The Sculptor Part 12

It's finally happened, Paul thought, his mind scrambling for what to do. I finally got myself in with a loco 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 really wrong. He had been slipped something-could feel it in his chest, in his hands and feet, pumping hard, pumping wrong. He had been slipped something-could feel it in his chest, in his hands and feet, pumping hard, pumping painfully painfully.

He had to think. Fast 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 Pieta, Paul said to himself. Pieta, Paul said to himself. That's what she used to call it. The That's what she used to call it. The Pieta. Pieta.

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 naked body that even by the age of six had already begun to cause a strange stirring in his Toughskins. 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 G.o.d."

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 s.h.i.+t this p.r.i.c.k had slipped him. Then suddenly the image of the statue s.h.i.+fted, 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 G.o.d."

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 s.h.i.+t 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 getting with this guy? with this guy? No way No way. Soon as this loco loco untied him he was untied him he was out out-would kick him hard in the b.a.l.l.s and make a dash for the door. Yes, Paul would take his chances naked outside. After all, even Jim Jim could tell this guy was could tell this guy was f.u.c.ked up f.u.c.ked 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 s.h.i.+t 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 f.u.c.k his name really was-meant to kill him.

"You motherf.u.c.ker!" 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 motherf.u.c.ker! I told them where I was going! They gonna find you on the computer, you stupid f.u.c.k!"

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 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. 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 f.u.c.k out of here or I will die! Get me the f.u.c.k 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, G.o.d," 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, G.o.d."

Paul began to convulse-the s.h.i.+t, 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 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, G.o.d-I don't wanna go to h.e.l.l..."

And as his heart exhausted itself in a final surge of adrenaline, more than from the terror of succ.u.mbing 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.

Chapter 22.

In tears, Cathy Hildebrant closed her laptop and flicked off the bedside lamp. It was late, and she was tired. Overtired Overtired, she thought, and perhaps a bit overemotional as well and perhaps a bit overemotional as well. Yet despite her rational side's whisper of rea.s.surance, Cathy could not help but feel profoundly disturbed upon finis.h.i.+ng the online Providence Journal Providence Journal account of Tommy Campbell's funeral-not because she was so touched by the fact that the entire Rebel team had flown in for the private, closed-casket ceremony down in Westerly; not because she was so moved by the line quoted from the eulogy given by Campbell's childhood best friend: account of Tommy Campbell's funeral-not because she was so touched by the fact that the entire Rebel team had flown in for the private, closed-casket ceremony down in Westerly; not because she was so moved by the line quoted from the eulogy given by Campbell's childhood best friend: "He made a career of catching pa.s.ses, but a lifetime of catching hearts." "He made a career of catching pa.s.ses, but a lifetime of catching hearts." No, what had driven Cathy to tears were the two lines at the end of the article-a little blurb, almost an afterthought, mentioning that a small private ceremony had been held in Cranston on Sunday morning, too. No, what had driven Cathy to tears were the two lines at the end of the article-a little blurb, almost an afterthought, mentioning that a small private ceremony had been held in Cranston on Sunday morning, too.

And so Cathy cried herself to sleep with thoughts of Michael Wenick-a nagging voice in the back of her mind that wondered if The Michelangelo Killer hadn't also read the article; a voice that at the same time taunted her with, "See? He was right!" "See? He was right!" even as it cried, even as it cried, "Shame on you, World! Shame on you for not seeing the satyr behind the Bacchus!" "Shame on you, World! Shame on you for not seeing the satyr behind the Bacchus!" But Cathy But Cathy did did see the satyr-could not think of the Wenicks sitting in St. Mark's Church without seeing that distorted face, that ghoulish smile munching on the stolen grapes. Yes, Cathy saw the satyr see the satyr-could not think of the Wenicks sitting in St. Mark's Church without seeing that distorted face, that ghoulish smile munching on the stolen grapes. Yes, Cathy saw the satyr all too well all too well-saw it floating next to her in the darkness of the Polks' guest room as clearly if she had crawled inside Michael Wenick's coffin with a flashlight.

It was just after midnight when Cathy awoke with a start. She had been dreaming of her mother-her heart still pounding from the chase down the street, from her close call with the van.

