The practice involves a person being pierced with a long stake—most often through the rectum, sides, or mouth—and can be modified to prolong or quicken death. To prolong death, an incision is made between the genitalia and the rectum, and a stake with a blunt end is inserted, then manipulated through the thorax to avoid damage to the internal organs. Hence, the victim suffers excruciating pain for an extended period of time as he slowly bleeds to death internally. For a quicker death, a sharp pointed stake is inserted into the rectum or vagina with the intention of piercing the internal organs.
In both cases, it is desirable for the stake to emerge from the body between the clavicle and the sternum, upon which the stake is most often set under the mandible to prevent the body from sliding. Typically, the stake is then hoisted vertically and inserted into the ground. Thus suspended, the impaled person dies an agonizing death that can take anywhere from a few seconds to three days. Sometimes the stake is installed upright after partial impalement, whereupon the combination of gravity and the victim’s own struggles completes the process.
Markham closed his eyes—felt his stomach knot and his buttocks tighten when he thought about what Randall Donovan must have suffered.
“But what were they supposed to look at, Vlad?” Mark- ham asked out loud. “The little crossbar so the body won’t slide; the heads tied to their stakes. The whole setup could be more about what they are supposed to see rather than what we are.”
But the angles of sight, Alan Gates replied in his mind. The different directions, they wouldn’t be looking at the crescent moon.
There’s the rub.
Markham read on.
Throughout history, impalement has been used as a quick and efficient method of execution during wartime, as shown in the accompanying Neo-Assyrian reliefs depicting the impalement of Judeans. The ancient Greek historian Herodotus wrote of the Persian king Darius the Great’s impalement of thousands of Babylonians. The ancient Romans not only impaled their enemies but also their own soldiers in extreme cases of cowardice and treachery.
Used throughout Europe and Asia during the Middle Ages (and in some regions, like Ottoman Turkey, well into the nineteenth century) perhaps the most infamous instance of institutionalized impalement is that associated with the reign of Vlad the Third (Vlad Dracula), Prince of Wallachia, who came to be known as Vlad the Impaler. Some historians estimate that, during his lifetime, Vlad the Third impaled not only thousands of his country’s enemies (mostly Ottoman Turks) but also hundreds of his own people, including rival members of the Wallachian 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.