The Impaler (24 page)

“You really think the Impaler could’ve made all these connections?” Mr. Spock asked finally.

“Yes, I do,” Markham said. “After all, when you look at the bigger picture from the Impaler’s point of view, it’s all about connections, isn’t it? What is a constellation if nothing more than a primitive game of connect the dots? Singularly, the stars don’t make sense. One must see them in relation to one another in order for the picture to come into focus. I have a feeling our boy looks for dots everywhere; messages that he connects to what he surely sees as the return of Ner-gal.”

“Such thought processes are common in extreme cases of
paranoid delusions,” Underhill added. “I hesitate to diagnose our boy as a schizophrenic, but there’s a strong possibility he might be suffering from such a psychosis. His delusions of grandeur are one thing, but in addition to the messages he believes he’s receiving, he may also have auditory, perhaps even visual hallucinations—hears voices, sees visions in which the god tells him to do things.”

“But the act of impalement,” Mr. Spock said. “Even if what you’re saying is true, other than that long spear in one of the slides, I still don’t see how this god Nergal connects to the killer’s desire to impale his victims.”

“Neither did I at first,” Markham said. “Like you, when I was first assigned to this case I was given a brief overview of the history of impalement as a form of execution. If you’ll recall, impalement was common in the Middle East during ancient times—next slide, please.”

A photograph of a stone tablet labeled,
Neo-Assyrian, 6th century BCE
.

“On this relief we see three men being impaled by a pair of soldiers. It’s a depiction of the Babylonian conquest of Judea, in which hundreds of Judeans were impaled by the king Nebuchadnezzar in the late seventh century BC. Incidentally, the Persian king Darius would return the favor later in the sixth century BC, when he is said to have impaled three thousand Babylonians. This Babylonian connection in and of itself is a compelling enough tie-in to Nergal. However, it was our man at NC State again who sealed the deal for us. No pun intended. Schaap?”

An audible gasp filled the conference room as the last of the slides appeared.

“What you’re looking at,” Markham said, “is a photograph of an ancient cylinder seal and its impression. Seals such as this one from Ancient Babylonia were usually engraved with a type of picture story, and were thus used to roll reliefs onto a soft surface such as the clay you see before
you. This seal is believed to date back to about two thousand years before the birth of Christ. It was seized along with some other artifacts by Italian customs agents about a month ago, and is thought to have been stolen from one of the many unguarded archaeological sites looted at the beginning of the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq. Although the other artifacts with which the seal was found were stolen from the Baghdad Museum, officials there are not exactly sure from which site the seal was stolen—perhaps an unknown site somewhere near the dig at Tel Ibrahim.

“Although crudely rendered,” Markham continued, “the seal is a stunning discovery. Made of limestone, it’s unusually large for this type of artifact; about two inches in length with a two-inch diameter. The imagery is unprecedented in that it seems to represent some kind of sacrifice being paid to the god Nergal. The procession of lion-headed figures holding the spears with the dangling humans are thought to be his priests; the fierce-looking creature at the end, the one with the human head and the winged body of a lion, is Ner-gal himself. Relatively little iconography of Nergal has survived, making this perhaps one of the most important archaeological discoveries for Ancient Babylonian scholars in recent years
.
”

“Extraordinary,” said Dr. Underhill. “A marriage of the lion imagery and the impalement; almost an instruction manual of how to sacrifice to the god. And as Nergal was the ruler of Hell, perhaps the impaled victims on the seal are undesirables, criminals, or even heretics in the eyes of the cult at Kutha.”

“Perhaps,” Markham said, “but the Babylonian concept of the Underworld was different than, say, the Christian concept of Hell. Nevertheless, it wasn’t a pretty place; and most likely the Impaler’s concept of Hell would be influenced by contemporary Christian notions, as well as the fact that Ner-
gal mutated into one of Satan’s demons.” Big Joe raised his hand again. “Go ahead, Joe.”

