Torn in Two Read online

  “Constantine is none of your business, Mr Black.” Mr Saint took a cup of coffee offered by Sophia and nodded his thanks. “He is a local business man heavily involved in tourism. I can see why you might consider him a lead. He’s not the most pleasant of men. But I can assure you that kidnapping is not his style. He can make life very difficult for you. So please do take care. Do not approach him. That is an order, Mr Black. Have I made myself clear?”

  “I was just trying to find out what was in his van. He was very protective.”

  “He has been questioned by the police. His vehicles and his warehouse have been searched. He is no longer a suspect. Please do not waste my time and money by going after him.” Before Frankie could argue, Mr Saint cocked his head to one side. “Do you hear that?”

  Sophie switched off the coffee machine and Mr Fletcher lowered his newspaper, holding it still to avoid rustling.

  In the distance, the only noise above the birds and the breeze was a chorus of whining sirens.

  “It is the police.” Sophia looked startled.

  Alan pushed himself off the sofa and ran to his room calling, “Do you think they’ve found something?”

  “Sophia, let’s go.”

  Without waiting for a response from Sophia, Frankie was out the door. The electric gates opened as Sophia emerged and were fully open by the time she had climbed in beside Frankie.

  The laborious tone of the sirens grew louder as more vehicles joined in, and as Frankie reversed at high speed from the driveway, two police shot past the end of the road in a flash of blue lights.

  The Peugeot handled Frankie’s driving well. He reversed into a space on the road, dipped the clutch, and popped the gear stick into first while turning the wheel. Then he sped off, leaving a trail of rubber and tyre smoke in their wake.

  The two minute journey was over in under one minute. Frankie stopped the car across two spots close to where he’d spent the night. Ahead, near the cafe where he’d seen the old man opening up, were four police cars and an ambulance.

  Leaving the car unlocked, Frankie strode across the beach for the second time that morning to where a woman was on her knees, crying and screaming in Greek, laying her hands over the unmoving body of a girl face down in the sand.

  The policemen were trying to console the woman while keeping the few locals who had gathered around from getting too close. The authoritative hand of one uniformed officer stopped Frankie just ten feet from where the woman knelt beside the girl. He muttered something in Greek. But before Frankie could ask him to speak English, Sophia interpreted.

  “He is saying not to get closer.”

  “What’s happened? Can you hear what they are saying? Who’s the girl? Is she the lady’s daughter?”

  “She is a crazy lady. She lives in the houses at the end of the beach.” Sophia pushed past the policeman, trying to see the girl’s face.

  “Is it Emma, Sophia?” Frankie called.

  The chaos was growing with every second as more and more people flooded onto the beach, roused by the sirens as more police cars arrived.

  A hand touched Frankie’s shoulder. It was soft and gentle in contrast to the moment. He turned to find Sharon Fletcher gazing past him at the body, her face a twisted combination of fear, hope, and the loss that her subconscious had prepared her for over the last five days.

  Two policemen stepped over the girl’s body to stop Sophia from getting too close, but she slapped their hands away, spat an onslaught of aggressive Greek, and bent to kneel beside the woman.

  With her hands over her face, Sharon braced for the news. Frankie found his arm reaching around her, pulling her in until her head fell onto his shoulder.

  “Sophia?” Frankie’s sharp voice cut through the chaos of Greek, pushing and shoving.

  Sophia lifted the girl’s hair from her face to reveal cold, dead eyes, which caused the crazy lady to begin screaming once more. The moment of calm was over. The police closed in to protect the body as people sought a view, a chance of recognition.

  But Sophia raised her head. Unable to meet Sharon’s eyes, she found Frankie’s and held them for a moment until he urged her to speak.

  “Is it Emma?” he mouthed

  She shook her head in response.

  Chapter Thirty

  Three noises roused Emma from unconsciousness.

  The first was the incessant buzzing of a fly swooping past her head only to return seconds later to land on her face before it flew off to seek another part of her bloodied skin.

