"It's obvious that whoever murdered Tommy Campbell and that boy had been planning this crime for a long time-perhaps even years. Although I'm sure there must be a deeper reason as to exactly why the killer chose Campbell for his Bacchus Bacchus, one cannot deny the superficial resemblance between the football player and Michelangelo's original. That means, in addition to my earlier theory about the connection with Tommaso Cavalieri, the killer could possibly have selected Campbell simply for the reason that he looked like Bacchus looked like Bacchus. He wanted to use him, like Dodd's topiary garden, specifically for aesthetic purposes, and was willing to go to great lengths to do so-would not settle for a more, I hate to say it, convenient convenient victim. So, you see? Even though we're not sure yet of his motives, we can nonetheless conclude that we're dealing with a very patient and methodical individual-obsessively so on both accounts. These types of killers are the hardest to catch because they plan so well-pay so much attention to detail and don't leave many clues behind. And until the autopsy results come back, until we get an idea of exactly how this person murdered and preserved his victims-how he actually created that sick sculpture of his-the only window into his motives right now is victim. So, you see? Even though we're not sure yet of his motives, we can nonetheless conclude that we're dealing with a very patient and methodical individual-obsessively so on both accounts. These types of killers are the hardest to catch because they plan so well-pay so much attention to detail and don't leave many clues behind. And until the autopsy results come back, until we get an idea of exactly how this person murdered and preserved his victims-how he actually created that sick sculpture of his-the only window into his motives right now is you you. You and your book."

"So you're saying you think this maniac is using me?"

"Perhaps. I'll have a better idea once I read your book. But judging from the great lengths to which the killer went to put his sculpture on display in Dodd's garden-a display that the killer obviously intended as some kind of historical allusion publicly dedicated to you-well, it's clear to me, Cathy, that whoever did this horrible crime thought you of all people would understand his motives. And therefore it would also fall to you to help us-the FBI, the press, the public-understand his motives as well. So you see, Cathy, it appears the killer wants you to be his mouthpiece."

Cathy was silent, dumbfounded-her mind swept up in a tornado of questions that numbed her into disbelief.

"I'll be in touch very soon, Cathy. And remember to call me if you need anything, okay?"

Cathy nodded absently; heard herself say "thank you" in a voice far away.

A blink forward in time to her cell phone ringing in the kitchen, upon which she realized she'd been zoning in the hall.

However, only when Cathy heard Janet Polk say "Hildy?" on the other end did she realize Sam Markham had left.

Chapter 11.

Laurie Wenick stood before the open refrigerator and began to tremble. It had been seven months since her son's disappearance, seven months seven months since he failed to come home for dinner one afternoon-a cool, otherwise lovely September afternoon when his friends said they left him playing in the woods around Blackamore Pond. And so it happened that, when Laurie stared down at the cold jar of Smucker's in her hand, when she realized that for the first time in seven months she had unconsciously gone to the refrigerator to prepare her son's lunch for the next day-peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly on homemade bread that her son said made all the other fourth graders at Eden Park Elementary School jealous-more than grief, more than the profound loneliness to which she had grown accustomed, the single mother of one was overwhelmed with a sweeping sense of panic-a premonition that since he failed to come home for dinner one afternoon-a cool, otherwise lovely September afternoon when his friends said they left him playing in the woods around Blackamore Pond. And so it happened that, when Laurie stared down at the cold jar of Smucker's in her hand, when she realized that for the first time in seven months she had unconsciously gone to the refrigerator to prepare her son's lunch for the next day-peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly on homemade bread that her son said made all the other fourth graders at Eden Park Elementary School jealous-more than grief, more than the profound loneliness to which she had grown accustomed, the single mother of one was overwhelmed with a sweeping sense of panic-a premonition that something very, very bad had happened something very, very bad had happened.

She had gone to bed at 8:00 A.M. A.M. like she usually did on Sundays; had worked the night shift at Rhode Island Hospital as she had done now for months-for it was the nighttime, the like she usually did on Sundays; had worked the night shift at Rhode Island Hospital as she had done now for months-for it was the nighttime, the darkness darkness of her Cranston duplex that had become too much for Laurie Wenick to bear. And on those rare occasions when she took the night off, the pretty young nurse would spend her evenings next door at her father's-alone, watching TV until the sun came up, at which point she would return to her apartment and sleep through the day. She was like "a vampire" her father said-a rare and ineffectual stab at humor in what for both of them had become a dark and humorless world. of her Cranston duplex that had become too much for Laurie Wenick to bear. And on those rare occasions when she took the night off, the pretty young nurse would spend her evenings next door at her father's-alone, watching TV until the sun came up, at which point she would return to her apartment and sleep through the day. She was like "a vampire" her father said-a rare and ineffectual stab at humor in what for both of them had become a dark and humorless world.

