Augusta stared at Erol in disbelief. For a moment she couldn’t speak. “You? Did you…?” she managed to say, waving her arms wildly at the dead priest on the floor. “Did you kill him?”
“He isn’t dead.” Erol motioned her toward him, placing one hand on the side of the priest’s neck. “He has a pulse and he’s breathing. He’s just unconscious.”
Kneeling beside Erol, she placed her own fingers on the side of the priest’s neck. The pulse was faint, but it was there. She sighed in relief.
“And no, I didn’t do it,” Erol said, straightening up and grabbing his phone out of his pocket. “I found him like this. Let’s call an ambulance.” He tapped on his phone, spoke rapidly in Turkish, then hung up and jabbed the phone back in his pocket. “His head is still bleeding. We need to stop the blood. Do you have a jacket or anything we could tie around his head?”
She shook her head. “My backpack was stolen, remember? Everything I had was in there.” She felt in the pockets of her jeans for a spare tissue but came up empty.
“Fine.” Erol wrenched off his own shirt, gently lifted the elderly man’s head in one hand, and tied the shirt like a bandage around his forehead. “This will work.”
They waited for what seemed like ages for the paramedics to arrive. Augusta wasn’t sure how to behave at the bedside of an unconscious Greek monk. Should she hold his hand? Make sure he stayed warm? She settled for sitting cross-legged beside him, every once in a while checking his wrist for a pulse. Finally, three men with medical bags made their way through the church entrance. Placing an oxygen mask over the priest’s mouth, they replaced the bloody shirt around his head with a clean bandage and hoisted him carefully onto the stretcher.
Augusta sat on the floor to one side, watching the proceedings. Erol was talking to the men in animated tones as they worked—probably explaining how he had found the priest and how the two of them had tried to help. He seemed oblivious to the impropriety of sitting shirtless at the altar of an ancient pilgrimage site. Augusta wondered how he was always so comfortable in his own skin—literally. She tried not to look as the dim candlelight flickered off his bare chest.
At last the injured priest was loaded into an ambulance. Augusta followed Erol back outside the monastery walls, watching as the ambulance wailed off toward town.
“Poor guy,” she said. “I hope he’ll recover.”
“His chances are good, according to the paramedics. Apparently he hadn’t been there long when we found him.” Erol paused, one hand resting on his bicycle. “At least now we know he didn’t steal your book,” he said grimly.
“How does this prove he didn’t steal my book?” Augusta swung one leg over the bike and sat, poised for takeoff. “Maybe the henchman he hired was dissatisfied with his payment. He came back and knocked out Father Ephraim when he didn’t get what he wanted.”
“I don’t think so.” Erol was squinting up at the sun, which was approaching its full height in the sky. “Maybe the book thief knocked out Father Ephraim, but I don’t think Father Ephraim hired the book thief.”
“Why not?”
“It just doesn’t make sense. I could see the priest paying some down and out drifter to run and grab the book from us, but not a hardened criminal. I think we’re talking about a different level of crime here. It has to be someone else.” He paused. “Could be the Rumelov group.”
“Are you saying Eda was right?” Augusta said with mock surprise. She pushed off and began pedaling downhill, laughing over her shoulder as Erol raced to keep up with her.
The ride up to the summit had been difficult, but the ride back down was pure delight. Dappled sunlight streamed through the pines above them. Stone and wood cottages flashed by on their left, while to the right the dark blue sea winked at them from between the trees. Pedaling, laughing, soaring down the verdant hillside, Augusta felt weightless, her own momentum pulling her forward down the path. The grim scene at the church receded from memory as she breathed in the fresh island air and heard the crunch of Erol’s tires behind her.
As they glided back into town, Erol pulled over in front of the police station and jumped off his bike.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, pulling off the road beside him.
“We have to make a statement to the police.”
“Are you going in like that?” Augusta nodded at his bare torso. “Don’t you need a new shirt?”
“Oh yeah.” Erol looked down at his chest as if realizing for the first time he wasn’t properly dressed. “I know where we can get one. And let’s get some lunch on the way back. I’m really hungry.”
Augusta was happy to agree. It was the best idea she’d heard all day.