Mom was supposed to pick me up at school, Cathy thought. But she drove right past me in that strange, long black car. Somebody else was driving-she screamed to me out the window. I tried to run after her-ran out into traffic. But my legs were too heavy. Would have gotten killed by that van if I didn't wake up But she drove right past me in that strange, long black car. Somebody else was driving-she screamed to me out the window. I tried to run after her-ran out into traffic. But my legs were too heavy. Would have gotten killed by that van if I didn't wake up.

For as often as she thought of her mother, for as much as she missed her mother, Cathy rarely dreamt of her mother. And more than she feared those memories of her encounter with The Michelangelo Killer's Bacchus Bacchus down at Watch Hill-memories that for two weeks now had been her constant companion in the dark at bedtime-Cathy was so disturbed by the strangeness of her nightmare that she turned on the light. down at Watch Hill-memories that for two weeks now had been her constant companion in the dark at bedtime-Cathy was so disturbed by the strangeness of her nightmare that she turned on the light.

Cathy's eyes landed on her copy of Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone on the nightstand. Her dream quickly evaporating, the residue of her fear, however, remained. And for reasons Cathy Hildebrant would never quite understand, she instinctively opened on the nightstand. Her dream quickly evaporating, the residue of her fear, however, remained. And for reasons Cathy Hildebrant would never quite understand, she instinctively opened Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone to a page she had dog-eared the night before-just one of the many she had marked with the hopes of later finding a key into The Michelangelo Killer's mind. to a page she had dog-eared the night before-just one of the many she had marked with the hopes of later finding a key into The Michelangelo Killer's mind.

The photograph at the top of the page was a detail of Michelangelo's Night Night, one of six marble figures the artist carved from 15201534 for the Medici Chapel in the Church of San Lorenzo, Florence-for the tombs of Dukes Giuliano and Lorenzo de'Medici specifically. The two marble facades were almost identical in their conception-each with an idealized marble statue of the Medici duke seated in a shallow niche above the sarcophagus that contained his remains. Two nude allegorical figures reclined on each of the curved sarcophagi lids-Night and and Day Day for Giuliano, for Giuliano, Dusk Dusk and and Dawn Dawn for Lorenzo. The text to which Cathy had unconsciously turned read as follows: for Lorenzo. The text to which Cathy had unconsciously turned read as follows: With regard to Night Night specifically, scholars have long pondered over the unusual shape of the figure's left breast. As I mentioned previously in our discussion of the proportional ratios in the specifically, scholars have long pondered over the unusual shape of the figure's left breast. As I mentioned previously in our discussion of the proportional ratios in the Rome Pieta Rome Pieta, art historians-and more recently, even plastic surgeons-have long argued that the execution of Night Night's left breast once again reflects the artist's supposed unconcern or unfamiliarity with the nude female figure. True, as in all of Michelangelo's females, the b.r.e.a.s.t.s are misshapen and awkwardly "slapped onto" an undeniably masculine torso. However-even though there is a consensus amongst modern scholars that the unusual appearance of Night Night's left breast is intentional and not a result of an aesthetic error or the statue's slightly unfinished state-in a recent study of the figure, an oncologist with the Cancer Treatment Centers of America found in Night Night's left breast three abnormalities a.s.sociated with locally advanced breast cancer: a large bulge to the breast contour medial to the nipple; a swollen nipple-areola complex; and an area of skin retraction just lateral to the nipple-all of which indicate a tumor just medial to the nipple.As the noted oncologist accurately points out, these abnormalities do not appear in the right breast of Night Night or in the companion figure of or in the companion figure of Dawn Dawn-or in any other of Michelangelo's female figures for that matter. Hence, the evidence strongly suggests that Michelangelo used for his model a woman-dead or alive-with advanced breast cancer, and thus accurately reproduced the physical anomalies in marble.Yet, despite the detail of the diseased breast itself, curiously, once again we see both b.r.e.a.s.t.s awkwardly joined with a masculine frame-as if Michelangelo's understanding of the female could go no further than a narrow and objective appraisal of the "parts" which differentiate the two s.e.xes, but could never quite grasp how those parts worked together within the whole. Then again, there is the theory that Michelangelo might have intentionally intentionally sculpted his female figures as such-masculine with female parts-simply because, as we discussed earlier, he viewed the male body as aesthetically superior. sculpted his female figures as such-masculine with female parts-simply because, as we discussed earlier, he viewed the male body as aesthetically superior.Nevertheless, given that Michelangelo depicted lumps in only one of the four naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s that adorn the Medici Chapel-and given that Night Night, the "darkest" and most allegorically ominous of all the figures, should be the one depicted with the ravaging disease-there can be no doubt that Michelangelo not only recognized the lump as not just an aesthetic anomaly, but also intentionally sculpted Night Night's "disease of the b.r.e.a.s.t.s"-a disease during the Renaissance which was thought to have been caused by an excess of black black bile-as just one of the many subtle details that comprise the metaphorical statement of the facade as a whole. However, the degree to which Michelangelo bile-as just one of the many subtle details that comprise the metaphorical statement of the facade as a whole. However, the degree to which Michelangelo understood understood the disease as a form of cancer-that is, if he understood the reason behind the lumpy breast in a context other than traditional Renaissance "humor-based" medicine-is still open for debate. the disease as a form of cancer-that is, if he understood the reason behind the lumpy breast in a context other than traditional Renaissance "humor-based" medicine-is still open for debate.

