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 mother’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.