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.”
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—