The Sculptor

by Gregory Funaro

  “This can’t be happening. I must be dreaming!”

  “No, my Bacchus. You are finally awake.”

  And thus, as he had done so many times before, at the precise moment of his Bacchus’s release, The Sculptor once again released himself into the darkness of their divine communion.

  Chapter 10

  The two of them were alone again, and when Special Agent Sam Markham finally spoke to her, Cathy Hildebrant felt as if she had been interrupted while watching a primetime crime drama—one of those woodenly acted, corpse-ridden soaps with which she had become so infatuated, and which she was so embarrassed to admit to her colleagues she actually followed. Even upon hearing Markham’s voice, even upon recognizing the traffic light at which they were stopped—a traffic light that subliminally spoke to her of the silent twenty minutes she and the FBI agent had traveled from Watch Hill—Cathy still had only a vague, detached awareness that the movie she had been watching in her mind had been real and that she had been its star.

  “You ever been there?” Markham asked.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “The University of Rhode Island. Sign back there said you make a left at the light. Your head seemed to follow it as we passed.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was looking at it.”

  “College town means there’s probably a Starbucks nearby. Interested in a cup of coffee? Want me to check the GPS?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The light turned green and Markham drove on.

  “Yes,” Cathy said after a moment.

  “Change your mind?”

  “No. I meant, yes I’ve been to the University of Rhode Island. Only once. As a guest speaker a few years back when my book came out.”

  “You had a lot of speaking engagements? After your book was published, I mean?” The FBI Agent made no attempt at delicacy; no attempt to conceal that he was looking for yet another connection between Dr. Catherine Hildebrant and the killer in the movie of her mind. And all at once the weight, the reality of the last few hours came rushing back to her; all at once the tears overwhelmed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” said Markham. Cathy swallowed hard, and turned again toward the window. A long, uncomfortable silence followed.

  “Been almost fifteen years since I was there last,” Markham said finally. “At URI, I mean. Hardly remember it, really. Like you, I was there only once. With my wife, for homecoming during the fall. She was a graduate of their oceanography program. Had a real love for that school. Wasn’t too crazy about it myself—football stadium was kind of dinky, I thought. I guess it was supposed to be a pretty good one back then—their oceanography program, I mean. Not sure what the story is now, though. Lot can happen in fifteen years.”

  Cathy suddenly realized that the FBI Agent had opted to take the longer route back to Providence—Route 1 instead of I-95—and more than the sincerity of his attempt at small talk, more than his disclosure of something personal, what settled Cathy’s tears was Sam Markham’s tone—a tone that for the first time that day was hesitant and awkward; a tone that for the first time that day made him seem human.

  “That’s an interesting pairing,” said Cathy—surprised at the sound of her voice, at how eager she was to talk about anything but the day’s events. “How does an FBI agent end up marrying an oceanographer?”

  “I wasn’t with the Bureau back then. Was actually a high school English teacher when I met my wife.”

  “Aha. So that explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “The sonnet.”

  “The sonnet?”

  “Yes. I thought your analysis of Michelangelo’s poetry seemed a little too erudite, a little too insightful even for an FBI profiler.” The special agent nodded his approval—playfully and with exaggerated admiration. “My first clue should have been during our initial drive to Watch Hill, when you asked me if the sonnet that I received had been numbered like a Shakespearean sonnet.”

  “Nonetheless,” said Markham, smiling, “an admirable analysis of the evidence, Dr. Hildebrant.”

  Cathy smiled back.

  “I have to admit,” he continued, “I’m a bit ashamed that I didn’t know about Michelangelo’s poetry. Perhaps I did at one time—way back when. But I’ve been with the Bureau for almost thirteen years now, and I guess you forget all that stuff if you don’t keep up with it.”

  “You forget it even if you do keep up with it. At least that’s the way it’s been for me since about thirty or so.”

  “Forty’s no better.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “I still got four months.”

  “I’ve got one year, six months, and twenty-three days.”

  Markham laughed—and, unexpectedly, Cathy joined him.

