"Yes. Perhaps he figured out another, even more intimate way for his victims to connect with the statue that they were about to become. Perhaps he sc.r.a.pped his initial idea of the magic being in the marble itself. Perhaps he gained a deeper understanding of the opening quote to your book-that the magic lies only only in the sculptor's hand." in the sculptor's hand."

"But, Sam, then that means-"

"Yes, Cathy," said Markham, swerving onto the highway. "I was wrong about the profile for this killer. I had an inkling of this when I was back at Quantico, when I was going over the information on the Plastination industry, but couldn't put my finger on it. There's little if any self-gratification for The Michelangelo Killer in the actual act of murdering victims. Murder is only incidental for him-a means to an end in acquiring material for his sculptures. However, as we saw with Gabriel Banford, and as was surely the case with Tommy Campbell and his severed p.e.n.i.s, it is crucial that The Michelangelo Killer's victims, his material, become aware of their fate themselves themselves-to awaken from their slumber, if you will, in order to truly become one of his creations. And I suspect that any self-gratification on the killer's part would come from that. Yes, there may be a s.e.xual component to this, but I suspect it arises out of a more intellectually and spiritually complex connection with his creations than simple, base-level s.e.xual gratification-a connection that the killer would see as akin to Michelangelo's connection with his his creations. I've suspected from the beginning that The Michelangelo Killer is not seeking only some kind of self-gratification-s.e.xual, spiritual, or otherwise-and always thought of him more in the context of a mission killer, that is, a killer with a specific goal. However, I see now that I made a crucial mistake with regard to his victims." creations. I've suspected from the beginning that The Michelangelo Killer is not seeking only some kind of self-gratification-s.e.xual, spiritual, or otherwise-and always thought of him more in the context of a mission killer, that is, a killer with a specific goal. However, I see now that I made a crucial mistake with regard to his victims."

"It's why Sullivan and her team have been unable to establish a pattern," Cathy said. "Why they've been unable to find any murders or disappearances of young men in Rhode Island that fit the profile of Banford or Campbell or Wenick. We've been looking in the wrong place, Sam. We've been looking only at men men."

"Yes, Cathy. Humans Humans are The Michelangelo Killer's material-both men are The Michelangelo Killer's material-both men and and women. The killer has both a reverence for his material and the understanding that some of it has to be wasted. And just as I am sure he considers the male of the species as aesthetically superior, I am also sure now that, if he had to waste material in the experimentation with and development of his Plastination technique, he would focus solely on females. I suspect that if we start looking into the disappearance of female prost.i.tutes in the last six years, we might come up with something." women. The killer has both a reverence for his material and the understanding that some of it has to be wasted. And just as I am sure he considers the male of the species as aesthetically superior, I am also sure now that, if he had to waste material in the experimentation with and development of his Plastination technique, he would focus solely on females. I suspect that if we start looking into the disappearance of female prost.i.tutes in the last six years, we might come up with something."

"So he had planned in the beginning on using a female for his Pieta? Pieta?"

"It looks that way, yes."

"And then for some reason he abandoned that project and began focusing on Michelangelo's Bacchus? Bacchus? Perhaps because he saw the similarity between Perhaps because he saw the similarity between Bacchus Bacchus and Tommy Campbell? Perhaps because he also found a better way of getting his message across to the public?" and Tommy Campbell? Perhaps because he also found a better way of getting his message across to the public?"

"Perhaps."

"But the b.r.e.a.s.t.s..." Cathy said absently.

"What's that?"

"I'm not sure, Sam. Something's been bothering me for almost two weeks now-something, like you, I can't quite sort out."

As Cathy and Markham sped across town toward the East Side of Providence, a brown paper wrapped package-bundled neatly with the rest of her mail into a folded Pottery Barn catalog-sat waiting patiently in Cathy's mailbox.

Even the postman had thought it a curious-looking parcel-felt bubble wrapped, about the size of a DVD case-but with no return address, and covered with far too many stamps-of various denominations, ten dollars worth in all-as if the sender did not want to go to the post office, but wanted to make sure it arrived at its destination. But what was even more curious to the postman was the way in which the sender saluted its recipient-a neatly written phrase above the street address which read simply:

Especially for Dr. Hildebrant.

Chapter 27.

