The Impaler

Chapter 66

In his bedroom, Markham had just finished downloading a song onto his laptop. An agent from the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime had entered it into Sentinel as being on the CD Jose Rodriguez used for his Leona Bonita act. “Dark in the Day,” a remake of a popular tune from the eighties. Markham remembered the song from high school, but couldn’t place the name of the band.

“How could you think I ’d let you get away?

When I came out of the darkness and told you who you are?”

Markham looped the song on his computer’s media player and listened to it over and over again. The lyrics. He couldn’t shake the connection, couldn’t help but see the totality of the message through the Impaler’s eyes, and felt a chill run up his spine when he imagined himself sitting in the audience, watching Rodriguez prowl about the stage in his lion drag.

“I thought I heard you calling. You thought you heardme speak.

Tell me how could you think I ’d let you get away?”

Markham let the song cycle through one more time, then rolled over and saw his BlackBerry blinking on the night-stand. He checked it—a couple of e-mails and a text message from Andy Schaap. Finally.

Your voice mail was cracking up, the message read. Didn’t get all of it. What’s up?

Markham texted back: Any progress?

A moment later: Where r u?

Still in ct.

Ct?

Odd, Markham thought, and typed: ct = Connecticut.

Then an entire two minutes went by before Schaap replied: Duh sorry. Tired. Nothing new. Still getting names. What’s your eta?

Tomorrow @ 4pm.

Another long pause before Schaap texted back: Need ride?

No. Car @ airport.

K. Have a safe trip. C u @ RA when u get back.

Markham stared at his BlackBerry for a long time. The texting with Schaap bothered him for some reason. He couldn’t place it. No, he’d never communicated with him this way before—Schaap always called him—but the questions, the lingo—

“Christ,” Markham said. Now he was overanalyzing things—looking for something to worry about in this limbo of waiting to get back to Raleigh.

Schaap was tired, too, that’s all. But maybe that’s what worried him. Could he depend on Schaap not to miss anything?

Fuck it, he heard Andy Schaap say in his mind. Yes, he’d figure it all out when he got back to Raleigh. He shut down his computer and turned off his bedside lamp—stared up at the fully charged stars on his ceiling and wondered how after all these years they could still glow so brightly.

And soon, despite his having slept nearly the entire day, Sam Markham was again dead to the world.

The General smiled and plugged in his cell phone charger next to the one he’d taken from the TrailBlazer. He hardly ever used his own cell phone anymore, but for what he was planning next, the General would need it just as much as he still needed Andrew J. Schaap’s BlackBerry.

Chapter 67

Cindy heard the ding of the text message just as she was drifting off to sleep. She didn’t recognize the number, but read the message anyway.

Cindy: Sorry I didn’t get back 2 u sooner and I’m sorry I didn’t c u @ the show. My uncle came by unexpectedly and I have been very busy.

“That’s it?” Cindy said, the anger beginning to boil again in her stomach. She’d been furious when she returned home to find Edmund still hadn’t answered her e-mails; had toyed with the idea of sending him another note (a nasty one, at that) but thought it better to wait until morning when her head had cleared.

But now? What the fuck was this all about?

Cindy was about to reply when the ding of another message stopped her.

Everything is fine, tho. I’ll call you tomorrow (I got your cell # off the contact sheet for Macbeth).

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,” she heard Macbeth say—and then, out of nowhere she thought of Gone with the Wind; saw herself as Scarlett in the final scene, tears in her eyes, alone on the stairs, violins and swelling music and—

“After all … tomorrow is another day!”

What the fuck?

Then another message.

Hope the show went well n sleep tight. I missed u 2day. E

Cindy realized her heart was beating a mile a minute, and she chastised herself for her silly, sappy relief at ever doubting Edmund Lambert in the first place.

He’ll call me tomorrow.

She felt herself melt down into her mattress—texted back, Sounds good. Miss u 2 ?—and fought off the urge to just call him right then and there. He’d probably understand, but that would not look cool. Beyond stalkerish, she thought. Besides, if he wanted to talk to her, he would’ve called, right? Plus, she needed to sleep; there was no way she could spend the whole night talking to Edmund with a pissed-off George Kiernan and a matinee waiting for her tomorrow.

“Fuck it,” she said, and was about to call him anyway, when another text popped in her inbox.

U need to rest. Go to sleep and c u after the show tomorrow.

Cindy started to text back, After all, tomorrow is another day!—but settled on Sounds good? instead.

She waited for a reply, but when it didn’t come, she saved Edmund Lambert’s number and closed her phone —closed her eyes, too, and drifted off to sleep feeling more like Scarlett O’Hara than ever. It felt wonderful.

Chapter 68

An hour after Edmund Lambert’s good night text to Cindy, the General saw the light go off in Bradley Cox’s apartment. He didn’t know if the young man was alone; didn’t know if the redheaded female with whom he sometimes copulated was staying with him. But the General didn’t care. He would take them both if he had to.

The timing of things demanded it.

Of course, the General would’ve much rather had the luxury to plan as he’d done with the other soldiers. At the same time, however, he was worried because of the uncertainty of what was to come. The time line of things most certainly would have to change. Of that, the General was sure. And he would need to leave the farmhouse and the doorway behind very soon—it was too risky to stay there to balance the equation, to complete the nine—but where would he go?

The doorway would tell him. Once it was finished draining, and once he had taken care of Cox, he would know what to do next.

The General had driven the FBI agent’s TrailBlazer and parked it in a lot across from the young actor’s apartment building—a two-level, student shithouse with a half-dozen single-bedroom units on each floor. The General had gotten his address and telephone number from the contact sheet. Cox lived in the corner unit on the first floor. His silver Mustang with the tinted windows was parked in front. The General had seen him pull up to