The Impaler (39 page)

Indeed, he wanted first to go looking in the old horse barn, perhaps even check out the crumbling tobacco sheds he passed on his way in. And if he had, things might have turned out differently that afternoon. Instead, however, Andy Schaap followed protocol—took out his cred case and headed up onto the front porch.

The old, weather-beaten planks creaked painfully beneath his feet as he came upon a little handwritten sign over the doorbell that read,
Please ring.
Schaap pressed the button.
The sound that came from inside was loud—like a buzzer on a game show, he thought—but afterwards there was only silence, no sign of life within.

Schaap rang the bell again and called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”

Nothing.

Schaap opened the screen door and peered through the inside door’s small, beveled-glass porthole. The house was dark inside, but he could make out an empty hallway with a large staircase at the far end. Something about this place gave him the creeps, but he certainly would need more that that to justify his entering without a warrant. He rang the doorbell again—listening, watching for movement inside—when suddenly he heard a creak on the porch behind him.

Schaap turned just in time to see the man coming up the stairs—a tall, muscular man in a tight black T-shirt. In one moment, Schaap felt a smile form at the corner of his lips; in the next, he saw the man’s gun.

“Freeze!” he shouted, dropping his cred case as he went for the gun beneath his jacket. “FBI!”

But the man coming for him did not freeze.

“Your body is the doorway,” he said, raising his gun.

Time seemed to slow down for Andy Schaap; and amid his terror, he felt the clicking in his stomach travel up his spine and into the back of his head.

That’s a Beretta M9
, he said to himself.

A split second later the bullet struck him between the eyes.

The General squatted down next to the dead man and snatched up his ID—“Andrew J. Schaap,” he read out loud. “Federal Bureau of
c’est mieux d’oublier
.”

The General took a deep breath and propped the agent’s lifeless body against the doorjamb. He felt strangely calm—his movements both his own and someone else’s as he took off his T-shirt and tied it like a tourniquet around the man’s bleeding head.

His instincts had been correct. He’d known almost immediately that this man was some kind of authority. The man looked it, sure, but the General had also seen the bulge of the gun under his jacket and the ID case in his hand as he approached from the SUV.

The General stepped to the edge of the porch and gazed out across the fields. He could see a portion of the road through the trees at the edge of his property, and he cocked his ear toward it and listened. No one was coming. No more FBI agents on their way.

At least not yet.

But how did the FBI find him? Surely, it had nothing to
do with Cox—the FBI coming to his house over a fight at a college party? No, that didn’t make any sense. And the fact that the Prince had not been angry with him for fighting with Cox only proved this point. If the FBI thought Edmund Lambert was Vlad the Impaler, why would they send only one man out to capture him? That didn’t make any sense, either.

In a flash, the General was off the porch and inside the TrailBlazer. He found a laptop and some paperwork on the passenger seat and picked up the first page. Names. Lots of them. All in the Armed Forces. Edmund Lambert’s name was eighteenth on a list with a handwritten title,
By City.

The General flipped and scanned some more pages and found another list, this one labeled
Unit Probability/Cemetery
in the same handwriting. Four names, out of order but in the same general area, were crossed off. The General read the addresses and hit the back button for the open Google Earth page on the laptop’s screen. The address on this page matched one of the addresses on the list. The General hit the back button again, and that address matched another name, too.

“Bad luck,” he said. “Not even a prime suspect. Just a name on a list created from matching up names in the cemetery to members in the Armed Forces. But how did the FBI know I was in the Army?”

Your gun,
a voice answered inside his head—but the General did not believe that. He’d read just how popular the Beretta M9 was with the gangbangers in the newspaper article about Rodriguez and Guerrera. And just as the General dismissed this as a possibility, the voice in his head spoke again.

It appears from the names and the order in which the FBI agent was following them that he was trying to give structure to the randomness of his suspect pool.

“Yes, it does.”

That means the FBI has only recently begun exploring the military angle—a fact proved further by this man coming out here all alone.

