Gregory Funaro - The Sculptor

Cathy felt her heart melt, felt her eyes about to overflow in unexpected streams of joy. She wanted to tell Sam Markham she loved him, but a voice from across the room interrupted her.

“Sam?”

Markham and Cathy turned to see Bill Burrell standing in the doorway.

“I have to go now, Cathy,” Markham said, kissing her again. “I’ll call a nurse to see if you need-”

“Don’t leave me, Sam.”

“I have to, Cathy. You’ll be fine. The place is crawling with FBI agents. You just sleep for a while and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Cathy turned away.

“I’m going to catch this guy for you,” Markham said, turning her face back to him with a gentle finger on her chin. “I promise you that, Cathy. It’s personal now.”

Cathy smiled weakly-the sedatives dragging her down again.

“Thank you, Sam,” she whispered.

Markham laid his hand on her cheek. And when he saw that she had fallen back to sleep, he joined Bill Burrell out in the corridor.

“She’s doing all right?” the SAC asked.

“Yes. She’ll be fine.”

“We’ll take care of her now.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the DVD? I want to see it.”

“Forensics has got it-analyzing the paper, the tape for trace evidence-but they won’t find anything, I’m sure. He’s too smart for that. Nonetheless, they’re going to dump it onto the computer to see if we can pick up anything through digital enhancement. They’ll dupe you a copy and you can take a look at it shortly.”

“Good. Now tell me you got something more for me, Sam.”

“Something’s going down this weekend-soon, maybe in the next couple of hours if it already hasn’t.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The DVD. It was meant to confuse us, yes, but it’s also a challenge from the killer-a dare to try and stop him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I am. But I need to get on the Internet-need to get on a computer right now here in the hospital.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain it to you on the way. But I’m telling you, Bill, I have a very bad feeling The Michelangelo Killer plans to unveil his next exhibit tonight. And if I can figure out where, we might be able to get there before he does.”

The Sculptor backed his big white van out of the carriage house, made a three-point turn, and drove slowly down the tree-lined dirt driveway. This was the only area of his family’s property that The Sculptor never maintained-thought it best to leave it grassy and overgrown in case any unwanted visitors happened to take a wrong turn off the paved driveway at the front of his house. About halfway down, he stopped the van and got out to move the large tree trunk that he usually left lying about for added protection. No need to replace it once he passed, however; for it was late, and he did not have to worry about any unwanted visitors at this hour.

In no time The Sculptor was back in his van and on his way. He emerged onto the darkened road through the break in the old stone wall that lined his family’s property. There were very few streetlights here, and no sidewalks; most of the homes in The Sculptor’s wealthy East Greenwich neighborhood were, like his own, set back off the road among the trees. Most of the lots were also enclosed by the fieldstone walls that weaved their way for miles through the surrounding woodlands. Indeed, as a boy, The Sculptor and his father had often followed them for hours-sometimes running into their neighbors and chatting with them along the way. But those days were gone, and The Sculptor and his father never spoke to their neighbors anymore.

The Sculptor reached the main road on which he would have to travel for some time. The overall distance was relatively short-and he would drive for the most part along the back roads just to be safe-but here, in the light, with the occasional car passing, he knew he was the most vulnerable, had the greatest chance of being spotted by the police. Such a risk could not be avoided, however; and thus The Sculptor was prepared with an adequate stockpile of loaded weapons under the passenger seat-his Sig Sauer.45 and the double barrel shotgun that had been in his family for years. He also had with him his tranquilizer guns-both the pistol and the sniper’s rifle he had used on Tommy Campbell-just in case he ran into some irresistible bargain material along the way.

Such a prospect, however-as well as his having to use the guns-The Sculptor knew was slim, for when it came right down to it, The Sculptor was not really worried that the police might ever pull him over-even in the daylight. Indeed, the police might actually want to avoid him, for one of the first things The Sculptor had done when he was experimenting with the women was to purchase some additional colors of Starfire auto paint that would enable him to duplicate exactly the Channel 9 Eye-Team logo on the side of his van.

Sam Markham sat at the doctor’s desk-the harsh, speedy pulse of the fluorescent lights battering his tired eyes as he typed the words “topiary garden” and “ Rhode Island ” into the Google search engine.

“But Sam,” said Bill Burrell, leaning over his shoulder, “what makes you so sure The Michelangelo Killer discovered the location for his Bacchus on the Internet?”

“Something the Reverend Bonetti said about their stolen Pietà -that they used to have a picture of it on their Web site. Just bear with me-I’m sort of working backward here.”

Markham clicked on a couple of links; then, unsatisfied, he typed the words “Earl Dodd” and garden Watch Hill without quotes-but still came up empty. Markham thought for a moment, then flipped through his copy of Slumbering in the Stone to the page on the history of Michelangelo’s Bacchus.

“ The Bacchus was originally commissioned by Cardinal Raffaele Riario,’” Markham read aloud. “‘Who rejected it upon its completion on the grounds that the statue was distasteful. We know that by 1506, the Bacchus had found its way into a collection of ancient Roman sculptures belonging Jacopo Galli, Michelangelo’s banker. There the Bacchus lived for some seventy years, weathering the elements at Cancelleria in Galli’s Roman garden, until it was bought by the Medici family and transferred to Florence in 1576.’ ”

Markham typed the words Roman garden and Rhode Island into the search engine.

“Bingo,” he said, and clicked on the sixth result from the top. The link brought him to a Web site titled, Homes of the Elite . A couple more clicks and Special Agent Sam Markham found exactly what he was looking for: a single photograph of Earl Dodd’s topiary garden-no name, no address, just a caption that simply read, “A lovely Roman garden in Rhode Island-overlooking the sea!”

“Jesus Christ,” said Burrell. “He must have driven around for weeks just trying to find the fucking place.”

“And must have thought it nothing short of divine providence when he learned that the owner of his Roman garden was in finance like Jacopo Galli-wouldn’t have settled for anyplace else, I suspect. It’s why he went through so much trouble to display the statue there.”

Markham flipped to Cathy’s chapter on the Rome Pietà. He skimmed, then read aloud, “‘In such a fashion, with the body of Christ illuminated by the natural light falling from above, the Pietà in its original installation must have seemed to the visitors at the Chapel of St. Petronilla as physically accessible yet at the same time untouchable; material yet undoubtedly supernatural-like the Savior himself, corporal yet divine.’“

“You’re searching like he would,” said Burrell. “You’re using Hildebrant’s words to find your destination like you think he did.”