"Remember, Cathy," he said, "sit tight and keep the doors locked. This woman was extremely uncooperative on the telephone-very defensive. I don't want to risk her clamming up if she recognizes you. Only reason she agreed to talk to me is because she thinks the theft of her family's statue is part of some stolen art ring-thinks there might be a reward in it for her."

"I understand."

"I'll be back in a flash," Markham said, and kissed her on the cheek.

Cathy's eyes followed the FBI agent as he made his way up the flagstone walkway and rang the doorbell. She could not see the woman behind the screen door, could not see to whom Markham spoke as he raised his ID-just as he had done for her in another lifetime. And when Special Agent Sam Markham disappeared into the house, Cathy closed her eyes behind her dark sungla.s.ses and waited.

Even if her mind had not begun to wander, even if she had not drifted off into a light afternoon sleep, Cathy most likely would not have noticed the '99 Porsche 911 cruise past on the cross street straight ahead of her-would not have given it a second look even if she had. Not in this this neighborhood anyway. neighborhood anyway.

The Sculptor, on the other hand, spotted the Trailblazer immediately; he recognized it as not only out of place in front of the Manzeras' house-the house which he drove by every single day every single day on route to his own-but also instantly pegged it as FBI from his countless viewings of the news clips from Watch Hill and Exeter. And although he did not dare drive by it a second time, and although he did not dare take a closer look to see if perhaps Dr. Hildy herself was inside, The Sculptor knew nonetheless why the Trailblazer was there. on route to his own-but also instantly pegged it as FBI from his countless viewings of the news clips from Watch Hill and Exeter. And although he did not dare drive by it a second time, and although he did not dare take a closer look to see if perhaps Dr. Hildy herself was inside, The Sculptor knew nonetheless why the Trailblazer was there.

Yes, not only did The Sculptor finally understand how Dr. Hildy and the FBI had figured out where he was going to exhibit his Pieta Pieta, but he also understood that he had made a crucial mistake early on in his plan. However, the simple fact that the FBI had gone to the Manzeras first first told The Sculptor that they had not yet made the connection told The Sculptor that they had not yet made the connection to him to him.

Not yet.

But they were close.

And even though he was unsettled by his discovery, even though he thought himself foolish for his silly, silly mistake silly, silly mistake, as The Sculptor drove back to his home less than a mile away, he took comfort in the knowledge that fate had given him the opportunity to correct it.

Chapter 42.

"Sorry I took so long," said Markham, hopping into the Trailblazer. "But we've got some work ahead of us."

Cathy awoke from her nap disoriented. It was as if time had suddenly leaped forward, and she could not be sure how long the FBI agent had been gone.

"What did you find?"

"Quite a lot. But who knows if any of it is going to help us. Best thing to do now is to get back to the computer-or better yet, get to the library before it closes."

"Why?"

"Well," Markham began, driving off, "first thing I found out is that Shirley Manzera's late husband is the connection to St. Bart's-the Gambardelli Pieta Pieta was donated in memory of his mother. Mr. Manzera's family was originally from the Silver Lake area of Providence, where St. Bart's is located. I don't know the details, but Shirley Manzera said her husband used to own some kind of construction business. Don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that he made quite a killing back in the 1950s, and moved his whole family out of Providence and into upscale East Greenwich. I didn't want to ask how Mrs. Manzera met her husband, but she was adamant about wanting nothing to do with the Catholic Church-particularly St. Bart's and her 'husband's old neighborhood,' as she put it. She's a bit of a sn.o.b, quite frankly." was donated in memory of his mother. Mr. Manzera's family was originally from the Silver Lake area of Providence, where St. Bart's is located. I don't know the details, but Shirley Manzera said her husband used to own some kind of construction business. Don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that he made quite a killing back in the 1950s, and moved his whole family out of Providence and into upscale East Greenwich. I didn't want to ask how Mrs. Manzera met her husband, but she was adamant about wanting nothing to do with the Catholic Church-particularly St. Bart's and her 'husband's old neighborhood,' as she put it. She's a bit of a sn.o.b, quite frankly."

"How did her husband die?"

