(18) Crucia

A small stone struck the ground well in front of Sanguineus.

That was the signal from Sally Anne that a vehicle was approaching the hill. He crawled out from under the hedge and stood.

He did not look directly at the 8-cylinder two-door that purred slowly up the winding dirt road, its lights off, but, because he had not put on his battery powered night goggles, he stared a little to one side of the car. In the corners of his eyes it showed as a long sleek silhouette. Had he looked directly at it, or at any object in the darkness of night, it would've seemed to vanish.

The car turned onto a dual rutted track and climbed in first gear up to the far summit of the hill, on the opposite side of the olive grove from where Sanguineus now crouched.

He had wanted to see how many vehicles were coming. That only one came told him that no more than six persons, or seven at most, would attend the ritual. Ambrosia had been truthful about that much of it.

She and Fabienne were to ride Pegasus to the grove, a short ways from the upper pasture. The passengers, she had said, would be Agape, Berenice, Tragos, and, she suspected strongly, Marianne. The other two or three, possibly four, were Agape's 'boys,' which was to say his trustiest thugs.

Sanguineus crawled back under the hedge and positioned himself prone, legs spread, with the pack against his chest, a fixed bipod holding the carbine's barrel steady. It was a lightweight low-recoil weapon, easily fired with one hand like a pistol. He scanned the clearing and environs with the night scope. And he waited.

Above and to his right the Scops owl called again. 'Birp... birp...' But no answer came.

Sally Anne Bern, like Sanguineus, was dressed all in black, a poplin fabric, a black hood over her head with a generous cut-out for the eyes, her upper cheeks and brows painted a dark brown and green. Her gloves left her trigger finger bare from the middle knuckle. It was smeared in the same dark camo colors.

She was remembering her weapons training, congratulating herself for her 982 rating on the firing lanes. The clearing, with its mosaic of shadows and webs of budding twigs on thick twisted branches, recalled Lane Number 12, the night shoot, at the ranch, where shortish thorn trees stood in for the olive. Her score for hitting mechanized moving targets in the five-meter clearing was the third best on record.

But this was not a training exercise. This would not allow critiques and precise sight adjustments, nor, possibly, second chances. Her job was to guard the girl who had tried to petrify her, who for some uncertain reason hated her. She was to stop anyone who acted as though he intended the girl harm.

To stop meant to shoot. To shoot meant to kill.

She listened to the car doors opening, to the mix of voices, the momentary intervals of silence, then the doors slamming shut in a four-point staccato.

Her heart began beating like a bird's. She took deep breaths and inhaled through her nose. Ambrosia had assured Sanguineus that though the clearing was given a cursory looking over, no one ever bothered going out into the brush of the surrounding grounds.

The olive grove was a hallowed place. It had been regarded as such for as far back as the old folks could remember. But the reverence accorded it was not due to saintly overtones but to a superstition so dark that the wild grove on the hill was seldom visited even in the light of day. On top of that, it was on Krasti property, and Kadir Kastri's ghost was not one anybody wished to raise.

Sally Anne looked to her left, toward the dark stretch of growth where Sanguineus lay hidden and ready. Were she to feel herself in imminent peril, she was to hurry with all stealthy speed to the outcrop of rock below his position, announcing herself to him with the whistle of whatever birdcall she could manage. That would be a warbler. She moistened her lips, curled her tongue, and produced the softest imitation, hardly more than a tremulous sigh. But it helped to calm her nerves.

One thing still bothered her a bit. She had a bum foot and a less than perfect knee. This had not disqualified her but it had left its mark on her personal file, a note that advised no assignments that would likely require strenuous movement on rough ground. If she had to make a run for it, in the dark, over uneven terrain, she would be risking a crippling injury.

Instinctively she ducked her head.

The beam of a flashlight passed over the clump of stones and long-stemmed grasses behind which she lay. Opening one eye she watched three separate beams of harsh hazy white light wash over the olive trees, back and forth, up and down, as male Greek voices spoke to one another.

She heard the crunch of footsteps. She held the AR-15 with its taped banana ammo clips close to her body, checking by feel to assure herself that it was on semi-auto. Then she placed her bare finger on the safety. Always before, when she had a weapon readied for use, the people near her were instructors and fellow trainees. How different the situation now.

All the voices were in Greek. Sally Anne listened intently to the timbre of the voices. They were a little tense, perhaps, but casual, with some levity here and there. She thought she heard a female voice, but she wasn't sure. Two names were spoken: "Kyrios Agape," said with deference, and with a slight sneer, "Kyria Miriam," which puzzled her until she supposed it referred to Marianne.

"Pou vriskontai?" was spoken lustily. Sanguineus heard it clearly in the cool clear air. ('Where are they?')

He closed his eyes. He heard the muffled clatter of hoofs, a neighing, a word of encouragement from Ambrosia, "Parte ftero!" ('Take wing!'), and a galloping up the lesser incline on the hill's west side, ahead and to his left. He put on the goggles.

Just as he finished adjusting them Pegasus came into view, green like carven jade in the emerald scene as viewed through the lenses.

Sanguineus surveyed the clearing. He recognized Agape from Sally Anne's description. He was sitting in a fold-out canvas chair, holding a thermos bottle. It was difficult at this range to determine his expression. He was talking to a thug standing beside him, but Sanguineus could not hear what was said. The thug was certainly armed, as were the others-- in total three-- but no guns showed.

Across from Agape were Berenice and an attractive woman who was Marianne 'by default,' as Sanguineus thought of it. They were flanked by the other two thugs. Both women wore shapeless smocks that were probably white, but which shown a lemony green in the goggle lenses.

There was no sign of Tragos. No one seemed upset by his absence, which suggested to Sanguineus that Grigoris Markos was still in the car, perhaps tied up or drugged unconscious. But why this precaution?

Pegasus halted in stately fashion in the center of the clearing.

It was then that Sanguineus saw what had been dragged behind the horse on thick coarse ropes.

The two crosses.

Ambrosia was dressed in a short pleated kirtle belted at the waist, a hooded cape, and sandals with straps that wound around her calves to just below her knees. She dismounted spritely, apparently in high spirits. She pulled down the hood. Her hair was in a long braid. A shiny circlet graced her brow. Her bare arms shone with armlets and bracelets, her fingers twinkled with rings. She looked every inch a goddess.

"Crucia!" cried a chorus of male voices. "Crucia!"

Agape raised his thermos in a jaunty salute.

Berenice and Marianne stood silent, staring at Ambrosia with what Sanguineus thought was a mix of fear and hate. But their expressions were as though sculpted in stone, cold and perpetual. He focused on the girl. She seemed to be gazing toward the two besmocked women.

Ambrosia laughed and sang out, "Evlogies apo ton Olympo!" ('Blessings from Olympus!')

"Crucia! Crucia!"

Ambrosia reached up for Fabienne and lifted her down, where she stood with a hand on the horse's flank.

The thug nearest Agape drew out a knife and began to cut at the ropes. The two crosses thudded to the ground. Then he removed the harness to which the remnants of the ropes were attached.

Pegasus shook his mane and neighed. He reared in a prancing manner. Fabienne said something melodic, in happy excited tones, and rubbed the horse's muzzle.

Ambrosia looked up at the moon. It shone on her wondrous face.

"As archisoume, O pateras tou Dia!" she said.

'Let us begin, O Father Zeus!'

(17) Crucia

Small, like a lost white balloon held by its own predicament, the moon shone down on the olive grove.

The short and uniquely gnarled trees stood in a tight circle on a low flat-topped hill southeast of the high vineyard. Except for the occasional jetliner descending toward, or climbing from, the local airport, all was quiet but for the 'birp birp' of the nightbird, the Scops owl. Sanguineus listened to the lonely call that received no answer, none but the faint rustle of leaves.

He sat half reclining under the straggly branches of a wild hedge, his back supported by a shoulder pack from which he had extracted his weapons and accouterments. He put a drop of atropine in each eye to dilate his pupils. This would facilitate the use of his infrared goggles and night scope. The vision aids were needed. The full moon is ten times less bright than a half moon, and the clear sharp night made for impenetrable shadows in the target area, like an overflowing moat of ink.

He was just over thirty meters from the clearing, directly across from a broad opening in the circle of olive trees. His preference was this moderate range, applying the suppressed .223 AR-15 carbine. But if circumstances were not to be in favor of it, he was prepared to sally forth to the clearing with his 33-round Glock 18 machine pistol.

He was fortunate to have the weapons of his choice. For a man of his profession guns were always available in whatever locale he was to operate, thanks to the local 'snakes' (links between covert authorities, field agents, and contract operatives), the indispensable furtive ones in every society, the chameleons who blend in with the woodwork wherever they go. But often Sanguineus had to make do with guns he did not trust or was not as familiar with as those which he preferred to rely on. Tonight he had exactly what he would have chosen in a warehouse full of options.

It was nearing 10pm. Another hour and the dramae personae would be in place for the ritual.

He thought back to last night at the cafe where he had taken Ambrosia for dinner. He chose it for its Saturday night crowd and the noisy chaos of its table arrangements, the safest place for a conversation that one didn't want overheard.

There was foreplay in her eyes and in the symbolism of her hands and mouth as she sampled the fried chipotles appetizers. The cafe had been a favorite haunt of her father, Jorge Antonio, she exclaimed when he had pulled up to its colorful facade. A coincidence. And Sanguineus did not like coincidences.

Before the dishes came, when they were well into their drinks, he showed her a print-out of a man taken from a telephoto camera. It was a close-up, a slightly blurred image of a middle-aged gentleman with a pronounced scar on his right cheek that extended down to his neck.

"Who is this man?" he asked her.

Ambrosia smiled like a girl caught doing something naughty, but for which no punishment was expected.

"That's the cousin of Grigoris, the gangster who lives in Rome, my insistent admirer," she said. "Yes, he arrived in Corinthia this afternoon. I saw him in the Ammos Bar, quite by surprise! Who took the picture? Have you been spying on me?"