“No,” the General said, gazing over his shoulder and out the TrailBlazer’s back window. “No one seems too worried about Agent Schaap just yet.”

The General considered this and wondered if the FBI even knew Special Agent Schaap was out here. He felt in his gut that there was still time, that there was no need to panic, and that, even if others in the FBI had copies of these lists, they might not know exactly in what order this man Schaap was questioning the men on them.

“But surely the FBI will come looking for this man,” the General said. “It’s only a matter of time before they track him here. His cell phone, a LoJack in his car or something.”

No, the General thought. He couldn’t stick around the farmhouse forever.

However,
the voice in his head said,
the doorway can now be repaired. The stars have smiled upon you and brought a doorway—well, right to your doorstep!

With a surge of joy, the General gathered up the FBI agent’s belongings and dashed from the SUV into the house. He dumped everything on the kitchen table and then dragged the FBI agent’s corpse into the parlor—fished out his keys and set his body against the fireplace. He paused only briefly to look at himself in the mirror above the mantel. The gauze on his chest was soaked with blood, but the General felt no pain—only a tingling sensation, which he took as a sign that the doorway was already beginning to heal.

Yes, he thought, everything was back on track. The equation would be balanced again. And in a blur of excitement, the General was back outside.

First he rinsed off the blood on the porch with a garden hose. The he ran across the yard and into the old horse barn,
where he started up his van and drove it around to the back of the house. He dashed back to the front yard and moved the TrailBlazer into the horse barn. The FBI would come for their man eventually, the General knew; would search his property and find everything—the TrailBlazer, the body, not to mention the reeducation chamber, the Throne Room, and all his equipment in the cellar.

But
when
would they come?
That was the question.

The General suspected the FBI agent’s laptop would give him a better idea.

He locked the barn doors from the outside and quickly surveyed his property as he ran back toward the house. No, the FBI wasn’t looking for Andrew J. Schaap just yet. Indeed, the way things looked from the outside of his house, no one would be able to tell that the FBI agent had ever been there.

However, all that mattered to the General now was how things should look on the
inside
of his house when Andrew J. Schaap’s friends finally came a-calling.

Markham awoke around 5:15 in the evening—would’ve kept on sleeping, in fact, had his mother not knocked on his bedroom door and told him supper was ready.

“Well, it’s going to be breakfast for you,” she added. “Steak and eggs, so call it what you want.”

“Steak,” Markham said to himself when she was gone. “Go figure.”

He lay there for a long time staring up at the glow-in-the-dark plastic stars that his father had pasted on the ceiling when he was a child. But rather than think of the Impaler, Markham’s stomach growled in anticipation of the meal waiting for him downstairs.

He was starving. But even more so, he was amazed he’d slept almost the entire day. He remembered waking only a couple of times to pee, but the heaviness behind his eyes always dragged him back to his bedroom. And the fact that his parents had left him alone meant he must’ve been snoring up a storm.

He thought of Michelle; how, in the middle of the night,
she used to tap him lightly on his shoulder to make him roll over. But she never complained about his snoring—never once—and only shook her head and smiled at him in the morning as if he’d done something stupid the night before.

God, he missed her.

Indeed, after the execution Markham felt as if he missed her more than ever. He’d planned on traveling to Mystic on Saturday to visit her grave, but decided once he was back in his bedroom that he would do so early Sunday morning before he left for Raleigh. The cemetery was only about twenty minutes from his parents’ house, but curiously, he didn’t want to leave his old bedroom. It seemed to ease his pain, seemed to gas him into a deep and cleansing sleep broken only by glimpses of consciousness in which he swore he was a boy again—the sunlight streaming in around the window shade from a time long before he knew his wife and her killer even existed.

