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The Impaler. Gregory Funaro
Читать онлайн.Название The Impaler
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780786027873
Автор произведения Gregory Funaro
Жанр Триллеры
Издательство Ingram
Hank heard the car coming long before it reached him. It was quiet on 301. Only a handful of people were traveling at this hour, and all of them had passed by Hank Biehn without a second look. Fine with him. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of sticking out his thumb for any of them anyway. Paranoid motherfuckers.
Maybe that’s why, when he sensed the car slowing down behind him, he looked up from the road and stumbled a bit. Fucking old factory nerves.
“You need a ride, sir?” the driver asked. He’d rolled down the passenger side window, but Hank couldn’t make out his face in the dark. Chevy van, 1970s, not a lot of light coming from the dash. “Heading down the Interstate way if you’d like a lift.”
“I sure would,” said Hank, approaching the door. “That’s real kind of you, mister.” He could see the man more clearly now—just a kid, mid-twenties and pretty built from the look of the arms on the steering wheel. Spoke with a heavy Southern drawl, too; all-American good ol’ boy from the looks of it.
Hank pulled the door handle.
“Passenger door doesn’t work,” he said. “You gotta swing around back.”
“Gotchya.”
Maybe the booze had dulled his instincts over the years; maybe he’d been domesticated too long and gone all Pollyanna and shit, but Hank Biehn didn’t give his good fortune a second thought as he skirted around to the rear of the van.
“It’s unlocked,” the kid called, and Hank opened the door. “Just leave your stuff back there and come on up front. Need a hand?”
“No, no, I got it,” Hank said, hoisting his duffel bag inside. He climbed up after it, and was surprised to find the back of the van completely empty—just the grooved metal bed and the shell of the outer walls.
But what Hank Biehn didn’t notice was the strong smell of Pine-Sol and the subtle yet palpable scent of rotten meat underneath.
Oh no, his old factory nerves were simply too shot to pick up on that.
What a good kid, Hank said to himself. And here I am just thinking how the world’s gone to shit. Weasel, your luck is changing!
“You gotta make sure you slam that door tight,” the kid said. “Latch doesn’t work like it used to. Dang old-school Chevys.”
“I heard that,” Hank said. He was on all fours now, his back toward the driver as he pulled the door shut. It seemed to latch fine. But when he turned around again, he gasped when he discovered the driver was almost on top of him.
“What the—?”
“Your body is the doorway,” the kid said.
Then he raised his gun and fired.
Sam Markham stepped into his office on Monday morning feeling tired and helpless—like a dog that had been chasing its tail for days. He’d grown to despise this place—cramped, bare, with no windows and a single fluorescent light that fluttered sporadically above his head. He thought about the plaque in his bedroom back in Virginia, and was sorry he didn’t bring it with him to hang over this, the gates of his own private hell.
Markham sat at his desk and turned on his computer—took a swig of coffee and replayed the last four days in his mind. It was all a blur to him, a soupy mishmash of dead ends and frustration. None of his leads had paid off—the interviews with the families, the Internet and library investigations, the connections between the victims, the ties to Islam and the lunar visuals. The forensic analysis turned out to be a wash, too—no leads on the materials, nothing new via Donovan. But worst of all, the FBI labs had come back with nothing on Jose Rodriguez. That’s right, no writing at all had been found on him anywhere. Markham hadn’t expected that.
Rodriguez was supposed to be reburied sometime today, and Donovan’s funeral had been officially scheduled for Saturday. The same day as Elmer Stokes’s execution.
His computer ready, Markham sighed and logged into Sentinel, the FBI’s latest version of its case-management database. The Sentinel system had been active for less than a year, and Markham had to admit that it was better than the old Trilogy System—or “Tragedy System,” as the SAs used to call it—but still he thought of it as an untrustworthy logistical pain in the ass.
Markham signed into the Sentinel file for Vlad. An agent from the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) had finally entered the information about the killer’s shoes: Merrell Stormfront Gore-Tex XCRs. Even weight distribution. Slight wear. 2004 model.
“You like to hike, Vlad?” Markham said out loud. “Or did you buy the Merrells because they’re quiet on pavement?”
I have returned.
Markham signed out of Sentinel and clicked on a desktop icon he’d labeled as STARS. A Web site called Your Sky opened immediately. A physics professor at NC State had turned him on to the site, which enabled visitors to plug in coordinates, dates, and times to see what the stars looked like on any given night going back to the year 0. It had taken Markham hours of scrolling and clicking to get the hang of it; but over the last couple of days he’d become nothing short of obsessed.
“You messing with those star charts again, Captain Kirk?” Schaap said, leaning against the doorjamb. Markham nodded. “Anything new?”
“Spinning my wheels,” Markham said. “Hundreds of individual stars that could’ve traveled across the Hispanics’ field of vision during the time frame in which they were displayed. Bunch of constellations, too; never heard of most of them.”
“What about the signs of the zodiac?”
“Looks like there are only four that would’ve passed over the eastern horizon: Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, and Leo. And that’s if the Hispanics were looking directly east.”
“Any connection to the historical Vlad?”
“None that I can see just yet. Most scholars agree that Vlad Tepes was born sometime in November or December of 1431, which would have made his astrological sign a Scorpio, Sagittarius, or a Capricorn.”
“What about individual stars?”
“No specific stars have historically been associated with the symbol of Islam, but our astronomy consultant at NC State is working on tying one to Vlad.”
Schaap was quiet, looking at the floor.
“I feel the same way,” Markham said after a moment.
“What’s that?”
“That I’m wasting my time. That I’m off on trying to find the star to go with the Islamic crescent; that maybe I’m off on the whole Vlad the Impaler angle, too.”
“But if not Vlad, then who has returned?”
“I don’t know,” Markham said, turning back to his computer. “But whoever he is, I guarantee you he’s laughing at us.”
The day had been a waste, and later that evening, Markham found himself sitting atop the low fieldstone wall that surrounded the Willow Brook Cemetery. It was his sixth night in North Carolina, but only his third at the cemetery. He’d gotten lucky with the weather—nothing but clear skies since his arrival, which allowed him to divvy up his evenings between the two crime scenes. But as he looked toward the east, in his mind he told the stars he would not be coming back.
They answered him as they usually did—in apathetic cricket-speak; all seeing, all knowing, and with a twinkle in their eyes that said, “Who cares?”
But Markham was not bothered tonight by their indifference. His mind had already shifted