Miles away, The Sculptor wiped the spittle from his father's chin. Instead of seating him as he usually did in the big chair by the window, The Sculptor had served his father his supper in bed that evening. He had played a few episodes of The Shadow The Shadow on the CD player inside the old Philco and thought he saw the left corner of his father's mouth curl up ever so slightly during the introduction. on the CD player inside the old Philco and thought he saw the left corner of his father's mouth curl up ever so slightly during the introduction.

Then again, The Sculptor could not be sure. His mind might be playing tricks on him, for he was tired-very tired. And he had been working very, very hard lately. His tired. And he had been working very, very hard lately. His Pieta Pieta was completed-had come together in just over two weeks from the afternoon he picked up RounDaWay17 at Kennedy Plaza in downtown Providence. Then again, in a way he had cheated, for The Sculptor had finished off many components of his was completed-had come together in just over two weeks from the afternoon he picked up RounDaWay17 at Kennedy Plaza in downtown Providence. Then again, in a way he had cheated, for The Sculptor had finished off many components of his Pieta Pieta over a year ago-the metal frame, the rock of Golgotha on which the Virgin would be seated, the contours of her flowing robes. And of course, the most important parts of the Virgin herself-her head, her hands, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s-had been preserved, articulated, and painted long before Bacchus and his satyr went into the pressurized tub of chemicals. over a year ago-the metal frame, the rock of Golgotha on which the Virgin would be seated, the contours of her flowing robes. And of course, the most important parts of the Virgin herself-her head, her hands, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s-had been preserved, articulated, and painted long before Bacchus and his satyr went into the pressurized tub of chemicals.

Back then, when he first started experimenting with pieces of the women, the Plastination process took much longer than it did now-just as long as it still took von Hagens and his team over in Heidelberg, Germany. But The Sculptor had made improvements on von Hagens's methods; he found that he could speed up the process considerably by alternating pressure and energy currents through the solvent, as well as by inserting thin "conductor tubes" at key points around the body between the various tissues. And unlike von Hagens, who skinned his subjects to display the muscles and internal organs, The Sculptor, who had no need for the insides, found that hollowing out the torso and placing a single conductor tube along the spine would help speed up the process even more. And so, whereas it took von Hagens months, sometimes a whole year to prepare and then pose a figure, it now took The Sculptor-working diligently, around the clock-just a little over a week.

Yes, The Sculptor could have made quite a bit of money patenting the improvements on von Hagens's Plastination process if he wished. But then again, The Sculptor was not concerned with such base matters as money money.

Ironically, it was the skin that had always given The Sculptor the most trouble, for during the process of preparing his figures The Sculptor found that, after dissolving the hair with depilatory cream and removing the lipid tissues from underneath, the skin became loose and slippery and very difficult to work with. And only through trial and error with the pieces of the women did he finally find the right balance of traditional tanning techniques and the methodology he adapted from von Hagens. The result gave him a tighter surface through which he could articulate the veins and muscle tissue underneath for desired definition and detail, yet the skin remained porous enough so that his mixture of special paint bonded with it nicely.

Indeed, once you got past all the trial and error, all the experimentation with this or that much of yada-yada-chemical yada-yada-chemical, the rest of the process was pretty straightforward. After The Sculptor hung and drained his material from a large hook he had attached to the bottom of the mortician's table-and after the internal organs had been discarded and the preliminary embalming of formaldehyde complete-The Sculptor followed his improvements upon the Plastination process until it was time to pose the prepared figures and let the silicone harden in a bubble of plastic sheeting heated by UV lamps. Unlike with his Bacchus Bacchus, the appendages of which required a much more complex articulation process to get the positional ratios correct, the Rome Pieta Rome Pieta did not take nearly as long. The did not take nearly as long. The Pieta Pieta was much tighter, much more compact in the way the original figures' limbs had been carved from the marble. The real trick had been getting the angles right-the Virgin's arms, the tilt of her head, the degree of incline of Christ on her lap. was much tighter, much more compact in the way the original figures' limbs had been carved from the marble. The real trick had been getting the angles right-the Virgin's arms, the tilt of her head, the degree of incline of Christ on her lap.