Indeed, despite her anguish, Laurie had understood from the beginning that her son's disappearance had devastated her father almost as much as it had her; and over the last seven months the two of them had often traded shoulders for each other in their moments of greatest weakness. At first their sorrow had been colored with the hope that Michael Wenick would be found, for this was Rhode Island Rhode Island, and children simply did not go missing in Rhode Island did not go missing in Rhode Island, did not disappear into thin air without a trace without a trace. Oh yes, Laurie had read the statistics, had spoken with the state police countless times about her son; and as far as she could tell there was only one missing child case still unsolved in the Ocean State-and that one went all the way back to the mid-1980s.

However, as the days then weeks plodded on, as divers scoured Blackamore Pond a second and then a third time, as the volunteer searches ended and the pictures appeared on the news less frequently, the statistics that claimed young Michael Wenick would return to Laurie and her father safe and sound were soon overshadowed by the grim reality of the contrary. And when the months began to pile up, when Christmas came and went without a single clue to her son's whereabouts, Laurie and her father fell deeper and deeper into a state of numb detachment. It was as if the two of them existed in a zone somewhere between life and death-a pair of zombies, Laurie thought, who had the unique ability to watch themselves as they mechanically went through the motions of living.

Ever since Michael Wenick was born it had been just the three of them in that duplex on Lexington Avenue-the cute, two-story one at the bottom of the hill not even fifty yards from the sh.o.r.es of Blackamore Pond. Laurie's parents divorced when she was in kindergarten, but she had only lived with her father since her senior year of high school-moved in with him when her mother threw her out of the house for getting herself pregnant. Laurie's boyfriend, Michael's father, took off to live with relatives in Florida never to be heard from again-a bit of pretty luck for which John Wenick was always secretly thankful. The burly ex-club boxer never liked his daughter's boyfriend-that rap-loving, baggy-panted punk with the license plate GNGSTA1. In fact, John Wenick had actually gone after the son of a b.i.t.c.h with a baseball bat when Laurie showed up in tears on his doorstep-her boyfriend, she had said, had denied the baby was his. Yes, John Wenick would have buried his Louisville Slugger deep in the scrawny Eminem-wannabe's head had he found him; most certainly would have ended up in jail for murder. And only after he calmed down, only after the little f.u.c.ker ran away to Florida two days later did John Wenick wonder if it also hadn't been a stroke of luck that "Gangsta Number One" had been off getting stoned with his friends when he had gone looking for him.

John Wenick worked for the state; had been a supervisor at the landfill for over twenty years. And after his grandson was born, he sc.r.a.ped enough of his savings together to place a down payment on the duplex at the bottom of the hill-the same duplex in which he had lived ever since his divorce from Laurie's mother. Between himself and his ex-wife, John Wenick knew that he had always been Laurie's favorite, for he had a special bond with his daughter that his alcoholic ex could never understand. And even though Laurie's mother retained custody of her after the divorce, their relationship at best had always been strained. And so it was only natural that Laurie should have spent the majority of her time at her father's-that is, until she started hanging out with Gangsta Number One. And so it was also also only natural that John Wenick should have felt somewhat responsible for his daughter's predicament-that if only he had kept an eye on her, if only he had kicked Gangsta Number One's a.s.s at the beginning, all this would never have happened. Hence, John Wenick decided to let Laurie live with him only natural that John Wenick should have felt somewhat responsible for his daughter's predicament-that if only he had kept an eye on her, if only he had kicked Gangsta Number One's a.s.s at the beginning, all this would never have happened. Hence, John Wenick decided to let Laurie live with him for good for good-was more than happy to set up his daughter and little Michael next door; actually considered it his duty to look after the boy when Laurie enrolled in nursing school.

