Читать книгу The Impaler - Gregory Funaro - Страница 19

Tonight had to be about Donovan and only Donovan. But as he drove away from the lawyer’s house in Cary, Markham felt the beginnings of what was sure to be a splitting headache. He was tired, but knew the pressure behind his eyes was coming from his impatience to know right away how the victims were connected.

Donovan’s wife and two children were staying with relatives. Schaap got him a key and squared it with the local authorities so he could have the place to himself. But after two hours of walking the property, of sorting through the family’s belongings and sitting with his feet up on the desk in the lawyer’s lavish home office, he’d left feeling cold and empty. Nothing had spoken to him. Nothing at all.

Of course there were a lot of people who would’ve liked to have seen Randall Donovan dead. But how was the lawyer connected to Rodriguez and Guerrera?

Only Vlad knew for sure.

Without the connection to the Colombian cartels tying the victims together, the killings could almost be seen as random. But Markham knew in his gut that Vlad’s victims had been chosen because they met specific criteria that went beyond just fitting the bill of the historical Vlad’s victims. In other words, if Vlad saw these men as criminals or moral undesirables, why did he choose these undesirables specifically?

Markham would thus have to work backwards, beginning with the victim about whom he knew the most. Randall Donovan. And other than the details of the lawyer’s murder, Markham didn’t know much.

He took a deep breath and concentrated on the pressure behind his eyes; envisioned it as a bright red ball and kept shooting it from his forehead until he felt the tension in his face relax. By the time he reached the crime scene about fifteen minutes later he felt much better. The baseball field was located in a more rural area of town—at the north end of a small, secluded park—and Markham arrived to find the Cary police already waiting for him.

“Thank you, Schaap,” he whispered, and parked behind the patrol car. He slipped his case files into a small duffel bag and stepped out in tandem with the policeman—was about to reach for his ID, but the policeman waved him on without a word.

Markham nodded and headed down the steep embankment to the baseball field. When he reached home plate, he removed a flashlight from his bag and made his way across the pitcher’s mound to the outfield. After a few seconds of searching he found the marker he’d left there earlier that afternoon: an old bike reflector placed on the exact spot where Randall Donovan had been discovered impaled. The hole had been filled in, the crime scene tape gone for a couple of days now. And to make things worse it had rained on Monday, leaving nothing to indicate that only five days ago poor Randall Donovan had played center field with a stake up his ass.

Markham rifled through his bag and removed a large compass, charged the glow-in-the-dark coordinates with his flashlight, and then cut off the light. Turning slowly in place over the posthole, he allowed his eyes time to adjust to the dark. He settled on west, then stood for a long time gazing out over the field. The sky was clear, the moon an almost perfect half—not the same, of course, as it had been for Donovan, but he wasn’t sure if its position had changed also. He had an inkling it had but would need to check that out later.

His eyes played back and forth between the moon and the jagged silhouette of trees on the horizon. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a bath towel he’d taken from his temporary apartment, balled it up behind his head, and lay down in the grass. Maintaining his direction west, he approximated Donovan’s line of sight and stared up at the sky. The scene was breathtaking—reminded him of a Lite-Brite set he used to have as a child. He let his eyes wander back to the moon and saw that the stars were slightly washed out around its perimeter. With a crescent moon, he thought, the stars would’ve been clearer.

“Of course,” he whispered. “Makes sense if you want to replicate the Ottoman symbol for Islam in the sky. But you can’t replicate the symbol exactly; can’t get the star inside the crescent. Would you accept that, Vlad?”

He scanned the sky for a long time and let his eyes wander from the crescent moon to the stars. He didn’t recognize any of the constellations except the Big Dipper. That would be something he’d have to check out on the Internet, too. Maybe a constellation associated with Vlad. But how many were there? The voice in his head began taunting him with signs from the zodiac, but he quickly stifled it and allowed the stars to enfold him in their sparkly blanket of igno-rance—of junior high school science projects and that astronomy class he’d always wished he’d taken at UConn.

Donovan’s glasses and the sight lines of the other vic-tims—they couldn’t have been looking at the crescent moon.

Well, what about the star? You need a star to complete the symbol for Islam.

But which one? There are thousands of them!

Markham scanned the sky and felt his brain beginning to squirm; felt the pressure building up again behind his eyes. He closed them and focused on his breathing, on emptying his mind into the sounds of the night and the orangey speckles burned on the backs of his eyelids. His muscles began to relax—a sinking sensation, as if he were suddenly lying on a bed of warm sand. The day was catching up to him, and soon his thoughts drifted to his wife, to the afternoon they drove up to Rhode Island and the night they made love for the first time on the beach at Bonnet Shores. Afterwards, gazing up at the stars, Michelle pointed out the constellation Cassiopeia. Cassiopeia, she said, was one she could always find.