Two hours later, they were standing on the pier of Big Island, scanning the horizon for the arrival of the incoming ferry that would take them back to the mainland. Following lunch at an atmospheric restaurant overlooking the small island port, they had stopped by the tiny police station to discuss the priest’s attack. Erol was wearing his newly purchased polo shirt, which looked remarkably like his old one, and was talking with the police officer on duty in his usual energetic tones. He gestured forcefully as the officer nodded and scribbled notes. The hero of his own story, Augusta assumed.
When it was her turn, Erol translated. Not that she could shed much light on anything. She described how they had cycled up to the monastery, entered the church, and found the priest lying unconscious, then stayed with him until the paramedics arrived. The bleeding head, the makeshift bandage, the empty church. Just the facts. She wasn’t sure whether she should mention anything else, such as their suspicion that Father Ephraim’s attack might be related to a 400-year-old book. She decided to leave that out for now.
Emerging from the station, as they headed back toward the harbor, Augusta asked if he had told the police about the Ottoman book.
“No way! Why would I tell them? They don’t need to know about it.”
“Yes, they do. It’s vital information. How else are they going to find out who assaulted the priest?”
“You don’t really think this tiny island police force is going to find the Rumelov group? They don’t stand a chance. It’s all up to us now.”
“They have more of a chance than we do! They work with detectives all over the city. It must be a big force. You think the entire Istanbul police force can’t find the Rumelovs, but we can?”
Erol turned to her with a knowing air. “Yes. Because I know where to look.”
“Of course you do.” Augusta rolled her eyes. She didn’t know whether to find his confidence amusing or annoying. “And where’s that?”
“I have my sources.”
She glared at him. “Sorry, you’ll have to do better than that. Don’t try to keep secrets from me. The lost discourses are still mine. I can always change my mind about selling them to your museum.”
“Yes. But remember, you need my help to find the discourses again. Good luck waiting around for the police to find the book for you.”
Erol kicked a stone lying on the sidewalk as they reached the pier. “And anyway, without me you wouldn’t have known they were the lost discourses in the first place. I’m the one who figured out the connection.”
He was infuriating! Why had she ever thought he was likeable? Augusta heaved an angry sigh and turned to Erol with arms crossed emphatically in front of her.
“What am I doing here? I wish I’d never come. Without you I’d be safely at home working in my studio right now, not running around chasing criminals on some run-down island.” She felt herself trembling with anger. “I might not know anything about the Ottoman book, but at least I’d be able to grieve for my grandfather in peace!”
Thoughts of her grandfather suddenly overtook everything else, and her rage turned to anguish. She no longer saw Erol standing in front of her but Grandfather, the Grandfather of her childhood, holding his arms open for a warm hug. The tears started to trickle—first one, then three, then several pouring down her face together. She sat down on the pier and buried her face in her knees, silently sobbing.
Augusta couldn’t tell how long she sat there. Maybe ten minutes, maybe less than one. The emotions pulsed through her body—love, sadness, guilt for forgetting to grieve. “I’m sorry, Grandfather,” her mind kept repeating. “I miss you so much. I don’t know what I’m doing here.” She might as well get the next plane home. She didn’t want to be in Istanbul, there was no point in staying. She was exhausted. Confused. Alone.
She felt a gentle pressure on her back. Erol. “Hey, are you ok?” he asked miserably. “Come on, don’t cry, everything will be alright.”
With her head still down, she sensed him bending over her, then sitting down beside her on the pier. “You’re right, I was being a jerk. I was just kidding. I’ll tell you everything I know. I’m not really keeping secrets.”
Secrets. That’s what she couldn’t stand. This whole thing had started because of a secret, something her grandfather had never told her. Augusta sniffled and glanced sideways at Erol, her eyes red-brimmed and still glistening with tears. He looked extremely uncomfortable, but there was real sympathy in his dark brown eyes. He smiled encouragingly. “There’s no need to cry. Here, I’ll get you some ice cream.”
Before she could say anything, he had jumped up and walked over to an ice cream stand on the other side of the square. He returned with two cups of ice cream and handed one to her. “This will make you feel better. It’s the best flavor. Pistachio.”
Augusta wiped her tears with the back of her hand and accepted the ice cream. “Thank you. I don’t know what came over me. I just miss my grandfather so much. And this whole thing is just so… overwhelming. All this crazy stuff keeps happening around me. I just don’t understand what’s going on.” She swiped at the ice cream and felt the cool sweetness hit her tongue. Delicious. It was just what she needed.
