The Sculptor

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 Für Elise-ing 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 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?

“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 buttocks 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.”