“Will do.”
“You should probably look into any reports of statue or marble thefts in the area over the last six years, too. Maybe our man got his marble that way—stole a statue or something and ground it up himself.”
“Right.”
As Dr. Morris went on to give the report from the Metallurgy subunit on the sculpture’s frame, Cathy glanced uneasily over to Sam Markham. Among his paperwork from the Providence office, Markham had also brought with him his copy of
Slumbering in the Stone
. Cathy could not see to which page he had turned, but she knew exactly what he was looking for. And as if reading her mind, Markham looked up from his book to meet its author’s gaze.
“I think Dr. Hildebrant would like to say something,” he said. “Go ahead, Cathy. It’s about Michelangelo’s
Bacchus
, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Cathy said—the room at once was silent. “Although Michelangelo carved his most famous sculptures from blocks of Carrara marble, for his
Bacchus
he used a flawed block of
Roman
marble. That is, marble that was
not
quarried from Carrara.”
“So?” asked Burrell. Cathy looked to Markham, who—nodding understandingly—smiled back at her with his eyes.
“Go ahead, Cathy.”
“Well,” she said, “given what we know about The Michelangelo Killer thus far—about his obsession with detail, about his desire to embody his
Bacchus
in the historical milieu of the original—it seems strange to me that he would knowingly and erroneously use Carrara marble powder for his statue when other types of flawed, low-grade marble of the Roman variety would be readily available to him for much cheaper.”
“I don’t follow,” said Burrell. “And what’s the difference really? The guy is obviously so obsessed with being like Michelangelo that he wanted to use the Carrara marble powder simply because it was Michelangelo’s favorite. Maybe he wanted to improve upon the original—make his
Bacchus
from better stuff than Michelangelo’s.”
“What Dr. Hildebrant is saying,” said Markham, “is that The Michelangelo Killer wouldn’t do that.”
“Why?”
“Because, from what we can tell about this guy, if he had originally planned on acquiring marble powder for his
Bacchus
, he would not have settled for anything other than a type of marble powder more in line with that of Michelangelo’s original. Thus, Dr. Hildebrant is telling you that The Michelangelo Killer used the Carrara marble most likely because he already had it—most likely because he had originally planned on using it for something else. Something more appropriate.”
“What?” asked Bill Burrell.
As Sam Markham held up his copy of
Slumbering in the Stone
, Cathy and the rest of the room saw the page to which he had turned.
It was just as Cathy had suspected.
Sam Markham was holding up a picture of Michelangelo’s
David
.
That afternoon The Sculptor was Christian again. With the females he had called himself Mike or Michael, sometimes Angelo—but now that he was with the boys, it would be Christian.
Chris
for short. Yes.
Had
to be Chris—seemed only fitting, unquestionably more
appropriate
.
Chris.
Chris, Chris, Chris.
Chris sat in his Toyota Camry about three blocks away from the Providence hotel where he had told RounDaWay17 to meet him. This gave Chris a clear view of Kennedy Plaza, where he knew his consort would soon be arriving. Chris had told RounDaWay17 he would compensate him handsomely for the bus trip from Boston, told him he was a businessman from New York City in Providence only for one night, and RounDaWay17 was just what he was looking for. RounDaWay17 told Chris that his real name was Jim; told him that he was twenty-one, but from his pictures, with his shirt off and all, he
really
appeared to be around sixteen or seventeen—probably of Hispanic descent; lean, but not too slight of build—of perfect proportion for The Sculptor’s next project. Of course, The Sculptor would not know for sure until he saw RounDaWay17 in person. Nonetheless, the man who today called himself Chris felt more than satisfied with his choice.
True, it had been hard to tell with the females, and when it came right down to it, both Michael and Angelo never really
understood
the females—never really knew what they were getting even though they had met the ladies in person first, had picked them up at night off the streets of South Providence. However, back then The Sculptor was not nearly as skilled as he was now; he did not know how to cloak his IP address while shopping for his material on Craigslist as he would for clothes at the Gap. Yes, when it came right down to it, back then The Sculptor was little more than an amateur.
Now
, however—almost six years after he first spotted the angel in black at Series X, almost six years after he followed, watched, and
freed
him from his slumber—yes, almost six years after the Goth named Gabe brought him and Dr. Hildy together, The Sculptor had had more than enough time to practice.
