by C. M. Palov
On autopilot, Edie’s brain hopscotched to the next chapter. The two and a half years spent on the foster care merry-go-round. The fear. The loneliness. The unthinkable abuse.
Unnerved by the flashback, Edie shook her head, flinging aside the painful memories like a wet dog shaking himself dry.
“There is a distinct noir pastorale to the environs.” Caedmon’s observation made Edie think that she wasn’t the only one creeped out by the setting.
“Is it my imagination, or are we being watched?” She glanced at the turquoise trailer.
“An innate distrust of strangers is typical in a close-knit community.”
She sidled closer to Caedmon, well aware that distrustful people tended to keep a loaded hunting rifle at the ready. “What if the police show up? After all, Lovett was murdered yesterday.”
Caedmon took hold of her elbow, assisting her up the brick steps that led to a covered stoop. “According to Dr. Lovett’s recording, he told none of his acquaintances about the rental cottage. No doubt it will be a while before the police learn of its existence.” When they reached the stoop, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket and removed a slim leather case. “I thought a lock-picking kit might come in handy.”
“Who carries a lock-picking kit with them?” She held up her hand. “Don’t answer. I think the correct response is ‘an ex-spy.’” Several months ago, Caedmon had confessed to having once worked for MI5. Other than the one brief mention, he never spoke of his prior employment.
“You will thank me for my foresight when—” He stopped in midsentence.
“What’s the matter? You’ve got a ‘something stinks in Denmark’ look on your face.”
“The front door is ajar.”
Edie examined the outer edge of the door. Sure enough, it was open a fraction of an inch. Her stomach muscles instantly cramped. “Maybe Lovett left in a hurry, forgot to lock the door, and the wind blew it open.” Even as she said it, she knew that was an unlikely scenario.
Caedmon pushed the door all the way open. Frowning, he ran his hand over the doorframe. “The wood on the jamb is splintered. Someone used brute force to enter the cottage.”
“What do you want to bet that someone drives an expensive Audi sedan?” She glanced over her shoulder, suddenly worried that she’d miscalculated how much time it would take to extricate a vehicle from a sandpit. “We have no idea if Lovett’s killer is one step behind us or one step ahead of us.”
He put a staying arm across her chest, preventing her from entering. “Remain here while I investigate.”
Not about to contest the order, she wordlessly nodded.
A braver soul than most, Caedmon stepped inside. As he disappeared into the darkened depths, Edie, arms protectively crossed over her torso, repeatedly told herself that it would have been flat-out impossible for Lovett’s killer to have beaten them to Arcadia.
When Caedmon reappeared several moments later, Edie let out a pent-up breath, unaware that she’d even been holding it. “I take it the boogeyman has vacated the premises?”
“So it would seem. I turned on all the lights and checked all the closets. But be warned, the place has been ransacked, the intruder leaving a ghastly mess in his wake.”
Bracing for the worst, Edie stepped across the threshold. Whoever trashed Jason Lovett’s cottage did so with a wild abandon; chairs, lamps, and end tables were upended, books and magazines strewn helter-skelter. Seeing a red eight-pointed star painted on the living room wall, she gasped.
A person didn’t have to be a criminal psychologist to recognize the splotch of color for what it was—an act of unrestrained violence.
“The late Jason Lovett was a man blessed with misfortune,” Caedmon said quietly. “As you’ll recall, the same symbol adorned the knife used to kill him. Blood and treasure. Throughout history, the two have walked hand in hand.”
Edie stared at the macabre graffiti, her gaze drawn to the red rivulets of color that had dripped from the points of the star. “Please don’t tell me that’s . . . ?”
“Blood? Er, no. My apologies. I didn’t mean to imply that it was. There’s an open can of red paint in the kitchen.” Stepping over to the wall, he ran his hand over the mural. “It’s completely dry. From that we can safely deduce the artwork was created prior to Dr. Lovett’s demise.”
“Whenever it was done, it means we’re not the only ones searching for the dead archaeologist’s research notes.” Edie turned her head, nauseated by the chilling image. So eerily similar to Jason Lovett’s bloodstained shirt.