"What's his name and why is he here?"

"Carlos, and he's here because he comes here every month at the full moon. He's a romantic bastard, I'll give him that."

Sanguineus put the photo in his black corduroy sport coat and sat back relaxed. But his eyes were devoid of anything akin to foreplay. He stared meaningfully at Ambrosia until he saw her expression change to a defensive one.

"I'm going to do the tough guy thing," he said, "so bear with me. On assignment I can chop anyone's ass who gets in my way. I have zero tolerance for lies and attempts at manipulation. I'm here to pop the person I think was responsible for the death of Pella Markos, and I'm not too particular about who that turns out to be."

"Grigoris," said Ambrosia. "I wouldn't have believed it before. I still can hardly believe it. But I saw the other night that he has a vindictive, ugly, part of himself that he is good at hiding, and a lust for young women which I don't blame him for, except that it reveals a hypocritical side to him."

Sanguineus waited for her to settle her temper and to finish sipping her Sangria. Then he said: "My associates staked out the bar, before and after I was there. Sally Anne Bern took the picture of your dapper Carlos when she saw him looking in your direction, as you were walking to your car. Did you intend to meet with him tomorrow at his hotel?"

Ambrosia gave him a cool neutral smile. "You know the answer already. You had a man-to-man talk with Darren Smirnis and then killed him, or so I heard. And now, what? What's the newest news? Did you corner Carlos, pick his brains, and then kill him too?"

Sanguineus lifted his martini glass. "Didn't you want me to?"

Ambrosia looked surprised. Her stare was blank, her smile frozen. Then she took out a compact from her purse, squinted in its mirror, powdered her nose, closed it, and while putting it away said airily, "I should have known you were a fast worker."

"In my line of work fast responses are an imperative," Sanguineus said, seeing a waitress with a laden tray weaving her way toward them through the busy tables, "but sometimes speed overtakes the right decision. Here's our meal. Put this in your ear," he said, and setting his Nordic on her side of the table he handed her its ear bud. "Listen to my conversation with Carlos while we're savoring our repast."

He tapped the start icon on the phone's screen. There was no visual.

While attending to his Cuchifritos meat dish, and Ambrosia her shrimp Paella, Sanguineus relived his encounter with Carlos Markos in that tiny but immaculate house in the higher elevation above Corinth proper, in the adjoining town of Examilia.

Sanguineus had placed a magnatized tracker under the chassis of the Ford rental that stood in the parking stall reserved for the occupant of the hotel's prime suite. It guided his Silverado to an unexpectedly shabby neighborhood, to the house at the end of a crumbly street, a house veiled by palms whose masses of dead fronds had never been cut away.

Sanguineus parked around the corner, a short walk down a dirt road that, in the opposite direction, led to abandoned shanties.

Carlos had been in the house for about thirty minutes when Sanguineus, after a quick recon of the sparse and weedy backyard, jimmied open the back door and walked into a narrow kitchen with his Glock machine pistol nosing ahead of him.

He expected to surprise a woman and perhaps a child or two, but as he turned into the small boxy living-room he heard nothing, and saw nothing, that would suggest anyone but Carlos was there. There were no other vehicles but the Ford, no sign of pets, no toys, no framed photos, no food stuffs favored by children, no touch of cleanliness that might be evidence of a woman's presence. There was just the musty smell of a vacant house that had a visitor.

When he entered a cramped hall he smelled a strong aftershave lotion. A bathroom to his right, rust and stained porcelain, a torn shower curtain with a rainbow design. To his left a door with a padlock. Ahead, a door ajar, the sound of a clock that was more like a squeak than a tick. Then the scraping of chair legs on a wooden floor.

He went in.

The little girl was sitting under a bed set on tall posts. It was a bunkbed that had only the upper berth. Fabienne sat with her knees drawn up, hands flat on the sheet of plywood that was scrawled with crayon drawings. The floor was strewn with stuffed toy horses. She was staring at him.

But Sanguineus knew better than to meet her dark cold gaze. Besides, his attention was focused on Carlos Markos.

The man had scooted his chair away from a deal table on which was an open briefcase. In it were papers, a tablet, and assorted boxes with pharmaceutical insignia on them. He was looking over a shoulder at Sanguineus with a quizzical expression that became a frightened one when he saw the Glock.

"Grigoris sou esteila?" ('send you?') he asked in a raspy voice. He ran his rheumatic eyes over the denim shirt and jeans, and puzzlement vied with his fear. "Who are you?" he asked in English. "You understand?"

"A friend of Ambrosia Kastri. Why is Fabienne here?"

Carlos was visibly relieved, enough to relax a little and run a couple fingers through his crisp greying hair. His scar writhed as he grimaced in lieu of a smile. He was a potbellied man with sharp angular features, dressed in a beige suit and black tie. He held his head tilted and looked at Sanguineus sideways. This meant that he was a sly man who sought always to sneak an advantage in any social occasion, a man who trusted no one. His choice of living quarters bore that out, Sanguineus thought.

"Why is she here?" he repeated in a stern manner.

Carlos was now sitting back and looking at the girl. With a concerned expression he said, "For her own protection. There are those who want her dead. I hope you are not one of them." Then leaning forward, tilting his head, looking narrow-eyed at Sanguineus, he asked, "If you are friends with Ambrosia, why are YOU here?"

Sanguineus glanced at the girl. Her attitude had not changed. But then she did not know English, probably, or very little.

"Never mind that," he said. "Who wants her dead?"

He shifted his position beneath the hedge and looked up at the full moon. The Scops owl had ceased its calling. A distant jetliner was taking its howl away with it, a tiny string of red and white lights shining where the stars were faded out by the moonbeams. And reclining there he remembered the stunned look on Ambrosia's face as she listened to the recording, her Paella cooling beneath her fork.

(16) Crucia

Ambrosia was sitting in a folding metal armchair at a round whitewashed metal table under a thatch umbrella, outside the Ammos bar.

The beach was more dirt than sand. Sprays of crusty soil and pebbles were scattered over the cement where she was reminiscently situated, gazing at the breakwater harbor where modest sized yachts were moored and jet skis frolicked in the open gulf.

There was an unexpectedly large crowd for a March weekend with a cooler than usual breeze. The salty air was full of children's shrieks, staticky music, and was rife with the smell of roasting meats.

She wore a light sweater and jeans, with open-toe sandals, minimal make-up, her hair gathered in a loose bun, and she saw everything through the amber tint of her sunglasses. She appeared relaxed. But her blood pressure was up.

She had talked to Christofer Agape an hour ago on her cell phone, during her drive to the Ammos. The topic had disturbed her.

"Marianne Limani was raving insanely about Berenice Chora," he had said. "She accuses her of hypnotizing Fabienne in some black magic nonsense."

"About what exactly?"

"That stone-stare absurdity."

"Ah, the Medusa thing!"

"Do you believe that ridiculous notion too? The little girl has asthma, not a black magic curse. But that's not the problem. Pegasus is sick."

"No, no, he's recovering, he'll be just fine by tomorrow, the doctor is certain of it."

"I do hope that's true, my dear woman. Our relationship is founded on the understanding that his life and yours are intertwined. You know what I'm talking about. He will begin to stud in June, and if what the scientist fellow predicts is true, the offspring of Pegasus will be super horses without the need of performance enhancement drugs. It will be in their genes. They will be a Thoroughbred breed superior to all others. No more need for cheating our way to the winner's circle. So let me make this clear to you. If you involve Pegasus in your Crucia activities, you had better not endanger him in any way."

"Well of course not! I wouldn't think of it! He is essential for the healing of Fabienne. It is part of the process. That girl has remarkable faith, but faith needs an object, and for her, it is Pegasus."

Now, sipping a Bloody Mary and nibbling on cheese sticks, Ambrosia tried to focus her thoughts on Sanguineus. To think of him was to think of Marianne. This combination had infused her lovemaking last night. It was as though she was a crucified Marianne being ravished to death by the executioner.

She smiled at the thought. It cleared away her concerns about the ritual and had her thinking of what could come of its conclusion, late at night with Sanguineus, blood on his hands and the healing of Fabienne on hers. He would make love to her with the ruthlessness of his nature, while her body glowed with the satisfaction of a twofold triumph: the girl's medusean talent within her grasp, and the man's hard stiff power in the purse of her loins.

A frosty bucket glass of pale lime color was set on the table by a sunbrowned hand.

Ambrosia looked up. The face of Sanguineus came down and they kissed.

She offered him a cheese stick when he had sat down to her right. He wore a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, half unbuttoned, baring a swath of his chest. An old camo boonie hat shaded his eyes. That was providential, for the umbrella's shade favored her left side.

"I spoke with your foster father last night before I left the villa," said Sanguineus in a light conversational tone.

"Don't call him my foster father," Ambrosia said. She was emphatic, but at once smiled her forgiveness. "He isn't what he makes himself out to be. He's a puffed up old narcissist who killed his wife for doing what he himself has done with God knows how many college girls. His only worth is in dying so that a sick girl will be healed. There, let that be his restitution."

Sanguineus shrugged. "Why not. You needn't bother convincing me of his guilt. Our investigator has been digging up more bits of incriminating evidence of his dealings with a Sicilian mob. It tried, through his info fed to them, to muscle in on the super-horse scam. Agape's boys have been hitting back. Do with the goat whatever you like. We've got his payment to us secured. And we've enough evidence to justify our acquiescence of his death, should a prospective client ask any questions about it, which is highly doubtful. We don't publish our goals and methods in Business Weekly."

