The Impaler sm-2

by Gregory Funaro

  Chapter 38

  The General had just finished taping his latest Vlad the Impaler article to the wall when he thought he heard a voice say:

  “Edmund?”

  The General stopped and listened.

  Nothing. Only the silence of the cellar, only the beating of his heart in his ears. His mind was playing tricks on him, he thought, but still he listened until the throbbing in his ears subsided.

  He was overtired; had been up late speaking with the Prince the night before. The Prince hadn’t shown him any visions of the young woman named Cindy Smith, and even now the General had to admit he was disappointed that the Prince seemed uninterested in her. Instead, the Prince had wanted to talk about his army; about those who would follow him through the doorway when he returned. Just like in the old days.

  Yes, the Prince had been uncharacteristically nostalgic the night before; had taken the General’s hand and led him across the scorched earth—the two of them watching to- gether as scores of enemies were impaled on the battlefields, or along the roads that led to the Prince’s temple at Kutha. He even allowed the General to touch the temple doors; allowed him to push them open and gaze down into the depths of the abyss—an ever-changing whirlpool in the colors of sin; of darkness and flame and flesh and destruction. The sodomites had been there, as was the gold-coveting lawyer. All of them understanding now, all of them smiling and waiting eagerly for the Prince’s return.

  And then the Prince had led the General into the stars; flew with him across space and time and into the heart of the nine and the three, that very place where the Prince had hidden himself for thousands of years—forgotten by most, but still watching and waiting for a warrior-priest to worship him again and be rewarded.

  A warrior-priest like the General.

  It had been a long night, the General thought as he scanned the clippings on the wall. And the Prince’s instructions had been clear: no more recruiting on West Hargett Street. But still, the General thought, the Prince did not say anything negative about the young woman named Cindy. He just did not address her, seemed to have more important things on his mind—

  “Edmund?”

  The General heard the voice clearly this time—a woman’s voice, unmistakable, echoing close but far away—and suddenly his heart was in his ears again.

  This can’t be happening, he said to himself as he dashed from the reeducation chamber and through the darkened hallway. He stopped in the entrance to the Throne Room and stared at the Prince’s head. Nothing. No sense of calling; no flashes and sounds, no feeling of that force he so often felt when the Prince wanted to speak with him. The Prince was sleeping. The General understood this—the Prince always slept during the day—but the doorway was fresh, was always open, and now that there were others inside, perhaps—

  “Edmund?” the woman’s voice called again. “Are you there, Edmund?”

  The General recognized the voice immediately, and all at once his heart was filled with a mixture of both joy and terror.

  Quiet! he cried out in his mind. He’ll hear you!

  “Edmund, I’m afraid!”

  “Mama, please!” the General whispered, and now he was Edmund Lambert again.

  He rushed into the room and stood before the figure on the throne, gazing back and forth between the Prince’s head and the golden doors that he had carved for the body below it. The smell of booze and rotting flesh was stronger now, but the Prince was still asleep. No, there was no one beyond the doorway now except—

  “Edmund, it’s been so long—let me see you!”

  “Mama, please, you’ll ruin—”

  “You don’t have to be afraid. He’s sleeping now. He doesn’t suspect—”

  Mama, quiet! Edmund screamed in his mind.

  “Please, Edmund. Let me see you like he does. Let me know it’s really you who has come for me. I’m so afraid!”

  Anything to silence her, Edmund thought—and before he could think better of it, he saw himself reaching out for the Prince’s head.

  It was the General who usually wore the Prince’s head; had many times removed the plaster skull from inside and slipped it over his face—a smell of mold and leather and sweat and blood that reminded him of the helmet Edmund wore in Iraq. It was hot and hard to breathe inside the Prince’s head. And even though the General had made a hole at the rear of the Prince’s gaping mouth through which to see, it had taken him hours of prowling the cellar before he got used to wearing it.