Markham showered and shaved and arrived at the kitchen table dressed in jeans and a faded University of Connecticut sweatshirt that he had found in his dresser drawer. His parents greeted him with looks of both concern and relief, but Markham knew neither of them would mention anything about the execution. It was a mutual understanding among the three of them that went back as long as he could remember. They never asked what was bothering him; seemed to accept that their son, even as a child, would talk to them only if he wanted to. And true to form, Sam Markham rarely did.

“Looks like you’ve been burning the candle at both ends, Sammy,” his father said, holding up his newspaper. “This fella they’re calling Vlad the Impaler—he’s the reason you’re on assignment in Raleigh, I take it?”

A former Navy man and retired real estate investor, Peter Markham had a somewhat gruff, no-nonsense manner that his son had grown to appreciate only after he joined the FBI.
Then again, Markham knew that was because his father had grown to appreciate him only after he joined the FBI—de-spite the circumstances surrounding his change of careers.

Peter Markham had never supported his son’s desire to be an English teacher. Of course, he’d never come right out and said anything, but young Sammy had always been able to intuit his father’s opinions by what he
didn’t
say—like the way he never asked him how he was doing in his classes; like the way he never even asked him if he’d gotten laid yet. “It’s your life,” was all Peter Markham would say, his mind unable to wrap itself around the concept of a former all-star high school athlete like Sammy Markham wanting to teach poetry and shit. Besides, when it came right down to it, how much could a fella make doing that stuff anyway?

“Sammy’s not allowed to talk about his work,” said his mother. “You know better than to ask him, dear.”

“I’m not asking about his work, Lois. I’m just asking if this Vlad boy is
his
boy.”

Lois Markham rolled her eyes and slipped two eggs onto her son’s plate.

“It’s all right,” Markham said. “I’ve no problem telling you I’m working on this case, Dad. But pretty much all we know is what you guys have read in the paper there.” This was a lie, but he didn’t care; knew this was the best way to get his father off the subject, and added, “But you have to keep all this between us. Don’t go mentioning anything about me to the boys at the gun club. Okay?”

“What the hell do I look like?” said Peter Markham, cutting his steak. “I know better than to shoot my mouth off. You see, Lois? That’s all I wanted to know.”

Lois sighed and sat down at the table with a look of knowing resignation that her son had seen many times over the years. As close as he had been with his father growing up, Markham knew deep down that he was more like his
mother—more reserved, more intellectual, and (
oh God, don’t fucking say it!
) more
sensitive.

Lois Markham had worked for a time in real estate with her husband, but for most of her adult life she’d been a stay-at-home mom. She dabbled in painting and poetry before her son was born, and used to take little Sammy with her to the theater and to classical music concerts. Peter Markham would never have been caught dead at the theater—used to say that all that artsy-fartsy stuff was gonna turn his boy into a sissy—but somehow Peter and Lois Markham made it work for over forty years.

“I’ll tell you this, however,” said Peter Markham with a mouthful of food. “The only way you guys’ll catch this nut-bag is if he screws up. I’m not knocking what you do, Sammy, don’t get me wrong. But all them serial killers that I’ve read about, they screw up eventually, am I right?”

“Not all of them,” said Markham. “Some have never been caught—”

“I know, I know,” his father said, waving his fork. “Jack the Ripper was one, sure. But nowadays it’s just a matter of time. I guess you could say that they screw up all along, but it takes a smart guy like you to see the screw-ups that nobody else sees. You understand what I’m saying?”

“All right, Peter,” said his wife. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

“What? I’m just telling my son I’m proud of him. I
am
proud of you, Sammy. You know that, don’t you?”

Markham nodded but said nothing. He chewed his food slowly as his mind drifted to the Impaler. What the hell was he doing in Connecticut having dinner with his parents when he should be back in Raleigh? He was due to fly out tomorrow afternoon around two o’clock, but the idea of spending another night here, the idea of waiting well into the day tomorrow, suddenly seemed unbearable to him.

The family ate the rest of their meal peppered with small talk—politics, the Yankees, a woman Lois knew who left her husband for a younger man—but Markham’s mind soon turned to Andy Schaap.