Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel Read Free

came out with a desktop computer tower and some other electronics too big for a box. One of them carried a house phone with one of those base stations that probably recorded messages.
    He was relieved that he had never attempted to contact the old man by e-mail. Nor had he left any voicemail messages on his phone. The only connection between them were two brief telephone conversations for which there were a dozen plausible explanations. That is, if anyone ever came asking questions. Unless the old man had recorded their conversations or taken notes, which was highly unlikely, no one could possibly know what they talked about. He knew the man would never tell his daughter. He would have had well-founded and serious concerns for her safety.
    Rumors were now floating, information leaked into some dark crevices in certain correctional halls where twisted cretins lurked in the shadows. Word was that the thing actually existed. It had survived, and with the right information it might be found. Some of these people were crazy. All of them were dangerous, many of them ethnic fanatics, nutcases who would kill in a heartbeat if they thought they had the slightest chance to lay hands on it. Then there were others, people who might pay vast sums if only to lock it away behind glass in the confines of a private collection. Something to share over evening cocktails in the intimate gathering of other affluent friends. It was, after all, one of a kind, an original, like a Monet, only more lurid. A vivid and well-recorded piece of history. As to its ultimate monetary value? Who could say? It depended on the bidders, how many, who they were, the depth of their pockets, and perhaps most important, the intensity of the dark impulses that drove them to have it. The trick for any seller was to get it and to stay alive long enough to deal with the right people.
    At the moment what was gnawing at him was the possibility that the police might stumble over the key and take it by mistake. If they found it they might assume that the box it opened could contain evidence they were searching for. They would take the key and worry about finding the bank and the box it belonged to later.
    It would have been nice if the police had waited one more day. By then he would have been in and out of the house, had what he wanted, and been gone. There was more than a fair chance that once inside he could locate the key. Unlike the others, the stumblebums who couldn’t wait and who trashed the place and terrified the old man, he knew exactly what he was looking for. He would recognize the toolmaker’s stamp the instant he saw it. That is, if the key was still there.
    He watched the house as police kept coming and going. He thought about getting out of the car and wandering up to mingle with the neighbors to see if any of them knew what was going on, why the cops were there, what they were looking for, and when they might be done. He quickly dismissed the idea. He noticed two of the uniforms were working the small crowd with pens and notepads. They were talking to people, taking names, and jotting down notes. Why? He didn’t know and he didn’t want to find out. Better to remain anonymous, keep his distance, wait, and hope for opportunity.
    It didn’t take long to present itself. Just before three in the afternoon the cops wrapped up. The last bag of stuff came out of the house and one of the uniformed officers started cutting and pulling the yellow tape from around the tree and off the fence. One of the squad cars pulled a U-turn and headed out the other way. A few minutes later it was followed by the van.
    The dwindling bunch of neighbors that remained began to break up. They drifted back toward their homes and the dull existence of normal life. Only the one squad car remained, two of the uniformed cops left behind to close up.
    He zoomed in with the spotting scope on the area around the open front door. He was wondering how they had gained access to the house,