And so the man named Chris was elated to see RounDaWay17 step off the bus at Kennedy Plaza and begin heading toward the hotel. Chris rested his elbow on the door and surreptitiously raised a small spyglass to his eye—he did not worry that it was daytime, or that someone might see him. No, the windows of his Camry were tinted and the license plates today were phonies—the car hardly noticeable amidst the countless others that crowded the busy streets of downtown Providence. And as RounDaWay17 made his way across the street with his overnight bag—passing right by the blue Camry—Chris was nearly brought to tears. The Sculptor had chosen his Jesus well—he would be the perfect size to complement his Mary. True, his Mary was not yet complete, but that was something he would take care of this weekend while the material for Jesus cured in the carriage house, in the big stainless steel hospital tub.
The
Pietà
would come together much more quickly than his
Bacchus
—would take much less planning, for the
Pietà
would not require the kind of hard-to-find material that had been needed for
Bacchus
. No, now that he had gotten the world’s attention, now that they had all begun to awaken from their slumber, The Sculptor understood that he could use the material that was readily available to him—
bargain
material that would serve the purpose just as nicely.
Besides, the most important part of his
Pietà
involved Dr. Hildy. Oh yes, he would have to thank her in some way for all her help; he would have to show her how truly grateful he was by giving her something much more than just an inscription on the base of a statue—an idea that seemed kind of silly to him now. Yes, The Sculptor hated the Internet, hated television and the media, but had understood from the beginning that part of his work would have to include the daily monitoring of the sales of
Slumbering in the Stone
and other books on Michelangelo, as well as keeping track of the public’s growing interest in the artist as a whole—the specials on the documentary channels, the magazine articles, the talk shows, the search engines, etcetera, etcetera. And although Dr. Hildy had not yet granted any interviews, although she had not yet spoken in public about her book, The Sculptor was thrilled nonetheless at the snowballing success of his
Bacchus
—success that only The Sculptor and perhaps the FBI knew was due in large part to good ol’ Dr. Hildy.
Yes,
Chris said to himself as he started his car.
There will be time to thank her later. That’s what this weekend is for
.
His mind back on his prey, Chris let RounDaWay17 disappear down a side street before pulling out into traffic and looping around the block to intercept him. He slid into a parking spot at the curb and adjusted the rearview mirror—a hand over his slicked blond hair and a nudge of his glasses in as he waited for the young man to approach from the sidewalk.
“Jim?” called Chris, rolling down his window. RounDaWay17 stopped—startled, his eyes narrowing. Michael and Angelo had seen that look with the females, too—that red, hungry look of desperation, suspicion, poor judgment. From RounDaWay17’s pictures, however, Chris did not think the boy liked needles in the way the Goth named Gabe had, or like some of the females he found in South Providence. Of course, he wouldn’t know for sure until he got RounDaWay17 back to the carriage house, but hoped that—if in fact RounDaWay17 did like needles—the marks would be on the back of the legs like with the females.
But then again, those females had been bad material all around.
“It’s me, Jim.
Chris
.”
A light flickered in the young man’s eyes. Instinctively he scanned the street, then glanced quickly at Chris’s license plate. The females had done that, too.
“Oh my God,” said Chris as RounDaWay17 approached his window. “I’m so glad I ran into you before you got to the hotel. I was just going to leave a message for you at the front desk, but you saved me the trouble. They screwed up my reservation. I know I told you the Westin but I’m going to be staying at the Marriott instead. It’s over on Orms Street. Hop in.”
RounDaWay17 scanned the street again—the instinct, the suspicion.
“Or I can just meet you there,” Chris said, smiling. “It’s a bit of a walk, so you’ll have to grab a taxi. It’s up to you.”
RounDaWay17 hesitated only for a moment, then quickly made his way around to the passenger’s side—his overnight bag in the backseat.
Then they were off.
“I have to say, Jim,” Chris began after a moment. “You’re much better looking than your pictures.”
RounDaWay17 smiled thinly. Chris could see that the young man was nervous; he knew that he would soon start telling him how he hadn’t been at this long—perhaps might even say that this was his first time, as some of the females had. But just as Michael and Angelo had been smart enough to know that the females were lying, Chris was also smart enough to know that—if in fact RounDaWay17
did
leap into such a narrative—the young man most likely would be lying, too.