“Then, if as you say, Nergal was the ruler of Hell, do you think then that the victim profile has something to do with Hell, too? I mean, do you think the Impaler sees his victims as sinners?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” Markham said, “which brings us to the last of the Impaler’s selection criteria: the act of sin. Homosexuality, in the Impaler’s eyes, is a sin; and Randall Donovan might represent to him corruption or greed or dishonesty. If we look at the Impaler’s victim profile as males who bear the mark of the lion and who have sinned, all four victims are thus connected. All four of them are worthy of hell from the killer’s perspective; and thus are worthy of sacrifice to him, the Prince of Hell.”

It was Alan Gates who spoke next.

“Your consultant at NC State, did he indicate to you if the seal depicts an actual ritual at Kutha, as opposed to some ancient Babylonian myth lost to history?”

“No,” said Markham. “Not much is known about the ancient city or the types of rituals performed there. However, it is believed that the temple at Kutha came to be seen as a physical representation of the Babylonian Underworld itself. The temple doors, the doorway to hell, if you will.”

“How did the seal end up in Italy?” asked Big Joe Connelly.

“Interpol isn’t exactly sure. Many of the smuggling operations out of Iraq are pretty complex. Interpol’s been trying to trace the artifact’s route since it was discovered last month, but they’ve reached a dead end in Jordan. It was our man at NC State who led us to the picture of the newly recovered seal. He was part of the original
National Geographic
team that went over to Iraq to assess the damage to the country’s archaeological treasures back in 2003, and he
now receives a monthly update of recovered items from both Interpol and the Baghdad Museum.”

“So you think the killer was inspired by this artifact?” Mr. Spock asked.

“Yes, I do,” Markham said. “The similarities between the imagery and the killer’s MO are too compelling to ignore. Furthermore, the seal is the only known artifact in the archaeological record where we see a depiction of human sacrifice to the god Nergal.”

“But you said the authorities learned of the seal’s existence only a month ago,” Mr. Spock said smugly. “The Impaler murdered Rodriguez and Guerrera at the end of January—well over
two
months ago.”

“That’s exactly my point,” Markham said. “I think the Im-paler knew about the seal long before the authorities did.”

The General had just finished taping his latest Vlad the Impaler article to the wall when he thought he heard a voice say:

“Edmund?”

The General stopped and listened.

Nothing. Only the silence of the cellar, only the beating of his heart in his ears. His mind was playing tricks on him, he thought, but still he listened until the throbbing in his ears subsided.

He was overtired; had been up late speaking with the Prince the night before. The Prince hadn’t shown him any visions of the young woman named Cindy Smith, and even now the General had to admit he was disappointed that the Prince seemed uninterested in her. Instead, the Prince had wanted to talk about his army; about those who would follow him through the doorway when he returned. Just like in the old days.

Yes, the Prince had been uncharacteristically nostalgic the night before; had taken the General’s hand and led him across the scorched earth—the two of them watching to-
gether as scores of enemies were impaled on the battlefields, or along the roads that led to the Prince’s temple at Kutha. He even allowed the General to touch the temple doors; allowed him to push them open and gaze down into the depths of the abyss—an ever-changing whirlpool in the colors of sin; of darkness and flame and flesh and destruction. The sodomites had been there, as was the gold-coveting lawyer. All of them understanding now, all of them smiling and waiting eagerly for the Prince’s return.

And then the Prince had led the General into the stars; flew with him across space and time and into the heart of the nine and the three, that very place where the Prince had hidden himself for thousands of years—forgotten by most, but still watching and waiting for a warrior-priest to worship him again and be rewarded.

A warrior-priest like the General.

It had been a long night, the General thought as he scanned the clippings on the wall. And the Prince’s instructions had been clear: no more recruiting on West Hargett Street. But still, the General thought, the Prince did not say anything negative about the young woman named Cindy. He just did not address her, seemed to have more important things on his mind—

“Edmund?”

The General heard the voice clearly this time—a woman’s voice, unmistakable, echoing close but far away—and suddenly his heart was in his ears again.

