The Devil Takes Half by Leta Serafim Page B

his hands off the Scandinavian tourists he arrested for nudity and drunkenness and came home early most nights. Well, perhaps not most nights. Some nights. A few nights.
    He guessed Dimitra had had her dreams when they got married. Hell, everyone had dreams when they got married. But they hadn’t come true. He was no Prince Charming. But she’d had her revenge. Yes, indeed. She was working on gelding, too, every chance she got.
    The thought of growing old beside her filled him with unbearable angst. And then, to be buried side by side in the family crypt, her family crypt, which meant her momma would be there, too, for all eternity ….

Chapter 12
    Friendships and loves are forgotten, and when they meet they talk like strangers, passers-by.
    â€” Greek proverb

    P atronas pushed back the cloth top of the Citroen, hoping the rush of the wind would make him feel better. He was still haunted by what the fisherman, Costas, had seen on the beach, a man throwing away pieces of a human being in trash bags. He’d ordered his staff to send the remains to Athens, along with the samples from the trench and a hairbrush he’d taken from Eleni Argentis’ bedroom. With any luck, the DNA would match and he could declare her legally dead. A good defense attorney might be able to argue that a severed leg and hand did not a murder make, but it was all he had. That is, if he caught whoever did this and they went to trial. He rubbed his eyes.
    The road hugged the shore. The water was so clear, he could make out individual rocks on the ocean floor. Across the bay, he could see the village of Faro and the old slag heaps where the ancients had mined gold. A pair of sailboats were tacking in the wind, slowly making their way north toward Chora.
    Papa Michalis was in his garden. “Something got my rooster last night. From the way it was dismembered, I would have thought a wolf, but there haven’t been wolves in these hills for centuries.”
    â€œ Maybe a dog got it.”
    â€œ If it was a dog, how did it get in? I always lock the doors before I go to sleep. And there was no dog in here last night.”
    At the priest’s behest, Patronas examined what was left of the rooster. There was a narrow arc of blood splatter on the white wall above where Papa Michalis had found the bird, as if someone or something had torn open its neck. Its gizzard and guts were scattered across the pavement, the bloody feathers still stuck to the stones.
    â€œ A dog,” Patronas said again. His mind was still on the scene at the beach. He didn’t want to be bothered with dead roosters.
    Shovel in hand, the priest scooped up the mess and gently laid it down in the hole he’d dug. “Death seems to be stalking this place.”
    â€œ A coincidence, Father. Your rooster? Just one animal consuming another. Nothing more.”
    â€œ That’s the thing. Whatever killed it didn’t eat it. It just tore it all to pieces and left it there.”
    â€œ Strange.”
    The priest patted the little grave with his shovel. “A detective in a novel I read said, ‘In homicides there are no coincidences.’ ”
    â€œ True enough. I’m just not sure the author was talking about roosters.”
    * * *
    â€œ How did Eleni get along with the archeological community?” Patronas asked Papa Michalis. He was standing on a stepladder in the arbor at Profitis Ilias, cutting grapes. The priest had asked for his help, saying he was too old and unsteady for such work.
    After the fisherman’s discovery, Patronas was sure Eleni Argentis was dead, but if the old man noticed his use of the past tense, he didn’t let on. He still cried openly whenever he spoke of Eleni or Petros, and Patronas was afraid if he told him about the trash bags, it would set him off again. You could never tell with Papa Michalis. He was an odd duck, loxos. Weeping over his lost friends one minute and rambling on about crime