Hearing a loud rasping sound, she abruptly turned on her heel. “Oh God! He’s found—”
“It’s just the pine tree scraping against the roof,” Caedmon interjected.
“Right. I knew that.” She shakily laughed. “Steady as she goes.”
Not nearly as steady as she’d like to be, Edie followed Caedmon into the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose, the paint fumes particularly strong. At a glance she could see the paint can had been unceremoniously dumped in the sink, the brush tossed on the counter.
She gestured to the blobs of dried red paint staining the countertop. “Assuming this is Rico Suave’s handiwork, there’s a very real possibility that he found Lovett’s research notes.”
“I think not.” Caedmon opened several kitchen drawers, peering inside before closing them. “The fact that he followed us to Rhode Island belies the notion. Although clearly the man is anxious to lay his hands on Dr. Lovett’s hidden papers.”
“Overly anxious,” Edie muttered, still rattled by the earlier chase. And grateful that it hadn’t been the Yaris spinning sand. “No wonder Lovett was popping anti-anxiety pills.”
Caedmon righted an overturned trash can. “The bastard even sifted through the rubbish.”
“Leaving no Coke can unturned.” She examined the odd assortment of empty food containers scattered on the linoleum floor. Crushed aluminum soda cans. Tuna fish packed in water. Fruit cocktail packed in heavy syrup. Malt-flavored Ovaltine. “Strange diet.”
“Strange man.” Opening the refrigerator, he examined the contents. A few moments later, shaking his head, he closed the door. “Aqua sanctus . . . aqua sanctus. What in God’s name does it mean?”
“You said it meant holy water.”
“That’s the literal translation. But, figuratively, what does it mean?”
She shrugged, as clueless as her partner. “A dying man’s words are often nonsensical.”
“To all but the dying man.”
“Who probably took the secret to his grave,” Edie muttered, the conversation having turned morbid. “Come on. The clock is ticking. Let’s hurry up and check out the rest of this hellhole.”
Walking down the hall, they stopped at the open bathroom door. As with the kitchen, it was a mess, bottles, tubes, and containers littering the tile floor.
She plucked a pornographic magazine off the floor. “Quite the trio of contortionists,” she said, tilting her head to one side as she examined a photograph, trying to figure out which oiled body part went with which naked person. “Talk about a human pretzel. Obviously, Jason Lovett is—I mean, was—no different from most men his age, totally obsessed with sex.” She tossed the magazine into the wastebasket, the contents of which had been dumped into the sink. “Making the crucifix on the wall above the toilet a tad hypocritical.”
Hearing that, Caedmon’s red head immediately swung toward the toilet. She watched as his gaze moved from the white porcelain bowl to the slightly crooked wooden cross.
“Ohmygosh,” Edie whispered, belatedly making the connection.
Caedmon turned to her, grinning.
At the exact same moment, they both exclaimed, “Aqua sanctus!”
CHAPTER 23
“. . . lips sink ships. So, if you want me to batten the hatches, it’s gonna cost you.”
Saviour Panos glared at the overweight idiot in the baseball cap and blue jacket. “Nagamoti mana su stomai su,” he muttered, enraged. And your m
other’s mother while you’re at it. He didn’t have to understand the other man’s idioms to know that he was being bilked. To the tune of five hundred dollars. The price the tow-truck driver demanded for hauling the Audi out of the sand trap and not reporting the incident to the local police.
Able to detect the smell of pickled cabbage, Saviour wrinkled his nose. He hated the smell of sauerkraut. For that offense alone he should gut the man like a netted tuna.
The other man shrugged. Oblivious to the fact that he’d just been accused of committing a reprehensible act involving his mother’s mouth. “You’re the one who drove into a sand trap. Now you have to pay the piper if you want to be on your merry way. And don’t blame me . . . shit happens.”
Although furious, Saviour couldn’t dispute the driver’s prophetic assertion. Shit did happen. And always when you least expected it. The Brit had outwitted him. Yet again. And though he, Saviour, drove the more powerful vehicle, the English bastard bested him. But he knew where to find the pair. Having eavesdropped on their conversation last evening, he knew their entire itinerary. Even the name of the hotel they’d booked for the night. He already had the Hope Valley Inn plotted on his portable GPS device.
