“This Canning is from Cary,” Schaap said. “Same as Randall Donovan.”
“Right. Canning was last seen on surveillance footage at a nearby gas station at around seven o’clock p.m. His car was found by his boyfriend outside his tattoo studio at eleven o’clock the next morning. If we work from the premise that Vlad lives closer to Cary than he does here, then the question becomes not only what links Canning to the other victims but also what links the actual places where the victims were impaled. A link that goes beyond their remoteness and a clear view of the nighttime sky.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fact that Vlad was determined to dispose of Canning way out here where there’s a good chance no one would find him for a long time tells me we’re dealing with someone who doesn’t care about us.”
“Us?’
“You, me, the public. If you’ll recall, in addition to being a demented sadist, the reason Vlad Tepes impaled his victims was because he wanted others to see them; wanted to strike fear in the hearts of his people and send a message to his enemies. If our boy thought he was Vlad the Third reincarnated, why wouldn’t he have displayed Canning someplace where he was sure the public would find him? Furthermore, why wouldn’t he have written the message on Donovan so it was visible to the naked eye?”
“But what about the message on Canning? That was visible to the naked eye. Even after all this time.”
“Right. But maybe that’s because Vlad didn’t expect us to find Canning so soon. Maybe the bleaching on Canning’s chest was unintentional. Maybe he didn’t get it right until Donovan.”
“So you think he impaled Canning all the way out here to hide him from us? To hide him but at the same keep to his crescent-moon schedule?”
“I don’t know.”
“Canning was a known homosexual,” Schaap said after a moment. “Which means he fits the historical Vlad’s victim profile just like the others do. Donovan, the crooked lawyer. The Hispanics, the drug-dealing gangbangers. Killing them is a message in and of itself, don’t you think?
“Yes.”
“But, this Canning being a homosexual—you think maybe we missed something with the other three men? Think there’s a possibility that Donovan or the Hispanics might have had some kind of secret lifestyle?”
“I thought about that, yes; will explore that angle when we get back to Raleigh.”
“Then, that could mean that the killer’s fixation with staking his victims through the rectum—are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That our man might be a gay basher? The impalement, a deranged representation of male-on-male sodomy?”
“If you want to put it that way, yes.”
“Who knows? There’s no evidence that Randall Donovan was a homosexual. However, do I think he could’ve had some kind of secret lifestyle? Yes, I do.”
“Well, regardless what team these guys played for, Vlad’s sending a message to someone.”
“I agree. But I think that’s where we’re getting off track.”
“The connection to the Islamic crescent moon and star, you mean? The Arabic, the ancient Middle Eastern scripts and all that?”
“Yes. The impalements seem to me now to be entirely self-centered. Purpose-driven in their methodological detail, yes, but important only to Vlad and whatever he thinks is seeing him from the sky. And the locations where he leaves his victims matter just as much. But only to him.”
“But the victims are supposed to see whatever’s in the sky, too.”
“That’s right.”
“Then do you think the phrase ‘I have returned’ could also mean Vlad’s return to the murder sites? To those locales specifically?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
“That would make it much more personal,” Schaap said. “And much more difficult to figure out the reason behind the murders.”
Markham shrugged.
“But even if Vlad has been here before,” Schaap said, “how the hell could he have found his way out there in the dark?”
“The dirt access road. He obviously knew about it.”
“But still, he’d have to know exactly where to stop. I mean, I suppose he could’ve Google Earthed it; plotted the coordinates and used GPS and night vision like Gurganus does. At the very least he’d have to have a map. Never mind lugging a body three hundred yards and sticking him in the ground.”
Markham was about to speak, then stopped.
“What is it?” Schaap asked.
Markham walked over to his laptop, minimized the Billy Canning file, and clicked on the Your Sky icon. “Maybe he
“The stars, you mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Markham said, staring at the Web page. “But I think we need to get back to the RA immediately.”
Chapter 18
The General awoke after 10 a.m., but he was still tired. The Prince had kept him up late talking the night before. It had been a while since they’d communicated so openly, and they had a lot of catching up to do.
The General was used to rising before dawn, upon which he would work out in the old horse barn before heading off to Greenville—hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups and chin-ups, along with lifting some old cinder blocks that his grandfather had left in there. The barn was big enough for him to park his van inside, too. And on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays he would open up the van’s back doors and do reverse tricep presses off the rear of the inside bed. And when he was finished with that portion of his training, he would sprint back and forth across the barren tobacco fields until he could sprint no more.
He needed the strength of a warrior, sure; but he also needed the speed if his body was to be worthy of a second in command.
The General had placed an old quartz heater in the barn (which warmed him just fine if he stood right in front of it), but the sprinting could be dangerous in the winter. One time, just before Christmas, the General had actually rolled his ankle on a patch of ice. That had put him out of commission for almost two weeks, but even so the General still looked forward to his training.
It was an important part of the equation.
Of course, it would’ve made much more sense to work out in the cellar, but there was not enough room down there now that everything had been dedicated to the Prince. And then there was the attic, but even after all these years the General didn’t like going up there. Besides, the Prince had indicated that he was saving the attic for something
Today was Tuesday, and even though he would not have to do his tricep presses or his sprints, the General entered the horse barn feeling behind. He didn’t bother turning on the heater and went straight for the chin-up bar that he’d installed between the beams of one of the horse stalls. The General had also hung a mirror on the stall’s back wall so he could watch himself as he did his chin-ups.
The barn smelled wonderful this morning, the General thought as he took off his shirt. Like Pine-Sol. He had washed down the inside of the van before parking it inside the barn—left the back doors open so the inside would dry—and the clean, fresh scent seemed to permeate everything. He made a mental note to do that from now on, after he transported the impaled to the sites of sacrifice. He wouldn’t need to hunt any more drifters on Route 301. True, the doorways lasted for three months—that was part of the 9:3—but the General already had the final doorway. The one through which the Prince would return in the flesh, the one through which the General would become spirit.
The General grasped the cold steel bar—paused briefly to admire his muscular torso—and then began his chin-ups.
