"Relax. I put it in the living room. First cardboard box on the right."

In a flash, Cathy disappeared out into the darkened hallway and was back with her handbag, her cell phone already at her ear. She plopped her bag and the banded bundle of mail onto the table.

"Five missed calls from her. And looks like two voice mails. She's got me me worried now." worried now."

Markham finished his tea and placed his cup on the table-noticed right away the curious-looking parcel sticking out part way from the Pottery Barn catalog.

"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 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." "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." "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 G.o.d, Sam," Cathy cried. "It's Steve."

"What the f.u.c.k?" said her ex-husband on the television screen before them-his voice hoa.r.s.e and gravelly. said her ex-husband on the television screen before them-his voice hoa.r.s.e and gravelly.

"That's it," said a man's voice off camera. said a man's voice off camera. "Shake off your slumber, O Mother of G.o.d." "Shake off your slumber, O Mother of G.o.d."

"What the f.u.c.k 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. said the man's voice again. "Shake off your slumber, O Mother of G.o.d." "Shake off your slumber, O Mother of G.o.d."

Rogers attempted to turn his head toward the voice.

"Who are you? What the f.u.c.k 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 b.l.o.o.d.y st.i.tches scrolled upward from the bottom of the screen, Steve Rogers began to scream.

"What the f.u.c.k! What the f.u.c.k you do to me!"

"Dear G.o.d, no," Cathy gasped when she saw the b.r.e.a.s.t.s-plump and white and st.i.tched 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. she heard him yell. "I'm sorry!" "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 b.l.o.o.d.y st.i.tches where Steve Rogers's p.e.n.i.s should have been should have been rise onto the television screen. 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 b.i.t.c.h, he thought. No way getting around the locals now 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 f.u.c.king calling it: "A bizarre twist in the case of The Michelangelo Killer." The news-f.u.c.kers 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 a.s.sociated with the case at the beginning-was enough meat for the vultures to chew on.

For now.

Son of a b.i.t.c.h, Burrell said to himself as he whizzed across the Rhode IslandMa.s.sachusetts border. Burrell said to himself as he whizzed across the Rhode IslandMa.s.sachusetts 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. 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.

Chapter 32.

Sam Markham's brain sizzled like a slab of bacon-his thoughts sputtering and popping inside his skull with the panic of what to do next. Cathy had suffered a mild concussion, but would be okay-he knew that deep down. But as he sat beside her hospital bed, his anxiety fired back and forth between his need to go looking for The Michelangelo Killer, and his concern, his gnawing guilt gnawing guilt for the woman he loved. for the woman he loved.

Sullivan's team would be the ones to scramble on the information he'd gleaned from the DVD, for Markham knew he had to be there when Cathy woke up. He had heard the smack of her head on the hardwood floor when she fainted-a dull thud out in the hallway that could have been prevented had he been there to catch her, had he not been so transfixed by the horrible DVD death of Steve Rogers. But worse for Cathy than the fall was when Markham revived her-the shock at first, then the hysterics that followed when her mind attempted to wrap itself around what she had just witnessed.

"Mother!" she had screamed in the ambulance. she had screamed in the ambulance. "You were right, Mother! You tried to warn me but I didn't listen! I'm sorry, Steven!" "You were right, Mother! You tried to warn me but I didn't listen! I'm sorry, Steven!"

The EMTs had to strap Cathy to the gurney and administered a sedative on the ride over to the hospital. And as Markham held her hand, as she started to calm, Cathy whispered to him what he already knew.

"The Pieta Pieta, Sam. The b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He used Steve for the body of his Pieta Pieta."

