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.
Cindy Smith lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. She felt tired but at the same time wound up, her mind replaying over and over again her little chat with George Kiernan.
Her performance had gone well for the most part, Kier-nan said, but he still felt her “Out, out, damned spot!” speech was pushed. Told her to just relax, to come onstage with a fuller emotional prep and just “do her doings.” Cindy understood that Kiernan wanted her to stop playing it so crazy and just try to wash the imaginary blood from her hands. But the young actress also understood why he’d pulled her aside after rehearsal instead of giving her his notes with the rest of the cast.
And that’s what bothered her.
It wasn’t anything George Kiernan said or did—he was just trying to help, was well aware that every other woman in the department was gunning for his lead actress to fail. Someone had even written “egocentric bitch?” next to Cindy’s name when the cast list went up a month and a half earlier. Kiernan himself took it down and replaced it with a clean copy. Then he sent out a message via the electronic callboard saying that kind of thing “showed a small mind and weak character,” and warned that if he ever caught a student committing such a reprehensible act again, he would personally see to it that he or she was thrown out of the department.
Cindy pretended to shrug it all off; even wrote “egocentric bitch?” as her Facebook status. But the comment and the ongoing mystery of who wrote it—as well as all the catty whispering that she knew was going on behind her back—still bothered her. And as she watched the bright yellow numbers on her bedside clock roll over to 2:00, the young actress suddenly felt lonelier than ever.
True, she had begun to feel distant from her friends toward the end of last year, when she was still a sophomore and the plays for the following season were officially announced. Lady Macbeth was the part over which every girl in the department was salivating, and Cindy worked her ass off to get it. She rehearsed all of Lady Macbeth’s speeches over the summer between her morning job at the day care center and her evening job waitressing at Chili’s. She