Against the collage of disjointed images that had been her dream, Cathy sat up in the Polks' guest bed searching the photograph of Night Night for a long time. She remembered vividly the circ.u.mstances surrounding the picture-a picture she had snapped on her old Nikon while still a graduate student at Harvard. At the time she had for a long time. She remembered vividly the circ.u.mstances surrounding the picture-a picture she had snapped on her old Nikon while still a graduate student at Harvard. At the time she had never never thought she would use it for a book, let alone in such a prophetic context with regard to the disease that murdered her mother. Indeed, it was on the very afternoon that Cathy dropped off the film of thought she would use it for a book, let alone in such a prophetic context with regard to the disease that murdered her mother. Indeed, it was on the very afternoon that Cathy dropped off the film of Night Night at the photo lab in Florence that her mother dropped the terrible news over the telephone. at the photo lab in Florence that her mother dropped the terrible news over the telephone.

"I don't want you to worry, Cat," Kyon Kim had said. Kyon Kim had said. "We Korean women are strong. I'm gonna be just fine." "We Korean women are strong. I'm gonna be just fine."

More than the pain her memories brought with them, more than the wicked irony of the chapter she had written while her mother was undergoing treatment in Boston, which since had become an inadvertent testament to her as well, Cathy could not shake the terrible feeling that something beyond beyond her dream-something that her dream-something that went much deeper went much deeper than the lasting image of her mother screaming as the long black car raced past Eden Park Elementary School-had compelled her to turn to the section on than the lasting image of her mother screaming as the long black car raced past Eden Park Elementary School-had compelled her to turn to the section on Night Night and breast cancer. and breast cancer.

"Yes, Dr. Freud," Cathy said aloud. "I see the blatant symbolism. The long black car is cancer. The long black car belongs to Mr. Death. He's the driver I can't see-my mother sitting in the pa.s.senger seat beside him as he whisks her away. I don't want him to take her."

But the statue of Night, replied a voice in her head. Night, replied a voice in her head. Your compulsion to turn to the photograph taken on the very same day your mother told you she had breast cancer. Quite a coincidence, wasn't that, Cat? But you didn't make the connection back then, did you? Back in Florence? Only years later when you were working on your book-when your mother had already taken a turn for the worse-did you realize the irony of that day. Almost as if the G.o.ds were trying to warn you back then, Cathy-but you were incapable of hearing them Your compulsion to turn to the photograph taken on the very same day your mother told you she had breast cancer. Quite a coincidence, wasn't that, Cat? But you didn't make the connection back then, did you? Back in Florence? Only years later when you were working on your book-when your mother had already taken a turn for the worse-did you realize the irony of that day. Almost as if the G.o.ds were trying to warn you back then, Cathy-but you were incapable of hearing them.