  The second was the chattering of a bird, warning off lesser birds between tentative pecks at the open wounds on Emma’s knees. The sharp stabs of its beak brought no further pain. Her broken body was numbed to any sensation while in its comatose state.

  The third sound accompanied no physical being other than her own damaged mind. A monotonous whine lingered in her subconscious, growing in volume and intensity with every rising degree of the morning sun that peeked over the hill and warmed her tattered skin.

  Only one eye opened. The right side remained closed, held fast by the same run of dried blood that stiffened her face. Drowsy and stiff, Emma tried to reach up to clear her eye. But a sharp sting of pain in her arm brought on a cry of agony and set in motion a panic that caused her to roll onto her side, where gravity once more toyed with her like a rag doll.

  There was no sharp drop like the one she remembered from the previous night, but the rocky incline proved too steep for her to halt her slide with her one good arm and tattered legs. Within moments, she was tumbling down the rocky escarpment, sliding on her bare skin.

  She scrambled for purchase as she collided with larger rocks, but her efforts freed the loose scree causing a cascade of stone to fall in her wake. Tiny clouds of sharp dust gritted her eye and pebbles found every inch of skin. A stone, larger than the first, bounced high above her, only to meet her six feet further down the hill and find the open wound on the back of her head.

  Rolling to escape the stony path, she reached for the roots of small bushes only to wound herself further within the sharp, gnarly branches and their protective thorns. Her damaged arm screamed as her body crushed it beneath her weight, but still, she reached for whatever rock, bush, or branch that happened to pass by within grasp.

  After a full minute of rasping skin, broken bones, and sharp, agonising bushes tearing at her skin, Emma landed in a heap at the foot of a hill in a cloud of dust and a shower of stones that, one by one, found their mark on her broken body.

  Dust filled her mouth. Her dry tongue did little to moisten her cracked and bleeding lips. While she waited for the dust to settle, curled in a ball with her broken and useless arm laying limp by her side, three sounds confirmed she was still alive. Three sounds kept her from slipping into unconsciousness. Three sounds reminded her she was a survivor.

  Harsh light found her crusted eyes and she peered through her matted and tangled hair at her position, brushing away the fly that teased her with its persistence. The downhill slide had deposited Emma in a natural ditch. She had a choice. Climb back up to the building and the road where familiarity offered sparse reprise over the threat of Darius, the man, and the unknown. Or somehow scramble down the hill, a journey of equal distance to where the straight lines and texture of the road contrasted against the rough and rocky terrain, and the Mediterranean glistened in the sun, twinkling and enticing her forward. She tracked the water’s edge, squinting and rubbing her eyes, and more of the valley below became clear.

  “No. It can’t be.”

  Her throat was dry and her voice cracked, sounding like her mother after one of her heavy nights. But as she cleared her eyes of dust and grit and stood to seek higher ground, her eye was drawn to a collection of whitewashed buildings on the coast at the furthest reaches of her sight. Some buildings were large like the villa Emma’s dad had rented for them. Some were small like the ones that were dotted around the beach at the poorer end of town. In the centre, a beacon to dispel any doubt was
the single spire of the church Emma remembered with such clarity.

  “Varkiza?”

  The sight greeted her like a revelation. The shimmering heat on the ground before the town gave it an otherworldly appearance, casting a flicker of doubt. But the layout of the town, the buildings, and the church spire offered hope the more Emma studied it.

  With her shoes long since lost to the rocky slope, Emma began her descent, picking out the larger rocks and patches of fine sand over the areas of tiny stones that stuck into the soles of her feet. Keeping one eye closed seemed to stem the pounding headache that felt as if her head was being crushed and would then relent, leaving her dizzied and breathless.