But more than a sense of responsibility, more than a sense of obligation, John Wenick looked after his grandson because he loved him as if he were his own. And ever since little Michael was five years old, almost every Sat.u.r.day morning during the summers the two of them could be found fishing at the end of the short driveway that branched off from Lexington Avenue to the woody banks of Blackamore Pond. Without a doubt, Michael Wenick loved to fish more than anything else in the world-even more than the Nintendo Wii Wii his grandfather had bought for him the previous Christmas. And how thrilled Michael had been when, the summer before he disappeared, his grandfather took him fishing on a boat off the coast of Block Island! For young Michael Wenick it had been the experience of his short lifetime; for his grandfather, it had been only one of the many happy chapters fate had written since his daughter moved in with him for good nine years earlier. his grandfather had bought for him the previous Christmas. And how thrilled Michael had been when, the summer before he disappeared, his grandfather took him fishing on a boat off the coast of Block Island! For young Michael Wenick it had been the experience of his short lifetime; for his grandfather, it had been only one of the many happy chapters fate had written since his daughter moved in with him for good nine years earlier.

And so it came as an unfathomable shock to the Wenicks-to the entire community, to the entire state-when on a cool September afternoon sometime between 4:30 and 6:00 little Michael Wenick vanished without a trace from the woods around Blackamore Pond. The Wenicks and the people of Lexington Avenue could never have dreamed of such a thing happening in their neighborhood-in the very woods where their children played; in the very woods where they themselves themselves had played when they were children, too. No, the Wenicks, the police, the people of Cranston had no idea that a stranger had entered their midst; had no idea that The Sculptor had been watching little Michael Wenick for weeks-ever since he randomly spotted him walking home from the Cranston Pool one day with two of his companions. Yes, The Sculptor knew immediately that the boy's slight, somewhat small-for-his-age torso would be had played when they were children, too. No, the Wenicks, the police, the people of Cranston had no idea that a stranger had entered their midst; had no idea that The Sculptor had been watching little Michael Wenick for weeks-ever since he randomly spotted him walking home from the Cranston Pool one day with two of his companions. Yes, The Sculptor knew immediately that the boy's slight, somewhat small-for-his-age torso would be perfect perfect for the upper half of his satyr. And whereas Laurie and John Wenick would never have been able to comprehend the possibility that fate would soon s.n.a.t.c.h their little Michael from their lives, The Sculptor had understood upon the sight of him that he and his satyr had been destined to come together that day. for the upper half of his satyr. And whereas Laurie and John Wenick would never have been able to comprehend the possibility that fate would soon s.n.a.t.c.h their little Michael from their lives, The Sculptor had understood upon the sight of him that he and his satyr had been destined to come together that day.

And so The Sculptor studied his satyr's movements-followed him home, always at a distance, at first from the pool during the summer, and then from Eden Park Elementary School in the fall; watched him from across the water as he fished with an older man with forearms like Popeye; spied on him with binoculars while he played with his two friends by the big drainpipe in the woods at the northern edge of Blackamore Pond. The satyr was the smallest of the three boys, but he more than made up for his size in daring. Someone, perhaps an older kid, had attached a rope to one of the larger branches, and on many occasions The Sculptor watched the two bigger boys look on in awe as his satyr swung like Tarzan farther and farther out over Blackamore Pond. One afternoon, the tallest of the three boys brought some firecrackers, and The Sculptor could not help but laugh out loud when he saw his satyr drop one into an empty beer bottle and then dive behind a tree.

Yes, The Sculptor had thought. My satyr certainly is a mischievous one My satyr certainly is a mischievous one.

And perhaps it was ultimately Michael Wenick's mischievousness that brought him and The Sculptor together on that cool September afternoon. The Sculptor had discovered that often his satyr would remain behind in the woods after his companions had gone home for dinner, whereupon he would throw various objects out into the water-usually just large stones, but sometimes bottles and cans, and once even a rubber tire. But always his satyr stayed close to the big drainpipe, or to the tiny, open sh.o.r.eline beneath the high cement retaining wall of one of the backyards that directly overlooked the pond. And so The Sculptor decided that the safer of the two areas would be by the big drainpipe, for in order to capture his satyr he could not allow himself to be seen; yes, in order to acquire the first figure for his Bacchus Bacchus he would have to be very, very careful. he would have to be very, very careful.

The Sculptor had studied the satellite imagery of Blackamore Pond many times on Yahoo! Maps Yahoo! Maps, but the first time he actually set foot in the surrounding woods was at night-after the older kids who smoked cigarettes and drank beer by the retaining wall had all gone home. He parked his blue Toyota Camry-one of two cars he owned in addition to his big white van-on a street nearby and used his night vision goggles to negotiate his way through the dense terrain.