"Are you trying to warn me of something, Mom?" Cathy asked. Her eyes fell back to the page, to the text below the detail of Night Night.

Hence, the evidence strongly suggests that Michelangelo used for his model a woman-dead or alive-with advanced breast cancer, and thus accurately reproduced the physical anomalies in marble.

"A woman, dead or alive," Cathy said to herself. Again, she read and reread the text which followed, so sure that she was missing something, so sure that there was a hidden connection between her dream and the statue of Night Night, between the circ.u.mstances surrounding the evolution of the chapter and the words on the page to which she had turned-words that held a clue into the mind of The Michelangelo Killer.

A message within a message, Cathy thought. See it before it slips away. See it before it slips away.

Mother, coincidence in Florence, breast cancer, Night.

Dream of Mother, compulsion to look at Night, Night, b.r.e.a.s.t.s, The Michelangelo Killer. b.r.e.a.s.t.s, The Michelangelo Killer.

"What's the connection?"

Yet, despite the detail of the diseased breast itself, curiously, once again we see both b.r.e.a.s.t.s awkwardly joined with a masculine frame-as if Michelangelo's understanding of the female could go no further than a narrow and objective appraisal of the "parts" which differentiate the two s.e.xes, but could never quite grasp how those parts worked together within the whole.

"Parts within the whole," Cathy whispered, scanning frantically the words she had written over seven years ago. "Parts, parts, parts..."

Then again, there is the theory that Michelangelo might have intentionally intentionally sculpted his female figures as such-masculine with female parts-simply because, as we discussed earlier, he viewed the male body as aesthetically superior. sculpted his female figures as such-masculine with female parts-simply because, as we discussed earlier, he viewed the male body as aesthetically superior.

Masculine with female parts, Cathy said to herself. The male body as aesthetically superior The male body as aesthetically superior.

A statement, intentional, a message to the viewer? A message from Michelangelo, from The Michelangelo Killer? A dream, a message from Mom?

What the f.u.c.k?

Mom. A woman. Dead or alive? Night. Night. A woman. Dead or alive? A woman. Dead or alive?

No.

Mom. Mom's cancer. Disease. Breast cancer. b.r.e.a.s.t.s? b.r.e.a.s.t.s? The Michelangelo Killer and b.r.e.a.s.t.s?

Am I going crazy?

Perhaps, replied Sam Markham in her mind. replied Sam Markham in her mind.

Cathy closed the book and returned it to the nightstand-her thoughts now a jumbled mess; the connection between her dream and her search for The Michelangelo Killer-a connection of which she had been so sure so sure upon turning to upon turning to Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone-quickly fading into a gnawing sense of foolishness.

You're a psychic now, too? asked a mocking voice in her head-a voice that sounded a lot like Steve Rogers. asked a mocking voice in her head-a voice that sounded a lot like Steve Rogers.

Cathy dismissed it and turned off the light. She lay there a long time, unable to sleep-her mind racing with the jigsaw puzzle that had become her life.

"We're missing something," she whispered in the dark. "Aren't we, Mom? Sam and I, the FBI-all of us. There's something right there in front of us-just below the surface like the lump in Night Night's breast. We see it but we don't understand. We see it but we look right past it. Is that what you're trying to tell me, Kyon Kim? Please, Mom, help me understand."

As if chiseled from the lips of its marble namesake, the brutal silence of night was Cathy's only reply. She had the urge to call Sam Markham, but because of the hour resolved to wait. Yes, best to talk to him after he gets back today-after she had time to sort things out. And so, with thoughts of Samuel P. Markham-the "P." "P." standing for standing for "Professor Hildy Has a Crush On" "Professor Hildy Has a Crush On"-Cathy Hildebrant fell asleep.

Chapter 23.

As Cathy finally drifted off to sleep, Sam Markham-at home in his study with his feet on his desk-felt not the slightest bit sleepy when the clock in the bookcase ticked past 3:00 A.M. A.M. He would be flying back to Rhode Island in a few hours, and would have plenty of time to once again look over the material from Thursday's briefing in the FBI plane that would transport him from Quantico to Providence. But something was bothering him; something wasn't right; something needed to be addressed now. He would be flying back to Rhode Island in a few hours, and would have plenty of time to once again look over the material from Thursday's briefing in the FBI plane that would transport him from Quantico to Providence. But something was bothering him; something wasn't right; something needed to be addressed now.