  But still, with the distant sight of the familiar little town urging her forward, Emma pushed on, her progress hindered by frequent rests to either remove the stones from her feet or crouch into a ball to shield her eyes from the sun until the pressure of her concussion eased. Twice, she vomited. A rush of clear, acidic bile soured her parched throat, offering little in the way of a reprise from the dehydration that weakened her body further with each passing minute.

  Setting goals that were in reach to break the journey into bite-sized challenges raised her spirits. Spying a large rock or a tree, thirty, forty, or fifty feet away, she thought of nothing but that goal as she pushed herself closer, sometimes walking, sometimes crawling, and then celebrating with a rest when she achieved it.

  But as the day grew older and the sun brighter and higher, the heat of the European summer slowed her pace. Holding her damaged arm still against her body, her bruised legs shook with every step. Sweat infused with grit and blood seeped into her eyes. The slow methodical pulse of her head injury grew in intensity like the steady beat of a timpani, rising from the depths of the opening movement to lead the charge into the final sonata.

  With nothing left to vomit, Emma doubled over, her stomach retching, contracting and allowing only a trace of the foul bile to grace her lips. She spat, letting a thin strand of poisonous drool hang from her mouth. The whine in her head had grown to overshadow even the incessant flies and the caw of the blackbird that hopped behind her, tasting the blood her feet had left in the dirt.

  She straightened, steadying herself on a gnarly branch of an old tree to search for one more glimpse of Varkiza, hoping for inspiration. But she found only the dizzied chaos of concussion and heatstroke.

  “Another step.”

  Emma let go of the branch, swaying to keep her balance, then stepped forward. Encouraged, she allowed herself one more step, reaching for a rock and searching another few feet in front for the next handhold.

  But there was nothing. The next ten feet was baron with no stones to cut her feet and no trees or rocks to help her stand.

  Just a shiny black surface contrasted against the rough and rocky terrain.

  A few moments passed until her sickened mind processed what she had found. It was a goal that had seemed so out of reach only moments ago.

  Or was it hours?

  The tarmac was hot and burned the soles of her feet. But to Emma, it was a cloud upon which she would be carried away. She had tried. She had not given in.

  Unlike the girl she had left behind.

  With the church spire of Varkiza so clear in her mind against the twinkling and inviting waters of the Mediterranean Sea, Emma dropped to her knees and let the image of her sanctuary fade.

  Fear had long been, passed, and gone. Hope urged her on, holding doubt to one side.

  And as Emma prayed for the last time, offering repent to the god she had ignored too often, reality came with a warmth that quelled the nausea, the dizziness, and the pain to which her body was growing accustomed.

  Letting her head fall back and the sun bear down on her sunburned face, she relished in the pain, guilty of sins far greater than she knew she was capable of, but proud of her growth, her strength, and her survival.

  A tear formed in the corner of her eye as she thought of the words to say, the sorrow she could offer that might ease her way.

  “Dear God. I deserve this. I have been cruel and I have suffered. I have caused pain and now I am in pain. I have caused misery and now I am miserable. I deserve this. I deserve this. But my mum and dad do not. I am in hell. I deserve hell. But my mum and dad deserve peace. Please, God.”

  Bending double until her forehead grazed the hot tarmac road, Emma let the tears roll. She clutched at her arm, rolled onto her side, and welcomed death.

  Her vision faded to a cloudy reality and the bright sun seared any hope or clarity. With her face against the tarmac road, Emma closed her eyes and waited for her body to succumb to the heat and her injuries.

  The whine in her head had dulled, quietening to allow her final moments to enjoy the buzzing flies that feasted on her skin and the chatter of the bird that waited for her flesh.

  A rumbling sensation, new amongst the riot of sensations, woke her from her slumber. She opened her eyes, squinting against the sun and the shimmering heat that poured off the road, to find a shadow, large and alien against the rocky terrain.

  Footsteps crunched on the tarmac. They approached with slow, tentative steps. A pair of immaculate brown shoes and pressed trousers were all she could make out before fatigue, the sun, and the pulse of her headache overcame her.