  But all of that had been for nothing; for once the General acquired the first of the doorways, when he wore the Prince’s head it was as if he was transported to another world—a world in which the smells and heat and claustrophobia of the Prince’s head did not exist. No, there was only the doorway and the world beyond; for when the General donned the Prince’s head, he saw through the eyes of the nine and the three—those all-knowing, all-seeing eyes of the lions in the sky.

  It was Edmund Lambert who first saw the lion’s head; years ago, when he was twelve, at the taxidermy shop to which his grandfather had taken him after his first deer kill. Even then, young Edmund Lambert had been fascinated by it—Leo, the shop owner called it, a monstrous African lion that had been shot on safari back in the 1930s. That too had been a message from the Prince—their first face-to-face encounter—but young Edmund Lambert had simply been too stupid to understand.

  But after Edmund read Macbeth and understood he needed a head to communicate with the Prince, it was the General who broke into the taxidermy shop and brought Leo back to the Throne Room. And so only the General was allowed to wear the lion’s head, and only then in service of the Prince.

  But now, it was Edmund Lambert who slipped the Prince’s visage over his face; and all at once he could feel the Prince’s power flowing through his muscles. It always felt like liquid electricity to the General; but to Edmund Lambert, the energy coursing through his veins made him feel weak and fearful—like a child sneaking into a haunted house.

  Thhwummp!—a rush of brightness—and the doorway was open.

  Yes, there was his mother! Clear and bright and floating with the swirling colors of sin behind her. She was dressed as she was on the day she died, at once both near and far away, but she did not call to him anymore—only dropped to her knees and cried with joy when she saw him. And there was Edmund—a finger to his lips as his other hand reached out and touched her face. A secret touch that spoke of little time but said, “Don’t worry, Mama.”

  Flash-flash—a sliver flash like the strobe light at the farmhouse—and now there was someone else with them, someone helping his mother to her feet and drawing her back into the swirling colors. Another woman, dressed in white. A young woman with long black hair and a smile that looked like—Cindy Smith’s?

  “Ereshkigal,” his mother said before she disappeared. “Ereshkigal will help us.”

  Flash-flash and another rush—this one of darkness—and suddenly Edmund was back in the Throne Room with the lion’s head in his hands. He’d torn it from his face without realizing, and quickly fumbled it back onto the shelf. Then he bolted from the cellar—up the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door.

  He kept running until he was safely inside the barn—closed the doors behind him, tore off his shirt, and fell to his knees before the mirror in the horse stall, the temple doors of Kutha rising and falling with his breaths.

  He was terrified, but that was all right for now. The Prince had not awakened—would not be able to hear him in here even if he was awake. No, this doorway, the last of them all, was not yet open.

  Ereshkigal, he heard his mother say in his head. Ereshki-gal will help us.

  That had been unexpected—perhaps even more unexpected than hearing from his mother. He knew the latter would have to happen eventually, especially if she ever sensed him near the doorway or perhaps saw him with the Prince.

  But Ereshkigal? The Prince’s beloved?

  Of course, Edmund knew the story of how the Prince ha
d raped her and taken her throne by force. And when he thought about it, the fact that Ereshkigal might want to help them made perfect sense. Perhaps that was why the Prince did not want to talk about Cindy Smith. Perhaps the Prince was keeping something from him after all.

  Then again, Edmund thought, the General had been keeping something from the Prince, too—a promise he’d made long before he was anointed, but a promise nonetheless of which the Prince would surely disapprove.

  But could this be a trap? Could the Prince be testing the General’s loyalty?

  “The General is still loyal,” Edmund said out loud. “His loyalty is split is all; and there is no reason why this can’t be part of his reward.”

  But the Prince demands ultimate devotion. You know that. There is to be no one but the Prince. He has shown you that in his visions, in the sacrifices at Kutha—

  “The General made his promise before he was anointed,” Edmund said. “That is surely one of the reasons why the Prince chose him. For his loyalty.”