"I didn't think you did," Ambrosia remarked. Her mind was elsewhere. "I've been meaning to ask you a favor. It's something Christofer doesn't really want to handle. You know that Grigoris had an uncle in the Sicilian Mafia. Well, he has a cousin who's into it also. The uncle's dead, but his youngest son, Carlos, is going strong. He has been coming to see me ever since I inherited the vineyard. He's forty-seven. Divorced. He lives in Rome. He wants to buy half my property and wants me to live with him in Rome. He treats me nice, but he won't take no for an answer. I think Christofer is afraid to get rid of him for me. I suppose he sees it as an unnecessary risk. I'm just an employee of Christofer's, to tell you the truth. He thinks of himself as my lover, but that's just an ego thing. What he really wants of me is the care of Pegasus."

Sanguineus finished the cheese stick during her speech and was now rolling a smoke. "I don't normally do favors of that sort unless I'm returning one to a colleague who has done favors for me," he said. His mind was elsewhere also. "You might not be aware of this, but last night, while you and I were shaking the sheets, Fabienne tried to freeze Sally Anne Bern's heart. This Medusa look of hers. She might have succeeded had not Rolgo entered the scene. Why is this girl hellbent against Sally? Is this something you put her up to?"

"No of course not!"

"Then explain it to me."

Ambrosia pulled the elastic ribbon from her bun and shook out her hair. "Fabienne has a mean streak in her," she said, raising her glass to her lips. "All the kids are a little afraid of her. She's never really hurt anyone with her look, but the kids can feel it when she stares at them angrily. Oh, and I just found out today that Marianne accuses Berenice of developing the Medusa look in Fabienne. Why Berenice would attempt such a thing, I can't imagine, except that she's a crazy bitch strung out on drugs. Vaslo thinks she might have experimented with the super-horse drug! Just think of that!"

Sanguineus did. He lit his cig and said, "Bad shit happens. But when did Fabienne first begin manifesting this deadly skill?"

Ambrosia took a long sip. Her fingers, he noticed, were crawling along the stem of her glass like spider legs. A deception was coming.

"When she was old enough to ride Pegasus," she said, smiling at him. "It was her riding him that brought out the Medusa in her."

"Right," Sanguineus remarked with heavy skepticism. "I'm more inclined to think of it as a psychic gift perverted by her mother. There's something about her mother that she doesn't like. You said yourself that Berenice has abused her daughter."

"Well, all this black magic stuff that she keeps stuffing into Fabienne's head."

"And you're against that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb with me. You want this Medusa look for yourself. The girl's being pulled in two directions, by you and Marianne. But my guess is that Berenice has control of her. It may be that she's using you and Marianne to strengthen her hold on the girl, to help strengthen this medusean curse."

Ambrosia snatched her handbag and stood up. "I'm going shopping," she said with feigned gaiety. "Will you join me?"

Sanguineus sat looking at her thoughtfully. "I have a report to write," he said.

"What about this evening, then?" she asked, swinging her handbag like a schoolgirl.

Sanguineus nodded with the same thoughtful expression. "Meet me in the lobby of the Ephira Hotel, at seven. We'll have dinner someplace. Of my choosing."

Ambrosia, turned, looking back at him with a stilted smile, and said nothing.

(15) Crucia

Tragos was awakened from his deep stupor by the opening of the library door.

It took a moment for him to realize where he was: seated by a dim lamp in the library; and another moment to recognize the man in the doorway.

"I, my assistant, and Fredrico are going back to the city," Sanguineus said, his coat over an arm. "This is the twenty-first. I'll get in touch with you at noon on the twenty-third. I would prefer you stay here during this interval. But if you wish to cancel the contract, let me know now."

Tragos sat on the edge of the chair, elbows up, his hands on the ends of the armrests, staring over at Sanguineus with a strangely blank expression.

"Who is the target?" he asked.

This surprised Sanguineus. "It is not Ambrosia," he said.

There was a faint look of intrigue on the old philosopher's face. But whether this was the reaction from hearing an unexpected name, or from a disillusionment, Sanguineus could not determine.

Tragos sat back, rubbing one side of his nose. "No, I am not cancelling the contract," he said. "And yes, I will stay here at the villa."

He closed his eyes. But when he heard the door shut he pushed himself to his feet, feeling the hem of his broadcloth robe sway against his bare ankles and slowly settle on his sandals. He felt slightly dizzy and numb from lack of sleep. But he could not rest until that one effervescent thought that motivated him was satisfied. And now, at last, was the time for it.

He waited until he heard a vehicle start up and varoom away down the dirt road toward Poseidonos. Then he went out and down the short hall with its framed paintings of Greek gods, and stopped at the door of the den where Fabienne supposedly lay sleeping.

He did not know if that Medusa look of hers that afflicted the tall blond had actually occurred or if he had only dreamed it. That one thought of his pressed heatedly against his mind. Had he only known about her before he signed the contract! Was she the baby that dear Marianne brought with her to his hermitage those nine years ago?

He was worried. He knew that Agape had taken Marianne away and he thought he might know the reason. The hitman whom he had hired through Darren Smirnis to plug Pella was accompanied by Marianne. Had she been the shooter? The one witness had said the shooter was a woman.

Tragos could not accept that Marianne was the killer, but the fact that she was there in the car with the hitman made this denial difficult to sustain.

He pulled nervously on his white beard. He did not want to risk being connected to the hitman should the authorities re-open the case. This had been his incentive to arrange for the killer's own destruction, through Fredrico's contacts.

He fingered the doorknob indecisively. How horrible, he thought, if the hitman had been shot by Marianne after the killing of Pella, when the car had returned to wherever she was to be dropped off. The police were not aware of any such thing. No car, no body, had been found during the brief investigation. Did Agape know the true story? Had he bribed certain officials to let the matter stand unresolved?

Why would Agape be concerned about him (Tragos), or about Marianne? Two reasons, he thought as he slowly opened the door. One, Ambrosia was fond of her foster father and she had a good friend in Marianne. Two, Agape would not want to see her distressed, or in any way connected to the death of Pella. Well, it might very well be, he considered, stepping into the den, that it was Marianne who convinced the ICS investigator to finger Ambrosia as the killer. That would not set well with Agape should he find out about it. And apparently he had. So he takes Marianne for a ride.

Tragos stood by the cot staring down at the sleeping Fabienne, at the child Medusa; at the closed eyes that when opened on the full moon, in the olive grove where the crosses would be set up, an invisible light would shine... would shine on the two victims.

Was one of the victims to be Marianne? And who, he wondered, would be the other?

"How far can you trust her?" asked Rolgo, patting the armrests of his wooden roundback chair at the outdoor dining area of the Ephira Hotel.

"About as far as I can piss," Sanguineus replied.

He turned his vodka tonic around on the small glass-top table while gazing down the avenue with its jumble of white buildings and stiff awnings shading their windows from the late morning sun. It was a Saturday and the traffic was a leisurely clutter. He liked the hotel's location, in the thick of city life but close to the beach where he would be meeting Ambrosia for lunch.

It was the hotel he had stayed at on his way to Istanbul. The smallish rooms with their shabby fixtures, and the crickets swarming over the floor in the evenings, was par for the course. But it was cheap, just $49 a night. Bear Claus would not grumble too much over that, considering the assignment was longer than most, and certainly longer than expected.

"There's something Ambrosia wants me to do for her," Sanguineus added, glancing at Sally Anne, "if our newest operative is correct in seeing in Ambrosia a fear for her own safety."

Sally Anne was flipping through LiFO magazine, wearing dark shades, a wide brimmed floppy hat, a sleeveless pullover of blue and green, and white Bermuda shorts. She looked up and smiled at Sanguineus. "Do you see the worry in my smile? I've been trying to forget about the scary thing I went through last night. That beastly girl. Well, Miss Kastri was worried too, about herself, when the horse was lying on the ground all stiff and quivering. Whatever Dr Wingate injected it with, the effect was like a paralysis, like what I felt when what's-her-name was glaring at me."

Rolgo and Sanguineus exchanged inquiring looks. The mystery of Fabienne had been a subject they discussed last night before finally retiring to their respective beds. They had reached no conclusions.

"It might be," said Rolgo, "that Ambrosia is responsible for the well-being of Pegasus, a responsibility that Agape has saddled her with. But this would be only if he regarded the horse as more valuable to him than is Ambrosia. What is it about Pegasus that is worth more to him than his lover?"

Sanguineus lit a Sultan and stretched out his legs. He had not much sleep under his belt. He was feeling grouchy. He reminded himself not to be short tempered with Ambrosia. He hoped the salty breeze off the gulf would refresh him.

"We need more information about this super-horse drug," he remarked. "But all that really matters is zeroing in on the killer of Pella and fulfilling the contract. At the moment I see the killer as Marianne Limani. I'd like to be sure about that beyond a reasonable doubt."

"Hm." Sally Anne tossed down the magazine and picked up her Long Island tea. "My classes on 'Establishing the Case' didn't put a lot of emphasis on proven guilt. We were taught to go with the best evidence and not sweat the unanswered questions. If it satisfies the client, that's good enough."

"No," Sanguineus said, irritated, "it has to satisfy your own sense of justice. Two people have to live with the outcome: the client, and you. Which is the more important on the personal level? I'm assuming you have a sense of right and wrong, that you prefer to do the right thing, not the easy thing or the thrill thing. Even psychopaths have a sense of justice, granted without the least trace of empathy. But it's not about caring for the innocent. It's about nailing the guilty. That's how the game is supposed to be played."

Immediately he felt a keen hypocrisy. How often had he killed a person in the course of an assignment who was not the target? More than he cared to remember. A recent example was Darren Smirnis. He had popped him for the sake of shutting a mouth, and to send a message to Agape that Red Rum operatives were not to be trifled with or put off their stride. Was that grounds for a murder?

There were other, more damning, examples. The usual rationale was that any obstacle to the fulfillment of a contract was disposable, whether sentient or otherwise. The question that was too easily ignored was whether the person was truly an obstacle or just an inconvenience.

Rolgo glanced at his watch. He scooted back his chair and stood.

"Time for Sally and I to scout out your rendezvous site," he announced, rubbing his hands together. "Give us thirty minutes, Rick. If I don't call you, figure the coast is clear."