In his lap was the report on the Plastination process from Dr. Morris-much of which had been taken from the Body Worlds/Inst.i.tute for Plastination Web sites. And after carefully reviewing the entire printout, Markham had to agree with Gunther von Hagens, the inventor of Plastination, who said in his introduction that, like most successful inventions, Plastination is simple in theory.

Simple.

That was the word that kept bothering Markham.

Simple.

Yes, with the right equipment, it seemed to Markham that-at least on the surface-the Plastination process would be "simple" enough for anyone anyone to execute. After decomposition was halted by pumping formalin into the veins and arteries, the key, as von Hagens said, was having the means to pull the liquid polymer into each cell by a process he called "forced vacuum impregnation," wherein, after the initial fluid exchange step-the step in which water and fatty tissues are removed by submerging the body in an acetone bath-the specimen is placed in a vacuum chamber and the pressure reduced to the point where the acetone boils. The acetone is then suctioned out of the tissue the moment it vaporizes, and the resulting vacuum in the specimen causes the polymer solution to permeate the tissue. This exchange process is allowed to continue until all of the tissue has been completely saturated-a few days for thin slices; weeks for whole bodies. to execute. After decomposition was halted by pumping formalin into the veins and arteries, the key, as von Hagens said, was having the means to pull the liquid polymer into each cell by a process he called "forced vacuum impregnation," wherein, after the initial fluid exchange step-the step in which water and fatty tissues are removed by submerging the body in an acetone bath-the specimen is placed in a vacuum chamber and the pressure reduced to the point where the acetone boils. The acetone is then suctioned out of the tissue the moment it vaporizes, and the resulting vacuum in the specimen causes the polymer solution to permeate the tissue. This exchange process is allowed to continue until all of the tissue has been completely saturated-a few days for thin slices; weeks for whole bodies.

Weeks.

And simple in theory, yes. But even if The Michelangelo Killer did did have the money and intelligence to set up his own Plastination lab, unless he had a bunch of body parts lying around- have the money and intelligence to set up his own Plastination lab, unless he had a bunch of body parts lying around- Yes. It was that that little detail that was bothering Sam Markham the most. The printout from the Body Worlds Web site made it abundantly clear where the Inst.i.tute for Plastination (IFP) in Heidelberg, Germany, "acquired" its specimens-the majority of which came from its "donation program," wherein IFP donors legally signed over their bodies to be Plastinated by von Hagens and his crew after their deaths. little detail that was bothering Sam Markham the most. The printout from the Body Worlds Web site made it abundantly clear where the Inst.i.tute for Plastination (IFP) in Heidelberg, Germany, "acquired" its specimens-the majority of which came from its "donation program," wherein IFP donors legally signed over their bodies to be Plastinated by von Hagens and his crew after their deaths.

"But who are are these people?" Markham asked out loud. "What are their names?" these people?" Markham asked out loud. "What are their names?"

Markham sifted through the printout again, unable to find the names of donors anywhere. Yes Yes. It was the feel of the information he was reading; the feel of the whole von Hagens/Body Worlds/Inst.i.tute for Plastination mind-set. A mind-set that, despite a brief and somewhat hollow overture of thanks to its donors both dead and alive, spoke of their bodies simply as a commodity, as material material for the wide-ranging industry of anatomical study-an industry that was sorely in need of plastinated supplies. for the wide-ranging industry of anatomical study-an industry that was sorely in need of plastinated supplies.

Having been around many dead bodies himself, Sam Markham understood the need for objectivity in the world of medicine and anatomical study as much as he did the need for it in his line of work-understood all too well the need for detachment when looking at a murder victim in order to get his job done. So, yes, Markham could on one hand see the practicality of the industry-the need to treat the donated bodies simply as material. However, it was also clear to Markham that, with regard to the Body World exhibits themselves-exhibits in which its skinless subjects were posed sipping coffee, throwing karate kicks, even riding horses-the creators were subconsciously sending a message to the public that they should see the figures not only as "frozen in life," but at the same time were asking them to look at just the body itself, completely divorced from the real life that had once activated it.