  The voice in his head was silent, and all at once Edmund Lambert was the General again. He watched himself in the mirror until the temple doors became still. Cindy Smith? But how could she be Ereshkigal? How could she be both in this world and that world at the same time?

  The General envisioned the young actress as Lady Macbeth; saw her in her spirit costume rising from beneath the stage to take her husband into Hell. The General kept replaying this scene over and over again in his mind. Could the answer have been right there in front of him all along? Was it written in the stars that he, the General, should have been the one to design and build the doorway through which he would join with Ereshkigal in the Underworld?

  Something deep behind the temple doors on his chest told him yes. A parallel with his day-life, part of the equation, everything connected—but he would need to think on it. There was still much about the doorway that he had yet to understand—so much so that, oftentimes when the Prince revealed things to him in his visions, the General didn’t know what to make of them. Even after consulting with the Prince.

  Of course, there would be no consulting the Prince about all this. And even though the Prince spoke to the General inside his head, he could not read the General’s thoughts unless the General wanted him to.

  No, when it came to this part of the equation, the General was on his own.

  But that was all right. He’d figured out how to balance other parts of the equation on his own. And so he would figure out how to balance this part on his own, too.

  Eventually, a voice answered in his head.

  The General smiled. He understood the concept of eventually. It had been that way from the beginning, all those years ago when he promised his mother he would save her. It had taken him almost two decades of eventually to balance that part of the equation.

  But then again, the General thought, what’s a couple of decades compared to eternity?

  Chapter 39

  Alan Gates hung up from a call with his Interpol liaison feeling frustrated and helpless. He hated having to deal with anyone at the United Nations—hated having to deal with anyone outside the FBI period. True, things had gotten better since 9/11; clearer channels and more cooperation all around. Nonetheless, even with this new wrinkle surrounding the ob-jets d’art seized in Rome, he knew things were going to come to a screeching halt again in Jordan. Yes, now that the United States was involved, those bastards would take great pride in sabotaging Interpol’s investigation.

  The suspect in question was a Dutchman named Bertjan van Weerdt, a black-market antiquities dealer whose specialty was European art seized by the Nazis during World War II, and against whom Interpol had been building a case for almost a year. Why or how van Weerdt had gotten mixed up in one of the many smuggling rings to come out of Iraq following the U.S.-led invasion was still a bit of a mystery. He’d already been turned over to the authorities in The Hague, and even though Interpol had him by the balls, van Weerdt wouldn’t give up the name of his contact in Jordan—said he knew the man only as Abdul and could provide no further information. Gates had a feeling van Weerdt was telling the truth. He knew the type—no loyalty, anything to save his own skin—and could already see the trail ending at the Jordan consulate with or without the Dutchman’s help.

  Of course, Gates would fly one of his men to The Hague to run van Weerdt through the obligatory round of questions. But that was going to take time, and time was something they didn’t have.

  The implications of his protégé’s theory were staggering. Never mind the killer’s time line; never mind his connection to the constellation Leo, the god Nergal, and his obsession with the mark of the lion. No, given the date on which Inter-pol nabbed van Weerdt in Rome, what bothered Alan Gates the most was that, if in fact the Impaler had drawn on the stolen Babylonian seal for inspiration, there were really only two possible scenarios in which he could’ve come into contact with it. Either he was involved in the smuggling ring himself, or he’d seen the seal somewhere else—perhaps at an archaeological dig in Iraq or a private collection that eventually got mixed up with the stolen items from the Baghdad Museum. The latter left open too many variables. And so, until anything told them differently, the FBI would have to begin from the premise that the Impaler had seen the ancient seal somewhere between its theoretical departure from Iraq and its appearance in Rome.

  Of course, Special Agent Schaap—in conjunction with both the Raleigh PD and ICE—would check out the anomalies with immigration and customs, as well as any leads involving violent offenders of Middle Eastern descent in and around the Raleigh area. But it was what Markham said at the end of the teleconference that made Alan Gates’s stomach turn.

