The Impaler (41 page)

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.

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.

“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.

“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—

“After all … tomorrow is another day!”

What the fuck?

Then another message.

Cindy realized her heart was beating a mile a minute, and she chastised herself for her silly, sappy relief at ever doubting Edmund Lambert in the first place.

He’ll call me tomorrow.

She felt herself melt down into her mattress—texted back, Sounds good. Miss u 2 ?—and fought off the urge to just call him right then and there. He’d probably understand, but that would not look cool.
Beyond stalkerish
, she thought. Besides, if he wanted to talk to her, he would’ve called, right?
Plus,
she needed to sleep; there was no way she could spend the whole night talking to Edmund with a pissed-off George Kiernan and a matinee waiting for her tomorrow
.

“Fuck it,” she said, and was about to call him anyway, when another text popped in her inbox.

Cindy started to text back, After all, tomorrow is another day!
—
but settled on Sounds good? instead.

She waited for a reply, but when it didn’t come, she saved
Edmund Lambert’s number and closed her phone—closed her eyes, too, and drifted off to sleep feeling more like Scarlett O’Hara than ever. It felt wonderful.

An hour after Edmund Lambert’s good night text to Cindy, the General saw the light go off in Bradley Cox’s apartment. He didn’t know if the young man was alone; didn’t know if the redheaded female with whom he sometimes copulated was staying with him. But the General didn’t care. He would take them both if he had to.

The timing of things demanded it.

Of course, the General would’ve much rather had the luxury to plan as he’d done with the other soldiers. At the same time, however, he was worried because of the uncertainty of what was to come. The time line of things most certainly would have to change. Of that, the General was sure. And he would need to leave the farmhouse and the doorway behind very soon—it was too risky to stay there to balance the equation, to complete the nine—but where would he go?

The doorway would tell him. Once it was finished draining, and once he had taken care of Cox, he would know what to do next.

The General had driven the FBI agent’s TrailBlazer and parked it in a lot across from the young actor’s apartment
building—a two-level, student shithouse with a half-dozen single-bedroom units on each floor. The General had gotten his address and telephone number from the contact sheet. Cox lived in the corner unit on the first floor. His silver Mustang with the tinted windows was parked in front. The General had seen him pull up to theater in that car many times.

The General waited patiently in the TrailBlazer, his eyes never leaving Cox’s front door as groups of drunken students stumbled in and out of the shadows on their way home from the bars downtown. The General had a number of ideas as to how he would get into Cox’s apartment, but the timing of his arrival in Greenville was bad: early Sunday morning, the bars closing, a very good chance of him being seen.

And so the General would have to wait. But that was all right. The General was used to waiting.

Bradley Cox was in bed staring up at the ceiling when the ring of his cell phone startled him. He reached for it immediately, but the line was already dead when he answered it. He looked at his alarm clock—
3:12 a.m.
—then looked at the missed-call list. He didn’t recognize the number—
704 area code, Charlotte
, he thought—and was about to dial it back and tell the owner to go fuck himself for calling so late, when he heard the ding of a text message.

If this is Amy again,
he thought,
I’ll tell her straight up to fuck off for good.
He was in no mood for a booty call—especially not after tonight’s horror show at the theater. She had called earlier that evening to ask him if he wanted some company, but he told her in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be left alone. And then the young actor did something he hadn’t done since elementary school: he cried himself to sleep. He woke up around 1:45 a.m. and turned off his light. But a face hovering there in the darkness just beyond his busted nose had kept him wide awake until now.

Edmund Lambert.

Yeah, that son of a bitch had fucked things up royally for
him. And the motherfucker was going to pay. Cox had it all planned. He would get a couple of guys from his father’s construction firm—big redneck-types who just loved this sort of thing—and they would pay a courtesy call to Edmund Lambert when the time was right. Might even deliver their candy-gram straight to the motherfucker’s front door. Oh yeah, the three of them would tune old soldier boy’s ass good ’n tight.

He’d played the scenario over and over again in his mind, and the image of Edmund Lambert’s face beaten to a bloody pulp actually made him smile. Sure, he knew he was going to catch holy hell from Kiernan, but his little plan made an ass chewing from the old man all worth it. Indeed, he had just begun to feel better when the ring of his cell phone pulled him from his fantasy.

Cox scrolled out of the missed-call list and checked the incoming text message.

Cox shot upright—his heart beating fast, his “player instinct” kicking in at once.

No matter
who
a chick is
, he said to himself,
when she texts you at three in the morning that means only one thing.

