“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.”

“The chapel itself was initially an old Roman mausoleum that had been converted by the Christians on the first site of St. Peter’s-before the church was redesigned and rebuilt in the early sixteenth century by Donato Bramante, a famous Italian architect. The chapel in its Roman form no longer exists, and there is much debate as to what it originally looked like before Bramante got his hands on it. However, if you take into account how Michelangelo designed his Pietà for that space specifically, one thing is certain.”

“What?”

“If the Pietà is lit by natural light falling from above, as it would have been in the Old St. Peter’s, the Virgin’s face is cast in shadow, while the body of Christ is fully illuminated. The metaphorical implications are obvious-the light, the eternal life in the dying flesh of the Savior, etcetera. But you see, one has to ultimately remember that the statue was originally intended to be a funerary monument, not just a devotional image-although it is that, too. The overall design of the Pietà-the way the Virgin’s gaze and open arms direct our attention first to her Son, then to the mortal remains buried beneath her-in its original installation, in its original lighting, it demanded that we see the statue as Michelangelo intended, that is, a context in which the viewer not only reflects on Christ the Savior, but also on our own mortality, as well as that of Cardinal de Billheres.”

“So you think then that the light from above is the key to the overall effect of the statue?”

“Yes. If you look again at the pictures in my book, you will notice in the close-ups a fine line inscribed in the Virgin’s forehead. Seen at a distance under light from above, this line creates the illusion of a thin veil-an ingenious device, yes, but one that requires the trick of the light in order to be seen. Otherwise, it looks like just a line in her forehead.”

“So,” said Markham, “it’s not so much about the connection to St. Peter’s as it is to a chapel, perhaps even a mausoleum, where the light would hit the statue from above. That means then that the location itself is very important to the killer in terms of how it relates to the viewer’s overall experience of the sculpture. Like the killer’s Bacchus. Dodd’s topiary garden served as more than just a historical allusion, a re-contextualization of the statue’s original location. Yes, perhaps the killer exhibited his Bacchus in Dodd’s garden because it would subliminally mimic a Renaissance viewer’s experience of Michelangelo’s Bacchus-an experience that The Michelangelo Killer wanted to provide for us just as it was five hundred years ago.”

“I don’t know, Sam,” Cathy sighed, her eyes again welling with tears. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Ssh,” said Markham, kissing her forehead. “Know that I care about you, Cathy. Know that I’m going to take care of you, now. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

Cathy felt her heart melt, felt her eyes about to overflow in unexpected streams of joy. She wanted to tell Sam Markham she loved him, but a voice from across the room interrupted her.

“Sam?”

Markham and Cathy turned to see Bill Burrell standing in the doorway.

“I have to go now, Cathy,” Markham said, kissing her again. “I’ll call a nurse to see if you need-”

“Don’t leave me, Sam.”

“I have to, Cathy. You’ll be fine. The place is crawling with FBI agents. You just sleep for a while and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Cathy turned away.

“I’m going to catch this guy for you,” Markham said, turning her face back to him with a gentle finger on her chin. “I promise you that, Cathy. It’s personal now.”

Cathy smiled weakly-the sedatives dragging her down again.

“Thank you, Sam,” she whispered.

Markham laid his hand on her cheek. And when he saw that she had fallen back to sleep, he joined Bill Burrell out in the corridor.

“She’s doing all right?” the SAC asked.

“Yes. She’ll be fine.”

“We’ll take care of her now.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the DVD? I want to see it.”

“Forensics has got it-analyzing the paper, the tape for trace evidence-but they won’t find anything, I’m sure. He’s too smart for that. Nonetheless, they’re going to dump it onto the computer to see if we can pick up anything through digital enhancement. They’ll dupe you a copy and you can take a look at it shortly.”

“Good. Now tell me you got something more for me, Sam.”

“Something’s going down this weekend-soon, maybe in the next couple of hours if it already hasn’t.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The DVD. It was meant to confuse us, yes, but it’s also a challenge from the killer-a dare to try and stop him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I am. But I need to get on the Internet-need to get on a computer right now here in the hospital.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain it to you on the way. But I’m telling you, Bill, I have a very bad feeling The Michelangelo Killer plans to unveil his next exhibit tonight. And if I can figure out where, we might be able to get there before he does.”

Chapter 33

The Sculptor backed his big white van out of the carriage house, made a three-point turn, and drove slowly down the tree-lined dirt driveway. This was the only area of his family’s property that The Sculptor never maintained-thought it best to leave it grassy and overgrown in case any unwanted visitors happened to take a wrong turn off the paved driveway at the front of his house. About halfway down, he stopped the van and got out to move the large tree trunk that he usually left lying about for added protection. No need to replace it once he passed, however; for it was late, and he did not have to worry about any unwanted visitors at this hour.

In no time The Sculptor was back in his van and on his way. He emerged onto the darkened road through the break in the old stone wall that lined his family’s property. There were very few streetlights here, and no sidewalks; most of the homes in The Sculptor’s wealthy East Greenwich neighborhood were, like his own, set back off the road among the trees. Most of the lots were also enclosed by the fieldstone walls that weaved their way for miles through the surrounding woodlands. Indeed, as a boy, The Sculptor and his father had often followed them for hours-sometimes running into their neighbors and chatting with them along the way. But those days were gone, and The Sculptor and his father never spoke to their neighbors anymore.