“I know.” Erol settled back down on the sidewalk beside her. He scooped some ice cream from his cup and licked the spoon. “It’s normal to be upset. Were you close to your grandfather?”
“Yes, very. After my father died, my mom and I moved next door to my grandparents. I spent almost every day with my grandfather.” She paused for another spoonful. “He’s the one who taught me how to make things. I would never have started sculpting without him.”
Erol was scooping out giant bites of ice cream, but he nodded gravely. “He must have been a wonderful man.”
“He was.” Her tears were almost dry now, and she suddenly felt very silly that she had started bawling in the middle of the promenade. What had come over her? She looked around at the people milling around, waiting for the ferry, having a normal day. The sun shone relentlessly. Things weren’t really so bad. As she scraped the bottom of her ice cream cup for a last bite, she smiled at Erol. “Thanks for understanding. And thanks for the ice cream. You’re really nice.”
“You’re nice too.”
In the distance, they could see the ferry finally coming into view. Across the sea, the white buildings along the Istanbul shoreline blurred together like an endless rocky outcropping—cliffs of marble standing against the deep blue water.
“Are you going to tell me who your source is?” Augusta asked.
“Yes. But I need to talk to Mark first. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you earlier.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Who is Mark?”
“He’s my colleague at the museum—my friend. He knows more about the Rumelov group than I do. We need to check with him before I can tell you anything for sure.”
“Okay.” She accepted this as reasonable. “But why can’t you just call and ask him?”
“It’s sensitive information,” Erol said, shaking his head. “We need to talk in person. Anyway, don’t you want to see the Ottoman History Museum? We were going there this morning before the book was stolen. You’ll like it, it’s interesting.”
Augusta had her doubts about the delights of Ottoman history, but she kept them to herself.
“And Eda will meet us there,” Erol added. “She’s very worried about you. She wants to make sure you’re alright.”
“Your sister is very nice, too,” Augusta said warmly. Erol had called Eda earlier that morning after the theft, and she had expressed her concern in the most unambiguous tones. Augusta couldn’t understand what Eda was telling Erol in Turkish, but her sentiments were clear. “She didn’t want you to bring me to the island, did she? She was worried I would get hurt.”
“Mmm,” Erol mumbled evasively. “If the Rumelovs are responsible for this, they could be dangerous. But we’ll know more after Father Ephraim is able to speak again. He can tell us who attacked him.”
He took his phone out of his pocket. “And speaking of worry, it looks like your mother is worried about you. They must be awake now.”
He handed the phone to Augusta, who quickly scrolled through the long message from North Carolina. I’m fine, Mom! she typed back. I’m safe and we are trying to find the book. I’ll let you know when we get it. She added lots of hearts, and then I miss you and Grandmother. Lots of love.
The ferry had now docked and passengers were slowly disembarking. Children raced down the gangway, yelling and chasing, and elderly grandparents followed slowly with walking sticks and picnic baskets. The seagulls circled and squawked overhead, awaiting their share of the picnic.
Erol and Augusta stood up and made their way to the ferry. Erol headed straight for the top deck, stopping for some tea on the way.
As they found seats at the back of the boat, Augusta reflected on what she knew and what her next step would be. She was no closer to getting her book back, but the trip to Big Island hadn’t been a total loss. They had eliminated one suspect and were about to track down another.
The ferry slowly glided out of port, cutting across choppy waves to the mainland. As the island shoreline receded into a haze, a sense of clarity settled over her. The emotional turmoil of the past twenty four hours—her long journey to Istanbul, her stay with two strangers who had now become friends, the theft of a priceless book, the sudden discovery of an unconscious priest—melted into a sense that there was only one right thing to do. She needed to find out who stole the book. It’s what her grandfather would have wanted her to do.
Augusta still didn’t understand why he had chosen not to share his secrets with her. But she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had loved her very much. He must have had his reasons both for keeping that book on his shelf and for keeping her in the dark about it. Maybe if she found the book she would find out her grandfather’s reasons for secrecy. Maybe she would discover the secret itself.
For the first time since her grandfather’s death, Augusta felt at peace. Confident in her direction. Watching the mid-day sun glancing off the waves below, tasting the saltiness of the ocean-scented air, she settled back into herself. She knew what she needed to do. Now she just needed to figure out how to do it.