  “One last thing,” Markham said. “Back in 2003, three U.S. soldiers from the Army’s 3rd Infantry Division were brought up on allegations of attempting to smuggle out of the country priceless artifacts that Iraqi antiquities officials said were looted from the Bagdad Musuem. The names of the soldiers were never released and the charges later dismissed. And even though incidents of smuggling by U.S. military personnel are extremely rare, it at least proves that a serviceman could not only have come into contact with the ancient Babylonian seal, but also that he could’ve been connected to the smuggling operation in Jordan.”

  “You’re saying you think there’s a possibility that the Im-paler might be a veteran of the Iraq War?” Mr. Spock asked.

  “Perhaps,” said Markham. “There’s the planet Mars con-nection—the god of war, the ultimate soldier crossing paths with the lion figure in the sky. Our profile for the killer thus far indicates that our boy is a highly disciplined individual. He goes to a lot of trouble to make sure he doesn’t leave any DNA at the crime scenes. If the Impaler was in the military, they’d have a sample of his DNA and a record of his prints if he’d been on special assignment. Never mind that he’d have to possess quite a bit of physical strength to pull off his little shenanigans.

  “Then there’s the fact that the kind of gun used to kill Rodriguez and Guerrera was a nine-millimeter, the rounds from which show marking consistent with the Beretta M9. Ballistics can’t be one hundred percent sure, of course, but the M9 has been standard issue for the U.S. military since 1990. Given Raleigh’s relative proximity to both Fort Bragg and Camp Lejeune, it’s another connection to Iraq that I think can’t be ignored at this point.”

  “I’ll take care of getting the clearance on all that,” Gates said.

  “Thank you, Alan. For the rest of us, in addition to getting on Interpol and ICE, I suggest we put together a team to cover Bragg and Lejeune and begin working from there—fast-track the necessary paperwork to requisition medical records and look for servicemen in the Raleigh area who have a history of mental illness. It’s a long shot, but if you’ve got a better place to begin, I’m all ears.”

  Then came the silence—all of their minds spinning, Alan Gates knew, with variations on the same theme. The fact that the Impaler might be in the military had blindsid
ed them more than anything Markham had said that day. And for Alan Gates, it was a prospect that both saddened and terrified him: sad because he felt an unspoken kinship with the killer; terrified because he also identified with him.

  He’d seen it all firsthand. Sometimes he still saw it. In the middle of the night, the dream fading, the warm wet blood on his face and hands chilling into the sweat of his nightmare. Thankfully, gone were the nights when he woke up screaming, or when Debbie had to sleep in the guest room because his tossing and turning and talking in his sleep scared her close to death. But still, the dream always returned.

  Curiously, however, he never remembered the dream itself; only pieced it together afterward when he figured it had to be about the worst day of them all—the day his best friend Ronnie Blake stepped on a land mine; the day First Lieutenant Alan Gates watched him die in his arms even as he wiped from his eyes the blood and shit from Blake’s blown-out bowels.

  Those were the kinds of days that made a man snap, made him come back “a tick away” as they used to say. Gates had been close, could have snapped with the best of them were it not for his faith in God. Yeah, the Old Man Upstairs had bailed him out of that one just as he had bailed him out of Nam without a scratch.

  But then there were the guys who snapped in a different way. The guys who came back “normal.” The guys who never dreamed, never cried, held a steady job and golfed and banged their wives and colored Easter eggs with their kids. That is, until one day …

  One day.

  The doctors and the smart men with the degrees had names for that day—theories and fancy terminology that he learned at Georgetown and had to indulge over his many years with Behavioral Analysis. But in the end Alan Gates didn’t care why a man snapped; didn’t preoccupy himself with the minutia as to why one kid could grow up to be a healthy member of society after being raped repeatedly by his uncle, while another felt the need to kill little old ladies because his grandmother got him the wrong color bicycle for Christmas.