(14) Crucia

"What do you mean by that?" said Ambrosia.

 The inflection of her voice was not one of inquiry, Sanguineus noticed, and that could only be because she knew the meaning of his question well enough, but didn't want him to know that she did. 

"Marianne is your rival for Fabienne's affection and loyalty," Sanguineus asserted, reaching back to lay his Glock on the chair seat. He placed a hand on the pillow beside Ambrosia's head and leaned over her. "I'm guessing, but Marianne would like the girl to see her teacher as the possessor of the Spirit of Beauty. Marianne wants to be Crucia. She wants this gorgonian power, the petrifying eyes of Medusa. But so long as Fabienne believes that you are the possessor of this spirit, this Crucia, Marianne has no hope of convincing the girl otherwise. Marianne is probably trying to turn Fabienne against you." 

Ambrosia gave a soft snort. "She is failing, then. Fabienne loves me." 

Sanguineus nodded. "So how can Marianne win over the loyalty of Fabienne while you're still alive?" 

Ambrosia touched his lips with the tips of her fingers as her expression darkened. "You're saying that Marianne wants me dead." 

"She was seen tonight in a car with Agape and three thugs. She was in the back seat, between two men, and that could mean that she's being taken somewhere against her will. If Marianne is a threat to your plans, and if Agape supports you, then her days are numbered. But there's a joker in the pack. I need to know who this person is. Who had the motive for killing Pella? Agape dumped Pella in favor of you, so I don't see any sensible reason why you would pop her. But if her affair was discovered by Grigoris, her husband, then it might be that out of reasons of jealousy and spite he arranged for Pella's murder. The anonymous witness who fingered you for the murder might have been someone close to Grigoris." 

Ambrosia seized his shoulders, her eyes wide with astonishment. "Who's the crazy one now? How absurd! Grigoris wanting me killed? That's insane! If you believe that, then you don't know him as well as you think." 

Sanguineus leaned back, a hand on the silk sheet between her thighs. "A strange comment coming from one who intends to crucify him," he remarked. 

Her smile came slowly. She squeezed the wrist of the hand that caressed her heated loins. 

"Your affair with Agape might have been a motive for him," Sanguineus continued, "especially if he was still determined to get back at Agape for having a fling with Pella. Consider that Grigoris dropped out of the race horse drug ring. He goes off to Patmos to be a wise old hermit. He wants the hitman involved in Pella's death to be killed, so that if the investigation into Pella's murder should ever be revived by the police, he will be free of any whiff of scandal. There was one eyewitness to the shooting whose testimony was all the authorities had to go on. The shooter was a woman. The anonymous witness who contacted our ICS investigator after Grigoris signed the contract claimed that the woman was Ambrosia Kastri." 

"But... your Miss Bern told Christofer that the killer was Berenice." 

"A deception," Sanguineus explained. "Sally Anne Bern wanted Agape to believe she was cooperating with him. She did this by giving him honest answers to everything except the one essential thing, the identity of the target. She didn't want him to know that the target was you, his girlfriend, his lover." 

"My lover," Ambrosia said through a breathy laugh. "Well, he tries. And you don't think he was the one who killed Pella?" 

"Agape? No. It was someone hired by Tragos the Goat. But that he would hire a woman, not to mention a woman who was close to him, is very unlikely. He hired a man who was probably involved with the underworld. Grigoris may have used connections associated with his gangster uncle, the Sicilian. But it was a woman who shot Pella. This woman is almost certainly the anonymous witness who fingered you as the shooter. All things considered, that anonymous witness is Marianne Limani, who happens to be close to Grigoris. Very close. Maybe closer than you have imagined." 

Ambrosia sighed, her eyes lingering on the tattoo on his forearm. Sanguineus watched her process of thought working its way through a series of brief emotional flare ups. At last she said, "I know Grigoris better than you, perhaps better than anyone. If he hired an executioner, or whatever, to kill Pella, he would not want Marianne, or me, or anybody else, to know about it. He told me that he wanted justice for Pella, that his friend Fredrico Rolgo had arranged it. Well, if he told ME, he might have told Marianne, too. That would frighten her, wouldn't it, if she was the shooter. She would want me to be the target of revenge, if, like you say, she is my rival for Fabienne. So! It was Marianne who shot Pella." 

"But it was the Goat who set the murder in motion. They are both guilty. And now I have to decide which one to kill." 

Ambrosia's eyes brightened with a light akin to joy. "Marianne," she whispered. "Let the old goat be crucified. His death will heal Fabienne. You killing Marianne will satisfy justice." 

Sanguineus turned her suggestion over in his mind. 

"I need to sleep on this," Ambrosia said, sensing his uncertainty. "Why don't we stop talking and you get in bed with me." She began unbuttoning his shirt. 

"When are these crucifixions to take place?" he asked. "The goat and the witch... By 'witch' I suppose you mean Berenice." 

"Yes, but now I'm thinking..." She dug her fingers into his hard hairy chest. 

"You're thinking that Marianne should take the place of the witch," Sanguineus said. "That might explain why Marianne was in the car tonight with Agape and his thugs. But won't it depend on Fabienne? I would think she would rather it be her teacher than her mother who gets crucified." 

"That's because you don't know what her mother has done to her," said Ambrosia angrily. Then she smiled at him. 

"When is this ritual to happen?" he asked again. 

"Take your clothes off. The full moon. It's in three days. Don't interfere or you'll break the heart of poor Fabienne. You don't want to be the cause of her not being healed, do you? Don't think of the crucified. Think of Fabienne and what this means for her." 

Sanguineus stood, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants. "I'd rather think of you," he said. 

It was after one o'clock in the morning when they coupled under the white silk sheet. He was not unaware that she had stretched her arms out in the cruciform position, her thighs pressed together and her vulva like a closed hot mouth on the rhythmic drive of his penis; an intense pleasure that played all around his mind as he searched the eye left open for him. The rigorous touch of their tongues had that amber eye out of focus. But clarity wasn't needed. It was the passion within it that absorbed him. It was a dark light, a growing power that made his thrusts stronger and harder. It was a generous Medusa. She made him hard as stone where it most mattered. The rest of him was winged. His lovemaking was a gallop on weightless hoofs. She was the enchanted ground that received his headlong rush, his prone pillar of stone that led the charge. Her back arched and shook with each ruthless penetration...

Sally Anne sat up at the sound of a prolonged moan. She got up off the lower step of the staircase and stood staring at the dark hall that led to the source of what she could only fantasize about.

A child's voice spoke to her in Greek.

She had thought she was alone in the sitting room, waiting for what seemed forever for Sanguineus to finish his 'interrogation' of Ambrosia. But here was Fabienne in a pair of blue pajamas with winged ponies on them, standing staring at her while repeating those unintelligible words.

"What are you doing out of bed?" said Sally Anne. But that was all she was able to say, and all she was able to do. She tried with all her might to look away, to look anywhere but at those terrible eyes. 

Sally Anne felt a cold stiffness come over her. Her heart seemed to be slowing down as her sternum and ribs became like ice, so cold that they felt on fire. Her vision blurred. The one lamp in the room that had been left alight was as dim as a moon. A painful dizziness had her disoriented, swaying on feet that were too numb to feel. 

She was certain that she would die. Death was seizing her, but even her emotions were frozen. 

Fabienne rose up off the floor in the hands of Rolgo and was carried quickly to her bedroom, her back to him.

Sally Anne felt a warm but slight breeze blowing through her, as if her lungs were exhaling within her body.

She was going to live. As her emotions thawed she gasped, and grateful for the weakness in her knees she collapsed to the floor. 

"Stay in your room or you will be punished," she heard Rolgo say as he closed the girl's door.

(13) Crucia

Sanguineus gave Ambrosia a push. Lethargically she got up from his lap and stood facing the canopied bed.

In slow motion, like a person entranced by a fearful intruder, she unhooked her bra and shrugged it off, dropping it on the floor. She put her thumbs under her panties and bending forward she slipped them down to her ankles. She stepped out of them. She stood straight and statuesque in the faint emerald lamplight. The symmetry of her fine indented spine and firm buttocks was a classic Greek sculpture in living flesh.

Sanguineus mused on the spirit of beauty. It wasn't Ambrosia he saw pulling back the comforter and silk sheet, gracefully sliding into bed and pulling the sheet up to her neck. No, it was the incomprehensible image of Crucia.

Sanguineus took a straight back wooden chair and set it beside the bed, near the footboard, where he would be able to see Ambrosia's tell-tale expressions and also keep watch on the door, which he locked. He took off his black corduroy sport coat and hung it on the chairback.

He sat in the chair, holding his Glock along the inside of his right thigh. It was equipped with a snub Maxim suppressor and loaded with subsonic Whisper ammo. A shot would not be silent, but the noise would be recognized not as a gun shot, but as the exhaust of a vehicle; mufflers having the same basic technology as firearm suppressors. He wanted Ambrosia to understand that their conversation was like a finger on a trigger. No matter how relaxed the finger, the trigger was poised and ready. And there was something else he wanted her to see.

He took a small receiver from his shirt pocket that was similar in size to an in-ear hearing aid. He wedged it into his left ear canal, and listened to the soft buzz of static until he heard a pinging sound. It was periodic and it told him that Rolgo, or Sally Anne, was transmitting and would warn him of any suspicious movements in the house; that all computer/phone communications were being monitored by Narus interceptor and decryption devices.

Rolgo's voice came through. "Sally is armed and in the sitting room. Rufus is chatting in fiction code with Eliza Prizzi, the ICS snoop in Milan. Nothing new from her yet. She's forwarding the tale to Claus. Fabienne is asleep in a guest room downstairs. Grigoris is still in the library. The horse trainer and foreman went home, apparently. Two helpers are in the stables. There's a car parked off property near the drive. Demos," he meant the ex assistant foreman, "is keeping an eye on it. The bungalow seems peaceful. Demos can observe it from his location. He'll let me know if anyone comes or goes. There's no police activity of any concern to us. Out."

