The Sculptor

“I guess that’s what I don’t understand,” said Markham. “Why those last three lines are so troubling to me-that is, if this poem was meant only as a spiritual overture. Although the foundation of Michelangelo’s love for Cavalieri went much deeper than just the physical, from what you’ve told me, Dr. Hildebrant, there was a sexual, homoerotic component to it as well. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“So the line about the beautiful face,” interrupted Burrell. “Are you saying, Sam, that that line doesn’t make sense in conjunction with the rest of the poem unless Dr. Hildebrant’s admirer is a homosexual? Unless she’s a woman?”

“Perhaps. That is, if Dr. Hildebrant’s admirer did in fact understand the original context of the so

“But then that means Dr. Hildebrant’s admirer and Campbell’s killer could not have been the same person. Judging from the size of those footprints in the sand, Campbell ’s killer was well over six feet tall. Any six-foot-five lesbians in your department, Dr. Hildebrant?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“And that sculpture weighed a ton-was almost impossible for one person to handle-and there’s every indication that it was brought to the location intact. You saw for yourself, Sam. It took three of my guys ten minutes to load that thing into the van. That means that the person who carried it all the way from the house next door and up the hill out back is one strong SOB-and we know it was one SOB from the single set of footprints in the sand, a set of footprints that went back and forth only once.”

“Yes.”

“So what’s your opinion now, Sam? You still think the person who sent Dr. Hildebrant those notes is the same person who killed Tommy Campbell? And that this person has to be a homosexual?”

“Perhaps a homosexual,” Cathy interrupted. “But not necessarily a woman.”

“What do you mean?” asked Markham.

“Agent Markham, you said that you thought Michelangelo’s line about coming near to me might not have been meant to be taken literally, right? That maybe my admirer was referring to my work, specifically to my book?”

“Yes.”

“Well, maybe then my admirer was referring not to my face, but to someone else’s.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Burrell, but Cathy saw that Special Agent Markham understood. His eyes at once dropped to the book in his lap, to the copy of Slumbering in the Stone which had been checked out for him at the Westerly Library.

On its cover was the face of Michelangelo’s most famous sculpture.

On its cover was his David.

Chapter 9

The Sculptor stepped out of the shower and toweled off in the middle of his studio. His skin smelled clean, industrially so-like hospital disinfectant, like a job well done. Yes, the only thing out of order now was the pile of dirty clothes in the slop sink. He would not don them again, would not even touch them until it was time to go back to the house. Then he would drop them in the washer and give his father his supper. The Sculptor would not put on a fresh set of clothes either, for The Sculptor loved being naked-looked forward to remaining that way well into the evening, when he would sit in the dim light of the parlor watching his Bacchus plans burn in the fireplace as he sipped his Brunello.

But first The Sculptor needed to check his technology, needed to see if his premiere exhibit had made the news yet. He had been patient, had resisted looking at his monitors until he was finished tidying up his workspace. And so the man once called Christian rode the mortician’s table up to the second floor-the gears of the winch system much quieter now that he had oiled them. He turned off the audio feed from his father’s bedroom-the A-side of Scarlatti now on its fourth time through-and sat naked at his desk, flicking on the sound of the flat-screen TV just as the Fox News Cha

The Sculptor did not recognize the pretty young woman with the red hair and emerald green eyes-for The Sculptor never watched the local news, almost never watched TV at all-and thus did not consider it anything special when the Fox News anchor mentioned that WNRI’s Meghan O’Neill had been the first to break the story. And of course, like the rest of Cha

And so The Sculptor felt somewhat disappointed to learn from the breaking news report that-unless they were doing a good job of hiding it-all the media seemed to know thus far was that the bodies of Tommy Campbell and an unidentified person had been discovered down at Watch Hill, and that both of them had been moved from the site to an “undisclosed location.” And from the way the pretty redhead and the Fox News anchor were trading theories as to Campbell’s co

However, it was not impatience that influenced his decision to telephone the pretty young reporter’s home station, but the sight of a familiar face behind her-more of a grainy shadow, really-in the front seat of what he knew to be an unmarked FBI vehicle. The glimpse of her lasted only a millisecond-would probably have gone u

He would make the telephone call from his cell phone, with a Wal-Mart calling card that still had plenty of minutes left on it. His number would be blocked anyway, but this was just a little more insurance. And of course, there was no need to worry about the ping off the local cell tower. No, he himself had designed the phone’s encrypter to cloak all his calls in and out of the carriage house just in case. Yes, for as much as The Sculptor hated technology, he had resigned himself long ago that he would have to master it in order to complete his work. And so, after a quick search online-a search with a rerouted IP address, of course-The Sculptor muted the television and placed his call.

“Thank you for calling the WNRI Cha