Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) by Joseph Badal

since that damned Gypsy brought the boy here. He hardly eats. He only sleeps when he’s too tired to cry. Look at his face. You can see he’s exhausted. Dr. Petrovic, if we don’t do something soon he will starve.”
    “Comrade Vulovich, you are overreacting,” Petrovic said, leaning forward on the plush, leather couch and placing his coffee cup on the table. He looked at his watch as though she were keeping him from something really important. “Children will not starve themselves. He will come around, you’ll see. And why isn’t he with the other children? You aren’t supposed to be a babysitter.” Before she could respond, Petrovic stood up. “I have to go. Call me if there are any real problems.”
    Katrina Vulovich scowled after Petrovic left the nursery. “Call him if there are any real problems,” she said, mimicking the doctor. “He calls himself a doctor,” she said under her breath. “He knows nothing. This child’s heart is broken and he’s terrified. He will starve to death if I don’t figure out something soon.”
    She sat on the couch next to the boy and picked up the food tray on the coffee table. “Come on, my little boy, you must eat something. See, I made this just for you. At least drink the milk. Your Mama Katrina will make it better. You’ll see. No one can love you the way Mama Katrina can.”
    The boy looked up at her, his blue eyes wet with tears and underscored with dark circles. He took in several stuttering breaths, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and rolled into a fetal position.
     

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
    Liz sat in the front seat while Meers drove to the ferry dock. Bob sat in the back and read aloud from the George Makris file. Even on the ferryboat ride to the Island of Evoia, they remained in the car and listened to Bob quote excerpts from the file.
    After the ferry docked on Evoia, Meers drove north. Just past a tiny village of a dozen or so white stuccoed homes with blue shutters and doors, he pulled the Volvo onto the dirt shoulder in front of a small house sitting between the road and the beach. Its back to the sea, the house faced the road. On the opposite side of the road, an olive grove covered a hillside.
    “Are you sure Makris is here?” Liz asked.
    “He agreed to talk with you after he learned about your son’s kidnapping,” Meers said. “I have no reason to believe he’d change his mind.”
    When they got out of the car, Bob put his arm around Liz. “Calm down,” he whispered. “Let’s not spook this guy, okay?”
    She took Bob’s hand and pressed it to her lips. They followed Meers down the gravel walk to the front door.
    Before Meers could knock, a frail, sickly-looking man of medium height opened the door. His thick mustache was a black, glossy swath across his death-pale skin. High cheekbones and a prominent hooked nose gave him a dramatic, Middle Eastern appearance. His eyes were spiritless. In a whispery-soft voice, he said in English, “Mr. Meers? Mr. and Mrs. Danforth?”
    “Yes,” Meers said.
    “Georgios Makris,” the man said. “Call me George. Please come in.”
    They followed Makris through the small stone house, which was full of the sweet smell of lamb simmering in tomato broth, out to a back patio. Makris directed them to chairs arranged around a table, on which sat a tray of fruit and olives, a carafe of white wine, and four glasses. A gnarled grapevine grew next to the table, its ancient arms extending up the side of a trellis, before spreading overhead on a lattice.
    Liz looked closely at Makris. He seems terribly ill at ease, she thought. He won’t make eye contact with any of us.
    “Thank you for meeting with us,” Meers said. “I’m sure this subject is not an easy one for you. But, as I explained on the telephone, we need all the assistance we can get to try to recover the Danforths’ son.”
    Makris sat hunched over, looking down, his hands held together between his knees. He didn’t respond.
    “George, would you take