Chris stopped at the traffic light for the on-ramp—Cranston, Route 10.
He was first in line.
That was fortunate.
“You ever been there?” asked Chris, pointing past RounDaWay17 to the Providence Place Mall.
“Coupla times,” said the young man.
“Maybe when we’re finished I’ll get you something nice.”
RounDaWay17 smiled again—wider, more relaxed.
The light turned green. Chris headed for the on-ramp.
“We going to Cranston?” asked RounDaWay17.
“You see the sign for that new clothing store up there?” Chris replied. And as RounDaWay17 craned his neck to look out the passenger side window—unwittingly baring his jugular—in a flash The Sculptor hit his target.
The
hiss-pop
of the gun startled the young man more than the pain of the dart, and RounDaWay17’s hand automatically went to his neck—his fingers closing around the dart at the same time he met his attacker’s gaze. But the damage was done, and just before RounDaWay17’s eyes glazed over, The Sculptor could see in them the grim flicker of realization, of
fear
.
Then the boy was out—slumped over and sleeping soundly in the passenger seat before The Sculptor even reached the highway.
The Sculptor pulled the dart from the boy’s neck, removed his wig and his glasses, and put everything under the seat. He looked in the rearview mirror—a hand over his bald shaved head.
Now again he was The Sculptor. And now again he was smiling; for The Sculptor knew that the next time RounDaWay17 opened his eyes, he would awaken in the arms of divine release.
“What’s bothering you, Cathy?”
It was late in the afternoon, and they were stuck in traffic at the Route 93/95 interchange—had hardly spoken a word to one another following the teleconference, the paperwork, and Cathy’s long orientation with Personnel.
“My life,” Cathy whispered suddenly. “My whole life has been dedicated to the work of Michelangelo. And now I’ll never be able to look at his statues, teach a class—never will be able to even
think
about him the same way again—I mean, without thinking about…”
Cathy trailed off into a quiet stream of tears. And as the Trailblazer inched slowly forward, Markham reached out his hand for hers. She let him take it—felt her fingers melt into his.
“I’m sorry,” was all the FBI agent said.
But for Cathy Hildebrant, it was enough. And once the Trailblazer found its way onto Route 95, once the traffic picked up and they were on their way again, Cathy realized her tears had dried.
The two of them drove the rest of the way to Cranston in silence.
Sam Markham, however, did not let go of Cathy’s hand.
“I’ll be flying off to Washington tomorrow,” he said, parking in front of the Polks’ house. “Official business and to gather the rest of my things—will be back Monday morning. We’ve still got people looking after you, but I want you to call me if you need anything. Even if you just want to talk. Okay, Cathy?”
“Only if you promise to do the same.”
Markham smiled.
“I promise.”
“Okay. I promise, too.”
Then Cathy did something she had never done before in her life: unsolicited and of her own accord, she leaned over and kissed a man on the cheek.
“Thank you, Sam,” she said, and was gone.
Only when she was safe inside the Polks’ kitchen, only when Janet asked her how her day had gone, did Cathy realize what she had done. And just as the shy art history professor began to giggle, back on the road Markham checked his face in the rearview mirror.
He was still blushing.
“Shake off your slumber, O son of God.”
Why is Papa speaking English?
The seventeen-year-old runaway from Virginia Beach smiled—happy to be home again. But for some reason his bed was cold and hard this morning, and he could feel his heart pounding in his back and in his side against—
The bus station floor. I fell asleep again at the bus station.
Paul Jimenez cracked his eyes—a bright ball of light stinging them to slits.
No
, he thought.
Something else. I can’t wake up
.
“Bad shit,” he heard himself whisper. “Eliot, you motherfuck—”
But then Paul Jimenez remembered that he didn’t talk to Eliot anymore—had not even seen him in over six months, ever since the pigs picked him up for stealing those checks. And Paul never used that shit like Eliot did—never used that shit
at all
anymore. He had been lucky with that, had been warned about that shit almost a year ago on his first day in town by the guy he met at the Boston Public Library; the guy who smiled a big gold-tooth smile when Paul said he was clean; the guy who told him about the big bucks a kid like Paul could make on Arlington Street as long as he stayed clean.
“You start taking that shit, though,”
the guy had said,
“and you’re done, son. Hawks ain’t gonna drop that kinda coin for a junkie. Fresh and clean. Remember that.”
