The Lost Throne by Chris Kuzneski

they display the heads of the monks who founded it several centuries ago.”
    Dial stared at him like he was crazy. “Are you serious?”
    “Yes, sir. Dozens of skulls line their wooden shelves. But I don’t remember why.”
    “A roomful of monk skulls? That’s kind of warped, if you ask me. Then again, I’ve never been a big fan of religious symbolism. Most of that shit goes over my head. Pardon the pun.”
    Andropoulos smiled. “If you’d like, I can call the monastery and ask if there are any traditions that I am unaware of. Perhaps one of the older monks will know.”
    Dial nodded. “Speaking of old monks, I’d like to amend something you told me about the bodies. We know the identity of two victims, not one.”
    “Sir?”
    “One was the caretaker of Holy Trinity. Another was the abbot of Metéora.”
    “The abbot is dead? Who told you so?”
    “Nicolas, the monk I introduced you to.”
    Andropoulos shook his head. “Sorry, sir. That is incorrect. We have only identified
one
victim. We know nothing about the abbot.”
    “As of when?”
    “As of right now. I was briefed by the other officer when I gave him the videotapes.”

15

    L eaving the monastery, Andropoulos led Dial through the dark terrain as they walked to the road in silence. Dial was tired from his trip and sore from all the climbing, but the main reason he kept to himself was his confusion.
    How had Nicolas known about the death of the abbot before the police?
    It was a question that Dial had wanted to ask before he left the monastery for the night. Unfortunately, by the time he got his facts straight, the light under Nicolas’s door was no longer visible. Reluctant to wake the old man on such a traumatic day, Dial decided it would be best to wait until morning.
    Besides, he had other things to worry about—like the evidence on the videotapes.
    Dial slid into the passenger seat of the Citroën Xsara, the small hatchback that was used by the Greek police. White with blue stripes and a turbo-diesel engine, it wasn’t a bad car, but it couldn’t compete with the gas-guzzling Crown Victoria that Dial used to drive when he worked in the States. That thing roared when someone punched the gas. The Xsara barely purred. Then again, there was no way anyone could drive a Crown Vic on the mountainous roads of central Greece. Too many hairpin turns. Too many narrow streets. Both of which were on display during their drive to the station house.
    Andropoulos sped through the curves at top speed, sometimes drifting off the pavement in order to improve his angle for the turn ahead. Occasionally he drove on the wrong side of the road, which he felt was well within his rights, since he was an officer of the law and knew the hills better than the goat herders who lived on them. And Dial was savvy enough not to complain, knowing full well that most Europeans felt traffic laws were for wimps. Still, Dial thought he was going to die so many times during the trip that he was tempted to update his will.
    When they reached Kalampáka twenty minutes later, Dial got out of the police car and realized that he was no longer tired—thanks to the adrenaline that flowed through his body like ten cups of coffee and a case of Red Bull.
    “Come,” Andropoulos said as he walked toward the back door. “Let’s go inside.”
    The station house was small but modern, much newer than Dial had thought it would be in such an ancient town. Most officers were off duty or examining the crime scene at Metéora, so the duo had the back conference room to themselves—except for the young officer who had been entrusted with the videotapes. His name was Costas, and they found him sitting in front of a television with a remote control in his hand and a grin on his face.
    “Any luck?” Andropoulos asked.
    “Yes,” Costas said with a thick accent. “Very good!”
    “You’ll have to excuse his English. He’s still learning the language.”
    Dial shrugged. “He can use Greek if he