The Impaler

But now that his grandfather was gone that could never happen; now that Rally had told him the truth about what was going on in the cellar, Edmund didn’t know quite how to feel about the whole thing.

Only that the searching was still there.

Chapter 51

“I’ve arranged for you to fly home, Lambert,” said Edmund’s commanding officer. “We can have you manifested on the next bird to Kuwait.”

“No thank you, sir,” said Edmund. “I’d like to finish up my time here. I’ve squared it so we can delay the funeral. It’s only a week, and my men need me.”

This was true. The 187th was scheduled for a raid on an insurgent stronghold that evening in the southern part of Tal Afar. The intel had come in that morning, and Edmund had organized the mission himself—needed to move fast before the enemy changed position again.

But his men were angry with him; thought the whole thing poorly timed. Edmund couldn’t blame them. With less than a week of their tour remaining, no one from the 187th wanted to be the last to bite it. There was no question as far as Edmund Lambert was concerned. He knew what he had to do.

“Are you sure your head’s on straight for this?” asked his commanding officer. “You’ve got a lot of men depending on you tonight, Lambert.”

“Yes, sir,” Edmund replied. “My grandfather and I weren’t very close.”

Later that night, Edmund and his unit set out in a convoy of unarmored Humvees that were to bring him and his men along a main road to the outskirts of the city, about a quarter mile from their target. The remainder of the distance would be covered on foot.

Everything had been going according to plan until the convoy passed through an intersection about a hundred yards from the drop-off point.

Edmund watched in horror as the Humvee at the head of the convoy was hit dead-on in a hissing streak of white. Then came the explosion, and Edmund knew the gunner was dead. Two men scrambled from the disabled vehicle. One of them was on fire.

Another explosion—screams of “RPG!” and “Medic!”— and all at once Edmund and his men were under attack from small-arms fire and rocket-propelled grenades.

Time seemed to rush forward in leaps—the poppity-pop-pop of returning fire; the metallic thunder of Edmund’s gunner above his head shooting wildly. Then the pump of boots on the hard-pack street—screams of “Down there, down there!” and Edmund found himself crouched behind the corner of a building, the green of his night-vision goggles illuminating his surroundings.

More gunfire, and Edmund peered down the side street as a Humvee rolled past him, the gunner firing at the fleeing insurgents. It was a trap. Edmund and his men had seen this before. Edmund radioed for the Humvee to hold its position. It did, and kept firing down the street as an IED exploded up ahead.

Then they were running—Edmund and three of his men on the main road—rounding the corner of the next block; the back and forth of orders, the salute report, the request for rerouting and reinforcements on the radio.

They were in the southern neighborhoods—close to the city’s small wooded park, beyond which were pockets of farmland and then the desert. Intercept them before they get to the park, Edmund thought; take up position and mow them down before they lose them in the trees and then on to who knows where.

Edmund waved his men ahead in three-to-five-second rushes, covering each other as they cleared and passed the narrow alleyways between the houses. Edmund was at the end of the line, was about to take up his next position when his NVGs picked up something strange approaching in the alleyway. Instinctively, he stepped forward and raised his weapon—but when his mind finally registered what he was seeing, Sergeant Edmund Lambert froze.

It was a large male lion.

Edmund had heard the stories at the start of the war; knew that in the days leading up to and immediately following the U.S.-led invasion, the sight of animals wandering the streets of Baghdad was quite common. Most had either escaped or were freed by looters from the Baghdad Zoo, which had been home to a large number of lions. Many of the big cats had been rounded up by American soldiers in armored vehicles; others were rescued from the Hussein family’s personal menageries, as well as from the appalling conditions of many private zoos.

Yet the rumors among the locals had persisted; sightings of man-eaters believed to have once belonged to Saddam Hussein’s son Uday, who was notorious for feeding his lions with the flesh of his enemies.

Rumors. Just rumors.

But here, north of Mosul, so far away—this couldn’t be happening.

The lion was closer now.

It stopped about ten feet away and looked back over its shoulder down the alleyway. Edmund registered in the back of his mind that the lion looked well fed. And at the same time he realized he was not afraid, he felt a crack inside his head—the lion, the alley shifting crooked across his eyes, along with a high ringing in his ears. He was vaguely aware of the sound of gunfire and shouting behind him, but felt himself being pulled forward, as if a hand had been placed on the barrel of his rifle, gently pushing it down. He let it fall but didn’t hear it hit the ground as the ringing in his ears grew louder.

The lion turned back, lowered its head, and stepped closer—looked meekly up at him with eyes both sad and full of greenish white fire. Edmund felt as if the air around him had turned to lime Jell-O, his movements heavy and not his own. A dream, a swirly dream of shadows, of bright green crumbling brick and a presence—no, two presences—whispering somewhere behind him.

“Be a good boy and carry that rope for me, okay?”

“C’est mieux d’oublier.”

Then Edmund saw the word G-E-N-E-R-A-L—a flash of silvery letters, stitched in cursive across a dark blue background. It was as if the word was sneaking up on him from behind; as if he was catching only a glimpse of it before it faded back into the black.

“C’est mieux d’oublier.”

Then another crack.

Now, there was only the lion again, staring up at him from the green. Edmund stroked its mane, his hand tracing slowly down to caress its face. Another flash of memory, and Edmund’s fingers were inside the lion’s mouth. He registered somewhere the feel of its teeth, but at the same time saw his fingers as his grandfather’s, the lion’s mouth his own.

The lion licked Edmund’s hand—not his hand, but his good luck charm; the ancient Babylonian seal between his thumb and forefinger.

“C’est mieux d’oublier,” Edmund whispered, and suddenly felt a hot wetness in his groin—felt it running down his legs—and realized his face was cold and moist, his breathing labored as if he was sobbing.

Sobbing?

Edmund could not remember crying since his mother died, since that TV show with the happy little boy who looked just like him got canceled.

“Be a good boy and carry that rope for me, okay?”

“It’s not my fault,” Edmund said—and all at once the alley shifted again, this time with a whoosh, and the green of his NVGs grew brighter. The lime Jell-O dissolved, the air grew thinner, and now there was only the sound of someone calling his name.

Edmund looked down at his hands. The Babylonian seal was gone, and the lion was moving away—did not look back as its heavy paws carried it quickly around the curve of the alleyway and out of sight.

“Come back,” Edmund heard himself whisper. “Come back.”

He felt someone touch his shoulder—heard his name, closer now—but the world had already begun to iris into black.