The Impaler

demons.” Big Joe raised his hand again. “Go ahead, Joe.”

“Then, if as you say, Nergal was the ruler of Hell, do you think then that the victim profile has something to do with Hell, too? I mean, do you think the Impaler sees his victims as sinners?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” Markham said, “which brings us to the last of the Impaler’s selection criteria: the act of sin. Homosexuality, in the Impaler’s eyes, is a sin; and Randall Donovan might represent to him corruption or greed or dishonesty. If we look at the Impaler’s victim profile as males who bear the mark of the lion and who have sinned, all four victims are thus connected. All four of them are worthy of hell from the killer’s perspective; and thus are worthy of sacrifice to him, the Prince of Hell.”

It was Alan Gates who spoke next.

“Your consultant at NC State, did he indicate to you if the seal depicts an actual ritual at Kutha, as opposed to some ancient Babylonian myth lost to history?”

“No,” said Markham. “Not much is known about the ancient city or the types of rituals performed there. However, it is believed that the temple at Kutha came to be seen as a physical representation of the Babylonian Underworld itself. The temple doors, the doorway to hell, if you will.”

“How did the seal end up in Italy?” asked Big Joe Connelly.

“Interpol isn’t exactly sure. Many of the smuggling operations out of Iraq are pretty complex. Interpol’s been trying to trace the artifact’s route since it was discovered last month, but they’ve reached a dead end in Jordan. It was our man at NC State who led us to the picture of the newly recovered seal. He was part of the original National Geographic team that went over to Iraq to assess the damage to the country’s archaeological treasures back in 2003, and he now receives a monthly update of recovered items from both Interpol and the Baghdad Museum.”

“So you think the killer was inspired by this artifact?” Mr. Spock asked.

“Yes, I do,” Markham said. “The similarities between the imagery and the killer’s MO are too compelling to ignore. Furthermore, the seal is the only known artifact in the archaeological record where we see a depiction of human sacrifice to the god Nergal.”

“But you said the authorities learned of the seal’s existence only a month ago,” Mr. Spock said smugly. “The Impaler murdered Rodriguez and Guerrera at the end of January—well over two months ago.”

“That’s exactly my point,” Markham said. “I think the Im-paler knew about the seal long before the authorities did.”

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