“We went to San Francisco,” Marco said. “I kept wondering who the murderers would be.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Andrew said.

  “We watch a lot of your TV,” Marco confessed.

  “Who did you go with?” Andrew asked.

  “My girlfriend,” Marco said, edging closer.

  “Ah,” Andrew said, his steps suddenly heavier. “Are you still with her?”

  “No,” Marco said. “No more girlfriends.”

  “Never?”

  “No,” Marco said, reaching for Andrew’s hand. “It’s not my nature.”

  They exchanged a smile and Andrew let Marco hold his hand.

  “This is me,” he said when they reached the Electra, a three-story building that would do for now. Andrew would find a cheaper place when the rates went up.

  Marco let go of Andrew and put his hands in his jean pockets, as if making an effort to keep them to himself.

  “Will you come to the taverna tomorrow?” he asked, looking almost bashful.

  “Maybe,” Andrew said, smiling, already knowing he would.

  “Okay.”

  Smiling, hands still in his pockets, Marco walked away.

  The owner had left the front door cracked for him. That was how much they didn’t worry, even with a fresh murder on the island.

  Andrew climbed the stairs to his room and let himself inside. The taste of smoke still clung to the back of his throat.

  He made certain the sliding glass door to the little balcony was closed and locked.

  He checked the bathroom and the closet, just in case.

  Though a bit grimy from the day, he’d shower in the morning, when there was a better chance for some hot water. That was one thing he missed about America, the chance to take a longer shower. The hotel’s water was solar heated. At this hour it would make him shiver.

  Edward didn’t join him at the ferry. He was likely spending the day wrangling his latest batch of grad students by email or video call.

  The digging was hard, but Andrew didn’t mind. He liked having the site to himself.

  It was near the temple of Athena, close to the island’s highest point. He could see the ocean from here, could almost pretend that he had Delos all to himself.

  Despite the sparse landscape, it was easy to imagine the glory days of the Delian League, when Athens ruled the seas.

  Andrew had brought plenty of water and a few sandwiches. He lost himself in the work, digging and sifting, scratching notes, and cataloging what little he found.

  Today might be the day he broke through to the grave. In a way he wanted to savor it, to make it last. This would be his first big find and, with it, he’d truly start his career, the life he’d built for himself and wanted to live.

  Standing in the pit, he realized the sun was close to setting.

  He did not know if the last boat would wait for him or how thorough they’d be about counting heads.

  Andrew hurried to grab his bag and notes, but he could not leave the grave open.

  He scrambled to place the tarp and stones to weigh it down, knowing it was likely already too late. He hurried down the hill, toward the dock, but it was getting dark. He had to go carefully or risk his footing. This wasn’t anywhere he wanted to break an ankle. It wasn’t like he had cell service here.

  He passed the ruins.

  He’d try the ferry office. If no one answered his knock, he’d head to the museum. Maybe he’d get lucky enough to find an overnight guard, or maybe there was Wi-Fi and he could call someone. He would not panic.

  After all, there was nothing to fear here. The island was mostly abandoned, mostly, which he remembered when a pale cat crossed his path, startling him into making a noise that he was relieved no one was around to hear.

  A boat stood at the dock. Andrew exhaled and started forward until he spied a man coming toward him. Twilight made a shadow of him, but he walked with purpose.

  Andrew cast about but there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

  The man waved and came closer.

  “Andrew?” Marco called.

  “What are you doing here?” Andrew asked, letting out a long breath.

  “You missed the ferry, so I asked Spiros to bring me.” Marco pointed toward the boat.

  “Thank you,” Andrew said. “I was worried I was going to have to spend the night here.”

  Marco stepped forward and hugged him.

  “This way,” Marco said, smiling as he let Andrew go.

  Andrew recognized Spiros as one of the old men from the tavern. He looked the part of a sailor, with a navy blue peacoat and a hat that framed the steely wool of his beard and cragged features.

  He exchanged a polite yassas with Andrew and began the trip back to Mykonos as soon as Marco and Andrew had taken their seats.

  Andrew had never made the crossing after dark. The boat’s lights bounced across the choppy water. It was cold.

  Spiros drove and chain smoked. The wind whipped the taste past Andrew’s nose as he exchanged shy glances with Marco.

  “How did you know I missed the ferry?”

  “I had the night off and wanted to surprise you, but you weren’t at the dock.”

  “I’m glad you came,” Andrew said, warming as they locked eyes.

  “You got caught up in your work, didn’t you?” Marco asked, his eyes laughing.

  “How did you know?”

  “I’ve watched you. It’s something you do.”

  “It is,” Andrew confessed.

  They docked and climbed out. Marco passed Spiros a wad of Euros. They spoke quickly in hurried Greek.

  “Thank you,” Andrew told the old man, who only grunted. Maybe Andrew could buy him a glass of ouzo next time he saw him.

  Marco matched Andrew’s pace as they headed toward the town.

  “I can pay you back,” Andrew said.

  “You do not have to.”

  “At least let me buy you dinner?”

  “All right, but not at the taverna.”

  Andrew laughed.

  They found a place that was pricey for Andrew’s budget, but the couple running it seemed glad for the business. Andrew might even have called it romantic.

