The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

The phone dropped to the floor and the old woman grabbed her arm and turned deathly pale. She began to wail, fear and pain combining into a high-pitched sound that wouldn’t stop, even when she sank to her knees.
    “I’m sorry, please, be quiet, I’m sorry.” But the line had been crossed and no clever invention or story would undo this, and the horror of the future that was itself shattering elevated one emotion above all others, and the fear that burned through veins like acid suddenly froze into a cold and sharp drive for self-preservation.
    The cushion was blue and rough, a rectangle half the size of a pillow, and it fit over the woman’s face as though it had been designed for this purpose. Thin arms flailed as Madam Bassin’s brain screamed for air and began to shut down, the professor’s weight more than a match for her struggles and the soft cushion that starved her of life also muffled the sounds of her killer’s voice, a whispered and mildly regretful chant of, “You weren’t supposed to be here, you weren’t supposed to be here . . .”
    Ninety years old and weak, weak enough that it didn’t take long before she bucked twice and was still. So quick that, much later, the professor would find comfort in the idea that there was no premeditation, that it was a reflex action just to hush the old lady and that death came because of her age and frailty, not because of murder.

    The small chest was where Collette Bassin had said it would be, a throwaway story told months ago, tucked into the back of a huge wardrobe in the old lady’s bedroom. Seeing it was like a charge of electricity and the professor pulled it out carefully, kneeling beside the strongbox to admire it. Made from walnut, it was square and no more than two feet every which way. Solid, though, made by a true craftsman and held together with hinges and handles made of brass, as were the inlaid strips and swirls that decorated it. The metal was dark with age and this chest had been harshly treated at some point, but an experienced eye could recognize it as a more ornate piece than the plain sailor’s chests of old.
    Getting it down the stairs was a slow but simple task and it was halfway down that the professor stopped and swore.
    “ Merde, les gants .”
    They were still tucked deep in a back pocket but, once they were back on, a dish towel grabbed from the kitchen sufficed to wipe down the wardrobe, and then the area around the body. The heavy boots took care of the vase, crushing it into pieces too small to render evidence.
    A quick time check, and a pang of guilt; theft and death had taken longer than planned so the professor retreated back out through the mud room and, the chest weighing more with each step, a stumbling run down the gravel driveway to the car, pathetically camouflaged and suspicious-looking rather than hidden. Especially after what had just happened.

Hugo drove and Senator Lake rode in the front seat beside him.
    “I’m an egalitarian, don’t expect me to sit in the back.”
    Hugo smiled. “You do that in taxis, too?”
    “Tried it a few times, actually.” Lake shook his head and laughed. “Just scared the driver, turns out they’re not used to it. Plus, no offense, but a lot of cabbies smell a little funky, with their pots of weird food next to them.” He saw Hugo shoot him a look. “Oh, I get it, you think I’m a racist. God forbid I don’t like the smell of Indian food.”
    “I didn’t say that, not at all.”
    “Look, Hugo, I’m a regular Joe who happens to be a senator. That’s why I’m a senator, because people are sick of electing the same family name decade after decade. They want one of them, a blue-collar guy with no pretensions.” He laughed gently. “No pretensions, but I can get defensive, sorry. The lecture’s over.”
    They headed west out of the city center, swaying in and out of the busy traffic with an identical black vehicle close behind them, two agents glad of a break, Hugo