The buzz and periodic pings were unobtrusive now, listened to by a level of consciousness that would not disturb his concentration on Ambrosia unless a word of warning came through.

"I needn't tell you everything," Sanguineus said to her. His voice startled her out of her mesmerized focus on his gun and receiver. Her expression had revealed a deep anxiety. But now, through his calm voice, her face warmed and softened. A smile played on her parted lips.

"But if," he added, "my guess is wrong, then we're in for a long night. Let's start with your mother, Pomona Antonio-Kastri, and step-father, Kadir Kastri. The record shows that they died of barbiturate overdose, a double suicide." He leaned slightly forward. "Did you kill them?"

Ambrosia blew out her breath. She clutched the silk sheet and started to pull it down, then frowned and drew it back up to her neck. Sanguineus could see that her thoughts were in turmoil. He was quite sure of the answer, but a confirmation would be nice.

"Yes, I did," she said, staring at the underside of the canopy. Her fingers drummed the sheet. "But so what? That's not why you're here. You're here about Pella Markos. And I did NOT shoot her. I've never shot anyone."

"What other drug did you use in the killing of your parents?"

She had intended to continue her defense, but her face blanched, her nostrils flared, and her eyes, turning to him, were dilated.

"You couldn't force them to take a handful of barbiturates," Sanguineus said, "not without a ruckus, which a man like Kastri would certainly have made. You drugged them first, without their knowledge, and when they were in a semi comatose state you fed them the barbiturates."

"The autopsy--"

"Level with me, or I'll kill you now and be done with it. The drug you gave them, in their food, was the same drug that made a 'super horse' out of a pale grey gelding who grew up to be Pegasus. Except that you gave your mother and step-dad an excessive dose of it. It's a drug unknown on the market, with properties that a coroner would not find because he wouldn't be looking for something he didn't know existed."

Ambrosia covered her face with the sheet. It ballooned up from her blown breath. She pulled it down below her pink-nippled breasts and sighed.

"Grigoris told you," she said.

"No, not a word of it. And you know why he didn't."

"Ha." Ambrosia reached up as though to touch the silken blue canopy, then brought her hand down to her stomach. "He and Pella were recruited by a man named Stefan Smirnis, when I was a young girl. Gregoris had an uncle in the Sicilian Mafia."

She glanced at Sanguineus, but there was no reaction from him. "Stefan was in league with... some Wharf Men who have a race horse breeding operation in Cyprus."

Sanguineus narrowed his eyes at her evasive remark. "Yes, and run by Christofer Agape. Word is, he had an affair with Pella, who separated from Grigoris. When you came of age Agape switched his affections to you. It was Agape who supplied you with the super-horse drug to murder your parents, and who made sure you inherited the vineyard. At that time you were taking care of a baby girl named Fabienne. Am I right?"

Ambrosia dismissed all thought of deception. Sanguineus saw it in her sudden relaxation as she turned on her side, facing him, and hugged the sheet to her shoulder, like a sleepy child just a little afraid of the dark.

"Yes."

"Tell me about it. Why did Fabienne Chora come under your care?"

"I was eighteen. I had left Pella's house in the city so I could be with the horse that Christofer gave me. Pegasus. Yes, a super-horse. A jumper. He had been retired from competition and was kept at the Kastri vineyard. So I moved back in with my parents. Well, Stefan Smirnis killed a policeman in a barroom brawl. Pella, who taught law when she wasn't counting the money she made off the drug scheme, encouraged Berenice Saranikos to defend Stefan. She lost. But Berenice found out about the super-horse drug and became really fascinated with it. She dropped out of sight. Then a year later she shows up at Pella's with a newborn. The father was Vaslo Chora. Our neighbor. Berenice didn't want the baby. So Pella asked me if I would give it a home. I was taking business management courses at the college, and going to see Grigoris in Patmos every other month, me and my friend Marianne. I thought of sharing the upbringing with her. So we did. Marianne took the baby to Patmos for six weeks. But she told 'Tragos' a lie about the baby. She said it was hers, but was going to adopt it out to a French couple. Then Pella was shot, and... I inherited the vineyard. And then Vaslo wanted his daughter. Her legal name is Fabienne Saranikos. It's on her birth certificate. Vaslo swore he would adopt her and give her his surname. Marianne was okay with it, so, in the end, Berenice took Fabienne back, reluctantly. Fabienne's been with them ever since. She's almost ten years old now. Vaslo never adopted her, though. He seems to hate her. He runs drugs for the Wharf Men, and Berenice is into witchcraft. She has money enough to indulge her craziness."

Sanguineus smiled. He leaned back and propped an ankle on a knee. "Her craziness? And what of yours? Who thought up this Crucia craziness? It was you and Marianne, playing around with the Tragos philosophy. But what interests me most is the Medusa angle. Medusa gave birth to Pegasus. Medusa can turn people to stone by looking at them. Now here's the thing. Fabienne stared at Sally Anne Bern, before Wingate came. They stared at each other for several seconds. Sally says she felt a very strange sensation, like her body was going numb. But when the girl looked down, the sensation ended. I think your interest in Fabienne isn't a maternal one. There is an odd thing about the girl that you want to take advantage of."

Ambrosia sat up, the sheet drifting to her hips. "She has asthma! I want to heal her! That girl has faith, faith in me, in Crucia, in Pegasus, in..." Her face stiffened, her eyes wary.

"Faith in the crucifixion ritual, victims nailed to flying crosses," Sanguineus said. "You think this is going to heal her of asthma?"

"Yes!"

"Who do you intend to crucify? Who are the two victims?"

"What do you care! It isn't about Pella's killer!"

Sanguineus stood up. "If you aren't going to answer my questions, then I'll assume you killed Pella."

"You know I didn't!"

"What does that matter to me? If you're going to clam up, I'll see you stay clammed up forever. Now, goddamn you, who do you intend to crucify?"

Ambrosia smiled. She laid back on the pillows, her arms spread, her breasts rising. She was seething with a mixed passion.

"The goat and the witch," she said.

At the moment Sanguineus had no time to react. Rolgo's voice was coming through the receiver.

"The car drove off. It made a U-turn near Demos' position. His night goggles gave him a clear view of the passenger in the front seat. He believes it's Ambrosia's lover. That would be Agape? There were two men in the back seat, with a woman between them. Demos thinks it's the teacher, Fabienne's teacher. He doesn't recall the name, but that would be Marianne Limani. One more thing: the super-horse breeder in Argentina is under investigation. He's part of Agape's drug ring. Out."

Sanguineus sat on the edge of the bed. He was studying with calculation the smoldering light in Ambrosia's eyes. She lay on her back gazing up at him as if this was a dream.

"You have the 'Spirit of Beauty,' but that isn't enough for you," he said, "or maybe you think it's incomplete. You want the cold fire of the Gorgon, the source of Medusa and her power to petrify. You see it in Fabienne. Tell me... Marianne: she's the girl's teacher. Is she your rival?"

(12) Crucia

It was late, nearing midnight, when Ambrosia put the little girl to bed in the downstairs den.

A cot had been placed by the window where Fabienne could see the posters of Pegasus, where the nearly full moon shone through the curtains and bathed her face in its ethereal cream.

"He won't die?"

"He will not die. He is the son of Poseidon. He is the bearer of Crucia, and she is Beauty. She will heal him, as she will heal you, when the moon is full and the gates of the celestial corral are made by the two crosses that you blessed today. And you know why you are to be healed, don't you?"

Fabienne smiled. "I have the eyes of Medusa," she said happily.

"Yes, you do! And you know who Medusa is, don't you?"

The little girl, yawning, turned on her side under the covers, her smile warm in her sleepiness. "She is the mother of Pegasus," she whispered.

"Yes, she is!" said Ambrosia, stroking the silky raven hair. "Sleep now, and don't worry. You are safe here. There is no bad man, and his wife will never trouble you again. She and the Goat will ride their crosses to the moon. They will breathe their last breath. And Crucia will ride Pegasus to the moon, catch the magical breath, and bring it down to you."

"I'll breathe into me the magic breath and be healed, and strong."

"And beautiful, more beautiful than ever! So sleep. In your dreams you can ride Pegasus all around the world."

Fabienne reached out and touched the white satin blouse. "Goodnight, Crucia."

"Yes, she lives here," Ambrosia said, a hand to her breast. "Here, in my heart, the Spirit of Beauty. It is good and strong, and that is why only Crucia can ride Pegasus."

"And the grapes will be plentiful and sweet, from the kisses of the goddess of fruit."

"Yes, they will! You know that Pomona was not so pretty, not so strong, and the grapes were few and sour. But when Crucia defeated Pomona, how the vineyard thrived! And you will thrive too!"

She kissed the girl's cheek and tucked her in. "Good night, Fabienne, daughter of the goddess of fruit."

Ambrosia turned on the night light above the desk, went out softly and closed the door.

In the sitting room she stood looking up at the second floor landing, the upper hall dimly lit and quiet. She wore a look of frustration. Then she noticed that the library door near the foot of the semi circular staircase was ajar, the narrow space aglow from the green-shaded lamp within. Her expression changed. She was hopeful. She went to the door and opened it expectantly.

Tragos sat facing her in the padded armchair by the lamp. He looked at her as if he had been staring at her all his life and had grown disgusted.

"He asked me to inform you, Ambrosia, that he awaits you in your downstairs bedroom, where he thinks there will be more privacy. It seems that the upper floor is full of vigilantes."

She leaned against the wall, affecting nonchalance, but her heart was pounding.

"Vigilantes? That tall drink of water with the rosy blond hair cut too short, you mean? And who else?"

"Fredrico and the good doctor," Tragos said. He spoke like a man who had given up his life's work, and who lives only to see what mischief he can make in the time remaining to him. He appeared to be exhausted, with not even enough energy to go to bed. Besides, a bed would bring him no comfort. No mischief could be done there. It was better here, seeing the look of bafflement and alarm on the sweet face that he now despised, or thought he did.