No, we should never ask who these people really were.

Markham thought of The Michelangelo Killer-of the kind of mind, the kind of spirit it would take to create the horror that was his Bacchus Bacchus. Over his thirteen-year career with the FBI, Markham had learned there was always a certain amount of objectification that went on in the mind of a serial killer with regard to the perception of his victims. But with The Michelangelo Killer, things seemed quite different.

Tommy Campbell and Michael Wenick were just material for his exhibition, he said to himself. Just as the epoxy compound and the wood and the iron and everything else was. Just one component of his art, of his message, of his quest to wake us from our slumber. Just as the epoxy compound and the wood and the iron and everything else was. Just one component of his art, of his message, of his quest to wake us from our slumber.

Material.

Markham flipped to the page in Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone that he had dog-eared a couple of hours earlier-to the quote from Michelangelo which he had underlined in red: that he had dog-eared a couple of hours earlier-to the quote from Michelangelo which he had underlined in red: "The more the marble wastes, the more the statue grows." "The more the marble wastes, the more the statue grows."

Marble. Michelangelo's material-some of which he would transform into works of artistic brilliance; some of which, depending on its location in the block itself, he would d.a.m.n to the studio floor, to the garbage heap. Hence, both a reverence for the material itself, but yet the understanding that some would have to be discarded.

Dead bodies. The Michelangelo Killer's material. He had had to have experimented on others before Campbell and Wenick, had to have used humans before perfecting his technique-some of whom, perhaps just pieces at first, he transformed into plastinated works of art; others he simply discarded as waste. Hence, both a reverence for the material, the male figure as aesthetically superior, and the understanding that he would need to waste some of his victims to achieve greatness. to have experimented on others before Campbell and Wenick, had to have used humans before perfecting his technique-some of whom, perhaps just pieces at first, he transformed into plastinated works of art; others he simply discarded as waste. Hence, both a reverence for the material, the male figure as aesthetically superior, and the understanding that he would need to waste some of his victims to achieve greatness.

Marble. Material. Waste. Dead bodies. The male figure as aesthetically superior.

Something didn't quite add up.

Something that was so close, so simple simple, yet still just so far out of reach.

Markham sighed and flicked off his desk lamp. He would force himself to sleep, to think about something else for a while. And as he crawled into bed, his thoughts immediately ran to Cathy Hildebrant. Markham hated to admit how much he had missed her over the last three days; he hated even more to admit how much he was looking forward to seeing her again. However, what really bothered Markham was the nagging suspicion that he was missing something very important; something that might put the art history professor in danger; something that might make him lose someone he cared about all over again.

Chapter 24.

Steven Rogers prided himself on his youthful appearance. At forty-five and with a head full of curly brown hair that he dyed regularly, the handsome theatre professor was still sometimes carded at the bars along with his graduate student girlfriend-a rare but flattering enough experience to which he actually looked forward, specifically, the patented double take from the doorman or waitress upon seeing the age on his driver's license. Blessed in part with good genes, it was really his deep-seated sense of vanity that kept him looking so young-coupled with an unconscious desire to always be appealing to the opposite s.e.x. Yes, Steven Rogers ran six miles five times a week; watched his fat and carb intake; still used the Bowflex that his ex-wife bought him for his fortieth birthday; and still lived whenever possible by the old adage his doting mother hammered into him as a child: "Early to bed, early to rise, Steven, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." "Early to bed, early to rise, Steven, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise."

Healthy? Yes. Wealthy? He couldn't really complain. But wise? Well, even Steve Rogers would have to agree that the jury was still out on that one.

Yes, Rogers had done a lot of dumb things in his forty-five years on this planet-the dumbest of all, perhaps, leaving those e-mails from Ali on his computer. It had been an honest mistake. He had to uninstall then reinstall his AOL software, forgot to change the "save mail to computer" setting, and his wife found everything a few months later. That was the worst part That was the worst part, Steve thought: The e-mails had been on there for months before Cathy happened to come across them.

Stupid stupid stupid.