Arms crossed over his chest, Saviour impatiently paced the golf green, anxious for the tow-truck driver to haul the Audi out of the pit. Although temporarily delayed, he was still two steps ahead of the pair. Two steps, because he knew where to find them and he possessed the power of life and death. A power bestowed upon him by his beloved Ari that long-ago dawn when he’d returned to the flat . . .
He’d spent the night cruising the Enola Gay discotheque. It had been a good haul, his pockets flush with euros. He could now buy the blue cashmere sweater for Ari that he’d seen in a boutique window. Easily chilled, Ari was prone to violent fits of shivering. Some days Saviour would cradle him like a baby, using his own body heat to warm his friend. A heart fire. Immune from the contagion, he was the perfect caregiver. As it turned out, his mother had him inoculated for TB when he was a child. According to the physician at the hospital, the BCG vaccine had protected him from contracting the deadly infection. How ironic. Iphigenia had given him life. She resented his life. And then she saved his life.
In high spirits despite the early hour, he’d regaled Ari with the silly chitchat he’d overheard at the disco. Inane babble spouted by preening pretty boys. Clearly disinterested, Ari motioned him to the bed. He obliged, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Wrapping a bony hand around his upper arm, Ari pulled him close so he could whisper something in his ear. Horrified, Saviour pulled away. Ókhi! No! Impossible! Don’t ask again! He lurched from the bed and stomped to the other side of the bed chamber. In desperate need of a cigarette, he flung open the window, reached into his pocket, and removed the pack of Dunhill cigarettes that he’d stolen from one of the preening pretty boys. Ari continued to stare at him beseechingly. Saviour forced himself to return the stare. Determined to win the battle of wills.
This was not the first time that his beloved friend had pleaded with him to use his greater strength. To commit that final irreversible act. Each time, Saviour had adamantly refused. The medicine still might work, yes?
But that particular morning, something happened in the intervening seconds of stalemated silence. For the first time, he forced himself to look at the bloody rags that littered the floor. The disgusting sputum cup. The sloppy array of pill bottles. And then he smelled it—the fetid, foul stench of decaying flesh. In that instant, he knew: Ari was dying from the inside out. Dormant bacteria in the body had begun to necrotize the tubercles in his lungs.
No longer able to turn a blind eye, he relented. Walking toward the bed, he sat beside his beloved. The angel of death in a striped boatneck sweater. He wrapped an arm around Ari’s pathetically thin shoulders. With his free hand, he reached for the blood-splattered pillow. Ari smiled. The first smile in many days. Saviour placed the pillow over his friend’s face.
Had he known that he would also be plunged into a dark void, he would not have done it; the ensuing guilt was unbearable. He’d always had a quick temper, never one to back down from a fight. But after Ari’s death, it took little provocation to incite a murderous rage.
The first time it happened, he’d been with an overly plump German who refused to pay the agreed-upon price. For nearly twenty minutes he’d been on all fours while the stout bastard huffed and puffed, enveloping him in the nauseating scents of sauerkraut and sausage. After the blitzkrieg, the Düsseldorf banker had the gall to say, “I had hoped for something better.” Infuriated, Saviour refused to let the insult go unanswered. Acting on a whim, he smashed the empty Riesling bottle against the hotel dresser and slashed the fat man’s throat. For the next week, he’d lived extravagantly on the wad of euros that he’d stolen from the dead man’s wallet. A new leather jacket. A pair of boots. A cashmere turtleneck sweater.
The German was followed to the grave by an Israeli tourist. Because of Ari’s death, they had to pay.
Just as the Brit would soon pay for having bested him.
CHAPTER 24
“Keep your fingers crossed,” Caedmon said as he raised the ceramic lid that covered the toilet tank.
Holding her breath, Edie looked inside.
Damn.
“Nothing but dank water and the standard plumbing apparatus.” Baffled, she glanced at the crucifix hanging above the toilet. “Jason Lovett did not hang that cross so he could pray while on the pot.”
“We must assume it’s a red herring.” Caedmon repositioned the lid back on the tank.
Unconvinced, Edie shook her head. “I don’t think so. We just haven’t followed the aqua sanctus clue to its logical conclusion. For starters: Where does the water in this tank go?”
