate son.
 
I believed it until I did my sums and
realized his grandfather would have had to have been nearly a
hundred-and-thirty-five when Uncle Spiro was born."

           
"That
does undermine the story's credibility somewhat,” I said dryly.
 
“What did he say when you pointed that
out to him?"

           
"He
shrugged and said his father and grandfather both married late in life."

           
We
looked at each other and began to laugh.
 
Soon Helen was inquiring testily from across the room what the joke was,
but though we tried to stop, we kept breaking into giggles every time our eyes
met.
 
Finally, she marched over and
announced frostily that it was time for Michael to go to bed.
 
Instantly we sobered, but seeing my
expression, Michael darted one of his mischievous elf looks at me and said it
was just as well, because in three more moves he would have checkmated me.
 
I felt better until he wished me
goodnight, and I noticed the drooping curve of his shoulders as he followed
Helen from the room.

           
Fighting
the urge to kick something, I gritted my teeth and put the chess pieces away,
then went outside on the patio and began pacing up and down, gulping the cool
night air in the hopes it would cool my anger.

           
Suddenly
someone appeared out of the shadows in front of me.
 
"Something has upset you?"

           
Startled,
I gasped.

           
Spiro
raised one dark eyebrow mockingly.
 
"I frightened you?"

           
"It's
just you weren't at dinner.
 
I
thought you were in town."

           
He
shook his head, but offered no explanation.
 
"You have not answered my question, Christine.
 
Has something upset you?"

           
"No,
not really.
 
I'm just
restless."

           
He
smiled grimly.
 
"I, too.
 
Come, let us take a drive.
 
It’s a warm night and the fresh air
will do us good."

           
"I
don't know, it's getting late . . . ."

           
"Nonsense,"
Spiro said, taking my arm.
 
"The evening has just begun.
 
You cannot wish to go to bed so early.
 
Even the chickens are still awake."

           
I
tried to hang back.
 
"I don't
know.
 
I'm awfully tired."

           
He
frowned.
 
"Yet a moment ago
you said you were restless.
 
I hope
you are not avoiding my company."

           
Our
eyes met.
 
"Of course
not," I murmured.
 
"All
right, I suppose a short drive won't kill me."

           
He
smiled -- baring all those brilliant white teeth -- as if my choice of words
amused him.
 
"Shall
we?"
 
He led me down the steps
and around the house toward the garage.

           
"Shouldn't
we let someone know we're going?" I asked.

           
His
grip on my arm tightened.
 
"There's no need.
 
Come."

           
For
a moment, I felt a rush of panic.
 
I wondered if I should make a scene, yell, even run away, though I knew
if I did it would mean the end of my stay at the villa.
 
Then I saw someone watching us from the
shadows.

           
Geoffrey.
 
No doubt he'd arrived early for our
meeting on the beach and had overheard my conversation with Spiro.
 
I relaxed against Spiro's grip, and
allowed him to lead the way.

           
We
reached the garage.
 
Suddenly the
faint footsteps I'd been straining to hear grew louder.
 
Spiro turned, as did I.
 
A man's dark form stood silhouetted in
the doorway.
 
He stepped forward
into the light of the garage, and my heart sank.

           
The
man standing there smiling at us was not Geoffrey, but Paul.
 
"A nice evening for a drive,"
he commented in Greek.

           
Spiro
relaxed.
 
"Yes.
 
What brings you out here at such an
hour?"

           
"I
was wondering if I could borrow the Fiat.
 
There's this girl in Kassiopi --"

           
"Go
ahead," Spiro said impatiently, "take it.
 
Just see to it you're back by morning."

           
Paul
shrugged and flashed a grin.
 
"I will try."

           
As
we drove south to Ypsos, Spiro's mood was difficult to gauge, but we sped the
ten kilometer distance in less time than I care to remember.
 
As we descended the dark, curving road
into the brightly lit main drag of the resort town, the road began to fill with
people and the air to vibrate with music.

           
"Do
you wish to stop for a drink?" Spiro asked as he swerved the car into a
tiny parking space at the side of the road.
 
I presumed he meant it as a rhetorical question, so I didn't
bother to answer as we got out to walk.

           
We
entered a bar decorated in pink neon.
 
It was crowded, and full of cigarette smoke, but at least its sound
system was muted, and one didn't have to yell to be heard over the music.

           
To
my chagrin, Spiro ordered ouzo for us both.
 
Perhaps my chagrin was evident to the waiter, or perhaps he
took pity on my weak female constitution, but when he brought us our glasses
and the tall, thin bottle of ouzo, he also brought me a small pitcher of ice
water.
 
I beamed him a grateful
smile, and dashed some water into my glass before Spiro could fill the thing
entirely with the clear liquor.
 
With the addition of water, the drink turned milky -- a transformation
Spiro observed with a grimace.

           
"You
spoil the beauty of it," he reproached, before pouring himself a full
glass and tossing it off.
 
He
poured himself another, and made as if to add some more ouzo to my glass, but I
covered the top of the glass with my hand.

           
"I'm
fine, thanks."

           
He
shrugged and set the bottle down.
 
Then he picked up his glass and stared at it moodily.
 
"Tell me.
 
In those American schools of yours, did
they ever teach you of the goddess Nemesis?"

           
"A
little," I said, curious at his choice of topic.
 
"She's the goddess of retribution, isn't she?
 
The one who punished Polycrates, even
though he threw his ring into the sea?"

           
He
nodded grimly.
 
"It came back
to him, you know, in a fish.
 
Poor
devil, try though he might, he could not escape his fate."

           
"Well,
from what I remember of the story, it was no great loss.
 
He didn't exactly sound like a great
guy."

           
Spiro's
fingers tightened on the glass until his knuckles turned white.
 
"Who are you to judge?
 
You cannot know why he did what he
did!"

           
I
was startled by his vehemence.
 
"I'm sorry.
 
You're
right.
 
I'm in no position to
judge.
 
I don't even know if this
Polycrates was a real person."

           
Spiro
glowered at me, and then suddenly he relaxed back into his chair and
shrugged.
 
"It doesn't matter
whether he was or not."
 
He
lifted his glass as if making a toast.
 
"The truth is, Christine, men make their own fates."
 
He downed the contents of his glass in
one long gulp.

           
The
determination in his voice made me shiver.
 
I took a sip of ouzo and tried to come up with another topic
of conversation.
 
Spiro, however,
was no longer in a talkative mood, and as the level of liquor in the bottle
went steadily down, I began worrying about how I was going to get back to
Ithaki
.
 
I certainly wasn't going to let Spiro
drive me anywhere with that much ouzo in his system.