"Not what you think. I saw some pictures of him on the mantle and asked. Emphysema, the old woman told me. Four years ago."

"I see."

"But hang on. The Manzeras had four children-three daughters and a son named Damon. Damon was the youngest, and judging from the family photos, probably about a ten- to twelve-year spread between him and his oldest sister. All the daughters are married."

"Wait. You said Damon was was the youngest? Did something happen?" the youngest? Did something happen?"

"I couldn't ask, Cathy. Couldn't pry because of the reason I was there-the stolen art ring. But, did you see the swimming pool, the tennis court out back?"

"Yes."

"Again, I don't know the exact details-but Mrs. Manzera told me that her son Damon drowned in that swimming pool ten years ago."

"And you think his death is somehow connected to The Michelangelo Killer?"

"I don't know, Cathy. But we should look for something in the newspapers first-an article about the drowning, the young man's obituary. If anything seems out of whack, I can get Sullivan on the police and coroner's reports for Damon Manzera next. I may be totally barking up the wrong tree. It may all be just a bizarre coincidence-"

"You don't really think that, do you, Sam?"

The FBI agent gave only a weak shrug of his shoulders as the black Trailblazer emerged from the leafy canopy that was the Manzeras' neighborhood. The silence was long and awkward, but by the time Markham reached Route 95 they were talking again-trading theories as to what to do in the event of a dead end.

Neither one of them noticed the blue Toyota Camry that had entered onto the highway a short distance behind them.

Chapter 43.

The Sculptor was careful not to get too close-made sure he left at least six or seven car lengths between him and the FBI vehicle. He had taken a gamble driving back to his house in order to exchange the Porsche for the Camry-did not want to be too conspicuous in case whoever was inside the black Trailblazer spotted him as they exited the neighborhood and made for the highway. It was a gamble that paid off. And now that The Sculptor was onto them, he did not want to ruin this golden opportunity to find out exactly what the FBI was up to-did not want to throw away the stellar hand that fate had finally dealt him.

The Sculptor had spent that Sat.u.r.day morning in disguise-a moustache, gla.s.ses, and a baseball cap-driving around aimlessly in his Porsche, searching for a sign sign-of Dr. Hildy, maybe, or perhaps where he might later go shopping for some material for his David David. And although he had found neither and was about to return home frustrated, just like the day when he unexpectedly spied his satyr walking home from the Cranston Pool, The Sculptor understood that fate had also directed him to drive by the Manzeras' house just in time.

Yes, perhaps more than anything The Sculptor understood the delicate workings of fate-understood how to recognize the signs of divine providence and negotiate that razor-thin line between predestination and free will. Such insight, such sensitivity was a gift that had been bestowed upon him as a boy-when he was still called Christian-when he first laid eyes upon the Pieta Pieta in St. Bartholomew's, the church of his mother. in St. Bartholomew's, the church of his mother.

It was there, back in her old neighborhood, that she used to take him on Sundays when his father was away on business. And it was there, in the small chapel off of the main church, that the boy named Christian would often stand for what seemed like hours staring at the marble statue of the Virgin and Her Son.

"A mother's love is the greatest gift a boy can have," Christian's mother would often tell him. "It's why I named you Christian."

"And your name is Mary," the little boy would reply. "Just like in the statue."

"That's right," said his mother. "And I love you more than anything in the whole wide world. Just like in the statue."

Oh yes. Even as a boy The Sculptor understood understood.

And for years on those Sundays at St. Bartholomew's it was only just the two of them-Mary and Christian, mother and son-listening to Father Bonetti read the Ma.s.s, and then lingering in the votive chapel to stare at the marble statues long afterward. Mother and son always agreed: the Pieta Pieta was their was their favorite favorite.

