Read Online The Impaler by Gregory Funaro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gregory Funaro
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the stolen items anonymously outside my office when no one is around. If that happens, all will be forgotten. If not, then rest assured we will find out who did this. And when we do, justice will be swift and merciless. Now get moving and get focused. We go in ten minutes.”
Like a cluster of cockroaches, the students scattered from the theater in a whoosh. Jennings retrieved his boss’s notepad and accompanied him up the aisle to the back of the theater.
“You think Greenville PD will find anything?” Jennings asked.
“Probably not,” said Kiernan, wiping his brow. “Fucking bunch of Keystone Kops. Thing I said about the fingerprints is bullshit. Just trying to scare them.”
“I know.”
“’Least now we got that webcam going twenty-four seven. Nobody’ll be able to get in or out of the scene shop without us recording it. Sad though that it has to come to this. Fucking times we live in.”
Jennings nodded.
“Listen, Doug, I know you got that thing with your son tonight. Why don’t you get going? No need for you to stick around here any longer on account of this bullshit.”
“You sure?”
“We got a week before we open. And Lambert’s going to be around, right?”
“Yeah. He was out sick a couple days last week—really bad, from what he says—but he busted his ass double time this past weekend. If it wasn’t for him, the trap mechanism wouldn’t have been finished. Wouldn’t have been able to give you the stage a day early, either.”
“Fine. Tell Doug Junior I said to keep cracking those books.”
“Will do, George. And thanks again.”
Kiernan nodded and began shuffling through his notes when Edmund Lambert emerged from the stage left vom. Jennings waved to him across the empty seats—pointed and gave him a thumbs-up to ask if everything was okay. Lambert gave a thumbs-up of his own, and with that Doug Jennings exited the theater.
The cool April air felt good on his face—chilled his pits and tickled the wetness in the cracks of his flab as he walked across the parking lot. He would not have time to shower and change into a fresh set of clothes, but that was just fine and dandy as far as he was concerned. He hated wearing a tie—that was a given—but at least now he’d have a good excuse when his wife started bitching at him in the junior high school auditorium. Good thing Lambert had been around to pick up the slack for him, too; at least now he’d get there on time.
“Yeah,” Jennings muttered as he slipped into his old pickup. “I gotta get that guy a key to the tool closet.”
Chapter 8
Edmund Lambert watched the final scene of
Macbeth
from the wings. He stood just far enough offstage to stay out of sightlines and still get a good view of the trap. He didn’t care about the sword fight, and when it came right down to it, thought the whole climax of the play to be quite silly. He didn’t understand why the director had Banquo’s ghost come up from Hell, from underneath the stage to blow dust in Macbeth’s eyes as he was about to kill Macduff. That wasn’t in Shakespeare’s original—contradicted the very nature of fate, Edmund thought.
Then again, what could the director possibly know about fate? About ghosts and killing and witches and Hell?
The clang of swords rang out as Macbeth bellowed his final words:
“Lay on, Macduff; and damned be him who first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”
The trap had worked perfectly from day one. Edmund had designed the mechanism and built it himself: a three-stepped platform on casters that split open down the middle to reveal a stair unit that allowed the actors to disappear into the electrics shop beneath the stage. A nice effect, Edmundthought. He especially liked how, when someone died, the Witches would rise up to take the dead person’s spirit down “to Hell.”
Then again, he thought, getting into Hell was easy. It’s getting out that’s the tricky part.
Edmund also liked the design of the set very much: a
Like a cluster of cockroaches, the students scattered from the theater in a whoosh. Jennings retrieved his boss’s notepad and accompanied him up the aisle to the back of the theater.
“You think Greenville PD will find anything?” Jennings asked.
“Probably not,” said Kiernan, wiping his brow. “Fucking bunch of Keystone Kops. Thing I said about the fingerprints is bullshit. Just trying to scare them.”
“I know.”
“’Least now we got that webcam going twenty-four seven. Nobody’ll be able to get in or out of the scene shop without us recording it. Sad though that it has to come to this. Fucking times we live in.”
Jennings nodded.
“Listen, Doug, I know you got that thing with your son tonight. Why don’t you get going? No need for you to stick around here any longer on account of this bullshit.”
“You sure?”
“We got a week before we open. And Lambert’s going to be around, right?”
“Yeah. He was out sick a couple days last week—really bad, from what he says—but he busted his ass double time this past weekend. If it wasn’t for him, the trap mechanism wouldn’t have been finished. Wouldn’t have been able to give you the stage a day early, either.”
“Fine. Tell Doug Junior I said to keep cracking those books.”
“Will do, George. And thanks again.”
Kiernan nodded and began shuffling through his notes when Edmund Lambert emerged from the stage left vom. Jennings waved to him across the empty seats—pointed and gave him a thumbs-up to ask if everything was okay. Lambert gave a thumbs-up of his own, and with that Doug Jennings exited the theater.
The cool April air felt good on his face—chilled his pits and tickled the wetness in the cracks of his flab as he walked across the parking lot. He would not have time to shower and change into a fresh set of clothes, but that was just fine and dandy as far as he was concerned. He hated wearing a tie—that was a given—but at least now he’d have a good excuse when his wife started bitching at him in the junior high school auditorium. Good thing Lambert had been around to pick up the slack for him, too; at least now he’d get there on time.
“Yeah,” Jennings muttered as he slipped into his old pickup. “I gotta get that guy a key to the tool closet.”
Chapter 8
Edmund Lambert watched the final scene of
Macbeth
from the wings. He stood just far enough offstage to stay out of sightlines and still get a good view of the trap. He didn’t care about the sword fight, and when it came right down to it, thought the whole climax of the play to be quite silly. He didn’t understand why the director had Banquo’s ghost come up from Hell, from underneath the stage to blow dust in Macbeth’s eyes as he was about to kill Macduff. That wasn’t in Shakespeare’s original—contradicted the very nature of fate, Edmund thought.
Then again, what could the director possibly know about fate? About ghosts and killing and witches and Hell?
The clang of swords rang out as Macbeth bellowed his final words:
“Lay on, Macduff; and damned be him who first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”
The trap had worked perfectly from day one. Edmund had designed the mechanism and built it himself: a three-stepped platform on casters that split open down the middle to reveal a stair unit that allowed the actors to disappear into the electrics shop beneath the stage. A nice effect, Edmundthought. He especially liked how, when someone died, the Witches would rise up to take the dead person’s spirit down “to Hell.”
Then again, he thought, getting into Hell was easy. It’s getting out that’s the tricky part.
Edmund also liked the design of the set very much: a
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