The Sculptor

with any certainty link these details (St. Peter’s, St. Petronilla, funerary chapels, Cardinal Billheres, etc.) to any specific site in Rhode Island—in all of New England for that matter.

And so Sam Markham felt helpless. He felt that he could see the future rolling, unstoppable, toward him in his mind—could see so clearly The Michelangelo Killer’s upcoming Pieta: a heinous sculpture with a woman’s head and hands and breasts sewn onto Rogers’s body a la Frankenstein. As a result of his research into the Plastination process, Sam Markham’s rational side told him that—even if The Michelangelo Killer had already murdered his Mary and his Jesus long ago—the killer would not have had nearly enough time to preserve Rogers’s body. His gut, however— that intuition that all the best “profilers” learn to follow despite “the facts”—told him otherwise.

Yes, Markham knew in his gut that not only was he missing something very important, but that he was also running out of time.

He needed Cathy—needed her to wake up and to talk to him calmly.

An agent from the Resident Agency poked his head into the room. “Burrell is on his way,” he said, and Markham nodded. There were two Providence agents posted outside the door, and Markham knew Burrell would square the FBI protective custody for Cathy himself. That was good; it would be much better than the surveillance they had placed on her—the depth of which Cathy had no idea. Yes, although the FBI had watched Cathy’s every move now for almost a month, although she was most certainly never in any real danger, Markham felt nonetheless ashamed that Cathy had been used involuntarily as bait.

That couldn’t be avoided.

But now things had to be different; now The Michelangelo Killer had killed for her personally—murdered her ex-husband, used him specifically for his Pieta in what was undoubtedly a gesture of gratitude to Dr. Hildebrant for all her help. Hence, Markham understood there was no other way now except for Cathy to go into hiding. But for how long? And would Cathy even want to once the reality of what had happened sank in? How many times, Markham wondered, had she secretly wished for Steve Rogers to get run over by a truck or to slip on the ice and split his head open? And now, would she ever be able to forgive herself? Would she ever be able to get over the guilt that she was somehow responsible for her ex-husband’s death?

As Markham studied Cathy’s face in the dim light of the hospital room, he thought of Michelle. He wanted to spare Cathy that pain; he wanted to untie the canvas straps that held her down and just carry her away from it all.

Then Markham thought of Steve Rogers strapped down to his bed—the steel table on which The Michelangelo Killer had most likely operated on him, the steel table on which he filmed Rogers’s last breath.

The epinephrine, Markham thought. The killer gives them a heart attack while they stare at themselves—at the statue they are about to become, above them on a television screen. It’s important they understand—just like Gabriel Banford had to understand way back when. And through the terror of that understanding, the terror of being born again, they awake from their slumber and are freed from the stone— just as Cathy and I suspected.

Markham’s mind began to wander.

There were chains running up from the side of the table. Looked as if it was suspended from the ceiling—perhaps so it could be raised and lowered like in those Frankenstein movies. A high ceiling. Yes. A winch system—would have to be hooked on a ceiling too high for a cellar. A garage or a warehouse maybe. Money. The killer has money. Lots and lots of money—twenty-five G to blow on a statue.

The Pieta.

“Exactly like the one that was taken three years ago,” he heard the Reverend Robert Bonetti say in his mind. “That one had been donated by a wealthy family a number of years before I arrived here at St. Bart’s.”

A wealthy family…

“We used to have quite an extensive picture gallery on our Web site…One of them, of course, was of our Gambardelli Pieta. Perhaps your man simply recognized it and targeted us that way.”

Markham looked at his watch: 1:03 A.M. Too late to wake up the old priest on a hunch—not even a hunch. A long shot. And a desperate one at that. And besides, he was running out of time; he knew instinctively that something was going to happen this weekend, maybe even tonight—if it hadn’t happened already. If only he knew where.

Where, where, where!

“Cathy,” he whispered in her ear. “Cathy, I need you now.”

Her eyes fluttered, and Markham’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Sam?” she said groggily—the sedatives fighting to keep her under.

“Yes, Cathy, it’s me. You’re safe. Everything is going to be all right now.”

“Where am I? I can’t move my—”

“You’re all right, Cathy.” Markham said, untying her wrists. “You’re in the hospital. You bumped your head, but you’re fine. The doctors strapped your hands to the bed so you won’t hurt yourself—because you were hysterical. But there, you see? You’re free now. I’m here, Cathy. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“It was Steve, Sam,” Cathy sobbed. “It’s all my fault—”

“Ssh, Cathy. Stop it now. It’s not true. Don’t think like that.”

“But the Pieta. He made Steve into the Pieta for me.”

“Ssh. Cathy, listen to me. You’ve got to stay calm. You’ve got to be strong for me. We don’t have much time. The Michelangelo Killer wouldn’t have sent you that DVD unless he was sure that it wouldn’t hinder his plan, unless he was convinced that it wouldn’t lead us to where he was about to exhibit his Pieta—at least until it was too late for us to catch him.”

“St. Peter’s,” Cathy said, swallowing hard. “The real Pieta is in St. Peter’s.”

“I know, Cathy, but that’s too easy. I’ve got those bases covered, yes, but my gut tells me we’re going in the wrong direction. This guy is too smart for that. You’ve got to think of someplace else the killer might want to exhibit his Pieta.”

Cathy was quiet for a moment, her eyes locked with Markham’s—the love she saw reflected in them giving her the strength to continue.

“The statue was originally located in the Chapel of St. Petronilla.”

“Yes. St. Petronilla. I read about it in your book—commissioned for the tomb of a French cardinal by the name of Billheres.”

“The chapel itself was initially an old Roman mausoleum that had been converted by the Christians on the first site of St. Peter’s—before the church was redesigned and rebuilt in the early sixteenth century by Donato Bramante, a famous Italian architect. The chapel in its Roman form no longer exists, and there is much debate as to what it originally looked like before Bramante got his hands on it. However, if you take into account how Michelangelo designed his Pieta for that space specifically, one thing is certain.”

“What?”

“If the Pieta is lit by natural light falling from above, as it would have been in the Old St. Peter’s, the Virgin’s face is cast in shadow, while the body of Christ is fully illuminated. The metaphorical implications are obvious—the light, the eternal life in the dying flesh of the Savior, etcetera. But you see, one has to ultimately remember that the statue was originally intended to be a funerary monument, not just a devotional image—although it is that, too. The overall design of the Pieta—the way the Virgin’s gaze and open arms direct our attention first to her Son, then to the mortal remains buried beneath her—in its original installation, in its original lighting, it demanded that we see the statue as Michelangelo intended, that is, a context in which the viewer not only reflects on Christ the Savior, but also on our own mortality, as well as that of Cardinal de Billheres.”

“So you think then that the light from above is the key to the overall effect of the statue?”

“Yes. If you look again at the pictures in my book, you will notice in the close-ups a fine line inscribed in the Virgin’s forehead. Seen at a distance under light from above, this line creates the illusion of a thin veil—an ingenious device, yes, but one that requires the trick of the light in order to be seen. Otherwise, it looks like just a line in her