Blood Will Have Blood Read Free

other doors to the office must have opened. Inside, voices murmured. Spraggue moved off down the hall, but not before one sentence caught his ear.
    â€œI just hope you know what you’re doing,” said an oily voice that was not Arthur Darien’s.

Chapter Two
    Spraggue waited for the Dudley bus at the corner of Mass Ave and Huntington. The hazy late-August heat was little improvement over Darien’s stuffy office. Not even a breeze to rattle the piles of broken beer bottles and empty Coke cans.
    A chance to act for Arthur Darien again. A good role in a successful play. All Darien’s shows worked—when he was sober.
    Why were there always goddam strings attached?
    Usually the pitch was financial. A part, yes, but would Spraggue be willing to guarantee just a bit of the backing? No? So sorry, but the part was taken … A name actor, a star would be needed. At least Darien wasn’t after cash.
    The bus came, backfiring flatulently. Spraggue boarded along with a floral-hatted matinee contingent from Symphony. He stood at the back of the bus—less crowded there.
    A spy, a company spy. In the cast, but not of it. An outside observer, reporting every innocent conversation, each misunderstood gesture, straight to Arthur Darien.
    He got off at Harvard Square, end of the line, and walked the mile home.
    The box was centered exactly in front of the door of the Fayerweather Street triple-decker. It was wrapped in creased brown paper that had started life as a shopping bag, and tied with limp white string. His name was penciled in block capitals: MICHAEL VINCENT SPRAGGUE III . No address; it hadn’t come through the mail.
    His name was spelled right. So many people, tricked by the long A, gave the last name only one G. Of course, when they realized the family connection, knew he was one of the Spraggues, the mistake never occurred. Great-grandfather Davison Spraggue had taken care of that. Gossip columnists, hustlers, senators with bottomless campaign chests, they all knew how to spell Spraggue.
    The sidewalk was clear. Two kids rolled a red dump truck up a tree root across the street. They didn’t look up; too busy rerouting pebbles.
    Spraggue hefted the box and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
    The package was light—box, string, wrapping, and all came to not more than two pounds. Fourteen inches wide, a foot long, maybe three inches deep. It made a slight rustling noise when he shook it. He set the box on the kitchen table.
    If he were still a licensed private eye, he’d be more suspicious, Spraggue decided. Fingerprint the paper? Useless. Too rough. Maybe open the whole shebang under water in the kitchen sink.
    With his pocket knife, he cut the string.
    There was birthday wrapping under the brown paper. Mickey and Minnie Mouse cavorted with Donald Duck. Huey, Dewey, and Louie danced in a circle around a pink-iced cake decorated with three flaming candles.
    The box was plain white cardboard. No department-store name. No card. The sides of the lid were taped to the bottom.
    Spraggue slit the tape neatly with the knife.
    Tissue paper. Spraggue patted the thin white film, spread it back.
    At least the bat was dead. No doubt about that. Gray-brown wings opened wide, held with pins to a cardboard backing. The thin membrane of the right wing was ripped almost in two. Maybe when he’d shaken the box.…
    The furry body, amazingly mouselike, was small and shriveled. The head, completely severed from the body, was pinned an inch above the dark stain that marked where it should have been. Another pin stuck out of the tiny gaping mouth.
    Spraggue swallowed twice, pushed the mess away, reached for the phone. Darien answered on the third ring.
    â€œArthur,” Spraggue said, “who knows about me?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDid you tell the cast you were planning to offer me Seward? The crew? Anyone?”
    â€œNo.” Darien’s response was definite.
    â€œWhen you