The Sculptor

TRACKING A KILLER

“All this is just a precaution, Cathy,” Markham said. “In case he tries to make contact with you, to leave you another note—that is, if the notes you received five years ago are related to Tommy Campbell’s murder to begin with.”

“They are, Sam. You know they are.”

“I can’t be sure—might be just a strange coincidence. However, since it’s all we have to go on right now, we’ll see how far that road leads us. But the last thing you want right now is for the press to know the extent to which you’re involved in this. In fact, if my gut is right, I think that’s just what the killer wants to happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s obvious that whoever murdered Tommy Campbell and that boy had been planning this crime for a long time—perhaps even years. And until the autopsy results come back, until we get an idea of exactly how this person murdered and preserved his victims—how he actually created that sick sculpture of his—the only window into his motives right now is you. You and your book.”

“So you’re saying you think this maniac is using me?”

“I’ll have a better idea once I read your book. But judging from the great lengths to which the killer went to put his sculpture on display in Dodd’s garden—a display that the killer obviously intended as some kind of historical allusion publicly dedicated to you—well, it’s clear to me that whoever did this thought you of all people would understand his motives…”

THE SCULPTOR

Gregory Funaro

As always, for my wife and my father; but also for my

grandfather, whose statue of David in the backyard I was

sure came alive at night.

The best artist has that thought alone which is

contained within the marble shell; only the sculptor’s

hand can break the spell to free the figures

slumbering in the stone.

—Michelangelo Buonarroti

Prologue

“Shake off your slumber, O son of Jupiter.”

Tommy Campbell, lightning fast wide receiver for the Boston Rebels, opened his eyes expecting to see the end-zone. He could hear the cheers of the crowd—that familiar drone of “Sooooup!” coming from the stands—and his heart was pounding, could feel it pumping in his thighs as he ran. Yes, he was sure that he had caught the ball—his fingertips, the palms of his hands electrified with that familiar sting of “Touchdown!”

But as the cries of his fans quickly faded, as his vision cleared into a bright ball of light, amidst a milky haze Tommy Campbell understood all at once that he had been dreaming. Yes, he was lying down—could feel something cold, something steel-hard on his back and buttocks. He felt groggy, doped up on something, but at the same time alive with energy. And he thought he recognized the light hovering above him.

From a movie? Or from that time in the hospital. When they operated on my—

“That’s it,” said a deep voice to his right. “Come forth from the stone.”

“Not my knee again, Doc,” said Tommy. His throat was dry, and his words came out in spurts of cracked whispers. “Tell me it’s not my knee…”

No reply, but instead a dull prick, a tug at the skin on his forearm. His heart was racing now—even more so than before his first start as a freshman at Boston College; even more so than before his first game as a second round draft pick with the Rebels. But this was different. Indeed, Tommy felt as if there was a war raging inside him: one side trying to drag him back down to his dream, to his winning thirty-seven yard touchdown versus the Dolphins; the other, trying desperately to pull him awake, to bring him back to reality—to wherever he was now.

“Where am I?” Tommy whispered. The light above him solidified into a white rectangle—like a floating movie screen only a few feet from his face, its edges sharp against the surrounding darkness. Yes, his senses were returning quickly now—the blood pumping fast through his veins—and with every beat of his heart the memories came flooding back.

He had been drinking a beer on the porch, looking out over the water—had made only a brief appearance at the victory celebration that afternoon in Boston; had wanted to spend time with his parents down at Watch Hill in Rhode Island before the big game, before flying off to Tampa to prepare for the Super Bowl versus the Giants. He had been alone—Yes, Vicky is gone now, and Mom and Pop had gone to bed. And it had been cold, the January moon dancing playfully on the frigid waters of Foster Cove—those very same waters in which Rhode Island’s favorite son used to swim with his father as a boy.

“Pop?” Tommy croaked. “You there, Pop?”

Then he remembered the wasp—Wasps in January?—the hiss, the sharp pain as if something had bitten him on the neck, right on the jugular. Tommy Campbell had shot up instantly, sure that the top of his six-foot-six frame would crash into the low ceiling of the wraparound porch. But he did not remember coming down, did not remember landing on the wooden planks the way he still remembered landing on the five yard line last season versus the Texans—the now infamous landing that the networks played over and over again; the landing that dislocated his knee and caused him to fumble; the landing that—as those asshole Monday morning quarterbacks put it—cost his team the AFC championship.

But this was a new season, and the tough-as-nails twenty-six-year-old had healed up quickly. And since his career threatening injury less than a year earlier Tommy “Soup” Campbell had broken the record for most pass receiving yards in a single season. Never mind his personal problems, the split with his fiancee—Hell, in a way I have Vicky to thank for it! No, the beloved wide receiver had defied the odds, had returned to the NFL with a vengeance, and most of all had led his team to the Big One—what those same asshole Monday morning quarterbacks were already calling “The Souper Bowl.”

But now something was wrong. He could feel it in his chest, in his fingers and his toes—pumping hard, pumping painfully. Tommy tried to get his bearings, tried to turn away from the glowing white rectangle hovering above him, but his head was locked in place—something pinning him down at his forehead,