The Sculptor

quarried from Carrara, Italy.”

“How did you know it was Carrara, Cathy?” asked Burrell.

“Well,” she began, “Carrara is a small town in Italy about sixty miles north of Florence. The marble quarried there has been a favorite of sculptors dating back to Ancient Rome, and many of the city’s greatest monuments were carved from it—as were countless sculptures during the Renaissance. Even more so than his own quarries in Pietrasanta, Michelangelo prized Carrara marble above all other types of stone because of its beauty and consistency. Indeed, it was from blocks of Carrara marble that Michelangelo carved his most famous masterpieces.”

“And they’re still quarrying marble there today?” asked Rachel Sullivan.

“Yes. As far as I know, Carrara marble is still regarded as the finest, and statues carved from it are exported all over the world. However, the marble itself is very expensive.”

“So,” said Burrell, “it appears this Michelangelo Killer went through a great deal of effort and expense not only to get Tommy Campbell for his Bacchus, but also in acquiring the marble powder from Carrara. This might be our best lead so far. Sullivan, you’ll assign someone to start looking into the import records for all the Carrara marble coming into Rhode Island? See if you can track down sales records for vendors who deal specifically with Carrara marble statues?”

“Will do.”

“You should probably look into any reports of statue or marble thefts in the area over the last six years, too. Maybe our man got his marble that way—stole a statue or something and ground it up himself.”

“Right.”

As Dr. Morris went on to give the report from the Metallurgy subunit on the sculpture’s frame, Cathy glanced uneasily over to Sam Markham. Among his paperwork from the Providence office, Markham had also brought with him his copy of Slumbering in the Stone. Cathy could not see to which page he had turned, but she knew exactly what he was looking for. And as if reading her mind, Markham looked up from his book to meet its author’s gaze.

“I think Dr. Hildebrant would like to say something,” he said. “Go ahead, Cathy. It’s about Michelangelo’s Bacchus, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Cathy said—the room at once was silent. “Although Michelangelo carved his most famous sculptures from blocks of Carrara marble, for his Bacchus he used a flawed block of Roman marble. That is, marble that was not quarried from Carrara.”

“So?” asked Burrell. Cathy looked to Markham, who—nodding understandingly—smiled back at her with his eyes.

“Go ahead, Cathy.”

“Well,” she said, “given what we know about The Michelangelo Killer thus far—about his obsession with detail, about his desire to embody his Bacchus in the historical milieu of the original—it seems strange to me that he would knowingly and erroneously use Carrara marble powder for his statue when other types of flawed, low-grade marble of the Roman variety would be readily available to him for much cheaper.”

“I don’t follow,” said Burrell. “And what’s the difference really? The guy is obviously so obsessed with being like Michelangelo that he wanted to use the Carrara marble powder simply because it was Michelangelo’s favorite. Maybe he wanted to improve upon the original—make his Bacchus from better stuff than Michelangelo’s.”

“What Dr. Hildebrant is saying,” said Markham, “is that The Michelangelo Killer wouldn’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because, from what we can tell about this guy, if he had originally planned on acquiring marble powder for his Bacchus, he would not have settled for anything other than a type of marble powder more in line with that of Michelangelo’s original. Thus, Dr. Hildebrant is telling you that The Michelangelo Killer used the Carrara marble most likely because he already had it—most likely because he had originally planned on using it for something else. Something more appropriate.”

“What?” asked Bill Burrell.

As Sam Markham held up his copy of Slumbering in the Stone, Cathy and the rest of the room saw the page to which he had turned.

It was just as Cathy had suspected.

Sam Markham was holding up a picture of Michelangelo’s David.

Chapter 19

That afternoon The Sculptor was Christian again. With the females he had called himself Mike or Michael, sometimes Angelo—but now that he was with the boys, it would be Christian. Chris for short. Yes. Had to be Chris—seemed only fitting, unquestionably more appropriate.

Chris.

Chris, Chris, Chris.

Chris sat in his Toyota Camry about three blocks away from the Providence hotel where he had told RounDaWay17 to meet him. This gave Chris a clear view of Kennedy Plaza, where he knew his consort would soon be arriving. Chris had told RounDaWay17 he would compensate him handsomely for the bus trip from Boston, told him he was a businessman from New York City in Providence only for one night, and RounDaWay17 was just what he was looking for. RounDaWay17 told Chris that his real name was Jim; told him that he was twenty-one, but from his pictures, with his shirt off and all, he really appeared to be around sixteen or seventeen—probably of Hispanic descent; lean, but not too slight of build—of perfect proportion for The Sculptor’s next project. Of course, The Sculptor would not know for sure until he saw RounDaWay17 in person. Nonetheless, the man who today called himself Chris felt more than satisfied with his choice.

True, it had been hard to tell with the females, and when it came right down to it, both Michael and Angelo never really understood the females—never really knew what they were getting even though they had met the ladies in person first, had picked them up at night off the streets of South Providence. However, back then The Sculptor was not nearly as skilled as he was now; he did not know how to cloak his IP address while shopping for his material on Craigslist as he would for clothes at the Gap. Yes, when it came right down to it, back then The Sculptor was little more than an amateur.

Now, however—almost six years after he first spotted the angel in black at Series X, almost six years after he followed, watched, and freed him from his slumber—yes, almost six years after the Goth named Gabe brought him and Dr. Hildy together, The Sculptor had had more than enough time to practice.

And so the man named Chris was elated to see RounDaWay17 step off the bus at Kennedy Plaza and begin heading toward the hotel. Chris rested his elbow on the door and surreptitiously raised a small spyglass to his eye —he did not worry that it was daytime, or that someone might see him. No, the windows of his Camry were tinted and the license plates today were phonies—the car hardly noticeable amidst the countless others that crowded the busy streets of downtown Providence. And as RounDaWay17 made his way across the street with his overnight bag—passing right by the blue Camry—Chris was nearly brought to tears. The Sculptor had chosen his Jesus well— he would be the perfect size to complement his Mary. True, his Mary was not yet complete, but that was something he would take care of this weekend while the material for Jesus cured in the carriage house, in the big stainless steel hospital tub.

The Pieta would come together much more quickly than his Bacchus—would take much less planning, for the Pieta would not require the kind of hard-to-find material that had been needed for Bacchus. No, now that he had gotten the world’s attention, now that they had all begun to awaken from their slumber, The Sculptor understood that he could use the material that was readily available to him—bargain material that would serve the purpose just as nicely.