As with his Bacchus Bacchus, The Sculptor discovered that he could save himself a lot of trouble if he got the angles of the iron frame right first. And since the Virgin's body would be almost entirely hidden under her robes, there was really no need to worry about damaging that material. Thus, The Sculptor had much more room for error, much more room with which to play in terms of manipulating the figure onto the frame. Then once both of the bodies were cured, stuffed, and mounted-and once the Virgin's head and her hands and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s had been attached and the last of her robes laid on and starched into the right pattern of folds-The Sculptor adjusted Mother and Son's plastinated limbs by tying them off and suspending them at various heights from rows of smaller hooks that he had fixed to the underside of the mortician's table. After enclosing the statue in a ring of clear plastic sheeting running from the underside of the table to the floor, and after the silicone rubber had hardened under the heat of the UV lamps, all that he needed to do was sculpt the epoxy compound for Christ's hair and his beard, let it dry, then layer his paint on with his pump sprayer until he achieved the desired finish.

The last of the paint had gone on that morning.

And even though he was tired, even though he had worked feverishly for days with little or no sleep, as The Sculptor pulled the blankets up to his father's chin, he was nonetheless pleased not only with how quickly his Pieta Pieta had come together, but also with how beautiful it had turned out in the end. had come together, but also with how beautiful it had turned out in the end. Even better than my Bacchus Even better than my Bacchus, he thought, smiling. The Sculptor could not help but feel giddy when he imagined what Dr. Hildy's reaction would be-knew that when it was all over she would thank him when she saw, when she understood how his work had changed the world. Yes, very soon she would learn to appreciate appreciate him. him.

Of course, in the end, it was really he who appreciated her her. Oh yes, The Sculptor had much to thank her for. And hopefully, when she saw the DVD he sent her, when she understood just one of the many reasons why fate had brought them together, maybe she would already start to appreciate him.

Just a little.

The Sculptor knew that Dr. Hildy would most likely receive the DVD today or tomorrow-might have already watched it, for that matter. He hoped she had, for the information she and the FBI would get from watching it would help him in his plan. The Sculptor had wanted to deliver the DVD personally-had wanted to slip it in her mailbox himself himself just like the old days when he used to sneak into the List Art Center to deliver the notes, his heart pounding with fear and excitement. But now things were different, and he dared not get too close. Yes, The Sculptor knew the FBI was probably still watching Dr. Hildy very closely; which was why, since the unveiling of his just like the old days when he used to sneak into the List Art Center to deliver the notes, his heart pounding with fear and excitement. But now things were different, and he dared not get too close. Yes, The Sculptor knew the FBI was probably still watching Dr. Hildy very closely; which was why, since the unveiling of his Bacchus Bacchus, he had driven by her place on the Upper East Side only twice-in disguise; in his third car, his '99 Porsche 911. The Sculptor always used his Camry to drive by the Polks'-much less conspicuous in that neighborhood. The Sculptor could tell by the metal mailbox next to Dr. Hildy's front door that she was still picking up her mail even though she was staying with her friend Janet-the older woman, the one who looked like that tennis player from the 1970s, Billie Jean King.

Tennis players. The Sculptor hated hated tennis players. tennis players.

As the Shadow set off in pursuit of this week's villain, The Sculptor watched his father closely. And when he saw his eyes begin to flutter, The Sculptor removed the syringe from his forearm and dabbed the needle mark with an alcohol swab. He had given him just enough of the sleepy juice to keep him dreaming until morning. Yes, The Sculptor knew deep down that his father dreamt-had to be dreaming from the way his face jerked and his eyes twitched when The Sculptor sat in the big chair by the window watching him when he himself could not sleep. Indeed, The Sculptor had conditioned himself over the years to sleep very little-had no need for it other than to repair and rebuild the torn muscle tissue from his strenuous workouts in the cellar. And unlike his father, as far as The Sculptor knew, as far as he could remember, he to be dreaming from the way his face jerked and his eyes twitched when The Sculptor sat in the big chair by the window watching him when he himself could not sleep. Indeed, The Sculptor had conditioned himself over the years to sleep very little-had no need for it other than to repair and rebuild the torn muscle tissue from his strenuous workouts in the cellar. And unlike his father, as far as The Sculptor knew, as far as he could remember, he never never dreamt himself. dreamt himself.