But when the boy named Christian grew a little older-oh, six or seven The Sculptor supposed-his mother began to rest her hand in his groin when she drove him home from the bakery after church-the smell of fresh Italian bread filling the car as his Sunday khakis grew tight beneath the warmth of her hand. It was a strange sensation, the boy named Christian thought, but one that was pleasing to him nonetheless. What was even better better was when she would sit next to him that way on the sofa. She would let him stay up late on Fridays to watch Victoria Princ.i.p.al-that woman on was when she would sit next to him that way on the sofa. She would let him stay up late on Fridays to watch Victoria Princ.i.p.al-that woman on Dallas Dallas who was so pretty, and who the boy named Christian thought looked who was so pretty, and who the boy named Christian thought looked just like his mother just like his mother. On one such Friday, when the boy named Christian asked his mother why she did not sit with him that way when his father was home, his mother explained that it was a secret: a special secret special secret from G.o.d that was to be kept only between mother and son; a secret that if anyone else knew, not only would the boy's father kill himself, but G.o.d would kill her-would turn her into a statue from G.o.d that was to be kept only between mother and son; a secret that if anyone else knew, not only would the boy's father kill himself, but G.o.d would kill her-would turn her into a statue just like Mary just like Mary in the church. in the church.

And so the boy named Christian never understood why, all of a sudden one day when he was nine, mother and son stopped going to church. But it wasn't too long afterward that the beatings began, and later, worst of all, the cold baths the cold baths. Even though he did not like the beatings, the boy named Christian always understood why his mother knocked him on the head; he always understood why she slapped him then locked him in the bathroom with the spilled bleach. That only happened when he was bad bad-like the time he drank some of her wine, or the time he tore out some pictures from her old college history books.

But always-when he was super naughty super naughty as his mother used to call it-when the boy named Christian went down face first into the tub of icy water, he had no idea what he had done to set his mother off. The cold baths came only once every month or so; they were always late at night when his mother had been drinking. "Out!" she would say, bursting into his bedroom-her breath foul with the smell of wine and cigarettes as she yanked him by the hair into the bathroom. The baths were always the same, but the boy named Christian never got used to them. He was sure that every time he went under that as his mother used to call it-when the boy named Christian went down face first into the tub of icy water, he had no idea what he had done to set his mother off. The cold baths came only once every month or so; they were always late at night when his mother had been drinking. "Out!" she would say, bursting into his bedroom-her breath foul with the smell of wine and cigarettes as she yanked him by the hair into the bathroom. The baths were always the same, but the boy named Christian never got used to them. He was sure that every time he went under that this time this time would be the last; he was sure that, as he began to choke, as she pushed him under once more he would never see his beloved father again. would be the last; he was sure that, as he began to choke, as she pushed him under once more he would never see his beloved father again.

But always, just as he felt that icy tingle down in his chest, his mother would pull him out of the tub. And later, as he lay shivering naked in his bed in the dark, she would crawl under the covers with him-one hand stroking between his legs while she pleasured herself with her other-the warmth of her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his skin indescribably magical in its consolation to him.

"A mother's love," she would whisper over and over. "A mother's love."

This too was a secret just between them-a secret with dire consequences for their whole family if revealed.

When he was a little older the baths and the beatings stopped, but his mother would still crawl naked into bed with him at night. She would stroke his p.e.n.i.s longer, until the boy named Christian "blew his load" as his friends at school called it. And when he was older still, just before his father sent him off to Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire, Christian's mother began putting his p.e.n.i.s between her legs, instructing him with her hands and her body how to make love to her.

"A mother's love," was all she would say. "A mother's love."

And so the boy named Christian wrestled with his mother's love for a long time-never told his father, never told anyone anyone. What made it even more difficult for him was that he was so very bright so very bright. He understood what it meant when his counselor in elementary school said he tested at the "genius" level. He understood every single thing his teachers at Phillips threw at him, even the technology behind the patents his father had developed for his booming software company. Yes, all that kind of stuff all that kind of stuff came easily to the boy, to the young man named Christian. But the one thing he could never wrap his mind around was his mother's love. came easily to the boy, to the young man named Christian. But the one thing he could never wrap his mind around was his mother's love.

That is until he read Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone.

The Sculptor, however, would argue that it all began with his return to St. Bartholomew's. It was a week after his mother's funeral, on the very same day the eighteen-year-old Christian spoke with his father's lawyer-a kind old gentleman who would facilitate the sale of his father's software company and make The Sculptor a millionaire many times over. It was then that the lawyer explained to him the details of the accident and about his mother's affair at the country club with a tennis pro named Damon Manzera-a once promising young player whose career was cut short by injury, and who the lawyer said was only a few years older than Christian himself. Thus, it was after his meeting with the lawyer that the young man named Christian wandered without thinking back to St. Bartholomew's, searching like a zombie in the fog for something to guide him.

