“That’d be awesome, Edmund. Thank you.”
He smiled and let her in, unfolded a chair, and placed it in the corner behind a rack of coupling cables. He was so cool around her—but in a good way, Cindy thought; not aloof, not superior, yet not awkward or trying too hard to be smooth like Bradley Cox. Edmund Lambert was just … well … present was the only word Cindy could think of to describe him. He listened to her when she spoke; really listened for the sake of listening only. No hidden agenda. No underlying intention of wanting to bang her. He was just there, taking her in with his steel-blue eyes. And when he smiled—which she had never seen him do with any of the other girls—well, she never had to question whether or not that smile was genuine.
But what Cindy really liked about Edmund Lambert was how she felt when she smiled back.
“I’m going to watch the show tonight,” he said, “but I’m not part of the running crew. Won’t be back until photo call on Sunday unless something goes wrong with the trap. Means you’ll have to get a stage manager to let you in here from now on.”
“I should be all right tomorrow,” Cindy said. “I can find another place if it’s locked—but this is great. Just opening-night jitters, I guess.”
“You shouldn’t be nervous.” Cindy loved the way he said nuh-vuhs. “You’re doing a great job. You steal the show from Bradley Cox.”
Edmund was so matter of fact in his compliment, yet at the same time so devoid of any pettiness toward Cox, that Cindy felt herself blushing.
“Thank you,” she said. “I really appreciate it. And this, too. Letting me warm up and focus in here, I mean.”
“No problem. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes, but I won’t disturb you if you’re still here. Break a leg tonight, Cindy.”
Edmund was almost out the door when Cindy called after him: “Did you decide yet if you’re going to the cast party tomorrow night?”
“Probably not. I have a lot of work to do around the house this weekend.”
“Well, it might be fun if you made an appearance. I won’t be there long, either. Just a couple of drinks and I’ll have to stick around for Brown Bags. I know you’ve never been to a cast party here, but do you know what those are? Brown Bags, I mean?”
“Yes. I’ve heard people mention them in the scene shop. The awards the seniors make for people in the cast. Inside jokes written down on brown paper bags, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I hear sometimes they can get pretty mean.”
“Yeah, they can, but it’s all in fun, I guess. You have to have a good sense of humor. I’m sure mine will be pretty brutal if Bradley has anything to say about it.”
Edmund said nothing.
“Anyway,” Cindy continued, “maybe you could come along and save me—not from my Brown Bag, I mean—but, well, I pretty much don’t like the people who are going to be there. I ’d rather talk to you than any of them, to be honest.”
“If you don’t like them, then why you going?”
His question was sincere and nonjudgmental—almost childlike in his curiosity, Cindy thought. “Because I’m weak,” she said. “Because I’ve gotten the reputation of being a snob, and I don’t want to give people the satisfaction of being able to say, ‘See? I told you she thinks her shit doesn’t stink.’” Edmund smiled vaguely and looked away from her for the first time. “I hope you don’t think less of me for admitting that to you.”
“Not at all.”
“I don’t know, maybe we could just hang out together, have a couple of drinks and just chill. Might be nice just to talk. You know, away from the theater, the show, all the stuff on our minds when we’re here.”
Edmund stood by the door, thinking. Cindy suddenly felt uncomfortable.
“If it’s too much of a big deal,” she said quickly, “like, if your girlfriend will get pissed off or something—well, I mean, I totally understand.”
“Let me see how things go tonight,” Edmund said finally. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
He smiled and was gone.
Alone in the electrics shop, Cindy suddenly became aware of her breathing and the steady thumping in her chest. Did she really just do that? Did she really just ask a man out on a date for the first time in her life?
But he didn’t say yes, said a voice in her head.
But he didn’t say no, either, replied another voice.
But he wanted to say yes, said the first voice. Couldn’t you tell?
You saw it in his eyes, too, then?
Yes, I did!
Cindy didn’t sit down in the chair Edmund had set out for her. She was too excited, felt a hundred pounds lighter, and began pacing behind the cable rack. She tried going over her lines, tried saying them out loud and imagining Edmund Lambert as Macbeth instead of douchebag Bradley Cox, but the voices in her head kept analyzing what had just passed between them, making her nervous but proud at the same time.
Edmund Lambert was going to come.
She just knew it.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spied his book bag on the chair by the electrics shop computer. She’d seen him with it many times and recognized the Army-issue camouflage.
She got an idea.
Cindy ran to the door and peeked out—saw a freshman, a pudgy kid who played one of Macbeth’s soldiers, heading toward the green room. Jonathan was his name—or at least, that’s what she thought his name was. She couldn’t remember; had never spoken to him before and wondered if she was confusing him with another freshman in Macbeth’s army. No time to worry; no time to feel guilty for using him.
“Jonathan?” Cindy called out impulsively. He stopped. She had gotten his name right, thank God! “Could you come here for a minute, please?”
The pudgy soldier sauntered over awkwardly, suspiciously.
“Would you mind doing me a favor?” Cindy asked.
“What kind of favor?”
