Dagger Magic

"All right," Adam said, thinking out loud. "If this is some neo-Nazi operation that Scanlan interrupted, I'd be willing to bet that they don't know he took the flag - which means they won't be expecting anyone to make a connection to them. I can't make that connection yet, but the flag could be the means. There's also the matter of that odd stab wound. I think we ought to attend that post-mortem - and have a look at the flag."

McLeod nodded. "Can do. When Scanlan rings back, I'll set it up. It probably won't be before tomorrow afternoon - maybe even Thursday."

"That's fine," Adam agreed. "In the meantime, we have responsibilities closer to home. I want to follow through as quickly as I can with Claire Crawford. Right now, she's eager to cooperate; but I don't want her getting frightened and checking herself out of the hospital before we break that dream cycle for good. How soon can you make good on your offer to provide a forensic artist?''

"How about first thing in the morning?" McLeod replied. "We've always got someone on call. If I've got the duty rota right in my head, it should be Peterson tomorrow. He's just a straight forensic artist - not up to Peregrine's standards - but I've watched him work. He's a little eccentric, but he's pretty good."

'' 'Pretty good' ought to be sufficient, if Claire does manage to come up with a physical description," Adam said. "I wouldn't mind having you there as well, if you can force a gap in your morning agenda."

"I'll be there, with Peterson in tow," McLeod promised. "When do you want us?"

"Would half past nine be too early?"

"Not for me," McLeod said sturdily. "As for Peterson, it won't do him any harm to conform to the schedule."

"You're a hard man, Noel." Adam chuckled. He glanced at his pocket watch. "If we're going to be meeting up again first thing tomorrow, it's probably time we both called it a day. Just let me file these papers away and then I'll walk you out to the car park."

Chapter Thirteen

THE dagger brooding in the Spanish sun was palpably ancient - a dark, heavy implement of meteoric iron, so blackened with age that the runic markings inscribed on its leaf-shaped blade were scarcely discernible without the aid of a strong light and a magnifying glass. Set near the edge of a large mahogany desk, it rested sullenly on its pillow of white silk like a toad squatting on a white marble grave slab, its sleeping presence suggestive of old bloodshed and primitive violence.

Overlooking the desk from the creamy stuccoed wall behind it was a black-and-white drawing of a similar artifact, a tore of the same dark metal, its iron density highlighted in silver by strange zoomorphic designs that troubled the eye with their interweaving lines. An accompanying set of runic inscriptions reinforced the probable close kinship of tore and dagger, not only as to their origin but likewise their purpose. The arcane nature of that common purpose was no secret to the dagger's present keeper. The tore was now lost, but Francis Raeburn had witnessed firsthand the elemental powers it had been fashioned to focus through its wearer. Both terrible and exquisite, the allure of such power was seductive, addictive, despite the cost. Since acquiring the dagger, Raeburn had spared no effort in attempting to decipher the kindred mysteries bound up in the sorcerous patterns of its runes. With one or two significant breakthroughs now behind him, he was confident that it was only a matter of time before those mysteries would be his to command. His study of the dagger, however, did not prevent him from taking an interest in any other intriguing artifacts that might happen to come his way. Just now, sitting in the book-lined solitude of what might have been a library of the late Renaissance, he was carrying out the daily ritual of sifting through the morning's mail. Off to his right, a recessed pair of doors stood open to the tiled courtyard beyond, where a small fountain played softly amidst an array of potted ferns and ornamental orange trees.

Deaf to the subdued music of the water, Raeburn abstracted a large envelope bearing an assortment of German stamps and set the rest aside. As he reached for the ivory-handled Moorish dagger that served as his letter opener, a fugitive gleam of sunlight from one of the east windows glanced off the signet ring he wore on the third finger of his right hand. The stone was a bloodred carnelian, cut square in the form of a cartouche, bearing the device of a snarling lynx head.

Carefully he slit open the German envelope and extracted its contents: a cover letter and half a dozen photographs. A cursory glance at the photos produced a thin smile as he sat back in his leather chair to read the letter.