“A good sailor can always find his way home by the North Star,” she told him.

Markham smiled at the memory of how he tried to impress her with his knowledge of Greek mythology, explaining that Cassiopeia was a vain queen who boasted that she was more beautiful than the goddess Hera herself. Michelle didn’t buy it; said that anybody who’d seen Clash of the Titans would know that. Markham laughed, and the two of them traded parts humming the movie’s cheesy music.

Laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. Not like that, anyway. Like someone else. Who was that guy lying on the beach? And who was this guy lying here in center field? Not the same people, but still, both of them strangers.

Markham took a deep breath and looked for Cassiopeia. He couldn’t find her and located the North Star instead. He closed his eyes—the sound of the waves battering the shores of his mind. He heard Michelle ask him if he liked the name Cassie. He had said he did, and added: “If we ever have a daughter we’ll name her Cassie. Short for Cassiopeia, okay?” Michelle agreed, and he told her he loved her. She said she loved him, too; and there under the stars they fell asleep.

Cassie, Markham said to himself. Our daughter’s name shall be Cassie.

Then, a heavy blink, a sensation of falling forward, and Markham awoke with a start. For a moment he expected to hear the ocean—didn’t know where he was or how much time had passed until he looked at his watch.

1:37 a.m.

Michelle was gone, and he was back on the baseball field. He’d been out for over an hour. So unreal. So unlike him. He needed to get back to his apartment; needed to get some sleep. By the time he got back to the Resident Agency, the FBI lab’s preliminary test results on Rodriguez should be waiting for him. He was glad he didn’t have to be there for that; the kid had been in the ground for almost two months.

Markham yawned and stretched, was about to gather up his things, when suddenly he stopped. The stars. They looked different somehow—the moon a bit lower on the horizon and farther to his right.

A good sailor can always find his way home by the North Star.

Markham saw that it had not changed its position, but the surrounding stars had.

Slightly.

That’s because the North Star is a pole star. Polaris is its official name. Position remains constant throughout the night, while the others appear to revolve around it.

Then it hit him.

Depending on the time Vlad dropped off his victims, the stars would have looked different. Whatever he wanted them to look at might have changed position—might have actually traveled across the sky from east to west.

Markham flicked on his flashlight and took out the Rodriguez and Guerrera file from his duffel bag. He flipped immediately to the copy of the initial police report.

The patrolman, he read, discovered them outside the cemetery around 1:50 a.m. Was called to the scene on a report that “a gang of youths” had been observed on the premises after hours.

That had helped boost the original MS-13 angle, but Markham wondered now if the report was even true; wondered if maybe the killer hadn’t tipped off the police himself to send them on a wild-goose chase.

Markham scanned the police report again. He knew from his earlier trip to the cemetery that it closed at dusk. Most likely, to be safe, the killer would have waited until well after dark. For the sake of argument, the actual window in which Rodriguez and Guerrera were dropped off could’ve been anywhere between 7 p.m. and 1:30 a.m. The window for Donovan was bigger. The groundskeeper found him around 5:30 a.m.

Markham stood up, charged the numbers on his compass, and turned toward the east. He slowly arched his head from the horizon, glancing from the stars to his compass until it carried him westward into Donovan’s line of sight. Whatever it was the killer wanted his victims to see could have followed this general path, and in his mind he cut a thick swath of stars with a centerline due east and west.

But how thick should he make it? There was no way now to get the exact angles of the victims’ sight lines. But gazing out over the eastern horizon he suddenly realized it would be better to work from the Hispanics’ point of view. Donovan was looking almost directly overhead—a wider field of vision, too many stars to choose from. But Rodriguez and Guerrera? The angle was much shorter. Practically straight ahead.

Yes, he thought. Whatever Rodriguez and Guerrera were supposed to look at would have had a much narrower visual field through which to pass.

But even if you get the angles correct, how the hell are you going to find the right star? That is, if the victims were supposed to look at a star to begin with?

Markham didn’t have an answer. And it was too late to go to the cemetery. The window for what the Hispanics were supposed to look at had passed. Besides, he needed to get to sleep; needed to have a clear head in the morning if he was going to be dealing with latitudes and longitudes and coordinates and who knows what else. He’d most likely have to consult with an astronomy professor, too; might be able to get on the Internet and figure out for himself what stars could have passed over the eastern horizon between—

Sleep on it, he heard Gates say, and Markham quickly gathered his things and hurried across the field, up the embankment, and into his TrailBlazer.

The drive back to his temporary government digs seemed to take forever. But only when he pulled into the parking lot did he realize that, despite the jumble of thoughts swirling in his head, the pressure behind his eyes had not returned.