The Sculptor

But now things had to be different; now The Michelangelo Killer had killed for her personally-murdered her ex-husband, used him specifically for his Pietà in what was undoubtedly a gesture of gratitude to Dr. Hildebrant for all her help. Hence, Markham understood there was no other way now except for Cathy to go into hiding. But for how long? And would Cathy even want to once the reality of what had happened sank in? How many times, Markham wondered, had she secretly wished for Steve Rogers to get run over by a truck or to slip on the ice and split his head open? And now, would she ever be able to forgive herself? Would she ever be able to get over the guilt that she was somehow responsible for her ex-husband’s death?

As Markham studied Cathy’s face in the dim light of the hospital room, he thought of Michelle. He wanted to spare Cathy that pain; he wanted to untie the canvas straps that held her down and just carry her away from it all.

Then Markham thought of Steve Rogers strapped down to his bed-the steel table on which The Michelangelo Killer had most likely operated on him, the steel table on which he filmed Rogers ’s last breath.

The epinephrine, Markham thought. The killer gives them a heart attack while they stare at themselves-at the statue they are about to become, above them on a television screen. It’s important they understand-just like Gabriel Banford had to understand way back when. And through the terror of that understanding, the terror of being born again, they awake from their slumber and are freed from the stone-just as Cathy and I suspected.

Markham ’s mind began to wander.

There were chains running up from the side of the table. Looked as if it was suspended from the ceiling-perhaps so it could be raised and lowered like in those Frankenstein movies. A high ceiling. Yes. A winch system-would have to be hooked on a ceiling too high for a cellar. A garage or a warehouse maybe. Money. The killer has money. Lots and lots of money-twenty-five G to blow on a statue.

The Pietà.

“Exactly like the one that was taken three years ago,” he heard the Reverend Robert Bonetti say in his mind. “That one had been donated by a wealthy family a number of years before I arrived here at St. Bart’s.”

A wealthy family…

“We used to have quite an extensive picture gallery on our Web site…One of them, of course, was of our Gambardelli Pietà. Perhaps your man simply recognized it and targeted us that way.”

Markham looked at his watch: 1:03 A.M. Too late to wake up the old priest on a hunch-not even a hunch. A long shot. And a desperate one at that. And besides, he was running out of time; he knew instinctively that something was going to happen this weekend, maybe even tonight-if it hadn’t happened already. If only he knew where.

Where, where, where!

“Cathy,” he whispered in her ear. “Cathy, I need you now.”

Her eyes fluttered, and Markham ’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Sam?” she said groggily-the sedatives fighting to keep her under.

“Yes, Cathy, it’s me. You’re safe. Everything is going to be all right now.”

“Where am I? I can’t move my-”

“You’re all right, Cathy.” Markham said, untying her wrists. “You’re in the hospital. You bumped your head, but you’re fine. The doctors strapped your hands to the bed so you won’t hurt yourself-because you were hysterical. But there, you see? You’re free now. I’m here, Cathy. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“It was Steve, Sam,” Cathy sobbed. “It’s all my fault-”

“Ssh, Cathy. Stop it now. It’s not true. Don’t think like that.”

“But the Pietà. He made Steve into the Pietà for me.”

“Ssh. Cathy, listen to me. You’ve got to stay calm. You’ve got to be strong for me. We don’t have much time. The Michelangelo Killer wouldn’t have sent you that DVD unless he was sure that it wouldn’t hinder his plan, unless he was convinced that it wouldn’t lead us to where he was about to exhibit his Pietà-at least until it was too late for us to catch him.”

“St. Peter’s,” Cathy said, swallowing hard. “The real Pietà is in St. Peter’s.”

“I know, Cathy, but that’s too easy. I’ve got those bases covered, yes, but my gut tells me we’re going in the wrong direction. This guy is too smart for that. You’ve got to think of someplace else the killer might want to exhibit his Pietà.”

Cathy was quiet for a moment, her eyes locked with Markham ’s-the love she saw reflected in them giving her the strength to continue.

“The statue was originally located in the Chapel of St. Petronilla.”

“Yes. St. Petronilla. I read about it in your book-commissioned for the tomb of a French cardinal by the name of Billheres.”