  The footsteps stopped beside her and the shadow cooled her face. But the shape was unmoving, and as Emma rolled onto her back to stare up at the figure silhouetted against the bright sky, she wondered if death itself had arrived.

  “Take me.”

  They were all the words Emma could muster.

  She smiled, welcoming the journey and happy to leave the world behind.

  Death crouched beside her. A hand brushed the hair from her face, tucking a strand behind her ear, and there the hand rested as if the physical connection was part of the journey. The touch. The final touch.

  But the moment lingered long enough for Emma to rouse. The finger ventured further, tracing the outline of her parched lips.

  Death leaned forward as if peering into Emma's soul with unseen eyes.

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The locals fanned out, out of respect for the dead.

  Crawling through the sand between them, her grief too heavy to lift, Sharon clutched at the dead girl’s body. Her finger brushed the girl’s hair to one side, tucking it behind her ear the way a mother might to make her daughter presentable to the world.

  Unable to watch, Frankie scanned the crowd. The old man from the restaurant offered coffees to the policemen. Tourists huddled together in disbelief that such a thing could have happened to someone so young. And the one media crew that Frankie had seen parked at the end of the Fletchers’ road stood idle at the command of their presenter, Penelope Pike.

  It was the long, red hair that caught Frankie’s eye, as it always did. No matter the weather, no matter the time, the soft curls lay across her shoulders framing her pale skin. She wore a soft, loose-fitting, white blouse, offering her room to breathe in the stifling heat while maintaining a professional appearance. The sunlight shone through the material, reminding Frankie of the hard body beneath.

  Making his way through the crowd, side-stepping locals who were backing off to give Sharon some space, Frankie approached Penelope.

  As she knew he would.

  As he always did.

  “I wondered if you’d come and say hi.”

  Her tone did little to support the feminine strength her appearance conveyed. Her voice was as soft and gentle as her touch, but beneath the enticing allure of her natural beauty, Frankie knew the woman was ruthless as a reporter. She sought the truth no matter the cost.

  “This is a way out of your daily commute, Penelope.”

  Frankie nodded a polite hello at the camera man and sound guy, who both stood waiting for Penelope to find a non-obtrusive and appropriate moment to get the story.

  “I’m attracted to matters of the heart, Fra
nkie. It’s in my blood. Is it Emma?” She gestured at the body and the swarming public growing behind Frankie.

  “Thankfully not.”

  The comment raised an eyebrow on Penelope’s freckled face.

  “You’re not looking for closure then? That could have been an easy pay check.”

  “I’m not looking for an easy pay check, Penelope. I’m looking for Emma Fletcher. A living breathing Emma Fletcher, to be precise.”

  “How do you like your chances?”

  With a nod of his head in the direction of the empty beach behind Penelope, Frankie led her away from the crowd. Keeping his hands in his pockets to refrain from reaching out and touching her, he led Penelope down to the shoreline where the gentle tide had hardened the sand.

  Shoes in hand, seeming to relish the sand between her toes, Penelope walked as she did everywhere, as if she was taking an early morning stroll along the beach.

  “You’ve found something, haven't you?” Her question betrayed her confident appearance, allowing a slither of jealousy to shine through the cracks in Penelope’s armour.

  “Nothing concrete. But I have enough questions that need answering that might lead to something.”

  “The parents?”

  “Are you digging for clues?”

  “Professional intrigue.”

  “No. The parents are a shambles but they love her. They don’t have it in them.”

  “Present tense? You really do believe she’s alive, don't you?”

  “I don't enjoy finding bodies. I enjoy the reward of reuniting loved ones. I’m attracted to matters of the heart. Don't you know?”

  “Touché.”

  As they approached the spot where the boat had beached and the men had carried heavy coolers to and from the van, Frankie watched Penelope. The tracks created a reaction. But she continued to sift the sand between her painted toes and let the warm breeze breathe onto her skin.