This can’t be happening
, he said to himself as he dashed from the reeducation chamber and through the darkened hallway. He stopped in the entrance to the Throne Room and stared at the Prince’s head. Nothing. No sense of calling; no flashes and sounds, no feeling of that force he so often felt when the Prince wanted to speak with him. The Prince was sleeping. The General understood this—the Prince always
slept during the day—but the doorway was fresh, was always open, and now that there were others inside, perhaps—

“Edmund?”
the woman’s voice called again.
“Are you there, Edmund?”

The General recognized the voice immediately, and all at once his heart was filled with a mixture of both joy and terror.

Quiet!
he cried out in his mind.
He’ll hear you!

“Edmund, I’m afraid!”

“Mama, please!” the General whispered, and now he was Edmund Lambert again.

He rushed into the room and stood before the figure on the throne, gazing back and forth between the Prince’s head and the golden doors that he had carved for the body below it. The smell of booze and rotting flesh was stronger now, but the Prince was still asleep. No, there was no one beyond the doorway now except—

“Edmund, it’s been so long—let me see you!”

“Mama, please, you’ll ruin—”

“You don’t have to be afraid. He’s sleeping now. He doesn’t suspect—”

Mama, quiet!
Edmund screamed in his mind.

“Please, Edmund. Let me see you like he does. Let me know it’s really you who has come for me. I’m so afraid!”

Anything to silence her, Edmund thought—and before he could think better of it, he saw himself reaching out for the Prince’s head.

It was the General who usually wore the Prince’s head; had many times removed the plaster skull from inside and slipped it over his face—a smell of mold and leather and sweat and blood that reminded him of the helmet Edmund wore in Iraq. It was hot and hard to breathe inside the Prince’s head. And even though the General had made a hole at the rear of the Prince’s gaping mouth through which to
see, it had taken him hours of prowling the cellar before he got used to wearing it.

But all of that had been for nothing; for once the General acquired the first of the doorways, when he wore the Prince’s head it was as if he was transported to another world—a world in which the smells and heat and claustrophobia of the Prince’s head did not exist. No, there was only the doorway and the world beyond; for when the General donned the Prince’s head, he saw through the eyes of the nine and the three—those all-knowing, all-seeing eyes of the lions in the sky.

It was Edmund Lambert who first saw the lion’s head; years ago, when he was twelve, at the taxidermy shop to which his grandfather had taken him after his first deer kill. Even then, young Edmund Lambert had been fascinated by it—Leo, the shop owner called it, a monstrous African lion that had been shot on safari back in the 1930s. That too had been a message from the Prince—
their first face-to-face encounter
—but young Edmund Lambert had simply been too stupid to understand.

But after Edmund read
Macbeth
and understood he needed a head to communicate with the Prince, it was the General who broke into the taxidermy shop and brought Leo back to the Throne Room. And so only the General was allowed to wear the lion’s head, and only then in service of the Prince.

But now, it was Edmund Lambert who slipped the Prince’s visage over his face; and all at once he could feel the Prince’s power flowing through his muscles. It always felt like liquid electricity to the General; but to Edmund Lambert, the energy coursing through his veins made him feel weak and fearful—like a child sneaking into a haunted house.

Thhwummp!—a rush of brightness—and the doorway was open.

Yes, there was his mother! Clear and bright and floating with the swirling colors of sin behind her. She was dressed as she was on the day she died, at once both near and far away, but she did not call to him anymore—only dropped to her knees and cried with joy when she saw him. And there was Edmund—a finger to his lips as his other hand reached out and touched her face. A secret touch that spoke of little time but said, “Don’t worry, Mama.”

Flash-flash—a sliver flash like the strobe light at the farmhouse—and now there was someone else with them, someone helping his mother to her feet and drawing her back into the swirling colors. Another woman, dressed in white. A young woman with long black hair and a smile that looked like—Cindy Smith’s?

“Ereshkigal,” his mother said before she disappeared. “Ereshkigal will help us.”

Flash-flash and another rush—this one of darkness—
and suddenly Edmund was back in the Throne Room with the lion’s head in his hands. He’d torn it from his face without realizing, and quickly fumbled it back onto the shelf. Then he bolted from the cellar—up the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door.