“Fuck it,” he whispered, and flicked the switch with the back of his hand.
The lights dimmed in the power drain, but the soft whirring was music to Sam Markham’s ears. He carefully laid his wrists across the spinning bristles and the rope began to shred. He hoped he’d be able to feel the wheel against his skin when it broke through. He was certain he could get his hands free, but what good would they be if he couldn’t use them when the Impaler returned?
Chapter 85
Cindy waited—stood listening on the porch for an entire minute—then rang the doorbell again. Her trip had taken her a half hour longer than she expected; she’d missed the driveway in the dark and drove fifteen minutes out of her way before turning around. Her fault—stupid mistake—but now she was sure she had the right house. She recognized Edmund’s old pickup and saw a light in the upstairs window when she pulled up the driveway.
He has to be home, she thought. The inside door was open a crack, and Cindy pressed her nose against the screen. Maybe he didn’t hear the doorbell.
How could he not hear it? asked the voice in her head. Such a strange sound, too. Like a buzzer on a game show or something.
Then she heard what sounded like a door slamming somewhere inside, and Cindy waited a moment longer.
“Edmund?” she called out, knocking. “It’s Cindy.”
Nothing. She took a deep breath, opened the screen door, and entered.
“Edmund?” she called again, her voice coming back to her in echoes as she closed the inside door behind her. The house was dark—the top of the stairs ahead of her, the rooms to her right and left, pitch black. But Cindy could see a dim light emanating from a room farther down the hall—at the rear of the house, just beyond the large staircase. Must be the kitchen, she thought.
“Edmund?” she said, heading toward the light. She got about halfway down the hall when suddenly a figure stepped out of the lighted doorway and into the shadows.
Cindy gasped, startled. “Edmund, is that you?”
A heavy silence—the figure just standing there, head jutting forward, shoulders hunched. Cindy could barely see him, but could tell it was a man. He stood looking at her sideways, his face completely obscured beneath the silhouette of his massive frame.
“Edmund isn’t here,” the man said finally, his voice deep and guttural. “And neither is the General.”
“I’m sorry,” Cindy said, confused. “I’m a friend of his—Edmund’s, I mean—from school. Do you know when he’ll be back?’
A burst of laughter—harsh and terrifying in its sudden-ness—and instinctively Cindy began to back away, her hand feeling along the wall.
“C’est mieux d’oublier,” the man said, and Cindy’s fingers found the light switch. Impulsively she flicked it, and the hallway sprang to life.
She took in everything in less than a second: the yellowed wallpaper, peeling in spots; the handful of bright cream squares along the stairs where pictures once hung; the thick trail of what looked like red paint stretching out from the man’s feet and running up the staircase. And then there was the man himself. He looked like Edmund Lambert—his build, his jeans, his blue button-down shirt—but at the same time he looked like a completely different person. Edmund’s brother? Cindy thought for a split second. His hair was wet, matted and messy; and his face was twisted in a maniacal expression that had to be—
A joke. Yes, a voice in the back of Cindy’s head told her this had to be some kind of joke. Of course it was Edmund she was looking at, and in one moment she felt relief, in the next, terror when she saw the pistol in his right hand.
“What have you done?” she whispered absently—but her legs were moving again, backing her away toward the door.
“Ereshkigal,” Edmund said, stepping forward and baring his teeth.
Cindy’s eyes darted from the pistol to the trail of blood on the stairway then back to Edmund’s face. His eyes, she thought—those eyes that had once licked her own—No, she realized with horror, those eyes aren’t the same!
Edmund laughed again—a laugh that sounded to Cindy more like a growl.
“Ereshkigal will help us,” he said, tucking the pistol into the small of his back. He was coming toward her now, and Cindy could feel her heart pounding in her chest; could feel the fear there welling up from her stomach.
“But where is the boy’s mama now?” he asked, taking off his shirt to reveal a bloody white bandage on his chest. “Where is she?”
Edmund tore off the bandage and tossed it on the floor. Cindy froze when she saw the tattoo and the fresh blood running from his wounds to his stomach.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“That’s right,” Edmund said. “Your god has returned.”
And then he flew at her.
Cindy screamed and made a dash for the door—her legs weak, heavy like cement as her fingers closed around the knob. She got the inside door open a crack, but Edmund was close behind and slammed the door shut. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her down—backwards across the floor, sliding, until she came to a stop in the sticky trail of blood.
Cindy screamed again and scrambled to her feet—tried to run toward the back of the house—but Edmund Lambert caught her by the collar of her denim jacket.
“Please don’t!” Cindy cried, the tears beginning to flow as she struggled against his grip. But Edmund Lambert only roared and gnashed his teeth—wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug, and dragged her kicking and screaming up the stairs.
Chapter 86
Markham staggered out of the workroom and into the darkened hallway—hit the opposite wall and almost fell over. Stumbling backwards, he leaned on the doorjamb for support, his wrists and ankles throbbing painfully.
He could tell he was in a narrow passageway, but could see only the brick wall in front of him. The light from the workroom was messing with his vision; his eyes needed time to adjust to the dark—
Suddenly he heard a scream—a woman’s scream!—and heavy footsteps thundering above his head. He spun around, disoriented—could not feel the hammer in his left hand; could hardly maintain his grip as he tried to shake the blood back into the fingers of his other hand.
Another scream, and Markham steadied himself against the brick wall. Stepping forward into the darkness, he spied a dim light coming from another doorway farther down the passageway. He started toward it, groping along the wall. He could feel the texture of the bricks now. That was good; the blood was flowing back. His courage was flowing back, too, and he could feel his mind clearing, his senses sharpening—until he reached the lighted doorway.
Markham gasped and instinctively raised the hammer. A figure across the room, seated in a pool of light—a man with a lion’s head!
The article Schaap sent me, he thought, and as if on cue he spied the thick platinum wedding band on the figure’s right hand—could see his partner bouncing it on the conference table back at the Resident Agency.
“Schaap!” Markham cried, rushing across the room. He grabbed the lion’s head by its mane, yanked it upwards, expecting to see his partner’s face—but there was nothing underneath but the golden shelf on which it rested; a shelf with a carved panel identical to the tattoo he’d seen on the Im-paler’s chest.