The Impaler

figured was hidden inside the TrailBlazer. And would they be able to get a bead on their man’s cell signal? He would have to dispose of the TrailBlazer and the BlackBerry soon. The General had his own cell phone, which he hardly ever used; only kept it with him when he was at Harriot in case the alarm went off and the security company had to call him.

However, the fact that the BlackBerry had not rung until now told the General that the FBI was not looking for their agent just yet. He had time, he still had time—

But was Agent Schaap supposed to have been at another meeting tonight? Did this Sam Markham find out anything more about the Impaler?

The General hopped off the ladder and removed the pistol he’d tucked into the back of his jeans. He set it on the floor and sat down next to the cell phone. The message dinged into voice mail, and he stared at the word BlackBerry for a long time, wondering if there was a message in it.

No matter, he thought. The new doorway was already being prepared in the cellar. It was only a matter of time before it would be ready to be placed on the throne, and then the General would be able to communicate with the Prince again directly.

“Communicate,” the General said absently, and pressed the menu button on the BlackBerry. He didn’t bother trying to get into the FBI agent’s voice mail, and instead scrolled down the to the missed calls list.

“Sam Markham,” he read. “The smart little friend from the Federal Bureau of c’est mieux d’oublier.”

The General sprang to his feet, flew down the two flights of stairs, and ended up in the workroom. He sat down at his computer and googled “Sam Markham” and “FBI.”

Bingo, first hit, an article from a Tampa newspaper about a serial killer named Jackson Briggs—the Sarasota Stran-gler, they called him. Some petty, self-involved moron who brutalized little old ladies, then strangled them, all while dressed up as a ninja. Sam Markham had been the one to take him down.

“Looks like they brought out the big guns for us,” the General said, hitting the print button. “Only a matter of time before he figures out what his friend was up to.”

He clicked a few more links, and found a photograph of Markham standing with a group of FBI agents. He was an attractive male, the General thought. Chiseled features, penetrating eyes, a strong jaw—someone with whom the young man named Edmund Lambert might have liked to copulate back in those days when he searched for meaning in such things.

The General hit the print button again. The newspaper article and the photograph of Sam Markham most certainly would have to go on the reeducation chamber wall. After all, Sam Markham was part of the equation now, too. How? He wasn’t exactly sure.

But the General had an idea.

Chapter 65

George Kiernan didn’t come backstage to give the cast their notes after the show on Saturday night; only sent a message via the stage manager that he’d meet with them in the house an hour before the matinee on Sunday. That wasn’t good, Cindy thought. That meant he was really pissed off. And as she left the theater, Cindy was afraid she might run into him in the parking lot.

Later, as she was driving home, she started to feel kind of bad for him. She knew his elderly mother came to the shows on Saturday nights. Cindy always thought this was just the sweetest thing, and oftentimes imagined herself on Broadway many years from now with her own elderly mother sitting in the front row, smiling up at her. Besides, Kiernan had warned everyone on Friday to take it easy at the cast party and have their shit together the following night. They had really let him down, and Cindy didn’t like to let people down.

She couldn’t deny that she was just as much to blame as everyone else. She was tired and felt off during her performance. She had e-mailed Edmund twice that day—before and after her shift at Chili’s—and was at first disappointed, then angry, then finally worried when he didn’t reply. She couldn’t find his number in the campus directory and had no idea how to get in touch with him other than the Internet. She knew where he lived, of course, but his house was out in the sticks—too far to visit and be back in time for the show. Oh yeah, there was no denying it: her bizarre-o date with Edmund Lambert had really fucked with her head, not to mention all the gossip going around the department about the fight at the cast party.

It was all good for Cindy, though, who was looked upon as a goddess by her female cast mates—even Amy Pratt, who asked her point-blank if she and Edmund had sex. Cindy told her they hadn’t, and Amy seemed genuinely relieved. Go figure. Rumors were flying, however, but Amy assured her that she would set the record straight. Besides, she said, the majority of the gossip was about Bradley Cox and his crew getting their asses whipped. And Cindy didn’t need Amy Pratt to tell her that said gossip was really fucking with Mr. Macbeth’s head.

On top of it all, Cindy thought, Bradley-boy was going to get it bad from George Kiernan. Never mind that he was obviously hungover; never mind the noticeable swelling at the bridge of his nose and the way it affected his speech during his performance. Bradley Cox had actually missed an entrance on Saturday night.

Cindy was the one waiting for him onstage when it hap-pened—early on in the first act, when Macbeth returns home after his first confrontation with the Witches. Cox had been getting into it with one of the cast members, Amy told Cindy during intermission—something about Lambert being lucky Cox had been drinking so much, otherwise he would’ve kicked soldier boy’s ass. But when he finally realized he was supposed to be onstage, he tripped and stumbled on his entrance. That’s when the audience laughed at him.

Cindy remembered that part clearly. The rest was kind of a blur.

“Thy letters have transported me beyond this ignorant present,” she said, helping him recover his footing, “and I feel now the future in the instant.”

Cox stared back at her dopily—his lips frozen in an O, his tongue groping for his line as the audience whispered and tittered in the long pause that followed.

“Thou look’st strange, my dearest love,” Cindy said, improvising, hoping he’d pick up on her clue. Nothing. Cindy panicked and said, “Thou meanst to tell me the king is coming?”

“My dearest love!” Cox blurted. “Duncan comes here tonight!”

More laughter, but they ended up getting through the scene all right. The rest of the show, however, suffered. The rhythm was off, a couple of flubbed lines here and there—nothing major, really, but to George Kiernan the show would have seemed unworthy of a dress rehearsal.

As for herself, Cindy hoped her quick thinking would buy her some mercy from Kiernan during his note session tomorrow. But at the same time she knew how bad her “Out, out damned spot!” speech had gone—and even she couldn’t blame Bradley Cox for that. No, Cindy thought. It was her own fault for staying out so late—and for letting Edmund Lambert mess with her head.

True, Edmund didn’t seem like the kind of guy who liked to play games. But as Cindy turned onto her street, she was finally ready to admit to herself how hurt she’d been when he didn’t stop by after the show. He let her down—didn’t make good on what he said in his bizarre-o note—and Cindy had to fight the urge to turn around and head straight for Wilson and ask him why. If she didn’t have the matinee tomorrow, she thought, she probably would have.

No, you wouldn’t, taunted a voice in her head. You’re too much of a wuss to do something like that.

Fuck you.

Will you relax and try playing it cool for once? Christ, the guy said on opening night he’d be there for photo call tomorrow. Remember?

Cindy didn’t respond.

Give him a break, will you? Maybe something came up. Why don’t you wait until you talk to him before you start flipping out?

Cindy sighed and pulled into her driveway.

Chronic fucking OCD, I swear.

“All right,” she said, turning off the ignition. “If soldier boy doesn’t show up for photo call tomorrow, we’ll see whether or not I don’t take a drive out to Wilson.”