Booty call.

But Cindy Smith?

In an instant, Cox forgot all about Edmund Lambert—his mind racing now with how to play the situation properly. As much as he hated to admit it, he’d had it bad for Cindy Smith—still did, as a matter of fact—but never told a single soul. What bothered him the most was that he didn’t know what he’d done to fuck it all up with her. Yeah, he’d been a rude dick to her a couple of times, but that was only after she turned him down. And he’d been genuine and gentlemanly in his desire to take her out—had already known that he was
gonna have to put in his time if he wanted to bang her and made up his mind that she was definitely worth it.

But now?

The show. He’d seen the look in her eyes when he fucked up tonight: the compassion, the way she bailed him out without thinking, without contempt as his cast mates snickered in the wings behind him.

Maybe everything happens for a reason,
he thought.
Maybe that’s what was needed to finally bring us together.

“All right,” he said, thinking quickly. “If we talk on the phone, I won’t even ask her to come over. If she comes over, I won’t even touch her. Even if she wants to. That’s the way to play it.”

He took a deep breath and texted back, Yeah. What’s up?

A moment later, Can we talk? I’m in my car outside.

“Holy shit,” he said—his fingers moving before he could think twice about what to say. Just come in, he wrote. B right back.

His mind was on fire—but he needed to do three things: take a piss, put on some clothes, and brush his teeth. He leaped out of bed, turned on the lights, unlocked the front door, and headed straight for the bathroom—took a leak in the sink as he brushed his teeth, and then put on a pair of dirty workout shorts he found on the bathroom floor. He had just finished rinsing out his mouth when he heard the front door open and close.

“Just take a seat,” he called. “I’ll be right out.” He splashed some water on his face, dried himself off, and fixed his hair in the mirror.

Oh yeah—
Bradley Cox was ready.

“Sorry,” he said, coming out of the bathroom. “I was still pretty gross from the—”

Cox froze when saw the man in the ski mask coming for him—was about to scream, but the foul-smelling rag in his face silenced him immediately.

Markham sat down beside his wife’s grave and began to cry. The emotion came upon him without warning, frightening him with its rapidity, but soon he gave in, weeping openly until it passed.

He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and breathed deeply—gazed around at his surroundings and tried to imagine Michelle sitting there with him. The Elm Grove Cemetery had been one of their favorite places—an impeccably landscaped park set on the Mystic River less than a half-mile from the Aquarium. They often strolled here on Sunday mornings; actually had a picnic once by the water on a sunny-cool Sunday like today—a bit morbid, they agreed, but comforted themselves with the knowledge they were imitating their Victorian ancestors, whose Sunday outings often included a stroll through the local cemetery, too.

“Did I really used to talk like that?” Markham asked. “Words like
stroll
and
outing
?”

A breeze whispered its consent in the trees. Markham smiled.

“I don’t know who that guy is anymore,” he said. “Buried here with you, I guess. Weird thing is, I look back and I don’t like him; don’t pine away or long for him—don’t even see him anymore, really. There’s only you back there now—still whole, yes, but with these other pieces, like parts of a shadow that I assume is me. I think that’s what’s so hard now. More and more lately it seems like the shadow-pieces are trying to make you into shadow-pieces, too.”

You think too much,
he heard his wife say.
You’ll always miss me, but the missing will change as you change. It’s the cliché of not moving on that bothers you.

“Yes,” Markham said. “I think I thought my self-awareness of the cliché, the whole
I’m-going-to-join-the-FBI-to-avenge-my-wife’s-death
syndrome would keep something alive—you, me maybe. Christ, I don’t know anymore. It’s all the same now in the shadows; something’s lost in there—in the work, everything I’m doing. Gates called me out on it, you know—back at my town house in Quantico. Was one hackneyed phrase away from calling me a shell of a man. He settled for something subtler about my work defining who I am.”

It’s the cliché,
Michelle repeated,
combined with the futility of knowing none of it will bring us closer together. Let it go. Clichés are clichés because they’re true. Stop being so smart about it all.

“I don’t think you’d like the new digs,” Markham said, smiling. “Hardwood floors, yes, but the rest is pretty standard contractor grade. No wainscoting or built-ins—none of the character of the old place. Nice pond in back, though. Lots of ducks. You’d like them.”

Let it go.

Markham sat for a moment listening to the breeze, then asked, “Would you care for a stroll down by the river, madame?”

I ’d be delighted,
Michelle replied
.