  The slow pace of the meal did not bother him. They ate. They talked. A few more words of Greek fell into place, and he felt pretty certain that he no longer misread the shine in Marco’s eyes.

  Andrew slammed the glass of ouzo they offered at the end. It wasn’t to his taste, but it would be rude to decline.

  Marco grew more animated as they walked away.

  They did not hold hands, but they walked near enough to one another that their shoulders often brushed. Neither suggested it, but the charge to the air said they’d be keeping one another company back at the hotel.

  They were in the little square before Andrew had registered the route he’d taken.

  A man entered from the other direction.

  He wasn’t remarkable looking, with brown hair and an average build, but something like malice radiated off him.

  Andrew froze when he recognized him. Frank had changed since his picture in the paper, since Sam had died.

  He looked wild-eyed, more than a little crazed.

  “Was it you?” he demanded.

  His hand shook as lifted a gun and pointed it at Marco.

  Andrew swallowed hard and froze. It felt like everything had stopped—his breathing, his heart.

  “Was. It. You?” Frank repeated, punctuating each word with a jab of the gun in their direction.

  “What are you talking about?” Andrew asked, raising his hands.

  “Julia,” Frank said with another jab of the barrel.

  “No,” Marco said. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Of course you didn’t kill her.” Frank stepped closer. He wouldn’t miss at that range, no matter how hard he shook. He smelled sour and smoky, like he’d bathed in bourbon and tried to sleep it off in an alley. “Were you sleeping with her? Were you Sam’s father?”

  “No,” Marco repeated, eyes darting between Frank and Andrew.

  All the gold had drained out of his skin, and he looked more than a little confused.

  “What is going on, Frank?” Andrew asked, trying to sound calm.

  “I thought Sam was mine. Mine.”

  The gun waved back and forth, dancing between them.

  Something clattered in one of the nearby alleys.

  Andrew did not think. He knew that if he did, he wouldn’t act. He leaped forward, swinging his bag at Frank’s arm. It connected awkwardly.

  The gun went off and Andrew found himself tackling Frank to the ground.

  It wasn’t anything like a fight on television. Andrew kicked and punched. Then Marco was there, trying to hold Frank’s arm so he could not fire again. He did not know how long it went on, he and Marco trying to keep the larger man pinned.

  At one point Andrew kneed Frank in the balls. He wasn’t proud of it, but it bought him a heaving breath.

  Then the police were there, rushing into the square.

  Andrew was tossed aside. Frank was restrained and dragged into a sitting position.

  Andrew and Marco took heaving breaths and exchanged a glance as the gun was collected and bagged.

  “Are you okay?” Andrew asked.

  Marco nodded. “You?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doctor Patras.” It was the cop from the night he’d found Julia. “Are you all right?”

  He didn’t seem worried about Marco.

  “We’re fine,” Andrew said.

  “Who is he?” Marco asked.

  “Julia’s husband,” Andrew said.

  “He took a catamaran from the mainland,” the cop explained.

  “That was why you asked me about how I arrived,” Andrew said.

  “Yes. We’d thought he’d left the island.”

  “Why did he kill her?” Marco asked, sounding sad.

  “He found out their child wasn’t his,” Andrew said.

  The cop nodded.

  “It is always the husband, though Professor Miller made some calls on our behalf. That was how we knew he’d left California.”

  “He came halfway around the world to murder her,” Andrew said. “That’s horrible.”

  They were already dragging Frank away. The man was sobbing. Andrew didn’t know if it was grief, alcohol, or some combination of the two.

  Despite everything, his heart twinged with a bit of ache.

  He remembered his dad, the moments after, the long beep of the monitor, when Andrew had puked from grief.

  Marco inched closer, though he stopped short of putting his arm around Andrew’s shoulders.

  Andrew understood. He did not know how the cops would take it.

  “Do you need a statement or anything?” Andrew asked.

  “Not tonight. Go home.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Let me walk you,” Marco said.

  Andrew had no interest in arguing, though the anticipation and the buzz of the ouzo had chilled to ice.

  Still, Andrew did not say no when Marco invited himself inside. He did not protest when Marco kissed him.

  A pounding on the door brought Andrew into the daylight, bringing him back from a golden, happy dream. He lay alone, naked.

  “Andrew!” Edward called from the other side of the door. “Are you in there?”

  “A minute!” Andrew called.

  He scrambled into his clothes and opened the door to find a harried-looking Edward standing on the other side. Sweat beaded his bald head. He’d been running.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “I just heard the news.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t sleep well.” He hoped he didn’t blush as he said it. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

  “Any damage?” Edward asked.

  “No,” Andrew said. “Julia’s husband attacked us, but they got him. The cops said he wasn’t the father. That’s why he killed her.”

  Edward hung his head low.

  “Julia left him in America to raise the boy while she pursued her career.”

  “It was more than that,” Andrew said. “He wanted to know if Marco was the father. That’s why he stayed on the island after he killed her.”

  Edward shook his head.

  Andrew tried not to let his eyes fix on the empty bed.

  “Let me get my shoes on and we can go,” he said.