The mouth of the drainpipe was large enough even for him to crouch into, and with his night vision The Sculptor had no trouble seeing down almost half the length of the shaft. He slipped a plastic bag over each of his sneakers, a plastic glove over each of his hands, and entered the pipe. The smell was not too bad-musty and swampy-but the air felt uncomfortably thick and damp in The Sculptor's lungs. Fortunately, The Sculptor had to go only about forty yards before he found what he was looking for: the manhole cover and the runoff opening to the adjoining street. Here, in the storm drain at the end of the pipe, The Sculptor could stand up straight; could see his tires through the narrow slit in the curb-right where he parked his car not even fifteen minutes earlier. And with a heavy push, The Sculptor lifted the manhole cover and peeked out.

The location was perfect.

As he had learned from Yahoo! Maps Yahoo! Maps, the storm drain was located at the end of a street named Shirley Boulevard-a quiet, middle-cla.s.s lane just two blocks over from Lexington Avenue, the street on which his satyr lived with the Popeye-armed fisherman and the pretty blond nurse who drove a Hyundai. The Sculptor had cased this part of Shirley Boulevard during the daytime; knew that most of the people did not return home until around 5:15 P.M P.M.; knew that even in broad daylight the surrounding foliage would conceal him from the nearby houses when he emerged from the manhole-a manhole that was just big enough for the ma.s.sively muscled Sculptor to squeeze through. There was no sidewalk here, only a concrete slab that capped the sewer opening. And thus The Sculptor also knew that he would be vulnerable only from across the street; knew that it would be safer to get in and out of his car from the pa.s.senger's side, upon which he could drop directly into the manhole.

It was almost too good to be true.

And so it was that The Sculptor waited in the drainpipe on four different occasions before he finally abducted Michael Wenick. Yes, there was always the chance that the satyr and his companions might venture into the drainpipe and discover him. And even though in the weeks that The Sculptor had been watching the boys he never once saw them step into the mouth of the dank, dark tube-probably already conquered that fear years ago, The Sculptor thought-nonetheless he was prepared with his night vision goggles and the silencer on his Sig Sauer .45 just in case. He did not want to kill the satyr's companions-did not want to waste good material that others might want to use someday. However, The Sculptor had resigned himself from the beginning that he would do whatever was necessary to capture his satyr. Most of all, if he did as a last resort have to kill the satyr himself before he could get him back to the carriage house, he would try to aim for the back of his head. Yes, more important than his satyr's awakening was The Sculptor's desire not to damage his material.

Besides, The Sculptor thought, it is only through it is only through Bacchus's Bacchus's awakening that the world shall be enlightened awakening that the world shall be enlightened.

In the end, however, The Sculptor's contingency plan was unnecessary. For on the last of the four consecutive afternoons in which he had waited in the sewer, when he saw by his watch that it was 4:35, when he crept to the edge of the shadows just shy of the entrance to the pipe, The Sculptor had a clear view of his satyr a few yards away at the sh.o.r.e. Finally he was alone-had thrown a beer bottle filled with dirt into the water and was trying to shatter it with rocks before it sank into the murky, polluted depths of Blackamore Pond. And before poor Michael Wenick had time to turn around at the sound of footsteps behind him, like a snake The Sculptor s.n.a.t.c.hed him from the woody sh.o.r.eline and pulled him back into the drainpipe.

The boy tried to scream, tried to struggle against his abductor's grip as the darkness of the drainpipe closed in around him, but the catcher's mittsize hand over his mouth, the vicelike grip around his neck and torso was too much for him-so much so that by the time The Sculptor got Michael Wenick back to the storm drain at the other end the boy was already dead.

No, not until he released Michael Wenick and the boy's lifeless body fell to the ground did The Sculptor realize that, as he had struggled and twisted with his satyr down the drainpipe, he had inadvertently snapped the boy's neck; no, not until that very moment did The Sculptor truly understand his own strength. And just as he had not needed to use his .45 on the satyr's companions, the nylon cord and the bottle of chloroform that he had brought with him would now be unnecessary also. The Sculptor thus stuffed the boy's body in a duffel bag and slid off the manhole cover. The coast clear, he pushed the bag onto the concrete slab and lifted himself out of the sewer.

In less than a minute The Sculptor had gathered his things and was speeding away down Shirley Boulevard-his satyr stowed safely in the duffel bag on the backseat. And although he was somewhat disappointed that his little satyr would not be able to see what lay in store for him, would not be able to awaken before the image of what he was to become, as The Sculptor drove back to his home in East Greenwich, he nonetheless felt a bit giddy that the first part of his plan had been so successful.

Yes, it had almost been too easy too easy.

