Free The Templar's Code by C. M. Palov

same time.
    Always intrigued by an intellectual conundrum, Caedmon got up from the sofa and walked over to the CD player on the other side of the living room. Opening a clear plastic case, he removed Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies. Music helped to hone his thoughts. His belly full, his mental pencil was in need of sharpening.
    His dinner companion theatrically rolled her eyes. “Any excuse to play drippy piano music. That particular CD makes me feel like a character in a French film. You know the character I’m talking about, the one who only wears black, smokes way too many cigarettes, and speaks in existentialese.”
    “You forgot to mention the beret.”
    He assumed the jibe had to do with the fact that he lived nearly four thousand miles away in Paris. While he was content with the arrangement, he suspected that Edie had reservations. As for their professional relationship, she ably assisted in his research from a distance via e-mail, fax, and text messaging.
    “It’s kind of morbid, listening to a dead man’s voice. Lovett’s so conversational, it’s like he’s right here with us.”
    “Indeed.” He glanced at the digital voice recorder, a twenty-first-century memento mori.
    “So what do you think of Lovett’s theory so far?”
    Caedmon took a moment to consider his reply. Then, of two minds, he said, “The man was either brilliant or out-and-out bonkers.”

CHAPTER 16
    Standing in the shadow of Edie Miller’s front porch, the intruder stared at the unlatched window lock.
    Stupid bitch.
    Face pressed to the glass, Saviour peered into the darkened room. Desk. Filing cabinet. Shelving units crammed with boxes and books. It didn’t appear that the Miller woman kept anything of value in her home office. Not that he was looking for something to steal. He had a different purpose altogether for wanting to break into the house.
    Having already verified that no one lurked in the street, Saviour braced his hands on the top of the sash. Slowly he slid the window open. Just enough so he could bend at the waist, swing one leg over the sill, and duck inside the darkened room with no one the wiser. Yes, a very stupid bitch.
    Still bent at the waist, Saviour slipped off his shoes, shoving them into the waistband of his trousers. The house had wood plank flooring; he could noiselessly glide across the polished floorboards. Straightening to his full height, he recalled an old Greek saying: I locked the house, but the thief was inside . Amused, he bit back a chuckle.
    Ready to go exploring, he first slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and removed a switchblade. He pressed the smooth nubbin on the handle, releasing the three-and-a-quarter-inch stiletto. Fingering the blade with his thumb, he felt a slight impression, the word Milano incised on the honed steel. The Italians were only good for two things—making shoes and stilettos.
    Noiselessly sliding to the open office door, Saviour stood in the shadows and listened, able to hear every word that emanated from the room on the other side of the hallway. Little birds cooing silly nothings. How sweet. Soon enough, he’d rip the wings from their squawking bodies.
    The archaeologist actually recorded a digital diary!
    If he could, Saviour would gladly kill the blond bastard all over again. And after he killed him again, he’d piss on the grave! Because of the recording, the Brit and his woman knew everything. So, the chickadees had to be smothered. Silenced, once and for all.
    Glancing into the darkened foyer, he saw a light emanating from a room at the end of the hallway. The kitchen more than likely. He headed in that direction, careful to keep his movements as smooth and even as possible. An angel of death flitting past.
    A few moments later, Saviour surveyed the tidy kitchen with its row of glass containers all neatly lined on the counter. Flour. Beans. Pasta. Sugar. And at the end of the row, a cell phone nesting in its charger.
    Perfect.
    To call the police, the little