“Hey, Jan, it’s me,” said Cathy behind him, drifting back out into the hallway.

It was not the plethora of stamps that caught the FBI agent’s attention, but the partially visible handwriting-the familiar, flowery, and precise way the sender had written Providence, Rhode Island 02912.

“I know, Jan, I’m sorry. I’m at my place. Was working late and-”

Markham snapped off the elastic band and removed the brown paper wrapped parcel from the bundle of mail.

“What?” he heard Cathy say from the hall.

Markham rose from the table-studied the handwriting in the light from the stove: “Especially for Dr. Hildebrant.”

“When was the last time she heard from him?”

Markham removed from his back pocket the envelope that had been given to him by the Reverend Bonetti. He compared it to the brown paper wrapped parcel-the handwriting was identical.

“All right, all right,” Cathy said, returning to the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Jan, I’m fine-yes, will call them right now. Okay. I’ll let you know. Love you, too.” Cathy closed her cell phone. “It’s Steve, Sam. My ex. Janet said the police want to talk-”

The look on Markham ’s face told her everything-stopped her cold like a slap. And as the FBI agent held up the brown paper wrapped package-when Cathy saw the envelope from the Reverend Robert Bonetti in his opposite hand-all at once the pretty art history professor knew something very, very bad had happened to her ex-husband.

Chapter 30

Her heart beating wildly, the opening of the DVD player sounded to Cathy like thunder-the Sony logo on the television screen casting the darkened living room in the light blue wash of a gathering storm. Markham had opened the brown paper package in the kitchen-used a paring knife to slice the tape and handled the bubble wrapped contents carefully with a paper towel. The DVD case, like the disc inside, was eerily blank-no writing or any other distinguishing marks-and still carried with it the scent of newly minted plastic. Markham placed the disc into the DVD player and took his seat next to Cathy on the sofa.

The screen dimmed, went black for a moment, and then a countdown began-four seconds, grainy black and white in the style of an old film countdown. Black again, and then a gentle whisper in the darkness of: “Come forth from the stone.”

Cathy’s heart dropped into her stomach when she saw Steve Rogers’s face fade into the frame-a strap across his forehead and what appeared to be two stubby leather pads by his ears holding his head in place. He was sweating badly, his eyes blinking hard.

“Oh my God, Sam,” Cathy cried. “It’s Steve.”

“What the fuck?” said her ex-husband on the television screen before them-his voice hoarse and gravelly.

“That’s it,” said a man’s voice off camera. “Shake off your slumber, O Mother of God.”

“What the fuck is-”

Cathy and Markham watched like gaping zombies as Rogers struggled then abruptly stopped with a look of confusion across his face. The light on his shiny cheeks had changed ever so slightly, and he seemed to be watching something above him-his eyes widening and narrowing in an eerie silence.

“That’s it,” said the man’s voice again. “Shake off your slumber, O Mother of God.”

Rogers attempted to turn his head toward the voice.

“Who are you? What the fuck you want?”

The light on Rogers ’s face changed again, and he stopped straining. In their stunned silence, Cathy and Markham could tell that something had caught the man’s eye. Rogers ’s breathing seemed to quicken all at once, when suddenly the camera angle shifted-a bit jumpy now, filmed directly above him.

“He’s using two cameras,” Markham said absently. “One stationary, the other handheld.”

The continuity of the cut was seamless as the camera began to pan slowly down from Rogers ’s face to his neck. And just as the first of the bloody stitches scrolled upward from the bottom of the screen, Steve Rogers began to scream.

“What the fuck! What the fuck you do to me!”

“Dear God, no,” Cathy gasped when she saw the breasts-plump and white and stitched like eggs at awkward angles onto her ex-husband’s muscular chest. She cupped her hand to her mouth as Steve Rogers went on screaming on the screen.

“I’m sorry, Cathy!” she heard him yell. “I’m sorry!”

And as the camera continued to pan down over her ex-husband’s stomach, over the thick leather strap which held him down to the steel table, Cathy felt like her head would explode. It was as if she had already seen in her mind what was coming next-knew deep down that she couldn’t bear the sight of it. And in a flash she was up off the sofa and vomiting in the hall as Markham, frozen in horror, watched the bloody stitches where Steve Rogers’s penis should have been rise onto the television screen.

The screaming stopped for a moment. Another edit. Then the last part of the scene played again from the angle of the stationary camera-the screams of her ex-husband echoing once again through the walls of Cathy’s East Side condo; the soul of Steve Rogers taking flight before Sam Markham’s eyes just as Cathy fainted into black.

Chapter 31

Bill Burrell raced down Route 95 at over ninety miles an hour-the colored lights of the Friday night traffic parting before his state trooper escorts like Christmas wrapping paper at a pair of scissors. Rachel Sullivan was about a half-hour ahead of him. She would meet him in Dr. Hildebrant’s room at Rhode Island Hospital after her team’s preliminary sit-down with the Cranston Police.

Son of a bitch, he thought. No way getting around the locals now.

It had all come together so fast-it was his wife who actually told him about the breaking news story down in Rhode Island only seconds before he got the call from Markham. It was all just too bizarre, he thought-yes, just like the media was already fucking calling it: “A bizarre twist in the case of The Michelangelo Killer.” The news-fuckers didn’t know about the DVD or that Steve Rogers was already dead. No, the simple fact that there was another disappearance in Rhode Island-the disappearance of the ex-husband of Dr. Hildebrant, that Brown University professor and resident expert on Michelangelo who had been associated with the case at the beginning-was enough meat for the vultures to chew on.

For now.

Son of a bitch, Burrell said to himself as he whizzed across the Rhode Island-Massachusetts border. Only a matter of time before the whole thing explodes, before they learn of Hildebrant’s connection to everything-not just this nutbag Michelangelo Killer, but to us.

But more than worrying about how the pretty art history professor who so reminded him of his wife would handle everything; more than worrying about how all the media attention she would soon receive was going to impede the FBI’s investigation; as he sped toward Rhode Island Hospital, Special Agent in Charge Bill Burrell could not ignore the sinking feeling that-even with this newest development-the strange case of The Michelangelo Killer would continue on and on as it had all along.

Cold.