The Sculptor

thought the statue was a real man, a giant who had been frozen in ice, and that I cried for him out of pity.”

Markham laughed.

“It was funnier to hear her tell it. She was a lovely woman, my mother—very bright, very witty. Never remarried, either. Everything for her daughter. She was only fifty-two when she passed.”

“I really am sorry, Cathy.”

“I know.”

“And your father?” Markham asked after a moment. “You talk to him much?”

“Once in a great while,” Cathy shrugged. “Even before my parents divorced we were never very close. Last time I saw him was at the funeral—was surprised he even showed up, to be honest with you. Paid his child support over the years, but that was pretty much the extent of our relationship. Didn’t really want anything to do with my mother and me after the divorce. At least, that’s how my mother put it. I know my father would probably tell you different, that it was my mother that took me away from him, but…well, you know, actions speak louder than words and all that. I haven’t talked to him in almost two years now, I think. Has no idea about what happened with Steve.”

“Steve?”

“My ex.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

“And what about you? You said you were working in Connecticut when you met your wife. Did you grow up there?”

“Yes. Waterford. Parents are still there, too. Happily married now for almost fifty years.”

“And your wife? How long you two been married?”

“My wife and I are no longer together,” Markham said flatly. “But we were married just over two years.”

“Wish I had signed up for the two-year plan. Less investment; less time wasted— get out of it while you’re still young. At least you can look at it that way. I do hope yours wasn’t like mine, though —hope it ended amicably.”

Markham smiled but said nothing, and suddenly Cathy felt as if she had said something wrong—as if she had gotten too personal, as if she had somehow offended the FBI agent. They drove on in silence for what to Cathy seemed like an eternity—her mind scrambling for a segue to continue their conversation. She had just settled her mind on “I’m sorry” when Markham finally spoke.

“You must be hungry. Shall I pick you up something before I drop you off back at your house?”

“No, thank you. I have some leftovers in the fridge that I want to finish before they spoil. But thanks anyway.”

Markham and Cathy exchanged sporadic small talk for the rest of the trip back to Providence—pleasant for the most part, but lacking the spontaneity, the easiness of their earlier conversation. And by the time Sam Markham reached the Upper East Side, Cathy was filled with a vague sadness reminiscent of those late hours alone in her dorm room at Harvard—that disappointed “postgame analysis” wherein the shy young woman would pick apart her date over and over again in an attempt to figure out why things had gone south. And even though over the course of the day she had hardly begun to think of her time with the FBI agent as romantic, as anything other than professional, when Markham turned onto East George Street, as much as she hated to admit it, Cathy was worried she might not ever see him again.

“I’ll be in touch with you soon, Cathy,” he said, reading her mind. “Word’s already come down from Quantico that I’ll be working local for a while. Until the Boston off—”

Had Cathy not been looking at Markham, had she not been so relieved by what the special agent had told her, she most certainly would have spotted the Channel 9 Mobile News Room before he did. And upon following the FBI agent’s gaze, Cathy immediately recognized the white van pulling up to the curb about a hundred feet up the street. There, in front of her house, was the obnoxious yellow 9 with the big blue eye at its center—the same big blue eye that had stared back at her so many times from her television set; the same big blue eye that had watched her leave Dodd’s estate less than an hour ago.

“I was afraid of this,” said Markham, pulling over. “Damn small town police.”

Cathy did not need the FBI agent to tell her that the big blue eye had seen them coming, for even before she and Sam Markham emerged from the Trailblazer, a cameraman and a reporter with a microphone had already positioned themselves at the end of Cathy’s walkway.

Markham’s cell phone rang.

“Yes? Yes, I see them. No, I’ll take care of it. Uh huh. Okay.”

Markham hung up.

“I’ll deal with these clowns,” he said, turning off the ignition. “But let’s get you inside first. Don’t say anything.”

Markham put his arm around Cathy and quickly escorted her to her house, shielding her from the reporter’s microphone as they passed.

“Ms. Hildebrant,” the reporter shouted. “Can you tell us why you were brought in by the FBI to help with the investigation into Tommy Campbell’s murder?”

Cathy felt her stomach drop, felt her heart leap into her throat as she and Sam Markham mounted the front steps to her porch.

“Ms. Hildebrant,” the reporter called again. Cathy could not see him, but could tell by the proximity of his voice that the reporter was following her up the walkway. “Is it true Tommy Campbell’s body was found posed like a statue in Earl Dodd’s garden? A statue by Michelangelo?”

Cathy—at the door fumbling with her keys—felt Sam Markham leave her.

“This is private property,” she heard the FBI agent say calmly. “Please move back to the sidewalk.”

The reporter ignored him.

“Ms. Hildebrant, is it true Tommy Campbell’s body was painted white like a statue by Michelangelo called Bacchus?”

Cathy did not see Sam Markham push the camera, did not see him make a grab for the reporter’s arm as she entered her apartment.

“Hands off the equipment, pal,” Cathy heard the reporter say. She turned around only when she was safely behind the storm door, and saw that the Channel 9 Eye-Team was now backing away from Markham down the walkway.

“I’m a federal agent and you’re trespassing on private property,” said Markham, holding up his ID badge. “If you won’t comply with my verbal command, I have the legal authority to escort you from the premises by force. Now I’ve warned you once. Please stay off this property.”

The reporter was unfazed.

“Can you tell us whether or not there is any truth to the claim that the bodies of Tommy Campbell and another person were posed like this Bacchus? Are you aware of what this statue looks like? That the other body could be that of a child?”

“I am not at liberty to comment on the case at present. A press conference has been scheduled—might have even started. If you hurry, you might be able to catch it.”

Special Agent Sam Markham headed back toward Cathy’s house, leaving the reporter on the sidewalk to call after him with a barrage of unanswered questions.

“Sorry about that,” Markham said once he was inside. “Someone, a local cop probably, must have leaked your involvement with the case. I didn’t expect them to find out so soon—didn’t expect them to come after you.”

Cathy was shaken; she just stood there in the front hall—arms folded, heart racing.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, looking at the floor. “I really am involved in this, aren’t I?”

“I’m sorry, but yes.” Markham reached into his jacket pocket. “Here’s my card. Call me on my cell anytime if you need anything—if you get spooked, if you think of something down the road that might help us with our investigation, or even if you just need to talk. We’ve had some agents watching your place since this morning. That’s who called me a few minutes ago—said the news van had arrived only seconds before we did. Bad timing for you and me, but that’s just the way things are. Now listen, Cathy, these agents are going to keep an eye on you for a while—for your safety, and in case Tommy Campbell’s killer tries to approach you. You most likely will never see