  “Are you sure? You can take the day off. You had a hell of a night.”

  Andrew reached for his boots to hide his blush.

  “I’m sure,” he said. “Let’s just find some coffee before we head over.”

  He lifted his bag and found it lighter than it should be.

  “Where is it?” he asked, riffling through the contents.

  “What?”

  “My notebook.”

  They scanned the room, but there was no place for it to hide. Had it fallen out during his fight with Frank? No, the bag had been latched, and the weight had felt right when they’d walked back to the hotel.

  Something cold slid into Andrew’s guts.

  “We need to go check on the site,” he said.

  “What?” Edward asked. “Why?”

  “Marco,” Andrew said.

  They hurried to the docks, Edward got winded early, and Andrew forced himself to slow down, to let Edward keep up. They caught the next ferry, and Andrew drummed his fingers on the metal rail the entire time.

  They raced off the dock, marched up the hill.

  Andrew’s stomach sank and sank as they climbed. He raced ahead, leaving Edward to catch up.

  He found what he knew he would find.

  The tarp had been pulled aside. It fluttered like a sail, rippling, weighed down by one of the rocks.

  Dirt lay everywhere, rudely piled, the final layers were broken and all of Andrew’s careful work destroyed.

  There were bits, debris that he might sort through to learn something, but the grave lay empty, the contents ransacked.

  Whatever had been there, whatever the mystery and the final prize, had been looted.

  “Andrew . . .” Edward said, catching up. He froze, turned red with rage.

  “We’ll go back,” Edward said. “We’ll get him.”

  “You know as well as I do that he’s already gone,” Andrew said with a shake of his head.

  It had never felt so heavy.

  “I don’t understand,” Edward said. “Why would he do this?”

  “He wanted to be more,” Andrew heard himself say as if from somewhere far away. “And he needed money to do it.”

  “This is a disaster. The university will blame you. The Ministry of Culture could pull our permission to dig.” Edward lifted his clenched fingers. No doubt he would have pulled at his hair if he’d had any. “How could this happen?”

  “Human nature,” Andrew muttered, the notes of the song echoing in his memory.

  The golden memory of the night before remained warm and dreamlike. How could that be? He couldn’t reconcile it, that feeling, to this. Edward was right. It was a disaster.

  You only get one life, Andrew thought.

  He’d built his so carefully. Now he had the terrible sense that it was over.

  You only get one death.

  PRETTY YOUNG THING

  RICK BLEIWEISS

  morning

  After killing Louise, the hitwoman from the mainland who had been sent to Maui to take him out, Walker, New York’s top hitman who was hiding out at the Surfland Resort in Kihei, wheeled the accessories cart she had left outside his door and rummaged through it until he found what he was looking for: an empty jumbo, heavy-gauge garbage bag. He placed his hands under her ample chest to lift her lifeless blood-soaked body into the bag, and thought, what a shame, you were one looker, darling. Once she was fully crammed into the trash bag, he tied it closed, dragged it to the bedroom closet, and then went back to the cart.

  He used the bleach, soap, rags, and paper towels to clean up the blood that had splattered on the walls and floor when his bullet exploded into her head. Once Walker had scrubbed the area as spotless as those cleaning agents would allow, he took a kitchen knife and dislodged the bullet she had shot at him from the wall it was embedded in. Then he placed all the towels and rags and the projectile in a smaller garbage bag and threw it into the bedroom closet as well.

  Walker circled around the bed to the bathroom, washed his hands, and then went to the front door. He pushed the cart out of the condo and into the elevator. When it got to the ground floor, he wheeled the cart through the parking lot into the dumpster enclosure and placed it next to the garbage bin sitting inside. Then he went back to the condo to retrieve the garbage bags in the closet. They were a struggle even for a man of his strength, but Walker was able to carry and drag them into the elevator and eventually throw them into the dumpster, perspiring the whole time from the oppressively hot midday sun.

  When he closed the doors to the garbage shed, Walker wiped the dripping sweat off his face with the bottom of his shirt and looked at the two buildings the parking lot serviced. After scanning all the balconies, he was confident that no one had seen him throwing out what would look like heavy garbage.

  Once he was back in the condo, Walker changed into a new shirt, and inhaled five deep, cleansing, relaxing breaths before walking to the couch in the living room. From his Marine training and years of success as a hitman, the belief that he could deal with anything that came his way was ingrained into him, so he calmly sat down and phoned his friend Junior Hanks.

  Junior answered the call on the second ring.

  “Hey, Junior, how goes it? Where are you?”

  “Home, Walker, doin’ nothin’. It’s been pourin’ puppies and kittens here all day. Manhattan’s so wet I’d have to wear a bathing suit and flip-flops if I went out. My old man would never have tried a hit in this weather, he’d have been afraid it would’ve rusted his piece. And like him, I prefer staying nice and dry in my apartment. What about you? You still in Hawaii? You okay?”

  Walker shifted on the couch. “Yep. It’s been hotter than Hades—even though it rained last night it didn’t make a difference. But all is just dandy. You know that hitman they sent after me? Surprise of all surprises, it wasn’t a hitman, it was a hitwoman. Her name was Louise, not Lou.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22