“I got lucky getting in here to go over my speeches, but I need something from my dressing room. Would you mind holding the door for me while I go and get it? Otherwise it’ll shut and I’ll be locked out.”
“What, do I look like your bitch now?”
“Please, Jonathan. I don’t want to prop the door open. Someone might close it or steal the room from me. And it’d be a huge help, you have no idea, if you’re here to tell anybody who tries to do that I’ll be right back.”
“All right,” he sighed. “But make it quick. I got stuff to do, too, you know.”
Cindy thanked him and dashed down the hall.
Chapter 30
Twenty minutes later, Edmund Lambert returned to the electrics shop to find the white rose from Cindy Smith sticking out of his book bag. He knew it was from her; had seen one of the assistant stage managers carrying the vase into her dressing room earlier that afternoon when he arrived at the theater.
Edmund removed the flower and sniffed it—stroked the petals with the tip of his nose and wondered if it was a sign from the Prince.
He’d read the news on the electrics shop computer; had even gone to CNN.com to watch the video. The police had found Billy Canning, and the press had already tied him to Randall Donovan. They would no doubt unearth the connection to Leona Bonita and Angel’s very soon, too. In fact, Edmund suspected the police might already know about Angel’s; had probably pieced it together as soon as they found Donovan.
The General had been fortunate in the beginning. The police had bought his telephone call about the Latino gangs, but the General didn’t know why they never connected Rodriguez to Angel’s. All part of the equation, he’d concluded. It’d been the same for Billy Canning. And, after all, the Prince hadn’t been worried about the police finding him all the way out there in the woods anytime soon.
“Touch the doorway,” Edmund heard the General say in his mind. He closed his eyes and saw the sodomite staring up at him from the chair in horror—his eyes filled with tears, with the disbelieving desperation of one who had sin
ned. “Touch the doorway,” the General repeated.
“Please, God,” the sodomite cried as he raised a trembling hand—his one free hand—and touched the General’s chest. “Please, I did what you wanted me to do, now please let me go.”
“Will you know him when he comes for you?” the General asked, guiding the sodomite’s fingers along the outside of the doorway.
“Please, I did what you—”
“Will you know him when he comes for you?”
“Yes,” the sodomite said weakly. “Yes, now please let me go.”
“And what will you tell him, soldier?”
“Jesus Christ, I—”
“What will you tell him, soldier?”
“I accept my mission.”
“And why do you accept?”
“The nine to three,” the sodomite whimpered, his tears flowing freely. “It is my destiny as written in the stars.”
The General strapped down the sodomite’s free hand and began gathering up the tattoo equipment. The sodomite screamed again to be set free, but the General ignored him. Besides, the sodomite hardly had any voice left at all. He’d been in the chair for over a week.
And despite the circumstances, even the Prince was impressed with the sodomite’s work on the doorway—or at least he seemed to be. The power of the first doorway, the one on the throne, was already beginning to weaken by that point. The General had only allowed the sodomite’s right hand to be free and kept his Beretta pointed at his head the entire time he used his needle. That was one of the reasons the tattoo had taken so long to be completed; for even though the General was strong, his arm often grew tired from holding the gun for long stretches at a time.
The General often wondered if the police knew about the stolen tattoo equipment—older equipment, which the General had taken from a storage closet at Canning’s. He also wondered if the sodomite’s lover ever suspected his beau was having an affair at the tattoo parlor behind his back. Granted, the Prince hadn’t allowed the affair to go on long. Just long enough for the sinful sodomite to touch and kiss the doorway; just long enough for him to let his guard down and become attracted to the young man who called himself Ken Ralston.
But now, over two months later, the General understood that with the discovery of the corrupt lawyer the FBI was involved. And thus the General also understood that, now that the authorities had ditched the drug cartel connection and were calling him a serial killer—Vlad the Impaler, how ridiculous!—well, now things would have to be different.
No, the General would not be able to go back to West Hargett Street tonight. Instead, he would have to spend the evening in consultation with the Prince.
The rose. Cindy Smith. The cast party Friday night.
Perhaps the Prince would like the General to recruit his soldiers elsewhere?
Edmund took a deep breath. He needn’t worry about all that now, for unlike the beginning, when the General had to decode and interpret the messages from the Prince on his own, now the General could ask the Prince directly, and the Prince would answer him with his visions.
As long as the doorway remained open.
Edmund returned the rose to his book bag and sat admiring it for a long time—its stem, a long wooden stake planted in the earth; the flower itself, the scrubbed-white flesh of the next soldier.
A sign, he heard the General whisper in his mind. The female most certainly has given us a sign.
Chapter 31
Markham sat at the Resident Agency conference table with a sea of paperwork stretched out before him. He had been there all day; had gone home at 2 a.m. the night before and only punched four restless hours of sleep on the clock before returning to the Resident Agency at eight.
The story broke about four hours later, and was all over the news by three that afternoon—Rodriguez and Guerrera, Donovan and Canning, all connected in their grisly, graphic glory. The FBI had learned that the groundskeeper who’d discovered Donovan in the baseball field was going to talk. He’d already made a public statement and was scheduled to appear on Nancy Grace that evening. Gurganus would roll soon, too, he knew. They always did.