"Go to your lover," he advised in a mocking tone, "but remember that just when you feel you are perfectly safe you are at your most vulnerable."

Ambrosia took a deep breath and used her exhale to feign a carefree expression. She stood away from the wall. Crossing her arms, she said, "If I didn't know better, Grigoris, I'd say you're accusing Ricklen of being a coldblooded killer, out to exact your vengeance for you."

"I couldn't have said it more clearly and succinctly myself, Crucia."

"You're delirious. Get some sleep."

"Does Christofer know you're bedding the man who killed Darren Smirnis? Oh, you're not so tardy on the uptake, I see. Punctual in your responses, very good. Mr Saranikos passed the news on to me while Dr Wingate was fooling around at the stables. Mr Saranikos and his two charming daughters whom Christofer has promised a couple of 'super horses.' Surprised, are we? Well, he'll get around to telling you, I would imagine. When I dropped out of the scheme he filled the void with Mr Saranikos, the brother of Berenice, I'm sure you know."

"You're acting crazy," Ambrosia said in a hushed voice. She bumped the door shut and went over to him. "I can't believe you're lying to me about Ricklen Cruor."

"No, no, Sanguineus, my dear. His code name, probably. It means 'blood,' in Latin. He's the assassin. I heard it first from no less an authority than Fredrico. Then Mr Saranikos spoke the name to me. The 'tall drink of water' was interrogated by Christofer, remember? His boy came by earlier to warn you. But little did we know that Sanguineus was right under our noses. Why is he here at your villa, my dear Crucia?"

"Stop calling me that! It's Fabienne's imaginary mother."

Tragos smiled. It was malicious and gratifying. He straightened his back, his knobby hands on his knees. "According to the girl's teacher, Marianne Limani, your companion on many of your visits to my hermitage on Patmos, well, according to her, you have cultivated the name and the concept of Crucia for ten years now. But Marianne never told me... never did she tell me... until this evening. At the dinner party."

"I snubbed the bitch."

"Of course you did. Ambrosia, did you kill my Pella?"

She gaped at him. Her face paled and her breath came fast and shallow. "Of course not! You ARE crazy! Kill the only mother I ever knew? How can you say that?"

Tragos sobered in an instant. All his cynicism and abhorrence vanished. He slumped in the chair, his hands falling from his knees. "I am goddamned. Just goddamned. Was it Berenice, then? That is what Miss Bern told Christofer. But was it true? Why wouldn't it be? What does he care if Berenice Chora is killed? She married that thug Vaslo, your ex foreman, who Christofer uses how often? To smuggle his drugs to those other horse breeders, once or twice a year, at most? And a drunken lout not worth his weight in horse shit. Easily replaced. Why should anyone care if Vaslo's shyster wife is exterminated? Oh and I'm paying for it. Won't cost Christofer two pisses."

Ambrosia looked away. "Why in God's name would Berenice kill Pella?"

"Why do you think? They were both neck deep in Christofer's super-horse drug business. They must've crossed each other, and Berenice came out on top."

Ambrosia went slowly, reflectively, to the door. She put her hand on the knob and looked back at Tragos, at the slack face and the drool on the yellowed white beard. "You're not to be blabbing about this, Grigoris. You made an oath of secrecy."

"I could hardly care less," he said. "Go to your new lover before he gets discouraged."

Sanguineus sat at one end of an ottoman sofa, rolling a cig in the light of a standing lamp. He did not look up when the door opened. He noted the light from the hall shining on the room's shag carpet, and the shapely shadow that crossed it. Then light and shadow thinned and vanished as the door was closed.

"You're Sanguineus," she said. There was nothing in her voice but a sex-charged curiosity.

He licked the flap, smoothed it out with a finger, put the thin cig in his mouth and reached in his shirt pocket for the lighter. He looked at her as he lit the cig and watched her dim to a ghost beyond the swirl of smoke from his nostrils.

"It might not have been you who shot Pella Markos," he said. "But I was sent here to kill you. I'll be paid for it whether you're the guilty one or not. So let's cooperate, and you might not have to die."

"How do you know I haven't called the police?"

"Because you have no admirers or defenders on the police force. You have mobster acquaintances. And they know better than to interfere in a vigilante action backed up by an international organization of hired killers."

"You flatter yourself."

She walked to her dresser and took off her pearl necklace and blouse. She unbuckled and removed her boots and socks. She wriggled out of her riding breeches, leaving on her black lace panties. She lit the two large candles to either side of the dresser mirror, blew out the long wooden match, and brushed her hair as if she had all the time in the world.

Sanguineus had finished the smoke when she turned to him, considered things, and went over to the sofa where he studied the composure of her face.

One hand on her hip, she said, "You're too smart to kill an innocent person."

"I'm not aware of any innocent persons."

"You know what I mean."

A grim smile crossed his lips. "Even smart people make mistakes," he said. "You can sit on my lap, but don't make any attempt to frisk me."

She sat where she had been invited, one arm across his shoulders. She took his hand and pressed it against her cleavage. "You feel my heart beating? It beats for no one but me."

"I can put a stop to that, Crucia. I'm going to tell you what I think I know. You'll tell me what you think YOU know. But first, tell me this: Did you kill Pella Markos?"

"No I did not."

"An anonymous source says you did. And the information made a lot of sense. But it's not evidence. It would mean less than nothing in court."

Ambrosia breathed a laugh, her lips on his neck. "If it was evidence, it wouldn't be from an anonymous source. Not everyone I know is a friend."

"Berenice Chora is staying in a bungalow on your property. Why is that?"

Ambrosia sat up and searched his eyes.

"You better go first, then," she said. "Tell me what you think you know. But first... Who's Dr Wingate? I called my vet, and this Wingate shows up."

"Your vet agreed to it. Money changed hands. A threat was left hanging in the air. Wingate was here this afternoon sometime. He gave Pegasus an injection that gradually made him semi comatose. Tonight he took a blood sample from the horse. He'll be looking for unusual properties. We know about Christofer Agape's breeding methods. I suspected that Pegasus was the key to all this. Pegasus, and Greek mythology... including Medusa."

Ambrosia looked away.

Now Sanguineus could definitely feel her heart beating.

(11) Crucia

"The moment I first looked into your eyes," said Ambrosia, "I knew you were the man I needed."

Sanguineus put a shoe on the remains of his Sultan and crushed it out. "How do you mean that?" he asked.

"I think I know who poisoned my horse, or who arranged to have it done. I need--"

"Do you agree with the girl, then? Fabienne Chora? She mentioned a 'bad man' and his wife. And you reminded her that the wife is her mother. She protested. She insisted that someone named 'Crucia' is her mother. Now, this is none of my business. But I've grown fond of Pegasus. A remarkable horse. If he was poisoned, I'm as interested as you to find out who the guilty party might be. Who is this bad man? Who is Crucia? And what is it you need from me? I procure grape supplies for a conglomerate of wineries. What is it you think I can do for you?"

"First of all, Crucia is Fabienne's imaginary goddess, whom she loves to see as her mother. Poor thing," Ambrosia glanced back at the girl, "she has such trouble breathing. It would be cruel to scold her for her vainglorious daydream."

"Agreed. And the 'bad man' and his wife?"

Ambrosia sucked in her cheeks, scowling, and said, "They are Fabienne's step-father and mother. How well I empathize with her! The man, Vaslo, is her mother Berenice's former brother in law. He's a notorious drunk, a braggart and a brawler. Berenice plays at being a witch. She certainly looks the part!"

Sanguineus smiled grimly. "You need me to teach Vaslo Chora some manners, I take it. Has he threatened you? Why such bad blood between you two?"

"I want to adopt Fabienne," she said matter of factly. "I have accused Vaslo of abusive acts against her. Berenice is a recluse. She was missing for years. I very seldom see her. The devil knows where she spends her time. Ha, the devil, and she a witch." 

Ambrosia looked toward the cypresses. "The vet is coming. With your girlfriend." She gave Sanguineus a knowing smile. "Do you realize that Miss Bern works for a vigilante organization? She may be a veterinary intern, but that's not her main occupation, Ricklen. She didn't come here to oggle at my horses. I don't know what she's told you about her reasons for accompanying you, but she and an executioner, or whatever they are called, are here to kill a woman who Miss Bern says murdered my mother's step-sister, Pella Markos."

Sanguineus pretended to process this speech through a haze of confusion. "Where in hell did you get the idea that Sally Anne... It's preposterous. A vigilante? An executioner? You have a strange sense of humor."

Ambrosia leaned against him. "We'll not argue about it. Stay with me until this mystery has been solved. You can spare a few days, can you not? You are more than welcome to stay here at the villa. Grigoris is leaving tomorrow. You can have his room."

He stroked her back. "And my girlfriend? How welcome is she?"

"Any friend if yours is a friend of mine," Ambrosia said placidly. "If she wants to stay at the villa, she is welcome. We'll discuss these things later."

She pressed her open mouth to his parted lips, her hand rubbing his crotch. "In bed, if you like," she said into his responding mouth. "After all, you aren't married to her."

She gave him a quick parting kiss and turned to speak to Fabienne.

"Vriskomai edo mazi mou," ('Stand here with me'), "o giatros echai ftasei," ('the doctor has arrived').

Two hours later Sanguineus and Sally Anne Bern were climbing the stairs to the villa's guest rooms.

Below them on the ground floor the veterinarian was still discussing the plight of Pegasus with Ambrosia. Tragos was in the library, listening from just inside the doorway. The diagnosis was rat poison-- strycnine-- and the prognosis was poor. The horse had been conveyed to its stall via a sling and fork lift, watched over by the trainer and his helpers.

Sanguineus had given the hermit of Patmos a questioning look, but the old man made a discreet gesture that said 'Not now.'

So Sanguineus informed Ambrosia that he was off to the upstairs study to send a pic of the business contract to his home office. He must call his supervisor on the subject of the grape sample.

