Today was Tuesday, and even though he would not have to do his tricep presses or his sprints, the General entered the horse barn feeling behind. He didn’t bother turning on the heater and went straight for the chin-up bar that he’d installed between the beams of one of the horse stalls. The General had also hung a mirror on the stall’s back wall so he could watch himself as he did his chin-ups.
The barn smelled wonderful this morning, the General thought as he took off his shirt. Like Pine-Sol. He had washed down the inside of the van before parking it inside the barn—left the back doors open so the inside would dry—and the clean, fresh scent seemed to permeate everything. He made a mental note to do that from now on, after he transported the impaled to the sites of sacrifice. He wouldn’t need to hunt any more drifters on Route 301. True, the doorways lasted for three months—that was part of the 9:3—but the General already had the final doorway. The one through which the Prince would return in the flesh, the one through which the General would become spirit.
The General grasped the cold steel bar—paused briefly to admire his muscular torso—and then began his chin-ups.
He moved quickly but methodically. There was a lot to do today—both at the farmhouse and later this afternoon with the rehearsal at Harriot. His other self, the young man named Edmund Lambert, would not go to class today. In fact, Edmund Lambert would stop going to classes from now on altogether. That was one of the things he and the Prince had discussed the night before. There was no need to keep up that part of his day-life now.
No, by the time the registrar’s office caught up with him and notified Jennings that his work-study boy had been slacking, Edmund Lambert and the General would have no need of Harriot University and its theatre department.
The doorway in the mirror before him told him that.
Chapter 19
Three o’clock, the FBI Resident Agency, Raleigh
Schaap sat next to Markham at his desk, both of them studying the computer and nursing their coffee. The pressure behind Markham’s eyes was back, and the little trick of flinging the bright red ball wasn’t working for him today. Then again, had he been alone, he might’ve been able to concentrate better.
“It’s impossible to get the coordinates exactly right,” Schaap said with a mouthful of donut. “The computer program at Quantico will take care of adjusting the margin of error. Same program we used to establish the pattern in that long-haul-trucker case last year. They should be getting back to us within the hour.”
Markham said nothing—tapped a couple of keys, and the map of Raleigh on the computer grew larger. He then superimposed on the screen a tracing he’d made of the constellation Leo—kept rotating it until two of the stars lined up with the murder sites in Clayton and Cary. He held it there for a moment, then, dissatisfied, discarded it for another tracing—this one of the constellation Cancer.
“But if I follow you,” Schaap said, “you’re thinking the phrase ‘I have returned’ could correlate to some cosmic occurrence that happens only once in a great while—like every thousand years or something?”
“Maybe not that long, but yes.”
“Then ‘I have returned’ could also mean a return to visibility, just like Vlad literally returning to the murder sites?”
“Just a hunch,” Markham said. “The return of which Vlad speaks could be taken as some kind of second coming—a resurrection, a rebirth if you will—that is governed by a pattern in the stars. There may be something going on up there—trajectories, alignments of planets, and what have you—that Vlad is interpreting as a herald, as sign of his second coming. Our astronomy consultant at NC State hasn’t gotten back to me yet; and because of my limited knowledge on the subject, the most logical place for me to begin is with the zodiac—constellations that are seasonal and are most commonly associated with birth. There are a bunch of other constellations that could be candidates, too, but I simply don’t know how they relate to the grand scheme of things.”
“But why a constellation and not just a single star? An alignment of planets or something?”
“Because of the murder sites and how they plot out on the map. They are specific, a pattern on the ground that mimics how one draws pictures in the sky. In order to get the right picture one has to use the right stars. Almost like a massive game of connect the dots—a game that perhaps makes sense only to Vlad, but nonetheless can be understood if you see things through his eyes. The return of whatever is happening in the sky corresponds somehow to the return of whatever is happening on the ground.”
“You don’t think the murder sites themselves could line up with the stars of one of these constellations?”
“It’s possible,” Markham said, rotating the tracing. “But now that I look at everything on the map, I’m thinking that scenario is unlikely. Too easy to establish the pattern; would be like Vlad sending us an invitation where to meet him on the night of the crescent moon. I’m still going to try to weed out the major spring constellations, but I’m more apt to believe now that he’s making his own constellation, his own re-turn—a picture on the ground that mimics a dynamic in the sky but at the same time is deeply personal.”
Schaap was silent—began fiddling with his ring, thinking.
“Christ, I don’t know,” Markham said. “But if you look at the stars as long as I have—and, I submit, as long as Vlad has—well, you can’t help but see patterns all over the place. Hard not to connect the dots and make your own pictures.”
“Well,” Schaap said, rising, “I’ll let you play. Be in my cell if you need me.”
Markham nodded, and Schaap left. He rotated the constellation Cancer one last time and crumpled it into the trash. He leaned on his desk—closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
He was irritated—not because Schaap was right that he was wasting his time—but because he knew there was a link to the murder sites that was just beyond his reach. It was the same for the crescent-moon visual. He was off with the Vlad the Impaler angle. He could feel it. The messages on the bodies, the ancient scripts were just as much for something in the heavens as it was for something here on the earth. Billy Canning proved this.
Markham looked at his watch. Schaap’s team had already questioned Canning’s lover, Stefan Dorsey, this afternoon—had most likely finished their sweep of the tattoo parlor, too—but Markham would need to question Dorsey himself. Would also need to spend some time at the tattoo parlor and see if anything spoke to him. But what could he possibly find there? Tattoos on the walls as numerous as the stars themselves?
Get off the stars, he said to himself. Focus on the victims. Quit theorizing for now and get back to the facts, the things you know for sure.
Markham stared at the map of Raleigh on his computer screen—thumbed his mouse and scrolled it over to the right, centering the map on Cary. He zoomed in. Canning was from Cary. So was Randall Donovan. Canning was a homosexual. But was Randall Donovan? And what about Rodriguez and Guerrera?
Randall Donovan. Schaap had questioned his wife again over the weekend, and the FBI had already analyzed the lawyer’s computers and combed through his files. Found nothing unusual, but now, with the discovery of Canning and this possible wrinkle in Vlad’s victim profile, he would need to speak to Randall Donovan’s wife himself.