And so it was that-even though he was nowhere near to understanding the bigger picture of it all the bigger picture of it all quite yet-the young man who would one day become The Sculptor had his first awakening before the quite yet-the young man who would one day become The Sculptor had his first awakening before the Pieta Pieta, standing there gazing down at Michelangelo's masterpiece as he had done in his mother's arms so many times, so many years ago. However, it was not the statue itself, but the plaque at its base that-like a chisel to a block of marble-cracked Christian's mind with the understanding of why fate had brought him there that day.

Dedicated in memory of Filomena Manzera

Manzera. Damon Damon Manzera. Manzera.

Yes, how many times had the boy named Christian sat in that very same church with his mother, listening to Father Bonetti a.s.sure the congregation that our time in this world served some greater purpose of which together we all played a part, that all of mankind's lives were intertwined, that "Everything was connected." And after some poking around, the young man named Christian learned that the family who had bestowed upon St. Bartholomew's their gift of the Pieta Pieta was in fact the was in fact the same family same family who had bestowed upon the world the tennis pro Damon Manzera-the tennis pro who had killed his mother and turned his father into a vegetable. who had bestowed upon the world the tennis pro Damon Manzera-the tennis pro who had killed his mother and turned his father into a vegetable.

And just as the young man named Christian understood that fate had brought his mother and the tennis pro together at the country club in some divine connection to the Pieta Pieta-a divine connection that had to do with him him, with a mother's love for her son love for her son-the young man named Christian also understood that fate had now brought him and the tennis pro together, too.

Oh yes. Christian understood all too well what he had to do next.

And so, after he finished up at Phillips Exeter, between visiting his father at the care facility and going full time to nursing school, the young man named Christian began building up his body-first at the gym, then in the cellar of his parents' home-all the while his mind focused clearly on the duality of his purpose: the caring for his father and his revenge on Damon Manzera. And after the former was safely back at home, for years Christian followed the latter, learning his movements and waiting patiently for a sign from fate that it was time.

Ironically, it all came together so quickly in the end. Damon Manzera, who was still teaching tennis at the country club-and who himself had become quite the drinker after a failed marriage-had moved back temporarily with his parents on Love Lane, where he spent many a warm summer evening in the backyard drinking beer and swimming in the Manzera's in-ground pool. If Damon Manzera ever thought about his former mistress, if he ever felt guilty about the part he played in her death, he gave no sign of it to Christian, who for four years had spied on him nearly every day with his binoculars.

And so, with the permission of fate, the young man named Christian snuck into the Manzeras' backyard through the woods, hopping the high stone wall just after dark and waiting among the trees until Damon Manzera was good and drunk. He did not yet have the night vision goggles or the tranquilizer rifle that he would later use on Tommy Campbell; he did not even have to wrestle the tennis pro under control as he had done when he dragged poor Michael Wenick down the drainpipe. No, for the young man who would soon become The Sculptor, his first murder was somewhat anticlimactic; and in the end he simply lifted the unconscious Manzera off his lounge chair and drowned him with no more effort than it would have taken him to wash the dishes.

Christian was able to hop from the diving board and into the woods without leaving even a single footprint on the cement. When in the weeks that followed it became apparent that he had actually gotten away with his murder of Damon Manzera, the young man named Christian began to feel empty. Yes, the man who was to become The Sculptor wanted to kill again; he wanted to kill more Damon Manzeras-so much so that he actually got an erection when he thought about it.

Indeed, for all his intellect, for all his self-awareness, the young man named Christian never quite understood why-when he was younger, when he was away at Phillips Exeter-he had never shown much interest in girls. He would not get hard when he looked at them in cla.s.s and would certainly not "jerk off" like his cla.s.smates did to the p.o.r.nographic pictures that were so often pa.s.sed around. True, sometimes he found his hands absently wandering to his groin late at night when he thought about his mother, but the only time he really really got hard was when he thought about his male cla.s.smates, when he would see them with their shirts off or coming out of the shower stalls, upon which Christian would quickly avert his eyes so as not to become aroused in front of them. got hard was when he thought about his male cla.s.smates, when he would see them with their shirts off or coming out of the shower stalls, upon which Christian would quickly avert his eyes so as not to become aroused in front of them.