From his reading of Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone, Sam Markham knew all about the Rome Pieta Rome Pieta-knew that Michelangelo had ingeniously sculpted the Virgin Mary out of proportion to Jesus in order to get the correct visual relationship between the two figures. He also knew right off the bat that the real Rome Pieta Rome Pieta was still on display in St. Peter's Basilica in Vatican City, and thus instinctively ordered Sullivan to mobilize the local police forces outside of every church named St. Peter's in Rhode Island, southern Ma.s.sachusetts, and northern Connecticut. But deep down Markham knew it wouldn't be that easy-knew that The Michelangelo Killer wouldn't tip his hand to Dr. Hildebrant and the FBI was still on display in St. Peter's Basilica in Vatican City, and thus instinctively ordered Sullivan to mobilize the local police forces outside of every church named St. Peter's in Rhode Island, southern Ma.s.sachusetts, and northern Connecticut. But deep down Markham knew it wouldn't be that easy-knew that The Michelangelo Killer wouldn't tip his hand to Dr. Hildebrant and the FBI just like that just like that.

Perhaps he was even trying to throw them off the trail.

Nonetheless, before climbing into the ambulance with Cathy, Special Agent Sam Markham had the good sense to grab from the Trailblazer his now ragged copy of Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone. He had pored desperately over the chapters on the Rome Pieta Rome Pieta at Cathy's bedside while she slept-learned that the statue was originally commissioned as a grave marker by the French cardinal Jean de Billheres. Its first home had been the Chapel of St. Petronilla, a Roman mausoleum located in the south transept of St. Peter's which the cardinal had chosen for his funerary chapel. There it had lived for a short time until the chapel was demolished. The at Cathy's bedside while she slept-learned that the statue was originally commissioned as a grave marker by the French cardinal Jean de Billheres. Its first home had been the Chapel of St. Petronilla, a Roman mausoleum located in the south transept of St. Peter's which the cardinal had chosen for his funerary chapel. There it had lived for a short time until the chapel was demolished. The Pieta Pieta occupied a number of locations around St. Peter's when finally, in the eighteenth century, it came to rest in its current location in the first chapel on the right of the Basilica. Markham relayed all this information to Sullivan, but her subsequent Internet search came up empty. She could not with any certainty link these details (St. Peter's, St. Petronilla, funerary chapels, Cardinal Billheres, etc.) to any specific site in Rhode Island-in all of New England for that matter. occupied a number of locations around St. Peter's when finally, in the eighteenth century, it came to rest in its current location in the first chapel on the right of the Basilica. Markham relayed all this information to Sullivan, but her subsequent Internet search came up empty. She could not with any certainty link these details (St. Peter's, St. Petronilla, funerary chapels, Cardinal Billheres, etc.) to any specific site in Rhode Island-in all of New England for that matter.

And so Sam Markham felt helpless. He felt that he could see the future rolling, unstoppable, toward him in his mind-could see so clearly so clearly The Michelangelo Killer's upcoming The Michelangelo Killer's upcoming Pieta Pieta: a heinous sculpture with a woman's head and hands and b.r.e.a.s.t.s sewn onto Rogers's body a la Frankenstein. As a result of his research into the Plastination process, Sam Markham's rational side told him that-even if The Michelangelo Killer had already murdered his Mary and his Jesus long ago-the killer would not have had nearly enough time to preserve Rogers's body. His gut gut, however-that intuition that all the best "profilers" learn to follow despite "the facts"-told him otherwise.

Yes, Markham knew in his gut that not only was he missing something very important, but that he was also running out of time.

He needed Cathy-needed her to wake up and to talk to him calmly.

An agent from the Resident Agency poked his head into the room. "Burrell is on his way," he said, and Markham nodded. There were two Providence agents posted outside the door, and Markham knew Burrell would square the FBI protective custody for Cathy himself. That was good; it would be much better than the surveillance they had placed on her-the depth of which Cathy had no idea. Yes, although the FBI had watched Cathy's every move now for almost a month, although she was most certainly never in any real danger, Markham felt nonetheless ashamed that Cathy had been used involuntarily as bait.

That couldn't be avoided.