Had Laurie Wenick known at that moment exactly what had happened to her son; had she known on that cool September afternoon that her little Michael had been spared the terror, the brutality brutality of The Sculptor's plans for him back at the carriage house, she most likely would not have been comforted. Indeed, as she stared down at the jar of Smucker's jelly in her hands, the pretty young nurse felt all at once as if the ordeal of the last seven months was suddenly tumbling down on her. She began to hyperventilate, to tremble, and nearly dropped the jar of jelly before she fumbled it onto the counter. of The Sculptor's plans for him back at the carriage house, she most likely would not have been comforted. Indeed, as she stared down at the jar of Smucker's jelly in her hands, the pretty young nurse felt all at once as if the ordeal of the last seven months was suddenly tumbling down on her. She began to hyperventilate, to tremble, and nearly dropped the jar of jelly before she fumbled it onto the counter.

Something had happened. Something was wrong.

Laurie could feel feel it. it.

She had not turned on the television since before going to bed that morning-had been sleeping her vampire's sleep when the news of Tommy Campbell made the headlines. And so it happened that, as she stood shivering with panic in the kitchen, Laurie Wenick was entirely unaware that the star Rebel's corpse had been discovered down at Watch Hill. Even if she had been watching TV when the story broke; even if she had learned that another another body had been found along with Campbell's, Laurie would not have made the connection with her son-for the state police, the FBI had long ago ruled out any link between the disappearance of Tommy Campbell and that of little Michael Wenick. In fact, the authorities had insisted on just the body had been found along with Campbell's, Laurie would not have made the connection with her son-for the state police, the FBI had long ago ruled out any link between the disappearance of Tommy Campbell and that of little Michael Wenick. In fact, the authorities had insisted on just the opposite opposite, and even though she was more than willing to believe them, in the months following the wide receiver's disappearance Laurie began to resent the constant media attention given to the case-a case that completely overshadowed her own. Indeed, the Campbell case made Laurie feel as if her son had been abducted all over again-even if it was only from the minds of her fellow Rhode Islanders.

On any other day, had Laurie Wenick not reached for the jar of jelly, had she gone instead for her coffee and settled herself in front of the television as she usually did before work, the press conference that was beginning on the steps of the Westerly Police station might have actually come as a relief to her-for now, with the discovery of Tommy Campbell, the authorities and the media would once again focus on the search for her son. Today, however, in the wake of her panic, in the wake of her premonition premonition, had she had time to get to the remote before the doorbell rang-despite what the authorities had told her in the past, despite all the a.s.surances that the disappearances of Tommy Campbell and her son were not related-Laurie Wenick would have understood at once that the unidentified body of which the FBI Agent was speaking was her son Michael.

Instead, Laurie stood frozen before the refrigerator as the doorbell dinged a second time-the chimes from the other room clanging in her ears like church bells. And like an egg, Laurie's mind suddenly cracked with the numb realization that it could not be her father-that it was too early for him to have returned from hunting crows in Connecticut with her uncle.

Here again was the zombie-her movements not her own, watching herself as she made her way to the front door. Through the peephole, she saw two men-serious looking men with short hair and blue jackets. Laurie did not recognize them- with short hair and blue jackets. Laurie did not recognize them-had never met them before-but knew them nonetheless; had seen many others like them in the last seven months. A voice somewhere in the back of her mind a.s.sured her that the storm door was locked just in case (for her father taught her always always to lock the storm door) and Laurie watched herself- to lock the storm door) and Laurie watched herself-that woman in the bathrobe, that woman who looks so tired and hollow-turn the dead bolt.

"Yes?"

The man on the front steps held up his ID. His lips were moving but Laurie could not hear him through the gla.s.s; for upon the sight of those three little letters-FBI-Laurie Wenick went deaf with the overwhelming terror of understanding.

No, little Michael Wenick's mother did not need the FBI, the press conference in Westerly to tell her why she had reached for the jar of jelly. She would have been unable to hear them anyway; for just as her fragile eggsh.e.l.l mind cracked again under the weight of her anguish, the once pretty young nurse watched herself collapse into the black.

Yes, all at once Laurie Wenick fainted, for all at once she knew that her son was dead.

Chapter 12.

Bill Burrell sat with Thomas Campbell Sr. in his den, their coffee long gone cold. Neither of them had drunk much, for their cups were only props in a scene they had played many times over the last three months. The set was the same-the comfy leather chairs, the bookcases, the warm paneled walls peppered with family photographs. Today, however, the mood, the color color of the scene was different, for today the wealthy businessman had finally learned what had become of his only son. And as Special Agent Rachel Sullivan concluded her press conference on the television in the corner, as if on cue a thud was heard above Burrell's head. of the scene was different, for today the wealthy businessman had finally learned what had become of his only son. And as Special Agent Rachel Sullivan concluded her press conference on the television in the corner, as if on cue a thud was heard above Burrell's head.