There was only one other boy at Phillips that Christian knew felt the same way-an "experienced" boy who took Christian under his wing, and with whom he would sometimes sneak away to places hidden; places where they could kiss and be naked against each other; places where they could take each other's p.e.n.i.ses in their mouths, or insert them in each other's behinds. With the death of Christian's mother, however, all that stopped; and long after Christian moved back to Rhode Island, the young man struggled with his desire for male company and the guilt that somehow his h.o.m.os.e.xuality had contributed to both his mother's death and his father's vegetative state.

Yet with the murder of Damon Manzera, Christian found himself getting hard when he thought about that, too; and thus he understood that fate had directed him to channel his desire into something much more productive. He began fantasizing, began researching and experimenting with different methods. The idea of epinephrine had appealed to him from the beginning because he knew it would mimic his heart-pounding revelation before the Pieta Pieta at St. Bartholomew's. And when he was ready, when he finally succeeded in producing a highly concentrated solution of the drug himself, the young man named Christian set about finding a proper candidate. at St. Bartholomew's. And when he was ready, when he finally succeeded in producing a highly concentrated solution of the drug himself, the young man named Christian set about finding a proper candidate.

Gabriel Banford was always to have been the first victim of this new method. Christian had followed him for weeks after spotting him at Series X and planned on waiting for him in the dark of his bedroom. But on the evening that he should should have killed him, when he stumbled upon Banford's copy of have killed him, when he stumbled upon Banford's copy of Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone, when fate directed him right then and there to flip to the chapter on the Pieta Pieta, the man who would from that day forward call himself The Sculptor wept under the weight of his divine revelation-a revelation that surpa.s.sed the one at St. Bartholomew's. Yes, through this woman Catherine Hildebrant's a.n.a.lysis of Michelangelo's Holy Mother and Son-her brilliant articulation of what she called that "parallel trinity" as embodied in the artist's portrayal of the Virgin herself-the boy, the young man named Christian not only finally finally understood his love of the understood his love of the Pieta Pieta, but also his mother's love for him him.

So overcome was The Sculptor by his revelation that he left Banford's apartment in shock. He left the young man alive only to return a week later-after he had purchased his own copy of he had purchased his own copy of Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone and read it cover to cover ten times, after he finally understood the totality of his purpose-that is, why fate had led him to Banford, to Dr. Catherine Hildebrant, and to Michelangelo, that man whose work was to become a template for The Sculptor's destiny. and read it cover to cover ten times, after he finally understood the totality of his purpose-that is, why fate had led him to Banford, to Dr. Catherine Hildebrant, and to Michelangelo, that man whose work was to become a template for The Sculptor's destiny.

Everything is connected.

And now, six years later, as he followed the black Trailblazer on Route 95 toward downtown Providence, The Sculptor grinned widely beneath his fake moustache. Yes, even though the FBI was getting close to him, even though they had made the connection between the stolen Pieta Pieta and the Manzera family, The Sculptor knew deep down that fate had once again interceded on his behalf. And although he dared not get too close, The Sculptor also had a feeling that behind the tinted windows of the black Trailblazer sat the person for whom he had been searching all morning. and the Manzera family, The Sculptor knew deep down that fate had once again interceded on his behalf. And although he dared not get too close, The Sculptor also had a feeling that behind the tinted windows of the black Trailblazer sat the person for whom he had been searching all morning.

Yes, something deep down told The Sculptor that he had finally found Dr. Hildy.

Chapter 44.

It was just after 5:00 P.M P.M. when Markham and Cathy emerged from the Providence Public Library-their heads hung low, their faces drawn. They had spent over an hour searching the periodical databases for information on the death of Damon Manzera. There wasn't much-the obligatory newspaper blurbs, the obituaries-but nothing that listed the death as suspicious, no evidence of foul play. Indeed, a spokesperson for the medical examiner was quoted many times as being very clear to the contrary, and stated that, at the time of Manzera's death, the young man's blood alcohol level was found to have been "dangerously high." And thus, the coroner had concluded that most likely Manzera either fell asleep in the pool or somehow staggered off its edge into the water. Either way, the official cause of death was listed as accidental drowning; either way, end of story.

