Markham typed the words Roman garden and Rhode Island into the search engine.
“Bingo,” he said, and clicked on the sixth result from the top. The link brought him to a Web site titled, Homes of the Elite. A couple more clicks and Special Agent Sam Markham found exactly what he was looking for: a single photograph of Earl Dodd’s topiary garden—no name, no address, just a caption that simply read, “A lovely Roman garden in Rhode Island—overlooking the sea!”
“Jesus Christ,” said Burrell. “He must have driven around for weeks just trying to find the fucking place.”
“And must have thought it nothing short of divine providence when he learned that the owner of his Roman garden was in finance like Jacopo Galli—wouldn’t have settled for anyplace else, I suspect. It’s why he went through so much trouble to display the statue there.”
Markham flipped to Cathy’s chapter on the Rome Pieta. He skimmed, then read aloud, “‘In such a fashion, with the body of Christ illuminated by the natural light falling from above, the Pieta in its original installation must have seemed to the visitors at the Chapel of St. Petronilla as physically accessible yet at the same time untouchable; material yet undoubtedly supernatural—like the Savior himself, corporal yet divine.’“
“You’re searching like he would,” said Burrell. “You’re using Hildebrant’s words to find your destination like you think he did.”
“The light,” whispered Markham, typing. “It has to do with the light.”
Natural light falling above chapel Rhode Island.
Nothing.
Light above chapel Rhode Island.
Nothing.
Chapel Rhode Island.
Nothing—too many.
Markham backtracked through Cathy’s section on the Rome Pieta—his finger tracing along the text like a lie detector needle.
The Pieta is thus an expressive and decorous funerary monument, but at the same time perhaps the greatest devotional image ever created: a private memorial built for one man, but a public donation of faith intended for all of mankind.
“But you see,” Cathy said in Markham’s mind. “One has to ultimately remember that the Pieta was originally intended to be a funerary monument, not just a devotional image.”
Markham typed, Rhode Island funerary monument private memorial public.
Nothing.
Funerary, Markham thought frantically. Odd word.
Impulsively, he changed his search criteria to, Rhode Island cemetery monument memorial public faith.
Markham clicked on the first of his search results. What he saw next made his breath stop in his throat.
The first photograph was an exterior shot of a small, circular structure that appeared to be built from marble, and that reminded Markham of the columned temples of Ancient Rome. The columns themselves were situated around an interior wall, through which there appeared to be only a single entrance. Beneath the photograph was the caption:
The Temple of Divine Spirit is located at the heart of Echo Point Cemetery. Its circular design—inspired by the “round” Temple of Hercules in Rome—is intended to represent an all-inclusive memorial for those who have passed on, as well as a monument to those who have been left behind. It is a place of prayer and contemplation open to the public and people of all faiths. On your next trip to Echo Point Cemetery, please feel free to remember your loved ones in the Temple of Divine Spirit.
Beneath this text was another photograph—this one of the temple’s interior.
Markham did not bother to read the accompanying caption.
No. The single shaft of sunlight streaming down from the oculus in the temple’s ceiling told him everything he needed to know.
Chapter 35
As Sam Markham and Bill Burrell scrambled to gather their agents, as Rachel Sullivan frantically alerted both the local and state police to get their asses over to the remote Echo Point Cemetery in Exeter, Rhode Island, The Sculptor was already installing his Pieta under cover of darkness. The rain had stopped earlier that evening, but the skies remained cloudy—the air humid enough to break The Sculptor’s face into sweat beneath his night vision goggles. The distance he needed to carry his Pieta was much shorter than the distance he’d carried his Bacchus a few weeks earlier—a straight shot of only about twenty-five feet from the back of his van. But his Pieta was much heavier than his Bacchus—was much more awkward and difficult for the muscular Sculptor to maneuver due to the delicacy of the painted starched robes. However, once he managed to carefully load the statue onto a dolly that he constructed over a year ago specifically for this purpose, The Sculptor ultimately had no trouble dragging his Pieta down the flagstone path and up the steps into the Temple of Divine Spirit.
The Sculptor methodically unloaded his Pieta into place directly beneath the temple’s oculus—that opening in the ceiling which The Sculptor knew would mimic perfectly the original visual dynamic in the catacomb which the Christians had renamed the Chapel of St. Petronilla. The “veil effect” he had created in the Virgin’s forehead with a strand of tightly tied fishing line was breathtaking, but The Sculptor paused only briefly to admire his work—dared to stand only for a minute in the cavernous temple with his night vision goggles and ogle over the aesthetic divinity created by the downcast, cloud-filtered moonlight.
Yes, the nameless material he had harvested from the streets of South Providence, the whore’s head that he had chosen to be his Virgin’s, had turned out perfectly—her youthful visage sad but serene, full of loving and longing but at the same time at peace with the knowledge that her Son will soon triumph over death. And the RounDaWay17 material had turned out brilliantly, too; it was perfectly proportioned to the Virgin’s body, and, as seen through the night vision goggles, reflected as planned the supernatural luminescence of the falling moonlight —just as Dr. Hildy described in her book.
Oh yes, The Sculptor could stand there gazing upon his Pieta all night, but The Sculptor knew that that would be foolish, or at the very least would be a waste of time.
As The Sculptor had hoped, in addition to their regular duties, the local and state police—at the FBI’s request—had been spread out on stakeouts of churches all over Rhode Island—none of which happened to be near Echo Point Cemetery. And so The Sculptor took his time gathering his things back into the van entirely unaware that an FBI agent named Sam Markham had discovered the location for his latest exhibition. Back in the driver’s seat, The Sculptor relaxed for a moment before turning the key in the ignition—was just about to shift into drive when the reflection of flashing blue lights on the headstones caught him completely by surprise.
Bad luck, he said to himself. Someone must have called the police.
His heart all at once beating fast, The Sculptor removed his night vision goggles—knew the approaching headlights would temporarily blind him if he didn’t—and reached under the passenger’s seat. The Sculptor’s fingers immediately closed around his Sig Sauer .45, and when he again looked out the windshield, he could see the two police cars winding their way among the headstones from the opposite side of the cemetery.
Only two, The Sculptor thought. But he knew instinctively that more would follow —knew instinctively that he had only one chance.
Yes, The Sculptor said to himself. Only one chance to take them by surprise then get out of here.
The Sculptor climbed out the passenger door and quickly made his way around to the back of the temple, darting behind the headstones as he backtracked his way toward the road. The Channel 9 Eye-Team logo would be