Rolgo looked up from the square table in a corner of the bedroom when Sanguineus and Sally Anne came in.

On the table, in a pool of lamplight, the Nordic cell phone was playing the recording of the late and unlamented thug's account of Christofer Agape's affair with Crucia. This was Rolgo's third review of it. He paused it and leaned back in his chair, removing his glasses and massaging his temples.

"How goes it with the horse?" he asked her.

Sally Anne deferred to Sanguineus.

"Dr Wingate is not optimistic," he said.

"Wingate?" Rolgo sat up. "What's his first name?"

"I have no idea," Sanguineus replied, pouring himself a Sherry, and one for Sally Anne. They sat side by side across from Rolgo.

Sanguineus tapped the pause icon. "I have an uneasy feeling that Tragos--" The voice of Darren Smirnis took over.

'...I'm cooperating,' it said anxiously. 'All I know is that it was his philosophy about beauty that started it all. Some stuff about a spirit of beauty seeking a body, a-- a host, or something like that, a possession. You know what I mean. For power. For a good use. And Marianne took this philosophy and played with it. She turned it around, every which way but straight. She got Christofer's moll excited about it.' [Sanguineus: You mean Ambrosia Kastri. ] 'Yeah, her. She started calling herself Crucia. Christofer humored her. He thought it was a bunch of shit, but he went along with it. See, Marianne Limani--'[Sanguineus: Who's this Marianne you keep bringing up?] 'She was a student of Grigoris. She would go to see him on Patmos after he started doing the hermit thing. Tragos the goat he calls himself. She's a school teacher, Marianne is. She likes horses. Well, so does Christofer.'

Rolgo tapped pause. "Christofer Agape breeds race horses on a property in Cyprus," he said. "Grigoris let that fall during our talk in the stables. I suppose Pegasus, and Ambrosia's other horses, come from his spread. Make sense? Our investigator in Milan hasn't picked up on that. How could she possibly miss it? I'd guess the property and breeding is under someone else's name, a tax dodge, perhaps. Anyhow, as I remember, Smirnis says this Marianne Limani and Ambrosia related the spirit of beauty with horses. You know how girls like horses. Ambrosia is very keen on Greek mythology, thanks to Grigoris, who has a degree in Comparative Religion and loves all this Olympus nonsense. She grew up hearing all the myths and fables and whatnot. But this part here is frustrating."

He tapped the pause icon and fast forwarded the recording to the last thirty seconds. [Sanguineus: So, this teacher and Ambrosia weave a twisted version of the Tragos philosophy about beauty. Beauty and power, used for a good purpose. They want to possess this spirit. How exactly do they accomplish this possession?] 'All I know is that it's a crucifixion thing. They took turns tying each other to a big wooden cross at night. It's a full moon thing, too. But that was just the symbolic side of it, crucifying themselves with ropes. Christofer says they needed a real death, real blood, you know, a real sacrifice to the spirit of beauty. That's all he's told me about it. I don't know nothing more about it, I swear I don't.' [Sanguineus: What do you know about the victims?] 'I know nothing about-- I swear to God! Don't kill me! For Christ's sake I'm being bare-ass truthful with you!'

Sanguineus tapped pause as a muted discharge was heard. "I just remembered something," he said as Sally Anne stared at him with a wide smile. "When I was watching Fabienne in the pasture, on the hill, Berenice told her that her teacher wanted to see her."

Rolgo put on his glasses and began patting the armrests of his chair. "You think Marianne Limani is the girl's teacher? Grigoris would know. He has given a talk at her school. He is fond of her. She has asthma."

Sanguineus nodded pensively. "The teacher was at the villa, quite likely," he said, "and she may still be here. Here, with the girl's mother, Berenice. I asked Ambrosia about Crucia. I heard her and Fabienne talking about who might be responsible for poisoning the horse. There is a 'bad man' and his wife that both Fabienne and Ambrosia think are the poisoners. They are Fabienne's step-dad and mother, Berenice Chora. Now, the girl made it clear that Crucia is her mother, very emphatically. She has disowned her real mother. Why? Why does she choose Crucia, which is to say Ambrosia, over her mother?"

Rolgo shrugged. "Did Ambrosia admit to being this Crucia bitch?"

"No," Sally Anne said, a hand on Sanguineus' forearm. "Ricklen explained it to me. She claims that Crucia is the girl's imaginary patron goddess. But of course she's lying. Her type are pathological liars. Though it may be that Fabienne thinks of Ambrosia as a goddess come down to earth. She's just a child."

Rolgo put his hands firmly on the armrests. "Rick, we hardly know more than when we started," he said. "Arrange for Ambrosia's death. Let's get it over with, and never mind the mysteries surrounding her. You're being paid to knock her off, not to psychoanalyze her."

Sanguineus needed time to think about this. It was his call, his decision, as to when, and how, the hit was made. Taking out his tobacco pouch and rolling papers, he commenced the procedure with the artful concentration one sees in the Japanese tea ceremony.

A knock on the door. "Hello? Sorry to bother you chaps. May I come in? I'm the veterinarian, Dr Wingate."

Rolgo rose to his feet, hands flat on the table, leaning toward Sanguineus with an encouraging smile. "That British accent. It's Rufus Jay Wingate, a close friend of Bear Claus. He's a biologist." He looked up. "Come in!"

Sanguineus placed the unlit cig in his mouth and stood with a hand reaching for the butt of his Glock at the small of his back. He faced the opening door.

Dr Wingate ushered himself in and quickly closed the door. He was an antsy man of middle age, short and wiry, who did everything as quickly as his skill or decorum permitted.

He came forward brushing his hands over his thinning blondish hair. "Sorry, Mr Cruor, for being so secretive. But when Hermann got the report from the ICS lass in Milan he sent me straightaway to Corinthia. Oh don't worry about Pegasus. I'm the one who drugged the ol' fellow. He'll be groggy for a couple days, but no harm done. I gather that you chaps want an explanation?"

(10) Crucia

Tragos stood looking down at the slightly convulsive Pegasus.

He had an arm around the shoulders of Fabienne, who had used her inhaler and was gradually recovering from the asthma attack as tears ran down her reddened face.

Hidalga and Heidi were striding up to the villa, bumping hips and keeping their giggles to themselves.

Ambrosia stared at the dark screen of her phone, on her knees, a hand stroking the forelock of the horse. Sally Anne was transfixed by the quiet scene, by the mix of emotions in the air. It was bathed in the ghostly light of a moon three days short of being full. There was no color to speak of, just shades of grey and silver, and the blurred edges of darkness.

Ambrosia looked up at Tragos and said dully, "O giatros tha einai edo syntoma," ('The doctor will be here soon').

"Such a young and healthy creature," Tragos remarked, "that I must suspect foul play."

He looked toward Sally Anne, over her head; and noting this, she turned and saw Sanguineus standing behind her.

She whispered to him, "He means me!"

Ambrosia addressed her in a mocking tone. "Are you just going to stand around like a fence post while my horse suffers, Miss Veterinarian?"

Sanguineus whispered, "Remember your toxicology courses."

Sally Anne faced the distraught Tragos and going up to him, said, "If it's been poisoned it will need antidotes and oxygen therapy. It appears to have respiratory problems, which could mean that morphine was used, by whoever did this. But I must defer to the doctor when he comes. I have no means of providing aid."

Tragos was still gazing past her, then abruptly he walked over to the stables, passing Sanguineus and going through the doorway where Rolgo stood in the blush of lantern light.

"What is going on here, Fredrico?"

Rolgo touched the coarse brown sleeve of the robe and led Tragos to the far stall where the mare stood hoofing at the straw.

"Did Mr Cruor explain to you?"

"Explain what? What has he to do with this?"

"He didn't mention--?"

"He talked about the sample shipment of grapes to be sent to his company. Then, well, I saw there was something amiss here and Fabienne was alarmed. What are you saying? Does Mr Cruor know--?"

Rolgo took off his glasses. "Grigoris, I'm sorry, I know you would rather not be informed of the details concerning the contract. But we've learned things today that we think you ought to be aware of, for your own safety."

"We? Who are you referring to? Are you personally involved in this?"

"Yes, and so is Mr Cruor."

Tragos leaned back, astonished. But in the next moment his face darkened. "The devil you say! He's the hit man? And he's HERE? Who is here that should concern him? Don't give me that look!"

"Grigoris, keep your voice down. Don't forget the oath of secrecy you took when you signed the contract."

"Fuck that! Ambrosia's horse has been poisoned and that strumpet of his is the guilty one. What, will you tell me that Pella was killed by Pegasus?"

Rolgo put his glasses back on. "No, she was killed by the owner of Pegasus."

Tragos stood stock still. Slowly he raised a hand and clutched the haircloth at his chest, his faded brown eyes misting.

"I'm sorry, Grigoris. Hear me out. Ambro-- Are you all right? This can wait. Sit down. There's a barrel. Have a seat."

"Don't be stupid. Tell me everything. It doesn't matter anymore."

"You may cancel the contract, if you wish. The fee--"

"I said don't be stupid!"

"Shhh. Perhaps we should go to the villa, to your room."

Tragos released the material he had held wadded in his fist and clutched his beard. He pressed his staff against him and leaned his weight on it.

"Ambrosia killed Pella?"

"Yes, but it's not that simple. Today Mr Cruor recorded a confession of sorts from a man who was associated with a retired member of the Wharf Men. The underworld syndicate. This mobster is Christofer Agapi. You know him?"

Tragos looked up wearily. "Ambrosia's gentleman friend. A breeder of Thoroughbred race horses. A mobster, you say?"

"A horse breeder?" said Rolgo, surprised, and snatched off his glasses. "You know this for certain?"

"I know what he has told me. He has a ranch in Cyprus."

"Good god almighty, this sheds a whole new light..." Rolgo stared at his glasses incredulously, then slowly put them on. "Grigoris, please, go to your room in the villa. Mr Cruor and I will be up to see you. He and I have some things to discuss."