The Sculptor replaced his father's colostomy bag, washed his own face and hands in the upstairs bathroom, and lay down naked on his big four-poster bed. He had many years ago redecorated the room in the baroque style of which he had always been the fondest, but his bedroom still carried with it the memories of his youth, especially memories of his mother who, sometimes-when his father was away on business and she had had too much to drink-would crawl into bed naked with him to apologize apologize, to warm him up warm him up from the ice baths into which she often plunged him facedown when he was naughty. from the ice baths into which she often plunged him facedown when he was naughty.

The Sculptor reached for the remote control and pressed the On b.u.t.ton-the DVD player and the big television in the armoire flickering to life simultaneously. There was no TV reception here-no cable hookup in the main house. No, The Sculptor merely thought of the big TV in the armoire in the corner of the room as his "memory box." Yes, he would relax for a while in the old routine-he might even allow himself to take a little nap before the big night ahead of him.

Play.

The Sony DVD logo dimmed, then was replaced with the trip to Niagara Falls-the first of the eleven 3-minute-long Super 8 films The Sculptor had strung together and digitized onto DVD. The trip to Niagara Falls was silent-shot in 1977 when the boy named Christian was only two years old. There he is in his mother's arms, waving to the camera by the old-style, coin-operated observation binoculars-the falls misting like ghosts far off in the distance behind them. The mother-a lovely looking woman with large lips and a yellow scarf around her neck-whispers something in the boy's ear. He laughs and waves again.

Cut to- The boy is now in his father's arms, standing next to the same coin-operated binoculars. He waves happily as his father bounces him up and down. No, unlike the man in the room next door, the father has no trouble moving-looks young and handsome and strong in his tight white polo shirt. And his eyes eyes-so full of life, of love for his son and the woman out of sight behind the camera. He blows her a kiss. Does it again. Speaks to his son, and then they both both blow her a kiss. blow her a kiss.

Cut to- Panning across the falls.

Cut to- Close-up of the mother at the railing. She gazes out at the scene before her, unaware that her husband is filming. She looks happy, but lost in thought. And The Sculptor, watching from his bed, wonders, as he has done now for many years, what she was thinking at that moment-knows that it is too early for her to be thinking about the tennis pro, the man with whom she would have an affair years later. The mother realizes she is being filmed, smiles, and mouths to the camera shyly, "Eddie stop!" "Eddie stop!" But her husband goes on filming. The wind blows her hair, her yellow scarf, as she tries to look natural. She starts to speak- But her husband goes on filming. The wind blows her hair, her yellow scarf, as she tries to look natural. She starts to speak- Cut to- The mother with the boy looking out over the falls. The boy has his thumb in his mouth and is snuggled tightly against his mother's bosom. He seems somewhat afraid-is not crying, but looks only at the camera while his mother speaks to him.

Cut to- The mother-smiling, holding the sleeping boy in her arms-gets into the pa.s.senger side of the white Ford LTD.

Cut to- The mother, again with the sleeping boy-darker, this time filmed inside the car from the driver's seat. The camera zooms on the boy named Christian-his thumb still in his mouth.

Cut to- The father driving, laughing, and speaking to the camera as his wife films him.

Cut to- A quick series of shots of the road, of the scenery, and then the first reel ends.

The rest of the Super 8s-shot over the next three years-follow the same happy pattern: Lake George, the Story Land theme park in New Hampshire, a trip to the beach at Bonnet Sh.o.r.es. But only the last last of the eleven has any sound-shot in 1980, when the boy named Christian was just five years old. of the eleven has any sound-shot in 1980, when the boy named Christian was just five years old.

It is his birthday party, in fact, filmed outside in the backyard, against the woods on a bright sunny day of ice cream cake and pin the tail on the donkey. The boy named Christian opens some presents-a soccer ball, a Tonka truck-while other children and people whose names The Sculptor has long forgotten look on with oohs and ahs. The Sculptor knows all the dialogue by heart; he has watched this film many, many many times. times.

"What's my my present gonna be, Mary? present gonna be, Mary?" asks his father from behind the camera, to which his mother smiles and replies, "How about a fat lip?" "How about a fat lip?"

The partygoers laugh.

There are a couple of quick shots of the boy named Christian kicking the soccer ball across the lawn with a little girl, then finally the scene The Sculptor has looked forward to for thirty-three minutes-the scene for which he always waits so patiently so patiently.