But now things had had to be different; now The Michelangelo Killer had killed for her to be different; now The Michelangelo Killer had killed for her personally personally-murdered her ex-husband, used him specifically for his Pieta Pieta in what was undoubtedly a gesture of grat.i.tude to Dr. Hildebrant for all her help. Hence, Markham understood there was no other way now except for Cathy to go into hiding. But for how long? And would Cathy even want to once the reality of what had happened sank in? How many times, Markham wondered, had she secretly wished for Steve Rogers to get run over by a truck or to slip on the ice and split his head open? And now, would she ever be able to forgive herself? Would she ever be able to get over the guilt that she was somehow responsible for her ex-husband's death? in what was undoubtedly a gesture of grat.i.tude to Dr. Hildebrant for all her help. Hence, Markham understood there was no other way now except for Cathy to go into hiding. But for how long? And would Cathy even want to once the reality of what had happened sank in? How many times, Markham wondered, had she secretly wished for Steve Rogers to get run over by a truck or to slip on the ice and split his head open? And now, would she ever be able to forgive herself? Would she ever be able to get over the guilt that she was somehow responsible for her ex-husband's death?

As Markham studied Cathy's face in the dim light of the hospital room, he thought of Mich.e.l.le. He wanted to spare Cathy that pain that pain; he wanted to untie the canvas straps that held her down and just carry her away from it all.

Then Markham thought of Steve Rogers strapped down to his bed-the steel table on which The Michelangelo Killer had most likely operated on him, the steel table on which he filmed Rogers's last breath.

The epinephrine, Markham thought. The killer gives them a heart attack while they stare at themselves-at the statue they are about to become, above them on a television screen. It's important they understand-just like Gabriel Banford had to understand way back when. And through the terror of that understanding, the terror of being born again, they awake from their slumber and are freed from the stone-just as Cathy and I suspected. The killer gives them a heart attack while they stare at themselves-at the statue they are about to become, above them on a television screen. It's important they understand-just like Gabriel Banford had to understand way back when. And through the terror of that understanding, the terror of being born again, they awake from their slumber and are freed from the stone-just as Cathy and I suspected.

Markham's mind began to wander.

There were chains running up from the side of the table. Looked as if it was suspended from the ceiling-perhaps so it could be raised and lowered like in those Frankenstein movies. A high ceiling. Yes. A winch system-would have to be hooked on a ceiling too high for a cellar. A garage or a warehouse maybe. Money. The killer has money. Lots and lots of money-twenty-five G to blow on a statue.

The Pieta.

"Exactly like the one that was taken three years ago," he heard the Reverend Robert Bonetti say in his mind. he heard the Reverend Robert Bonetti say in his mind. "That one had been donated by a wealthy family a number of years before I arrived here at St. Bart's "That one had been donated by a wealthy family a number of years before I arrived here at St. Bart's."

A wealthy family...

"We used to have quite an extensive picture gallery on our Web site...One of them, of course, was of our Gambardelli Pieta. Pieta. Perhaps your man simply recognized it and targeted us that way." Perhaps your man simply recognized it and targeted us that way."

Markham looked at his watch: 1:03 A.M A.M. Too late to wake up the old priest on a hunch-not even a hunch. A long shot long shot. And a desperate one at that. And besides, he was running out of time; he knew instinctively that something was going to happen this weekend, maybe even tonight-if it hadn't happened already already. If only he knew where where.

Where, where, where!

"Cathy," he whispered in her ear. "Cathy, I need you now."

Her eyes fluttered, and Markham's heart leapt into his throat.

"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 b.u.mped 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 Pieta Pieta. He made Steve into the Pieta Pieta for for me 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 Pieta Pieta-at least until it was too late for us to catch him."

"St. Peter's," Cathy said, swallowing hard. "The real Pieta Pieta is in St. Peter's." 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 Pieta Pieta."

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 Pieta Pieta for that s.p.a.ce specifically, one thing is certain." for that s.p.a.ce specifically, one thing is certain."

"What?"

"If the Pieta Pieta 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 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 funerary monument, not just a devotional image-although it is that, too. The overall design of the Pieta Pieta-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 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 Bacchus in Dodd's garden because it would subliminally mimic a Renaissance viewer's experience of Michelangelo's in Dodd's garden because it would subliminally mimic a Renaissance viewer's experience of Michelangelo's Bacchus 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."