The Impaler

Chapter 86

Markham staggered out of the workroom and into the darkened hallway—hit the opposite wall and almost fell over. Stumbling backwards, he leaned on the doorjamb for support, his wrists and ankles throbbing painfully.

He could tell he was in a narrow passageway, but could see only the brick wall in front of him. The light from the workroom was messing with his vision; his eyes needed time to adjust to the dark—

Suddenly he heard a scream—a woman’s scream!—and heavy footsteps thundering above his head. He spun around, disoriented—could not feel the hammer in his left hand; could hardly maintain his grip as he tried to shake the blood back into the fingers of his other hand.

Another scream, and Markham steadied himself against the brick wall. Stepping forward into the darkness, he spied a dim light coming from another doorway farther down the passageway. He started toward it, groping along the wall. He could feel the texture of the bricks now. That was good; the blood was flowing back. His courage was flowing back, too, and he could feel his mind clearing, his senses sharpening—until he reached the lighted doorway.

Markham gasped and instinctively raised the hammer. A figure across the room, seated in a pool of light—a man with a lion’s head!

The article Schaap sent me, he thought, and as if on cue he spied the thick platinum wedding band on the figure’s right hand—could see his partner bouncing it on the conference table back at the Resident Agency.

“Schaap!” Markham cried, rushing across the room. He grabbed the lion’s head by its mane, yanked it upwards, expecting to see his partner’s face—but there was nothing underneath but the golden shelf on which it rested; a shelf with a carved panel identical to the tattoo he’d seen on the Im-paler’s chest.

His body is the doorway, he heard the Impaler say, and Markham stepped back in numb horror—the lion’s head falling to the floor, his eyes glued to the temple doors at Kutha. His partner was sitting beneath them with his head cut off.

That’s what the chains were for, he said to himself, his mind reeling. The son of a bitch gutted and beheaded him—beheaded others, too. Their bodies are the doorway through which he speaks to the lion god in Hell!

Markham’s chest grew heavy with sorrow and with rage, but he continued to back away—out of the room and into the hallway, where he hit his shoulder against another doorjamb. Turning, impulsively he reached inside—pins and needles shooting through his fingers as he found the light switch.

The scene in this room made the one across the hall look like a Disney movie—the dentist’s chair, the newspaper articles on the walls, the blood everywhere—dear God, it was worse than he could have ever imagined!

This is where they are sacrificed! Markham thought, and the sight of the leg brackets at the bottom of the chair sent a wave of nausea through his stomach. He could hear them screaming: the Impaler’s victims—Donovan, Canning—but Andy Schaap was with them, too. Yes, the blood on the chair was still fresh; appeared wet and glistening in the light from the single overhead bulb. Had the Impaler murdered his partner while Markham was unconscious?

For the briefest of moments the thought of it threatened to drive him insane, when suddenly he heard more screaming and thumping above his head—farther away now, from another part of the house. Markham spun around—registered the large 9:3 and 3:1 taped to either side of the doorway—and quickly made his way to the opposite end of the passageway. He found the cellar stairs; found the light switch there, too, and flicked it—his stomach sinking when he saw the heavy steel door staring down at him.

Then he saw the trail of blood leading up to it.

But Sam Markham did not pause. And without thinking he rushed up the stairs, his hammer poised to strike even as he assured himself that he would have to go back to the workroom for something bigger to break down the door.