Paul’s eyes fluttered wide, and amidst a bright white haze the young man suddenly understood that he was not on the bus station floor; he was not even on the floor at Brian’s—that cold hardwood floor on which he had been crashing with his friends for the last couple of months, and on which a roach tried to crawl in his ear. But he was lying down—yes, could feel something steel-hard on his back and buttocks. And he was groggy, felt like he couldn’t move—
had to be doped up on something
. Yet at the same time he felt his veins pumping with energy, with the light above him, with the heart pounding beat of—
Music? Somebody slip me shit at the club? Some bathroom floor in Chinatown?
For a moment Paul thought he could see the dance floor, the lights flashing on the college boys—some looking for it for free, some looking to make some extra money to get their Abercrombie & Fitch fix. All the same.
Roofie motherfuckers
.
“That’s it,” said the man’s voice—a voice that Paul recognized from someplace. “Come forth from the stone.”
Paul tried to speak, but his throat hurt—felt like he had swallowed a glass full of needles. Then he felt a dull prick, a tug on his forearm. His heart was racing—even more so than when he confessed to Papa that he liked boys; even more so than when Papa shut him in the hotel room with that prostitute hoping that he would come out a man; even more so than when Papa drove him to the Greyhound station, bought him a bus ticket to Boston, and told him never to come home again. But this was a different kind of heartbeat—harder,
more painful
—a heartbeat that he could feel all the way down to his fingers and toes, the tips of which felt like they wanted to pop.
“Where am I?” Paul asked, his voice cracking. The edges of the light before him solidified into a white rectangle—
Must be the Strand
, he thought—the shit-bag movie theatre where, as “Jim,” he used to meet his clients in the back row for a quick swallow or no swallow—ten percent of either going to the theatre manager, of course. But that was before he started using the computer at the library; that was before he set himself up in business online—where the
real
money was. Yeah, he still worked Arlington Street sometimes, but only in a pinch; only when—
No
, Paul thought.
It ain’t the Strand
—screen was too sharp, too close to his face in the darkness. And then Paul’s senses, Paul’s memory came back to him in one big rush—the images in his beating blood filling his brain like water in a balloon.
The man in the car. The big man in the suit. Chris. Was going well. Was buying Jim’s innocent act. Then he spit at me—no, pinched me in the neck; smiled at me when I
—
Instinctively Paul tried to sit up, tried to separate himself from the cold steel behind him—but his head would not move, would not even turn from side to side. And he felt something on his shoulders—hairy and itchy. Paul tried to lift his hands, but his wrists were tied down; and although he could not see his chest, his thighs, or his ankles, he understood all at once that the man named Chris had strapped him down to a table.
Naked
.
It’s finally happened
, Paul thought, his mind scrambling for what to do.
I finally got myself in with a loco
.
Sure, during his year on the streets of Boston, Paul had run into his share of freaks—had even let a hawk dress “Jim” up in a diaper once and whip him with a belt. Probably should have gone to the hospital after that one, but the money from that gig was so good he was able to rest up at Brian’s for a couple of weeks before going back to work. But now something was
really
wrong. He had been slipped something—could feel it in his chest, in his hands and feet, pumping hard, pumping
painfully
.
He had to think.
Fast
.
“I’ll roll which-you, lover,” he said as Jim. “But you gotta tell me what’s what first. Turn on the lights so I can see you, baby.” Paul’s voice felt sharp, clear, but seemed to disappear in front of him—sucked up dead into the darkness. Then suddenly the screen above him flickered into life.
The image floating before Paul’s eyes was that of a statue—dirty white marble against the darkness, floating just inches from his face. Paul recognized it immediately. It was the Jesus and Mary statue from atop his mother’s dresser; the small white figurine that she’d had since before he was born—the one he was never allowed to touch; the one she used to look at when she’d say her rosaries.
The
Pietà, Paul said to himself.
That’s what she used to call it. The
Pietà.
Yes, there was Mary, draped in her flowing robes and staring down at the crucified Jesus in her arms—the very same version of Jesus that Paul had stared at so many times when his parents were out working. The memories came flooding back to him at once: the strange excitement at first; then, when he was older, the guilt he felt upon looking at Jesus’ body—a virtually
naked
body that even by the age of six had already begun to cause a strange stirring in his Toughskins.