The boy named Christian is sitting alone outside at the table-the open canisters of blue and green Play-Doh barely noticeable amidst the paper cups and frosting covered plates that litter the plastic Empire Strikes Back Empire Strikes Back tablecloth. He is hard at work on something-entirely unaware that his father is filming him. tablecloth. He is hard at work on something-entirely unaware that his father is filming him.

"What are you making, Christian?" asks his father from behind the camera. asks his father from behind the camera.

"My friend David," says the boy perfunctorily, not looking up. says the boy perfunctorily, not looking up.

"Who's David?" whispers another man off camera. whispers another man off camera.

"His imaginary friend," the father whispers back. the father whispers back. "Says he lives out back in the carriage house." "Says he lives out back in the carriage house."

The unidentified man off camera mumbles something inaudible. And with the sounds of partygoers, of happy children echoing off in the distance, just as the camera begins to zoom in on the boy named Christian and his blue-green Play-Doh sculpted man, the home movie of The Sculptor's fifth birthday party abruptly cuts to black.

Chapter 28.

Cathy Hildebrant and Sam Markham sat in silence outside her East Side condo-the intermittent sound of the windshield wipers swiping in time to the dull tick-tick tick-tick of the Trailblazer's idling motor. Since his return from Quantico, they had been in this position many times-sitting like teenagers in the car outside the Polks' in what Cathy had come to think of as their stereotypical "awkward end of the date scene." of the Trailblazer's idling motor. Since his return from Quantico, they had been in this position many times-sitting like teenagers in the car outside the Polks' in what Cathy had come to think of as their stereotypical "awkward end of the date scene."

Unlike the afternoon two weeks earlier when she had kissed him on the cheek, Cathy had yet to make such a bold move again. Upon his return from Quantico, Markham seemed distant-much more professional and much less apt to reveal anything personal. Even on the handful of occasions when they had been alone in his tiny office in downtown Providence, working on his computer and studying the printouts from Boston late into the evening, Special Agent Sam Markham always made sure that he was occupied away from her, always made sure that he did not get physically too close to his new partner. And on the one occasion when he accidentally brushed up against her-the only time their eyes met and their faces were so close that Cathy was sure he'd kiss her-instead, Markham only smiled and turned his flushed cheeks away from her.

But worse than anything, Cathy thought, was that in all their interviews, in all their trips around New England in the Trailblazer to question this person or that, Special Agent Sam Markham had yet to reach for her hand again.

Something was wrong; something was holding him back.

Deep down Cathy understood this-could feel it in a way that she had never felt before-but her conscious, rational side simply could not sort it out, did not know what to do with this knowledge, this newfound perception into a man's heart-a man who seemed at once so close but yet still so distant from her.

"You're going to be all right staying alone now?" Markham asked finally.

"Yes. Janet and Dan are leaving for the beach tomorrow. They want me to go with them, of course-and I will visit this summer-but I need to cut the cord and get back on my own. I'll call them once I get inside and let them know I'll be staying here tonight. After all, this is my home now."

"I don't want you to be afraid of anything, Cathy. We'll still have people watching you around the clock. I'll make sure they know you're back here. And you know you can always call me, too."

"I know."

The awkward silence again.

"What is it, Sam?" The question had fallen from Cathy's lips before she realized she was speaking, and Markham looked taken aback.

"What do you mean?"

"It's just that, well, I thought-" As she met his gaze, when she saw behind his eyes what she knew to be his feelings for her retreating once again, suddenly Cathy felt foolish-felt like she wanted to cry, like she had to get out of there.

"I'm sorry," she said, gathering her things. "It's just me being stupid. Just give me a call when you need me again."

"Cathy," Markham said, "Cathy, wait."

But she had already slammed the door-her heels clicking noisily on the cement walkway as she made her way to the porch. Markham sat frozen, helpless behind the wheel. Then, in a flash of impulse, he was out-caught up to her just as she stepped inside. The bundle of mail fell to the floor; and when Cathy turned to him, when Markham saw the tears in her eyes, he finally gave over to his heart and kissed her.

There, into the evening, they made love amidst a sea of cardboard boxes-all the while oblivious to the muted phone calls that went on Fur Elise Fur Eliseing in Cathy's handbag.

Chapter 29.

