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 apatheticcricket-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 to Vlad the Impaler.
His return was just beginning. Rodriguez and Guerrera, Randall Donovan. There would be more to come. Markham was sure of it, was sure that Vlad would go looking for his next victim very soon if he already hadn’t. So far the pattern looked as if he was into men; so far the pattern looked to be a murder every other month.
But somehow the latter didn’t feel right in Markham’s gut.
2006 is your comeback season,
he said to himself.
So where’s your calendar boy for March, Vlad? Or for January, for that matter?
Why does it have to be a boy?
a voice said in his head.
After all, you’ll remember Vlad was an equal-opportunity impaler.
There were only a handful of missing person reports around the Raleigh area for the last few months. Could one or maybe two of them be Vlad’s? Schaap’s team at the Resident Agency would begin looking into all that, but without bodies to go on, and without actual murder sites, they wouldn’t be able to make a thorough investigation. And what was the point? Maybe none of them had to do with Vlad. Maybe Vlad only had time to get to three. Maybe there was
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 apatheticcricket-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 to Vlad the Impaler.
His return was just beginning. Rodriguez and Guerrera, Randall Donovan. There would be more to come. Markham was sure of it, was sure that Vlad would go looking for his next victim very soon if he already hadn’t. So far the pattern looked as if he was into men; so far the pattern looked to be a murder every other month.
But somehow the latter didn’t feel right in Markham’s gut.
2006 is your comeback season,
he said to himself.
So where’s your calendar boy for March, Vlad? Or for January, for that matter?
Why does it have to be a boy?
a voice said in his head.
After all, you’ll remember Vlad was an equal-opportunity impaler.
There were only a handful of missing person reports around the Raleigh area for the last few months. Could one or maybe two of them be Vlad’s? Schaap’s team at the Resident Agency would begin looking into all that, but without bodies to go on, and without actual murder sites, they wouldn’t be able to make a thorough investigation. And what was the point? Maybe none of them had to do with Vlad. Maybe Vlad only had time to get to three. Maybe there was
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