“I gotch-you,” said Paul, said Jim. “This is what you’re into, it’s cool. But let’s talk business first so we can enjoy ourselves. Okay, lover?”
“Ssh,” said the voice again. “Look at the screen, O son of God.”
Paul knew it was Chris—the guy from the car, the guy from the Internet. Paul could feel himself beginning to panic—his mind racing in time with his heart. He had to stay calm, had to think clearly, had to fight the shit this prick had slipped him. Then suddenly the image of the statue shifted, and began closing in on the face of Jesus.
“That’s it,” said Chris from the darkness, from somewhere off to Paul’s right. “Shake off your slumber, O son of God.”
As did Tommy Campbell on the mortician’s table three months earlier, Paul tried to turn his head, tried to find the owner of the voice, but could see nothing except the image of the statue before him, which now had settled on a close-up of Jesus’ face. It was just as Paul remembered it, but better—
much more detailed than the cheap souvenir copy that had been his mother’s
. A face that was serene, at peace with death. A face that, even in his panic, Paul could not help but find simply beautiful.
“Seriously, lover—I getch-you. We can do whatever you want, but that shit you gave me is hurting me inside. And I gotta clean myself in back, baby. Know what I mean?”
Paul was telling the truth about the painful pounding in his veins, but as far as
getting
with this guy?
No way
. Soon as this
loco
untied him he was
out
—would kick him hard in the balls and make a dash for the door. Yes, Paul would take his chances naked outside. After all, even
Jim
could tell this guy was
fucked up
.
Paul strained hard against the straps when the image before him began to move again. And just as Tommy Campbell had become transfixed by the body of Bacchus scrolling before him, Paul Jimenez watched as the screen slowly panned down over Jesus’ chest—to the subtle indication of the wound in His side, to the small nail mark in His right hand, down His legs, and coming to rest on the wounds in His feet.
Suddenly—be it from the instincts of a hustler, the shit pumping through his veins, or both—all at once Paul understood. Yes, all at once Paul was overcome with the sweeping terror of knowing deep down that Chris—
or whatever the fuck his name really was
—meant to kill him.
“You motherfucker!” he screamed, his skin breaking out into cold sweat. “You let me go now and I won’t say nothin’. I got friends. They gonna know who you are, you dumb motherfucker! I told them where I was going! They gonna find you on the computer, you stupid fuck!”
No reply—except the painful pounding of his heart. The image on the screen flickered and changed, and then Paul saw only himself,
saw only his face
as he struggled against his restraints. He did not pause to ponder the strap and the wig of long wavy hair that had been placed on his head—the wig of long wavy hair that he knew right away was meant to look like Jesus’ hair.
“Help!” Paul screamed as the image on the screen began to pan down over his body. “Somebody help me!” Paul did not care to look for the camera, did not try to see who was filming him. No, for Paul there was one thought and one thought only:
Get me the fuck out of here or I will die!
Paul pulled frantically at the straps, watching the screen with pounding terror as the camera moved down his body. He strained harder when he saw the strap across his chest, and as he did so, he saw the wound in his side split open and begin to run red down his rib cage. Instinctively he stopped. No pain, but the feeling of something warm and wet in his hands. And thus, even before the camera reached them, Paul knew what he would see. He began to cry.
“Please, God,” he said—the sight of the gaping holes in the back of his hands making him nauseous. “Don’t do this to me, please! I’ll go straight. I promise! I don’t wanna die. I wanna go home. I promise you, God.”
Paul began to convulse—the shit, the fear pumping through his veins now one and the same. His eyes felt like they would burst. He tried to shut them, tried to keep them in their sockets, but an invisible touch from behind overpowered him.
“Keep watching,” said Chris—his fingers resting gently on Paul’s eyelids and propping them open. “Keep watching and you will understand. Keep watching and you will be
free
.”
The image on the screen had come to rest on Paul’s feet—jerking, bleeding profusely from the holes that The Sculptor had spiked in them. Paul tried to turn his head, tried to look away from the horror of what had been done to him, but the tears in his eyes seemed only to make the image before him clearer.
“Please, God—I don’t wanna go to Hell…”
And as his heart exhausted itself in a final surge of adrenaline, more than from the terror of succumbing to The Sculptor’s chisel, the spirit of Paul Jimenez took flight on the wings of—
No one knows my name
.
No one knows my name
.