Tragos passed a hand over his eyes. "I don't understand why... Ambrosia the murderer of..."

He turned and tapped the barrel with his staff. A chuckle escaped him. "I will be goddamned. Just goddamned. I should have stayed in Patmos and let the world go mad without any help from me."

Fabienne sat on her knees beside Ambrosia. She had looked curiously at the young blond woman, who stood swaying, her head down, her brows furrowed in thought. She wished the woman would go away.

"Fabienne," said Ambrosia, "tha milisei ellinika," (we will speak Greek). "Someone has hurt Pegasus. Who do you think could have done this?"

"Will he die?"

"Pegasus, die? No, no, he is a magical horse! Besides, the doctor is coming. But who could have done this?"

Fabienne took several breaths. "The bad man," she said, "or his wife." She gazed at the moon and its broken circlet of stars.

"His 'wife'! She is your mother."

"No! CRUCIA is my mother!"

Sally Anne looked up at the sound of the name. Her eyes met Fabienne's. She felt a peculiar sensation that ended the instant the little girl bowed her head, the fine brows furrowed in thought, the petite body swaying.

Sanguineus was standing near the stable doors, smoking. When Tragos came out they exchanged inquiring glances, but neither said a word to the other.

Sanguineus watched the old man walk wearily up to the villa, to the deserted patio. Where had the guests gone? Had the butler ushered them into the house?

"We need to have a chat with him in his room," Rolgo said in a hushed voice, slowly passing Sanguineus. "Upper floor, last door on the right." He followed the tracks of Tragos.

The sound of a car.

"He's here," said Ambrosia, standing. "The vet. Miss Bern, would you go and lead him down here?"

"Of course."

As Sally Anne started off for the row of cypress trees she looked at Sanguineus, who gave her a wink. She suspected that he had overheard the conversation between Ambrosia and Fabienne, and she was correct.

The little girl kissed the horse's neck and laid her cheek against it, her arm across the shuddering, heaving flanks. Through her tears she watched Ambrosia saunter over to the tall man who made her think of the first cross, that first experience of a magic that had filled her with hope.

What would happen to her hope, to all the magic, to the stars around the moon, if Pegasus should die?

She could not bear to think of it. She snuggled her face into the silky musky mane and prayed, "Min pethaneis," ('Don't die').

(9) Crucia

That evening the patio was lit in a festive manner.

There were a number of guests for the informal dinner party, in honor of Mr Cruor and for the glad tidings concerning an agreement reached with Universal Wineries. The owners of four local vineyards were present with their families, along with Mr and Mrs Saranikos, exporters of fine wines, and their two teenage daughters, Hildalga and Heidi.

The girls accompanied Ambrosia and the veterinarian to the stables to see Pegasus and a new acquisition, a mare, Aphrodite.

Rolgo handed Sanguineus a glass of Chianti, on the lawn that stretched down to the beach. "I gave Sally a .25 Berretta," he said, raising his glass as though for a toast. "If she has to use it, cheers. We'll pull up stakes and let the police sort things out. It won't be the first time a plan has been shot to hell by a first-timer opting for 'better safe than sorry.' How do you read it? Does Ambrosia know about Sally?"

Sanguineus unbuttoned his black corduroy sports coat and let the light breeze penetrate his pinstriped beige dress shirt. "We'll assume she does," he said in a laconic tone. "But she'll have her own plans. A cross, no doubt. I see Tragos is wearing his hermit garb. Did he open up to you?"

"He's trying to take this very philosophically. He doesn't know that Berenice is residing at the guest bungalow. He believes she's still missing and presumed dead."

Sanguineus looked back at the milling crowd on the patio. "I wonder who does know, besides Ambrosia, Agape, and that little vixen, Fabienne. They're a family, Sally says. They're in this cross thing together. And for what? Thrills? I hardly think it's revenge. But maybe it's about mob connections."

"Our Milan colleague is looking into the mob angle," Rolgo said. "So far, nothing of any import."

"Look, Fred, I need a friend in the enemy camp. I'm thinking of having a heart-to-heart with Tragos. If he hears that the target is his 'daughter,' there's a chance he'll cancel the contract, though if he does he'll be forfeiting most of the fee, if not all of it."

Rolgo made a face of doubt as he sipped his drink. "Claus is convinced that Tragos is firm about it. Justice for his estranged wife carries more weight with him than any relationship with Ambrosia. So you might as well tell him the truth."

Sanguineus smiled. "I see that when a complication arises you view things a little differently. Well, so do I. You know I don't like meeting the client. But in this predicament I think it's called for."

Rolgo glanced around. "He's on a meditative stroll by the fig trees," he noticed. "Now's your chance, Rick. Ambrosia's still at the stables, apparently. Go for it."

At the stables...

Sally Anne held out the apple in her palm, by the stall where the mare gave her a looking over. It wrapped its furry lips around the fruit and commenced to chew it, its sable tail swishing in delight.

"There's more to you, Sal, than meets the ears," said Ambrosia.

She was leaning against a support post, one hand on the hip of her chic riding breeches, the other fingering the string of pearls that graced her V-neck blouse of white satin that matched the color of her knee-length boots.

Sally Anne turned, her smile a puzzled one. "Oh? What do you mean?"

"Is the name of your vet doctor 'Sanguineus'? Does he put sick animals to sleep? Does he enjoy that sort of thing?"

Sally Anne forced a more accommodating smile. "You'd have to ask him that yourself," she said. "I only work there part time."

"You mean, when he needs help killing animals?"

"What sort of game are you playing? If you have something sensible to say, please feel free."

Ambrosia stepped up to her. She had to tilt her head back a little to meet the hazel eyes of the taller woman.

"Where else do you work?" she asked in a cynical voice. "This Sanguineus isn't a doctor of animals. He prefers to put human beings to sleep. And you're his assistant."

"May I ask how you know that? Has your foster dad been talking to you about Professor Rolgo?"

"Why not, they're old friends. And how is it that Fred Rolgo knows so much about private investigators seeking out the killer of Pella Markos?"

Sally Anne slapped her thighs in aggravation. "Simple. He has acquaintances in the business, those acquaintances who were students of his. Yes, I know about Tragos and the contract. I'm here for that reason. But Sanguineus stays in the shadows until it's time to come out and 'put human beings to sleep.' But I haven't met him personally. He hasn't come on the scene yet. And I would take it kindly if you wouldn't mention this to Ricklen. He doesn't know about this other career of mine. I don't think he'd understand the appeal of it. He's a good and decent man, a real gentleman."

"Maybe," said Ambrosia, turning her back to Sally Anne with a provoking smile, "but he is certainly a dynamite lover."

Sally Anne knew better than to show indifference. She acted offended. "You're a liar," she said angrily. "He hasn't a disloyal bone in his body."

Ambrosia laughed, a hand to her stomach. "Oh my God! And you're an investigator? Well, alright, my my, it's true that you've uncovered the murderer of Pella. My dear old Pella. She was a mother to me when my real mother would have nothing to do with me. I always suspected it was Berenice."

She brushed back her hair, squaring herself around, patting her chest. "I really shouldn't complain," she said with an exaggerated sigh. "I have supported Grigoris in his decision to pay, and pay dearly, for justice. Do you know where Berenice Chora is hiding? Surely you know that she was kidnapped by members of the Provlita Andres. Ruthless gangsters. Are you sure she's still alive?"

Sally Anne could not have been more pleased with the course their conversation had taken. But she kept up her offended look, now adding a heavy dose of spite. "You're not the client, Ms Kastri. You can keep your nose where it belongs. And your cunt as well."

A round if giggles heralded the entrance of Hidalga and Heidi.

They were only a year apart, and they looked nothing alike. The older, Hidalga, was shorter and had lighter hair, worn to her waist. The younger, Heidi, the taller heavier one, had dark brown hair worn short, and conspicuous freckles. They were dressed similar to Sally Anne: cotton pullovers with scoop collars, and denim trousers of an off white.

They stiffled their giggles the instant they noticed the tension between the two adults.

"Pegasus is lying down on the horse trail," Hidalga said in a somber tone and with a stricken look, as though she had forgotten about the crisis until just that moment. "That isn't good, is it?"

"He sort of looks sick," said Heidi, mimicking her sister.

Ambrosia was already heading out the doors of the stable at a fast walk. The two girls followed, smiling at each other.

Sally Anne understood no Greek, but the tone of voices and the mock horror of the looks informed her that something to do with the prize horse was cause for alarm.

With a smirk for the sisters, who were obviously enjoying the drama, Sally Anne went out to the horse trail that began at the open gate of the corral.

Pegasus lay on his side, legs straight out. It was then that Sally Anne realized her veterinary credentials were in serious jeopardy.

Ambrosia knelt at the horse's head, her phone out, tapping a contact. She was stoic about this, but beneath the veneer of her composure was a gnawing fright. It wasn't the anguish of seeing a beloved creature in pain, but a fear for one's own welfare.

Sally Anne had excelled in her Body Language classes. She had been told how essential it was to be able to read expressions, gestures, and poses accurately, and to understand and anticipate common reflexes incited by the various stimuli in stressful circumstances. She saw that Ambrosia was in a dangerous, but not a heartbreaking, situation.

Who was she calling? The local vet? Or someone who could protect her if the horse expired or became incapacitated?

Sally Anne recalled Rolgo telling her that Sanguineus believed the horse to be the most important factor in the Crucia mystery, and possibly the reason behind the death of Pella Markos. It was a bit too coincidental, she thought, that the horse should sicken at this time. Someone had poisoned it, she mused. The apple, perhaps, the apple that she had earlier fed to Pegasus, had it been injected with pathogens? If so, by who?

A scream.

Sally Anne, startled, saw a little girl running toward them, staggering and gasping for breath.

Some ways behind her, coming down from the brightly lit patio, was the old hermit of Patmos, his staff in hand.