The Lost Throne

Dial nodded in understanding as he continued to explore. “That might explain the wood. The monks who built this place were probably worried about cave-ins. Miners used to do the same thing in the Old West. The boards kept their shafts from collapsing.”

“Where does it lead?”

Dial shrugged as he stopped at the edge of the steps. “We’ll find out shortly.”

He shined the light into the darkness below. The stairs curled to the right, then disappeared into the depths. Dial turned back and looked at the Greek. “Are you ready?”

Andropoulos coughed again. The sound echoed throughout the corridor. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then stop your goddamn coughing and let’s get moving.”

Dial eased down the staircase one step at a time, making sure each stair supported his weight before he moved on to the next one. Five steps. Then ten. Fifteen. Then twenty. Finally, after twenty-two steps, he reached the bottom. A few seconds later, he was joined by Andropoulos, who was no longer hacking-even though the stench was growing stronger.

“This is interesting,” Dial mumbled to himself.

The stone corridor opened into a rectangular chamber, approximately ten feet across and twenty feet long, with a slender archway in the back of the room. The left and right walls were lined with carved wooden shelves that were empty except for a pack of matches and a few cobwebs. The intricate craftsmanship of the shelves, which looked remarkably similar to the hidden door, suggested they had once been filled with something important. But neither of them knew what that might have been.

Hoping to find out, Dial walked deeper into the room.

Next to the shelves he spotted a decorative candleholder that resembled a menorah but only held five candles. It was made of metal and bolted securely to the left-hand wall.

“Do me a favor,” Dial said, pointing toward the matches. “Light those candles.”

Andropoulos did what he was told, and soon darkness was replaced with flickering light. On the opposite wall, he noticed a second candleholder, identical to the first, and lit those candles as well. Suddenly, the room was bright enough for Dial to turn off the penlight.

“What is this place?” Andropoulos asked after blowing out the match.

Dial shrugged. “It looks like a document archive. At least it was at one time.”

Andropoulos ran his finger along one of the shelves. It was coated with a thick layer of dust. “Whatever used to be here was taken long before the massacre.”

Dial nodded in agreement. “Speaking of the massacre . . .”

The phrase hung in the air as Dial crept through the archway in the back of the chamber. It led to a second room half the size of the archive but far more important. Not only because it contained a stone altar, but also because it was the source of the horrible smell.

24

The candlelight from the first room barely penetrated the sec ond, forcing Dial to turn on the penlight once again. He shone the narrow beam on the stone altar that stood against the rear wall. Seven sets of eyes stared back at him. All of them vacant. All of them human.

Dial recoiled at the sight, if only for an instant.

“Jesus,” he said to himself.

From the moment he had seen the blood on the hidden door, Dial expected to find the monks’ heads inside the tunnel, a theory that was supported by the stench of rotting flesh. But he hadn’t expected to find them like this. The heads were neatly stacked in a pyramid. Four in the bottom row, two in the middle, and one on top. Dried blood held it all together like papier-mache.

Andropoulos walked into the room. “You called?”

Looking over Dial’s shoulder, Andropoulos saw the gruesome scene and instantly gagged. All the color rushed from his face, leaving his cheeks pale. Dry heaves were soon to follow.

Dial turned around to make sure the Greek was all right. Several seconds passed before he spoke. “For the record, I said ‘Jesus,’ not ‘Marcus.’”

Andropoulos kept coughing while trying to apologize. “Sorry . . . I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I gagged a little, too.”

The Greek leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Yes, but-”

“No buts. There’s no reason to be embarrassed. Everyone has moments like this. And I mean everyone. Hell, I had several when I was a rookie. Trust me, I saw some things that could make a billy goat puke. . . . Not to say you’re going to puke. Because that would be bad.”

“No, sir, I won’t puke.”

“Glad to hear it.” Dial patted him on his back. “It smells bad enough already.”

Andropoulos smiled at the comment. Not a huge grin, but one that signaled he was going to be all right. Dial gave him a moment to regain his composure, then handed him a tissue.

“Wipe your eyes, blow your nose, or whatever you need to do. When you’re done, I’ll be back here, looking for more heads.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dial nodded and returned to work, focusing on the altar room instead of his assistant. Deep down inside, he knew that’s what Andropoulos needed. He didn’t need attention. He needed space. And Dial gave him plenty. He figured the young cop would return when he was ready. And if he didn’t return soon, he wasn’t nearly as tough as Dial thought he was.

But Andropoulos didn’t disappoint him. Less than five minutes later he was standing in the back room, right next to Dial. And this time there were no signs of discomfort. No coughing. No hacking. No dry heaves. The color had even returned to his face. Somehow the kid had steadied himself without stepping outside for a breath of fresh air. To Dial, that was more impressive than someone with an iron stomach who wouldn’t have gagged in the first place.

It showed that Andropoulos had character. That he could overcome setbacks. That he wouldn’t let his shortcomings keep him down.

And strangely, Dial felt a hint of paternal pride.

“Look over there,” he said as he pointed to several garbage bags in the corner. The interiors of the bags were covered in blood, as was the floor in front of the altar. “I’m guessing they stuffed the heads inside the bags and carried them down here for their little display.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To send a message. You don’t lug a bag of heads around if you aren’t sending a message.”

“To us?” Andropoulos asked.

“Definitely not. If they wanted us to find it, they would’ve left a blood trail.”

To prove his point, Dial walked through the archway and shined the light on the floor in front of the empty shelves. As expected, there was no sign of blood outside the altar room.

“No,” he surmised, “they used plastic bags to conceal this location. They wanted someone to find the heads-someone who knew about this place-but not us.”

“Someone like Nicolas?”

Dial shrugged. It was a fair question, but one he didn’t have an answer for quite yet. Not this early in the investigation. To change the topic, he said, “Any thoughts on the pyramid?”

“Actually, sir, I was going to ask you the exact same thing.”

“I told you, I always have a theory. But I’m more concerned with yours.” Dial handed him the penlight and told him to take a closer look. “Let me know if you find anything.”

Andropoulos gulped and leaned closer to examine the heads. Although decomposition had started-which was the source of the horrible smell-they still had their hair and skin and looked remarkably lifelike. Expressions of horror were frozen on their faces like Hallow een masks, as if they still felt the sting of the Spartan’s sword. To Andropoulos, one head stood out among the others. It was someone he recognized the moment he set foot in the room.

“The man on top is the abbot,” he said.

“Really? What about the others?”