Word had also gotten out about the writing on Canning’s chest via “a reliable source inside the investigation.” Markham thought most likely one of Sergeant Powell’s boys had been paid off, and unless the FBI didn’t deal with this information swiftly, the vultures were going to be a pain in the ass about it. Fortunately, an FBI spokesperson had tem- porarily dodged the question during a press conference earlier that afternoon.
However, rather than seeing all the media attention as a roadblock, Markham relished the idea of getting the vultures to work for him for a change. And so the FBI decided to release an incomplete image of the writing found on Billy Canning’s torso. They would also alter the image to include a line of what they said “appeared to be Romanian.” This would satisfy the press and let them run with the Vlad angle while the FBI followed their real leads.
Their real leads.
Markham stared down at them on the table. It had taken him, along with Schaap and their consultant in the classical studies department at NC State, over twelve hours to put it all together—feverish bouts of research and discussion broken up by long stretches of waiting while this or that theory was followed up on. This last follow-up had taken the longest of them all. Markham had been waiting to hear back for almost two hours. But that was all right, for this last follow-up was indeed going to be the last—the most important piece of the puzzle; the proof that all his research had not been for naught.
“Here it is,” Schaap said, entering. “I got one of the boys preparing the JPEG scan as we speak.”
He handed Markham a copy of a black-and-white photograph.
Markham studied it for an entire minute without speaking.
“I’ll call Alan Gates,” he said finally.
But he did not move.
No, for the moment Sam Markham was content to just sit there gaping, unable to believe his eyes.
Chapter 32
The General stepped into the farmhouse, set the alarm, and checked his watch. If the second act had started on time, he thought, Macbeth was about to get his head cut off. The General thought this fitting, as he himself was about to consult the Prince’s head in the Throne Room.
All part of the equation. Everything connected.
The General was happy to finally be home. True, the young man named Edmund had only stayed to watch the trap open for Duncan’s descent into Hell, but still it had seemed like a long time. Jennings had stopped by to see how things were going and told Edmund to go home; said he was a good worker and gave him a key to the tool closet—“for the summer theater season,” he added.
This sat well with Edmund Lambert, even though he would soon have no more need for the tool closet. In fact, he would be long gone by the time summer theater began. After all, it was during the summer that the Prince was prophe-sized to return—as in the old days, in the burning sun of noontime, bringing war and pestilence and destruction with the deadly harvest of the summer solstice.
And the Prince’s army would return with him; would be waiting by the doorway, ready to serve and pave the way for what was to come.
But someone would be waiting for the General, too. And once he was able to pass through the doorway, they would be together again. In this world or that? Well, the General wasn’t sure.
The General smiled and went upstairs, undressed in the bathroom, and stepped into the shower. And as he scrubbed off the remains of his day-life, his mind soon wandered to the young woman named Cindy Smith.
He turned up the water as hot as it would go and stood there watching as it reddened the flesh beneath the large tattoo on his chest and stomach. And when the doorway became numb with the pain, he closed his eyes and imagined Cindy Smith in her spirit costume, rising up from the trap and stepping through his flesh from the depths of Hell. He opened his eyes and gazed down at the doorway, half expecting to see her there with him in t
he shower, and saw instead that he had grown erect.
He would need to consult the Prince about all this; would need to look for her in his visions, in the flashes of images and sounds. He hoped he would find her there, and began to wonder if the she wasn’t part of the equation, too.
Chapter 33
Alan Gates had been dreaming about pigs when the telephone startled him awake. The clunky old ringer was set on high, but his wife kept on snoring. She was used to it; had always been a heavy sleeper, but had been conditioned over the course of their thirty-five-year marriage to snore through her husband’s occasional late-night interruptions.
It was all part of being married to “the life,” just one of the many sacrifices that Debbie Gates had made for her husband over the years. And in all that time, he never once took her for granted; still thanked God every night for his blessings even as he thought it was only a matter time before the Old Man Upstairs pulled the rug out from under his feet—just as He’d done to so many others in his line of work.
A deeply religious man, Alan Gates had indeed been blessed over the last forty years. Had come out unscathed from two tours in Vietnam and quickly made his way up through the ranks of the FBI in the seventies and early eighties. He could’ve long ago been promoted to director if he’d gunned for it; could have retired by now, too. But the unit chief slot at Quantico was where his heart was; and when he thought about it, he considered himself as much a part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit as the glass and steel and brick in which it was housed.
However, the fact that his wife had learned over the years to sleep through his late-night telephone calls always made him feel uneasy—even more so now that the kids were moved out and married. Heaven forbid if he was away on a case and needed to get in touch with her. Heaven forbid if there was ever an emergency. And if the Old Man were to decide that it was finally time to pull that rug out, Gates was sure He’d do it while he was away and Debbie was asleep—a fire or some other tragedy in which, if only she’d woken up, she could’ve been saved.
The Impaler Page 16