"She'll be fine," said Campbell, clicking the remote. "Her sister is up there with her. Probably dropped something is all."

In the awkward silence that followed, Burrell took a sip of his cold coffee. Instant. Bitter. Maggie Campbell did not make it for him today; did not brew her special blend of Sumatra as she usually did on the SAC's visits. No, Burrell had learned from Agent Sullivan that, upon identifying her son, upon seeing him frozen white in the horror that was Bacchus Bacchus, Maggie Campbell had gone first into shock, then into a fit of inconsolable hysteria-so much so that by the time Burrell arrived at the house on Foster Cove later that afternoon, Tommy Campbell's mother had since collapsed into her bed upstairs, exhausted from her bout with borderline madness. And save for the handful of reporters that still lingered at the end of the driveway, the house in which Rhode Island's favorite son grew up was as quiet as a tomb.

"Someone was found dead on this property, too," Campbell said. "Did you know that, Bill?"

Burrell looked up from his coffee. Thomas Campbell was staring back at him blankly-his eyes like slits, red from weeping; a haggard sh.e.l.l of the man standing with his son in the photograph on the bookshelf behind him.

"In the summer of 1940," Campbell continued. "Out on the front lawn, a caretaker for the family who owned the house before us. Story goes he was attacking their boy, and a couple of strangers just happened to be pa.s.sing by. Stabbed the guy dead and then took off. The boy was there the whole time-saw the whole thing. Went on to become a famous movie director-made all those horror pictures in the sixties and seventies. Died last year. Remember him?"

Burrell nodded vaguely.

"Saw a bunch of his movies when I was a kid-scared the h.e.l.l out of me. We bought the house from his uncle-gosh, going on almost thirty years ago now. Nice old fella-his uncle, I mean. A lot of those old-timers around here still remember all that-the story about the murder and all. Tommy had heard that story, too. When he was a kid. And for years he used to swear that there was a ghost in this house. You know how kids are. But you know what, Bill? I remember him telling me, even when he was little, that he wasn't afraid-that he hoped they could be friends someday, he and the ghost. Isn't that something? A little kid not being afraid of ghosts?"

Burrell nodded, looking down again at his cup.

"That's the kind of boy my Tommy was," Campbell said, his voice beginning to break. "A good friend to everybody. Not afraid to love even a ghost."

"I know, Tom. He was a good kid. The best."

"It's why they took advantage of him out there in that world of his-those people, that s.l.u.t model he asked to marry him. He was so trusting. He just thought that everybody who smiled at him meant it the same way he did when he smiled back-that's why that whoring c.u.n.t was able to break my boy's heart."

Burrell was silent. They had been over it before-had long ago exhausted the possibility that Tommy's ex-fiancee, Italian supermodel Victoria Magnone, was somehow involved in the star Rebel's disappearance. Even before Burrell had met Tommy Campbell's father, even before the wide receiver had gone missing, the SAC had followed the young couple's very public romance and breakup in the media-couldn't help but hear about it every time he turned on the TV or clicked on his G.o.dd.a.m.n Yahoo! Yahoo! homepage to check his stocks. But what the media hadn't told him, what Burrell hadn't learned until he met Tommy Campbell's father, was the degree to which the ending of their relationship had broken the boy's heart. Only after spending time with the Campbells at their house on Foster Cove, only after learning about the loving son homepage to check his stocks. But what the media hadn't told him, what Burrell hadn't learned until he met Tommy Campbell's father, was the degree to which the ending of their relationship had broken the boy's heart. Only after spending time with the Campbells at their house on Foster Cove, only after learning about the loving son behind behind the image portrayed of him in the media did Bill Burrell begin to feel guilty. For as many times as he had watched him play for the Rebels on TV, as many times as he had seen his image splattered across the Internet and on the covers of magazines, only the image portrayed of him in the media did Bill Burrell begin to feel guilty. For as many times as he had watched him play for the Rebels on TV, as many times as he had seen his image splattered across the Internet and on the covers of magazines, only after after Bill Burrell met the missing footballer's grieving parents did he start to think of Tommy Campbell as Bill Burrell met the missing footballer's grieving parents did he start to think of Tommy Campbell as human human.

"Tell me, Bill-tell me you know why somebody would want to hurt my boy."

