No, when it came right down to it, Alan Gates was good at what he did because he not only understood what it meant to be a tick away from his own one day, but also because he was able to wrap his mind around the kind of snap that made the one day into a string of days. Sure, he could think like the killers he hunted, but he was also able to see and feel the waves of the water in which they swam. It was the latter that separated the men from the boys. The tick of the clock that took him further, but at the same time kept him sane. It was that way for Markham, Gates knew. His tick was Elmer Stokes.
After all, thinking like a killer was one thing, but feeling like him was another.
The superposition principle.
Markham, Gates said to himself as he looked at the clock over his office door: 1 p.m. Already on his way. So much to do, so little time. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
Gates thought about his platoon in Vietnam, and in his head he ran through the names and faces of those who’d made it and those who hadn’t—of those he knew were still living, and those he knew had since died.
And then Alan Gates did something he’d never done before.
He got down on his knees and said a prayer for a killer.
Chapter 40
Cindy Smith was beyond thrilled that she had waited in front of her computer just that little bit longer before heading off to the gym.
Direct and to the point, she said to herself, reading. But at the same time mysterious. Just like the handsome soldier himself.
Cindy smiled and read the e-mail again:
Hello Cindy: Jennings doesn’t need me at the show tonight, but I’ll stop by your dressing room afterwards to pick you up for the party. I guess it’s meant to be after all. Yours truly, Edmund Lambert
“I guess it’s meant to be, after all,” Cindy said out loud for the twentieth time. “But what is meant to be? Going to the party? Or going to the party with me?”
Cindy sighed and chastised herself for not playing it cool even in private. She shut down her computer and slipped her script into her book bag.
“I’ll be home late, Mom,” she called on her way out the door. “Don’t forget the cast party is tonight.”
“Be careful,” her mother replied from the kitchen. “And no drinking and driving.”
“I know,” Cindy said. They exchanged I love yous, and then she was gone.
“I guess it’s meant to be,” Cindy said to herself as she started up her car. “Yeeess, Meester Lem-behrt. Now I have you right vehre I vahnt you.”
Chapter 41
As Markham walked across the tarmac, he felt a wave of panic pass through his stomach when he imagined how thin the FBI’s resources would be stretched in the days to come. There was the European and Middle Eastern can of worms now, not to mention the coordination of all the military records. He’d already followed up on the name Lyons itself but came up empty. He wasn’t surprised. That would’ve been too easy.
Markham reached the mobile stairs unit and checked his watch—2:07 p.m. He was seven minutes late for his flight. Late—period, he thought. Yes, the clock was certainly ticking. The crescent moon would hit around May 3rd, which meant the Impaler would go looking for his next victim any time now if he already hadn’t. In fact, there would be two crescent moons in May, the second on the 31st.
Oh yes, Markham said to himself. The merry month of May will be the Impaler’s busiest month yet.
But would he go hunting again on West Hargett Street? And furthermore, where would he display his next victim if the FBI didn’t stop him in time? That was the question.
It was Dr. Underhill who offered the best answer.
“The military connection makes a lot of sense,” he said at the end of the teleconference. “But in addition to checking out the patient records, you may want to look at specific units that identify themselves with lions or other big cats, perhaps even winged creatures like eagles and hawks. After all, Nergal was not only the god of war—the ultimate soldier, if you will—but also a lion with wings.”
“Do you think we should narrow down our suspect pool further by focusing on servicemen whose birthdays fall under the sign of Leo?” Markham asked. “Identification with a destiny written in the stars?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Underhill replied. “But maybe our boy is mapping out his own sign, his own identity on the ground. Given the nature of the sacrifices, the theory of a servant, a sort of Leo Minor helping to resurrect the god makes the most sense to me. And if that is in fact the case, maybe the Starlight Theater visual was the starting point for a picture on the ground that mimics his military insignia—a creature or something with which he identifies. Just a hunch.”
A good hunch, Markham had thought, but as constellations were by their very nature subjective in their rendering, with only three stars to build off it would be impossible to match up the Starlight Theater schematic with the military insignias.
Markham climbed onto the plane and said hello to the flight attendant. No FBI plane today, but there were only a handful of passengers making the trip with him on the charter flight to Connecticut. He found a seat over the wing, stowed his carry-on, and sat down by the window. The flight attendant closed the hatch and came by to make sure he’d fastened his seat belt. He hadn’t, and she smiled and pointed to remind him.
Attractive, Markham thought, even though he’d never been a fan of blondes, and wondered if she was the type of woman who would ask him about the plaque above his bedroom door. She smiled again at him as she strapped herself into the seat by the cockpit, and Markham decided she wasn’t.
Waiting.
More than anything else about his job Sam Markham hated the waiting. And as he stared past the flight attendant into the open cockpit, he imagined the days ahead of him tumbling out in a series of big black numbers.
The news conference had gone well, he thought. That was a plus. The FBI would now be able to work quietly behind the scenes while the media chewed on the phony Vlad angle. And it would only be a matter of time before Geraldo and Nancy Grace and all the others would start throwing around the gay-bashing theories, too. But that wouldn’t bother the Impaler. No, Markham thought, the Impaler wouldn’t give two shits about what the public thought as long as Nergal was happy.
The plane started to move and he punched open his e-mail on his BlackBerry. Alan Gates had already gotten the ball rolling with the three soldiers who’d been brought up on smuggling charges at the beginning of Iraq War. Markham had received the e-mail on the way to the airport. He read it again.
I got their names. Two are presently serving their third tours in Iraq, while the other has been confirmed to be living in Seattle. I got a man with him now. None of them are our boy, but they may know something. Good work today.—AG
PS: The preliminary autopsy report just came back on Canning. Looks like our boy kept him alive for a couple of weeks before he skewered him.
Markham felt his stomach turn. Did the Impaler hold Canning hostage so he could tattoo him? Was that why he abducted him in the first place? If so, that meant there were more leads to follow: the thefts or purchases of tattoo equipment in the—