Caedmon’s brow furrowed. “I imagine that it flows into the public sewer system.”
“Nope. You imagine wrong. Since this is a rural area, there isn’t a public water system. With every flush, all of the aqua sanctus in the toilet bowl goes to a septic tank, which”—she stepped into the bathtub so she could peer out the bathroom’s only window—“is almost always buried behind the house because, let’s face it, who wants a cesspit in their front yard?” She scanned the unkempt backyard visible on the other side of the smudged glass.
“And you think Lovett may have hidden his research notes near the septic tank?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Got a better idea?”
“Lovett was using the spare bedroom to store his excavating tools. I’ll grab a shovel and meet you in the back garden.”
Several minutes later, spade and pickax at the ready, they set out in search of the buried septic tank.
“I’m no expert, but most septic tanks have a hatch that’s visible aboveground,” Edie said, putting a hand to her eyes as she surveyed the surprisingly expansive lawn. “The goose grass is thick and the foxtail knee-high. Lovett obviously didn’t own a mower.”
“I suspect his preoccupation with the Templar treasure is the real reason for the overgrowth.” Caedmon jutted his chin toward the right side of the yard. “You search that half of the lawn and I’ll take—”
“Found it!” She pointed to an area approximately one hundred feet from where they stood. “See that plush patch of weeds? What do you want to bet Lovett’s bumper weed crop is being fertilized by the discharge from the septic tank?”
Caedmon slung both of the long-handled tools over his shoulder. “Your powers of observation are commendable. If this is indeed where Dr. Lovett buried his research notes, we should be on the lookout for signs of disturbed vegetation.”
“How can you be so sure that Lovett buried his notes?”
“It’s what I would have done.” Caedmon came to a halt at the edge of the thicket. “Ah! I see a clump of snapped thistles. Evidence that someone very recently traipsed through here.”
“Could have been a deer or other wild animal.”
“Only if their hooves were shod in lug-heeled boots,” he re
torted with a smirk, pointing to a cluster of visible footprints. “This is newly turned soil. I suspect that Dr. Lovett stomped on the loose earth after he refilled the hole.”
A bluejay perched in a nearby tree cawed, the harsh sound eerily similar to a rusty gate swinging on a hinge. Spooked, Edie glanced at her watch. Fourteen minutes had lapsed since they first arrived at the cottage.
“Yes, I know; the clock is ticking,” Caedmon remarked, accurately reading her thoughts. Unlimbering the digging tools from his shoulder, he handed her the pickax. Then, firmly planting his leather shoe on top of the shovel blade, he forcefully pushed down. “Hopefully, our would-be fossor dug a shallow grave.”
He did. Steel struck metal in under two minutes.
“Eureka!” she exclaimed, going down on her haunches to better examine the upturned object. “Looks like a metal toolbox. Ooh! And it’s very heavy.”
Caedmon grasped the container’s handle. “I suggest that we take our booty back to the cottage.”
“Good idea.” Standing upright, Edie furtively glanced at the turquoise trailer. “I’m probably being paranoid, but I’ve got a hinky feeling that someone’s snooping on us.”
CHAPTER 25
Hansel and Gretel. Still mucking around Lovett’s cottage.
Tonto Sinclair lowered the binocs and set them on the dashboard. He’d parked the Ford F100 behind an abandoned single-wide. Out of sight. He figured that like the candypants foreigner who earlier trashed the joint, they were looking for buried treasure. White birds of an avarice feather. According to his buddy Bear Mathieson who ran the Gas ’N’ Go station, Hansel was an Englishman.
How fucking ironic was that?
’Cause anyone familiar with tribal history knew that it was the English motherfuckers who triggered the Narragansett demise. History 101. They came. They saw. They conquered.
In need of a smoke, Tonto reached for the pack of Marlboros in his shirt pocket. With an impatient shake of the wrist, he loosened one from the pack and clamped his lips around the filter, sliding it from the pack. Another one of life’s little ironies, he mused as he clicked the lighter. Had it not been for a pack of smokes, he’d never have found out about Yawgoog. Or the treasure. Or what really happened when Verrazano and his knights made landfall.
