The Sculptor

Besides, the most important part of his Pieta involved Dr. Hildy. Oh yes, he would have to thank her in some way for all her help; he would have to show her how truly grateful he was by giving her something much more than just an inscription on the base of a statue—an idea that seemed kind of silly to him now. Yes, The Sculptor hated the Internet, hated television and the media, but had understood from the beginning that part of his work would have to include the daily monitoring of the sales of Slumbering in the Stone and other books on Michelangelo, as well as keeping track of the public’s growing interest in the artist as a whole—the specials on the documentary channels, the magazine articles, the talk shows, the search engines, etcetera, etcetera. And although Dr. Hildy had not yet granted any interviews, although she had not yet spoken in public about her book, The Sculptor was thrilled nonetheless at the snowballing success of his Bacchus—success that only The Sculptor and perhaps the FBI knew was due in large part to good ol’ Dr. Hildy.

Yes, Chris said to himself as he started his car. There will be time to thank her later. That’s what this weekend is for.

His mind back on his prey, Chris let RounDaWay17 disappear down a side street before pulling out into traffic and looping around the block to intercept him. He slid into a parking spot at the curb and adjusted the rearview mirror—a hand over his slicked blond hair and a nudge of his glasses in as he waited for the young man to approach from the sidewalk.

“Jim?” called Chris, rolling down his window. RounDaWay17 stopped—startled, his eyes narrowing. Michael and Angelo had seen that look with the females, too—that red, hungry look of desperation, suspicion, poor judgment. From RounDaWay17’s pictures, however, Chris did not think the boy liked needles in the way the Goth named Gabe had, or like some of the females he found in South Providence. Of course, he wouldn’t know for sure until he got RounDaWay17 back to the carriage house, but hoped that—if in fact RounDaWay17 did like needles— the marks would be on the back of the legs like with the females.

But then again, those females had been bad material all around.

“It’s me, Jim. Chris.”

A light flickered in the young man’s eyes. Instinctively he scanned the street, then glanced quickly at Chris’s license plate. The females had done that, too.

“Oh my God,” said Chris as RounDaWay17 approached his window. “I’m so glad I ran into you before you got to the hotel. I was just going to leave a message for you at the front desk, but you saved me the trouble. They screwed up my reservation. I know I told you the Westin but I’m going to be staying at the Marriott instead. It’s over on Orms Street. Hop in.”

RounDaWay17 scanned the street again—the instinct, the suspicion.

“Or I can just meet you there,” Chris said, smiling. “It’s a bit of a walk, so you’ll have to grab a taxi. It’s up to you.”

RounDaWay17 hesitated only for a moment, then quickly made his way around to the passenger’s side—his overnight bag in the backseat.

Then they were off.

“I have to say, Jim,” Chris began after a moment. “You’re much better looking than your pictures.”

RounDaWay17 smiled thinly. Chris could see that the young man was nervous; he knew that he would soon start telling him how he hadn’t been at this long—perhaps might even say that this was his first time, as some of the females had. But just as Michael and Angelo had been smart enough to know that the females were lying, Chris was also smart enough to know that—if in fact RounDaWay17 did leap into such a narrative—the young man most likely would be lying, too.

Chris stopped at the traffic light for the on-ramp—Cranston, Route 10.

He was first in line.

That was fortunate.

“You ever been there?” asked Chris, pointing past RounDaWay17 to the Providence Place Mall.

“Coupla times,” said the young man.

“Maybe when we’re finished I’ll get you something nice.”

RounDaWay17 smiled again—wider, more relaxed.

The light turned green. Chris headed for the on-ramp.

“We going to Cranston?” asked RounDaWay17.

“You see the sign for that new clothing store up there?” Chris replied. And as RounDaWay17 craned his neck to look out the passenger side window—unwittingly baring his jugular—in a flash The Sculptor hit his target.

The hiss-pop of the gun startled the young man more than the pain of the dart, and RounDaWay17’s hand automatically went to his neck—his fingers closing around the dart at the same time he met his attacker’s gaze. But the damage was done, and just before RounDaWay17’s eyes glazed over, The Sculptor could see in them the grim flicker of realization, of fear.

Then the boy was out—slumped over and sleeping soundly in the passenger seat before The Sculptor even reached the highway.

The Sculptor pulled the dart from the boy’s neck, removed his wig and his glasses, and put everything under the seat. He looked in the rearview mirror—a hand over his bald shaved head.

Now again he was The Sculptor. And now again he was smiling; for The Sculptor knew that the next time RounDaWay17 opened his eyes, he would awaken in the arms of divine release.

Chapter 20

“What’s bothering you, Cathy?”

It was late in the afternoon, and they were stuck in traffic at the Route 93/95 interchange—had hardly spoken a word to one another following the teleconference, the paperwork, and Cathy’s long orientation with Personnel.

“My life,” Cathy whispered suddenly. “My whole life has been dedicated to the work of Michelangelo. And now I’ll never be able to look at his statues, teach a class—never will be able to even think about him the same way again—I mean, without thinking about…”

Cathy trailed off into a quiet stream of tears. And as the Trailblazer inched slowly forward, Markham reached out his hand for hers. She let him take it—felt her fingers melt into his.

“I’m sorry,” was all the FBI agent said.

But for Cathy Hildebrant, it was enough. And once the Trailblazer found its way onto Route 95, once the traffic picked up and they were on their way again, Cathy realized her tears had dried.

The two of them drove the rest of the way to Cranston in silence.

Sam Markham, however, did not let go of Cathy’s hand.

“I’ll be flying off to Washington tomorrow,” he said, parking in front of the Polks’ house. “Official business and to gather the rest of my things—will be back Monday morning. We’ve still got people looking after you, but I want you to call me if you need anything. Even if you just want to talk. Okay, Cathy?”

“Only if you promise to do the same.”

Markham smiled.

“I promise.”

“Okay. I promise, too.”

Then Cathy did something she had never done before in her life: unsolicited and of her own accord, she leaned over and kissed a man on the cheek.

“Thank you, Sam,” she said, and was gone.

Only when she was safe inside the Polks’ kitchen, only when Janet asked her how her day had gone, did Cathy realize what she had done. And just as the shy art history professor began to giggle, back on the road Markham checked his face in the rearview mirror.

He was still blushing.