Burrell could say nothing-could only drop his gaze back into his cup-for now that Tommy Campbell had been found, now that the moment for which they had waited three months had finally arrived, incredibly the SAC could not bring himself to comment, let alone ask his friend any more questions. Thomas Campbell Sr. thus turned once again to the television-his eyes as blank as the screen on which only moments before Rachel Sullivan had confirmed for the rest of America what he already knew.

Special Agent in Charge Bill Burrell was satisfied with the way his girl had fielded the press's questions, but at the same time he was deeply disturbed-angry, of course, because they had to put on the f.u.c.king sideshow in the first place and because the news of Tommy Campbell's murder had been leaked to the press before he gave the go. Oh yes, he would find out who opened his mouth; and when he did, Bulldog would take great pleasure in personally personally shutting it for them. shutting it for them.

However, it was the flurry of questions at the end of the press conference that really bothered the SAC-questions that seemed to bother even the reporter who asked them. Burrell, of course, had no way of knowing that O'Neill had just been fed the information through her earpiece. He had no way of knowing that the reporter was at the same time irritated that her five hundred dollars had failed to yield this little tidbit of information: that Tommy Campbell and the unidentified person with whom he was discovered had been posed to look like a statue. A statue by Michelangelo. A statue by the name of Bacchus Bacchus.

Even though only a handful of Westerly policemen knew the details about the statue, even though over a dozen state troopers had been brought in immediately to help secure the area around Dodd's estate, it had been the FBI who-upon their initial forensic inspection of The Sculptor's exhibit-discovered the dedication to Dr. Hildebrant beneath a light covering of beach sand on the base of the statue. And so it happened that, prior to Burrell's arrival at the crime scene, Special Agent Sam Markham had given strict orders not to mention the art history professor's name in the company of anyone other than federal agents. And so, as Burrell had watched Rachel Sullivan refuse to comment on the WNRI reporter's questions, one thing became painfully clear: that even if a policeman, local or state, had recognized the statue to be a reproduction of Michelangelo's Bacchus Bacchus, it would have had to have been one of his his guys that spilled the beans about Hildebrant-unless, of course, the killer had telephoned the media himself. guys that spilled the beans about Hildebrant-unless, of course, the killer had telephoned the media himself.

Either way, neither option sat well with him.

The only bonus about the whole mess, however, was that the WNRI reporter asked no questions about the inscription itself-did not seem to know exactly why Dr. Catherine Hildebrant had been called to the crime scene other than as an expert consultant. That was good, for that meant the FBI still might be able to do their job without a bunch of media attention on Hildebrant and her book. The media might leave her alone once the initial story blew over. Burrell liked the pretty professor-not because she reminded him of his wife, but because he could tell by the way she examined the bodies of Tommy Campbell and the boy that she was strong. Burrell liked that. Yes, indeed. One could say that Bill Burrell even admired admired her. her.

Thomas Campbell, on the other hand, was oblivious to Dr. Catherine Hildebrant-did not even ask Burrell who she was when Meghan O'Neill mentioned her name. In fact, Tommy Campbell's father seemed to accept the media frenzy in front of the Westerly Police station as simply the next necessary step in the mourning for his son; did not even question Burrell as to how the information about the statue leaked out to the public-information that he himself had known since early that morning. No, his thoughts were only for his son-his son and someone else's.

"Once they see that statue," Campbell said, staring at the empty television screen, "the real one, I mean. Once they look it up online and see that the figure behind my son looks like a child, they-the people of Rhode Island at least-they're going to know it's that Wenick boy."

"I know. We've got some people at her house now. Just glad they got there before all this about the statue came out."

Although in the creation of his satyr The Sculptor had significantly altered Michael Wenick's face-the tiny horns atop his forehead, the pointy ears, the mischievous half grimace of his mouth on the grapes-it had been a Rhode Island state trooper who, upon the FBI's arrival, had first alerted them to the boy's possible ident.i.ty. And after the obligatory search of the missing person databases, after all the pictures and physical descriptions had been compared and a.n.a.lyzed, all signs did indeed point to little Michael Wenick. Burrell knew, however, that they had to be sure before they approached the boy's mother, and that they would then need a positive ID from her before any information could be presented to the public requesting their a.s.sistance.