"We've now got two options on this end, Cathy," said Markham, sliding into the Trailblazer. "Either I go back and tell Mrs. Manzera the real reason why I was there, see if I can find out anything else about her son, or we start poking around Manzera's circle of acquaintances to see if they know anything-maybe start with his ex-wife, or at the country club, the one in East Greenwich where the newspaper articles said he worked."

"But Sam, this all happened over ten years ago. Wouldn't the police have done that already?"

"I a.s.sume so, yes. When we get the police records, we'll be able to see who they questioned. I can only hope they missed something." Markham closed his eyes, rested his head back, and sighed. "I don't know what else to do, Cathy-starting to think this whole Manzera connection to the stolen Pieta Pieta was a bad idea. I'm starting to think I don't know what the h.e.l.l I'm doing anymore." was a bad idea. I'm starting to think I don't know what the h.e.l.l I'm doing anymore."

"It's in the book, Sam," Cathy said, taking his hand. "You're right about that. I know it. Everything we need to catch him is right there in Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone. You're just tired, is all. We both are. Why don't we get some takeout Chinese or something-grab a bottle of wine and call it a day. Tomorrow's Sunday. We can sleep in for a bit, maybe take a ride down to the coast-official business, of course. After a good night's rest we'll both be able to think more clearly. What do you say, Special Agent Markham? Is it a date?"

Markham smiled, kissed her deeply, and drove off.

Neither one of them noticed the blue Toyota Camry that had been parked diagonally across the street about a block away.

It pulled out again behind them.

The Camry followed the Trailblazer first to a Chinese restaurant in Cranston, then to a nearby liquor store, and finally back to downtown Providence, where the Trailblazer disappeared underneath an office building via a private driveway. And after about five minutes the blue Toyota Camry pa.s.sed by-did not turn down the driveway like the Trailblazer. No, the driver of the blue Camry could not miss the two big PRIVATE ACCESS ONLY signs; he could clearly see the video cameras and the steel, card-access security gate-thought there might even be a guard or two prowling around as well.

"So that's where they're keeping her," The Sculptor said out loud.

Despite her new hair color, despite her Jackie Ona.s.sis sungla.s.ses, The Sculptor had recognized Dr. Hildy outside the library as soon as she stepped out from the Trailblazer. And while he had waited for her and the unknown FBI agent to finish their research inside-research he knew had to do with the tennis pro, Damon Manzera-The Sculptor concluded he needed to put his David David on hold. on hold.

It was all right. He had done that before with his Pieta Pieta, when he finally understood the scope, the message message of his work as something beyond himself, when he finally understood that, in order to really wake the world from its slumber, no material other than Tommy Campbell would be worthy of his of his work as something beyond himself, when he finally understood that, in order to really wake the world from its slumber, no material other than Tommy Campbell would be worthy of his Bacchus Bacchus.

Yes, The Sculptor did not mind adapting; he did not resist changing his plans if he felt the hand of fate leading him someplace else.

But exactly where did fate want him to go next?

The Sculptor needed time to think and figure out how he would dispose of Dr. Hildy-perhaps this FBI agent, too. But unlike before, when he could take his time, when his work was still unknown to the world, The Sculptor knew now that the clock was ticking. Yes, he had to move quickly-had to get to Hildebrant and the FBI agent before they got to him. But how? But how? It was much too risky under the present circ.u.mstances to try to take them at that fortress in downtown Providence-especially since The Sculptor had no idea what it looked like inside. It was much too risky under the present circ.u.mstances to try to take them at that fortress in downtown Providence-especially since The Sculptor had no idea what it looked like inside.

And so, as The Sculptor drove away from Providence, he resigned himself to wait for the right opportunity to take them on the outside outside.

The Sculptor smiled, for he knew deep down that fate would bring him and Dr. Hildy together very soon.