“Really? With all these books, I figured you’d find something of value. Didn’t you say the entire history of Metéora was chronicled here?”
“Yes, I did.”
Dial shook his head and grimaced. “I don’t know about you, but I find it odd that something as elaborate as that tunnel is not mentioned in any of these volumes. In fact, I’d be tempted to go one step further. I might even use the word unlikely.”
Theodore said nothing. He simply folded his hands on the desk in front of him and returned Dial’s stare. Unfortunately, because of the monk’s beard, Dial found it difficult to read his facial expressions. Was he smirking? Or grinning? Or gritting his teeth? Dial couldn’t tell. All he could do was study Theodore’s eyes, hoping to find a clue as to what he was thinking.
“Marcus,” Dial said, as he started to stand, “are you ready to go?”
Andropoulos glanced at him, temporarily confused. “We’re leaving?”
“The library, yes. The grounds, no. This monastery is filled with potential witnesses. Let’s go pester some.”
Andropoulos nodded in understanding. He knew what Dial was doing and was anxious to play along. “Should I call the station? I can get some reinforcements.”
“Let’s start with five. Make sure they bring dinner. We might be here awhile.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
In unison, the two of them headed toward the door. They made it halfway across the room before Theodore cleared his throat. Dial tried not to grin as he stopped in his tracks.
“Yes?” Dial said over his shoulder.
“Sometimes, more can be learned by what is missing than what is found.”
He refused to turn around. “Meaning?”
“Please have a seat,” the monk implored. “There is something I must show you.”
Andropoulos glanced at Dial, who nodded his approval. The two of them returned to their chairs while Theodore fetched a book from the back corner of the room, where some of the shelves were dotted with old black-and-white photographs of monks posing on the grounds. None of them smiling. Just standing there as if it were torture. Dial knew that feeling. A similar photo used to hang on his parents’ wall. It documented the day he graduated from college. It was a proud moment for his family, so he willingly stood there and let them take picture after picture to commemorate the occasion. But he sure as hell hadn’t been happy about it.
“Who are they?” Dial asked, pointing at the photographs. As far as he could see, it was the only section of the room that had any personal items.
Theodore replied as he carried a single book back to the desk. “They are monks who lived at Metéora. All have since moved on.”
“Moved on as in transferred, or moved on as in dead?”
“A little of both.”
“Why are the pictures kept in that corner section?”
“It’s where our historical records are stored. The photographs are part of our history.”
Dial nodded. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”
Theodore said nothing.
“So,” Dial continued, “what did you want us to see? Or not see, as the case may be?”
“The history of Holy Trinity,” said the monk as he carefully opened the book.
Its cover was hard ornamental leather, dark brown in color. An Orthodox cross had been embossed on the front. It stood a quarter-inch higher than the rest of the leather. Tiny brass studs had been inserted into all four corners of the front and back, which lifted the book off flat surfaces, protecting it from dust or spills. The spine was etched with rustic gold, the same color as the outer edge of the pages. They glistened under the light of the chandelier.
“Over the centuries,” he said as he turned the pages, “my brethren have documented every significant moment at Holy Trinity. This includes all new construction. Whenever the monastery expanded, so did this book.”
“And you’ve done this for every monastery?”
Theodore nodded. “We chronicle the past to enrich the future.”
“That’s very noble of you. But unless I’m missing something, your brethren weren’t very thorough. If they had been, they would’ve noticed the tunnel that I found.”
“It isn’t you who is missing something. It is this volume.” Theodore turned it toward Dial and Andropoulos so they could see it better. “Pages have been taken.”
Dial stood up. “How do you know?”
The monk ran his gloved finger down the center crease of the book. A section had been removed, obvious from the torn fragments that still remained. “I do not know who and I do not know when, but someone butchered this book as they butchered my brothers.”