If Steve Rogers had known that the two Cranston Police detectives had missed his ex-wife at her East Side condo by only a matter of minutes, had he known that Janet Polk had unintentionally misinformed them that her best friend would be staying with her in Cranston that night, the vain and self-centered theatre professor most certainly would have thought that fate had gotten the best of him once again. His only consolation might have been the pretty redhead who-albeit with selfish motives herself-had inadvertently taken up his cause. Meghan O'Neill-chief of the newly appointed, three-man WNRI investigative team whose sole purpose was to look into leads and develop stories in connection to The Michelangelo Killer-got an unexpected break that evening. Her team had been patiently monitoring the police bands for weeks now with the hopes of hearing one of two words: Michelangelo or Hildebrant. And so, when news came across the wire that the Cranston police were having a hard time locating the latter for questioning in the disappearance of her ex-husband, O'Neill scrambled her three-man crew into the Eye-Team van and headed for the East Side.

"If Hildebrant is home," she told them, "we'll shoot the segment there. If not, we'll move to Cranston and use Rogers's house as a backdrop."

Either way, O'Neill's team understood: she she would be the one to break the story. would be the one to break the story.

The house was dark, and Cathy-lying naked on the sofa in Markham's arms-was just drifting off again when the doorbell startled her awake. Markham put his finger to his lips and, reaching for his gun, moved silently out into the hall. The doorbell rang again, but even before the FBI agent reached the peephole, the light filtering through the blinds told Cathy who was standing on her front porch.

Spotlights, she thought, covering herself with a blanket. Another news crew. What do they want now? Another news crew. What do they want now?

"Reporters," Markham whispered, and signaled for Cathy to stay put. He stood leaning in the archway to the hallway with his back to her-his gun at his side as if he were considering whether or not to ambush them. Cathy smiled-wished he would-and despite the interruption, despite the sudden longing for the sanctuary that had been the Polks', Cathy could not help but be aroused at the sight of Markham's muscular physique-the back and shoulders, the b.u.t.tocks and thighs that looked to her in the milky gloom like nothing less than sculpted marble.

The spotlight went out and Markham again disappeared into the hallway. Cathy heard the sound of a car starting, then speeding off outside. And after a moment, the FBI agent returned with their clothes. He placed Cathy's handbag and the bundle of dropped mail on top of a cardboard box.

"They're gone," he said. "What they could want from you at this point is beyond me."

"Maybe they wanted to know what kind of lover you are."

Markham laughed, embarra.s.sed, and the two of them got dressed in the dark-silently, a bit awkwardly, but with the unspoken certainty of a long-awaited love affair just begun. And soon they were in the kitchen, sipping tea at the table in the warm glow of the stove light. Markham held Cathy's hand, but they spoke to each other only in spurts-funny stories and details about their lives separated by long periods of silence-neither of them really knowing what to say, but nonetheless content simply to be in each other's presence.

"I should probably get going," said Markham when he saw the clock on the stove tick past nine o'clock. "Will be in Boston all day tomorrow to brief Burrell and to coordinate our findings with Sullivan's team and my people back at Quantico."

"On Sat.u.r.day?"

"Sucks, huh?"

"You can spend the night here if you like," she said, the words coming from her like another language-the first time in twelve years that she had invited a man to spend the night at her place. "Is that proper etiquette? You'll have to forgive me, Sam. I don't usually do this."

"Neither do I," said Markham. And then he did something unexpected. The FBI agent took her hands and kissed them. "I'm sorry about before," he said. "About closing off from you. I know you noticed. I know you felt it, and it wasn't fair of me-to pretend like that or to make you feel vulnerable and silly. That's not me, Cathy. I don't play games. It's just that, well, this kind of thing is hard for me-it's just so new and out of the blue. I'll tell you about it another time, but know that, despite the circ.u.mstances in which I found you, and no matter what happens and how stupid I may act, all this is real-you and me, Cathy, and the way you know I feel about you, it's real. Just be patient with me, okay?"

Cathy's heart skipped a beat, and then she kissed him-long and pa.s.sionately-and when they parted, Markham smiled.

"I could do this all night. But if I were you, I'd call your Auntie Janet. It's getting late and she's probably worried sick about you."

"s.h.i.t," said Cathy, her eyes darting around the kitchen. "I forgot all about her-thinks I'm staying there tonight. My bag. Where'd I put my bag?"