The Impaler

aristocracy, unmarried girls who lost their virginity, thieves (some of them children), adulterous wives, and homosexuals.

Maybe it’s not just about the Muslims then, Markham thought. Maybe Vlad is once again expanding his repertoire among his own people. The lawyer could be seen as a thief. Dirty, dishonest. Also the possibility that he defended someone of Islamic faith—need to look into that. And Rodriguez and Guerrera? Maybe Vlad thought they were gang members. Dirty drug dealers. Washing them clean. Sending a message. A moral message.

Markham looked at his watch and registered somewhere that he’d be arriving in Raleigh in twenty minutes. His head felt heavy, his brain swimming in a soup of data as the Vlad the Impaler tie-in became clearer.

But something was off. He could feel it.

It’s that little bit about the Romanian, isn’t it? Gates asked in his mind. Why didn’t Vlad leave his message in Romanian? Or at least in English. Wouldn’t that make sense if Vlad was “expanding his repertoire” among his own people?

Maybe he thought we’d get the message anyway. After all, we did, didn’t we?

Gates was silent, and Markham turned back to the UV close-up of Donovan’s torso—the evenly spaced, meticulously drawn pink letters.

“You kept him tied down for a while,” he whispered. “But how’d you get him to sit so still? Was Donovan dead or unconscious when you wrote on him?”

I have returned, a voice answered in his mind. I have returned, I have returned, I have returned.

Markham closed his eyes and sank uncomfortably into the drone of the turboprops—into the low hollow hum of not knowing where to begin.

Chapter 5

Marla Rodriguez still missed her big brother very much. It had been over two months since the police found him and that other man in the field near the cemetery. And as Marla waited with the other children to see Father Banigas, the pretty eleven-year-old wondered if Jose could see her up through the church floor.

She knew, of course, that if her brother had been in Heaven he most certainly would have been able to see her sitting there in her bright yellow sweatshirt. But Marla wasn’t sure how things worked down there with the Devil; didn’t think that even he had the power to see into God’s house. And the fact that Jose might not be able to see what she was up to made her sad; for even though her parents had assured her that Jose was in Heaven, Marla Rodriguez knew for a fact that her big brother was stuck in Hell.

“No te preocupes, Jose,” she whispered to the floor. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

Marla felt stupid that she hadn’t come up with the idea herself, felt guilty and sad that it had taken her so long to fix things. Deep down she knew Jose would forgive her. True, it had probably been really hard for him to reach her dreams all the way from Hell, especially since there wasn’t much room in them now with all the worries filling up her head—Papa and Mama always crying, the move to the other side of Raleigh, the new school, the new catechism class, and the new church—not to mention all the space taken up in her head from missing him! Oh yes, sometimes Marla’s head felt even more crowded than the place they’d moved into; it had way more worries than her uncle’s two-bedroom apartment had people. Nine altogether—people, not worries—well, ten, if you counted her cousins’ cat Paco.

Marla didn’t like her cousins very much, and she certainly didn’t like having to sleep on the floor with her brother in the same room as Mama and Papa. But Marla had to admit that she liked living with Paco, who always slept on her pillow even though Diego was right there beside her. Marla could tell that Paco didn’t like Diego very much; and even though Marla didn’t like Diego very much, either, she still felt guilty for wishing sometimes that he’d gotten killed instead of Jose.

I must remember to tell Father Banigas that, too, Marla thought. But I bet if Father Banigas ever met Diego, he wouldn’t like him, either.

Whereas everybody used to like Jose, it seemed to Marla that the only person who liked Diego was Hector, the oldest of her three cousins. Hector was thirteen, two years younger than Diego, and Marla could tell that Hector thought Diego was el mejor because he could freestyle faster than anyone. Her other two cousins were just little boys and too young to give a crap about Diego’s flow, but even Marla had to admit that sometimes Diego’s rapping was pretty cool—but that didn’t change the fact that she didn’t like him! No, her big brother Jose had never called her names or pinched her arm when he wanted to use the iPod the three of them had shared back in their old apartment.

However, after Jose died, as soon as her family moved into their cousins’ apartment, her father bought Marla her own iPod and stuck Diego with the old one. She hadn’t expected that, even though her father had picked up another job in addition to his one as a janitor at the Crabtree Mall. Marla had heard him and her mother arguing about the iPod late at night, but at least Papa wasn’t crying anymore before he fell asleep. Marla could never tell her Papa that the iPod didn’t make her stop crying, though—didn’t make her like her cousins or their apartment any better, either. But at least Marla could admit that things were quieter outside now: no cars revving up and down the parking lot; no bottles clinking and gangbanging pandilleros yelling at each other late at night. And best of all, there were no gunshots to wake her up from her dreams of Jose.

“You can ask God for an iPod when you get to Heaven, Jose,” Marla whispered to the floor, and the boy sitting next to her elbowed her.

“Silencio, chalada,” he said. “You’ll get us in trouble with Sister Esperanza.”

Marla elbowed him back, and the boy let out a squeal that made Sister Esperanza get up from her seat across the aisle. All the children froze, but when Sister Esperanza passed by Marla without a word, it suddenly occurred to her that maybe the reason Jose was finally able to speak to her in her dreams was because it was so much quieter now at her cousins’.

That had to be it! Yes, maybe there was something good about living there, after all. For even though Marla would never be able to ride in the car Jose had been saving up for while working at Best Buy, she would much rather just be able to talk with him like they used to when he was alive.

However, once she and Father Banigas had fixed things—once her brother was in Heaven where he belonged—Jose might not have time to talk to her anymore. God might not even let him! Well, Marla thought, that was a risk she’d have to take. Yes, the most important thing right now was to get Jose out of Hell. It’s what her brother wanted.

But you promised your brother you’d never tell, said a voice in Marla’s head. Are you sure it really was Jose speaking to you in your dreams? Are you sure it’s okay to tell his secret even to Father Banigas?

Yes, the girl replied. Of course it was Jose! Only the two of us knew his secret.

The voice in Marla’s head was silent; and when another girl came out of the confessional, Sister Esperanza signaled to Marla that it was her turn.

Marla slipped out of the pew and walked quickly down the side aisle to the confessional, shut herself inside, and knelt on the padded knee rest. She made the sign of the cross and realized her heart was beating much faster than normal. She usually liked being inside the confessional—liked the dark, and how safe and clean and polished it smelled. And even though this confessional smelled just like the ones in her old church, today Marla Rodriguez didn’t feel safe in there at all.

Father Banigas slid open the shutter to his compartment, the dim outline of his head visible beyond lattice screen.

“Perdoname, Padre, porque he pecado,” Marla said.

“You speak English?” asked the priest.

“Si, Padre.”

“You must be new. At this church, it is important that we learn to be good Americans. The children make