The Impaler

“Just news from our language specialist. Said that, although Vlad wrote on Donovan’s body from left to right, three of the scripts, the Aramaic, Arabic, and Hebrew, should’ve been written from right to left.”

“You mean he wrote his words backwards?”

“Yes.”

“Then he may not have known the etymology behind what he was writing.”

“Right. Also might indicate that he was copying the letters from someplace. Already got a Cyber Action Team working the Internet angle. So far, they haven’t come up with anything. No searches for the phrase, ‘I have returned’ in the languages in question. No IP addresses that look promising.”

“What about local searches for Vlad and impalement and whatnot?” Markham asked.

“Oh yeah, plenty of those, but no more than usual, I expect. Of course we’ll look into them, but if Vlad is as smart as I think he is, I’m willing to bet you another rib eye that he did his research the old-fashioned way at the library.”

“Why?”

“The stakes, the detail and care he puts into them. Pretty thorough, if you ask me. Wouldn’t make the mistake of getting caught on his home computer; would use a public one at least, but that could still pin him to a specific locale. I don’t see him fucking up that way. Just my two cents, for what it’s worth.”

Markham was silent, lost in thought. He looked vulnerable, Schaap thought—strangely human in his puzzlement.

“I’d like us to be straight with each other,” Schaap said after a moment.

Markham looked up at him from his half-eaten steak.

“I know you’ll want to go most of this alone. I know from what happened in Tampa that you work best that way. I respect that. And you need to know that I don’t harbor any resentment about Gates sending you into my territory. I mean it. Will give you my complete support with the understanding that I’m acting only as your NCAVC coordinator, as well as the point man for the local authorities.”

“I appreciate that,” Markham said.

“And I’m not going to ask you how you caught Jackson Briggs, either.”

Markham narrowed his eyes at him.

“I read the report,” Schaap continued. “Still have no idea how you got turned on to him. But what I’m saying is I’m not going to try to get into your head about things. You keep what you want to yourself, but you don’t have to worry about me cock-blocking you if you want to bounce things off me, okay?”

“Thanks,” Markham said, smiling.

“May I ask you one thing about the Briggs case, though? A minor detail?”

“Okay.”

“Is it true what I read? That he came after you with a samurai sword?”

“A ninja sword, I believe it was, but yes.”

“Caught you in the arm and kept slashing at you even with four bullets in him?”

“Three. The fourth was a head shot.”

“He cut you bad?”

“Not too bad. Got my jacket mostly—my left shoulder. Barely even a scar there now. Not much to brag about in the locker room.”

“Was he your first kill?”

“Yes.”

“Feel fucked up?”

“No,” Markham said simply. “Actually, it didn’t.”

A heavy silence—Schaap’s brain spinning.

“So what about our boy here in Raleigh?” he asked finally. “Anything other than the usual logistical groundwork that you want me to take care of?”

“Yes,” Markham said. “I need to get back to the crime scenes.”

“Tonight?”

“I need to see them in the dark. And I could use your help—would like you to coordinate things with Cary PD. Tell them I’m going to stop by Donovan’s house, and that I’ll be at the baseball field around eleven or twelve. I’m going to work backwards; going to focus on Donovan tonight and Rodriguez and Guerrera tomorrow. But it’s important that I’m not bothered. Maybe you can get a detail posted for me in case the press or some nosy locals are still sniffing around.”

“Trying to see what things looked like from Vlad’s perspective?”

“No. Tonight I’ll be trying to see things through the eyes of his victims.”

Chapter 7

Doug Jennings, technical director of the Harriot University Department of Theatre and Dance, was furious— be-cause of what happened, sure, but more so because he might have to miss his son’s honor society ceremony. Stealing was one thing—but inconveniencing him? Well, that was going too far. One of these little fuckers had dicked him twice now, and enough was enough.

“Keep in mind,” Jennings said, “George is taking valuable time out of his rehearsal so all of you, cast and crew, understand how serious this is.” His voice was tight; reverberated off the theater walls and came back to him like someone else’s. “Now, since it’s obvious that you didn’t believe me after our little talk at the beginning of the semester, George here wanted to say a few words so we’re all perfectly clear about what’s going to happen next.”

As George Kiernan took his place at the foot of the stage, Jennings scanned the crowd. More than thirty students clumped together in the first four rows like a herd of frightened sheep. Jennings was breathing heavily; his bushy red beard damp with spittle, the perspiration beginning to pool between his flabby breasts and his big round belly. Whoever had stolen his belt sander was here tonight. He could feel it.

“Doug and his crew,” Kiernan began, “busted their butts this week to get us onstage a day early, and now I have to take time out of rehearsal for this nonsense. In fact, in my twenty years as chair of the Department of Theatre and Dance, tonight is the first time I’ve ever had to take time out of a rehearsal for something like this, period.”

Kiernan set down his notepad and leaned back against the stage—the tension-filled pause, the icy stare over his wire-rimmed spectacles as only George Kiernan could pull off. Jennings had witnessed his boss chew ass many times during his eleven-year tenure at Harriot. And even though he was genuinely angry, the technical director’s chest tingled with excitement.

“As you know,” Kiernan continued, “this isn’t the first time things have gone missing from the tool closet this year. And Doug and I are quite confident that the thief is sitting amongst you here tonight.”

The students shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“Doug and I are the only people with keys to the tool closet, and thus we’ve narrowed down the possible time frames in which the tools could have been stolen. That’s right. The belt sander, as well as the tools that went missing earlier this semester, appear to have been stolen during your regularly scheduled crew hours.”

Kiernan’s voice was calm and deliberate, but Jennings knew the eruption was coming soon. He exchanged a knowing glance with his assistant Edmund Lambert. Lambert was a good egg, Jennings thought—the only kid in the bunch whom he still trusted. Well, Lambert was hardly a kid anymore—mid-twenties, former Army specialist, and built like a brick shithouse. It was Lambert who brought the latest theft to his attention as he was closing up after yesterday’s stage scenery crew; Lambert who’d since gone to Best Buy and installed the new webcam in the scene shop; Lambert who’d offered to sniff out the thieving bastard himself and teach him a little lesson “Screaming Eagle style.”

Doug Jennings felt a special kinship with his brother from the 101st Airborne. Both had done their stints out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky—Jennings in the mid-1980s; Lambert a few years ago. Finished up his bid with a tour in Iraq, saw the heaviest shit in Tal Afar, he said. Jennings kind of envied Lambert; saw him as a younger, leaner, meaner version of himself. Uncanny the way their lives paralleled each other: returning to school in their mid-