But how do you tell a mother her son has been sawed in half? How do you tell a mother her child has been given a pair of goat's legs and been stuffed to look like a devil? What's even worse, how do you show show her? And although Bill Burrell had initially felt guilty for arriving at Dodd's estate after Thomas and Maggie Campbell had left-after it took two state troopers, in addition to Thomas and his sister-in-law, to get the hysterical mother back home-now, sitting as he was in the den with the man who had in three months become a valued friend, the SAC felt even guiltier for his secret relief at not having had to break the news to the Campbells her? And although Bill Burrell had initially felt guilty for arriving at Dodd's estate after Thomas and Maggie Campbell had left-after it took two state troopers, in addition to Thomas and his sister-in-law, to get the hysterical mother back home-now, sitting as he was in the den with the man who had in three months become a valued friend, the SAC felt even guiltier for his secret relief at not having had to break the news to the Campbells himself himself.

No. Even after twenty years with the Bureau, things just never got any easier.

"She's sleeping now," whispered a voice from the hall. In the doorway was Maggie Campbell's twin sister-or a ghost, Burrell thought. A ghost of what Maggie Campbell looked like before her son's disappearance, before she lost all that weight A ghost of what Maggie Campbell looked like before her son's disappearance, before she lost all that weight. He had met the woman before-had mistaken her once for Maggie-but for the life of him could not remember her name.

"Anything else I can do for you, Tom?" she asked. "Before I lay down for a bit?"

"No. Thank you, love. Please, get some rest."

The ghost smiled wearily, nodded to Burrell, then disappeared back into the shadows outside the den.

"She's a good girl," Campbell said. "Been a big help to us from the beginning."

Tommy Campbell's father offered nothing more about his sister-in-law-no name to bail Burrell out of his embarra.s.sment for forgetting.

No, the sad-eyed father with the snow white hair just stared silently into the empty television screen as if he were waiting for a commercial to finish-the prop that was his coffee cold and unmoved in his lap as it had been now for almost an hour.

No, Burrell thought. After twenty years with the Bureau it just never gets any f.u.c.king easier After twenty years with the Bureau it just never gets any f.u.c.king easier.

Chapter 13.

"Here you go, Hildy," said Janet Polk. "This is the stuff I was telling you about-the stuff my friend over in Anthropology gave me. It smells funky, but it'll relax you. I promise."

Cathy held the cup of tea to her nose-a powerful odor reminiscent of curry making her wince.

"Just drink it, wimp."

Cathy took a sip. It tasted wonderful. "Thank you," she said.

"First fix is free," said Dan Polk. "That's how she rolls. Gets you hooked, then pimps you out on the street like the rest of us b.i.t.c.hes."

Cathy smiled for the first time since she left Sam Markham-had almost called him when the reporters began showing up at her door. But, as usual, it was Janet who came to her rescue; Janet who packed up her things and brought her back to her place across town. Cathy always liked coming to the Polks' house in Cranston, especially in the evenings-the way the muted lamplight played off the antique furniture, off the leaves of their countless plants and the richly colored wallpaper that enveloped everything. But more than the house itself, more than coming back to the neighborhood where she grew up, Cathy just liked being with the Polks. She instantly became calm and centered around them-ol' Jan n' Dan, her best friends and surrogate parents. Dan was a retired real estate broker-an odd match for the brainy Dr. Polk, but somehow they made it work. Married for almost forty years, no children, but one of the happiest couples Cathy had ever met. And not since her mother's death had Cathy felt so grateful to be with them.

"You're going to have to talk to them sooner or later," Janet said, settling herself next to her husband on the sofa. "You know that, right?"

"Yes," said Cathy.

Janet had insisted on picking Cathy up after seeing the clip of her and Sam Markham on the news; got a little taste of media attention herself when she backed out of Cathy's driveway and a reporter-the last remaining holdout after Cathy turned off her lights-asked her who she was. "None of your d.a.m.n business!" she had snapped. And despite the gravity of the situation, Dan Polk could not help but laugh out loud when he saw that that clip on CNN later that evening. clip on CNN later that evening.

As was the case for the majority of Americans that evening, Cathy and the Polks sat glued to their television set as the media once again devoured their sc.r.a.ps of Tommy Campbell. The ident.i.ty of the second body was released to the public around eight o'clock. Michael Wenick. The boy who had gone missing back in September, who had lived seven streets away from the Polks-only two two streets away from the street on which Cathy grew up! streets away from the street on which Cathy grew up!

Unlike the rest of Rhode Islanders, Cathy had followed that story only superficially-did not watch or read much news the previous fall; had spent way too much time on her latest journal article. And in the months following her separation from Steve and the disappearance of Tommy Campbell, she had simply forgotten all about the little boy who had vanished from the woods around Blackamore Pond-the very same woods in which her mother forbade her to play as a child.

For that that, for forgetting forgetting, Cathy felt ashamed.