  “Ah well,” the FBI agent sighed. “I guess I’ll buy a convertible. Or maybe a motorcycle. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you turn forty?”

  “I’m not going to find out—going to stop counting at thirty-nine.”

  “Sounds like a plan. But I’d buy twenty-nine from you in a heartbeat.”

  Cathy was unsure if Markham had meant his last comment as a compliment—that is, if he was saying he would peg her for twenty-nine-years-old, or that he would figuratively “purchase” the age of twenty-nine from her for himself. And suddenly Cathy was transported back to college, to those rare but awkward one-time dates with men who mistook her shyness for aloofness, her intellect for arrogance. And despite the anxiety such memories brought with them, Cathy could feel herself beginning to blush as the FBI agent drove on in silence.

  She hoped he didn’t notice.

  “So how does a high school English teacher end up marrying an oceanographer?” Cathy asked at the next traffic light—her need to keep the conversation going, to push through her discomfort outweighing her usual bashfulness.

  “I wish I had a romantic story for you, Dr. Hildebrant—”

  “Please, call me Cathy.”

  “All right. I wish I had a more romantic story for you, Cathy. But my wife and I met at a cookout in Connecticut—one of those mutual-friend-of-a-friend deals. She was still in graduate school at the time, but was working at the Mystic Aquarium in their Institute for Exploration. I had just landed a part-time teaching job in a little town nearby. You know the story. ‘Hey, I’ve got a friend I want you to meet,’ one thing leads to another, the hand of fate and all that. You get the idea.”

  “Sounds familiar, yes.”

  “Same for you?”

  “Oh yes. My boss, Janet Polk. The woman you met this morning—the hand that pushed me.”

  “Aha.”

  “Twelve years ago. She was the friend of my husband’s friend who introduced us—my soon to be ex-husband, I should say.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Dr. Polk didn’t come right out and say what happened, but I put two and two together when we traced your address to East George Street. You’ve always kept your maiden name? Never took your husband’s for professional reasons?”

  “Never took it, no—partly for professional reasons, partly because my mother always kept her maiden name. Korean tradition. Most Korean women keep their family name. She never asked me, but I knew it would make her happy. So, like she had done for her father, I kept my father’s name. Nonetheless, an admirable analysis of the evidence, Agent Markham.”

  The FBI agent smiled with a touché.

  “Please, call me Sam.”

  “All right then, Agent Sam. And please don’t be sorry. Best thing to happen to me in ten years of marriage will be my divorce decree next month. Janet’s the one for whom you should feel sorry. Really. She feels worse about it than I do—almost like she’s the one who’s responsible for the whole thing. Even asked me if I wanted my ex’s legs broken. And you know what? I think she meant it, too—think she meant to do it herself.”

  Markham laughed.

  “Don’t let her size fool you. She’s a real ass kicker, that J
anet Polk. Didn’t get to where she is today on just her smarts, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “A bit protective of you, is she?”

  “Oh yes. Been that way from the beginning—ever since I was her assistant at Harvard. And when my mother died…well…let’s just say Janet was the only one who was really there for me.” Cathy felt her chest, her stomach tighten at the thought of Steve Rogers’s ultimatum; the teary-eyed, whimpering “end of his rope” speech that he delivered not even two months after her mother’s death, when the length and depth of Cathy’s grief had simply become too much for him.

  “I’m begging you, Cat. You’ve got to snap out of it. I’m at the end of my rope with you. This isn’t good for us. You’ve got to try to move on, get past it. For us, Cat. For us.”

  It wasn’t so much what her spineless excuse for a husband had said that still bothered Cathy, but that she, a Harvard educated PhD—perhaps the foremost scholar on Michelangelo in the world—had actually bought into his selfishness. Yes, what really set Cathy’s blood boiling there in the Trailblazer was the thought that, at the very moment when her husband should have been there for her, she abandoned her mourning to take care of him—not because he needed her, but because she was afraid of losing him.

  That was the beginning of the end. Should have handed the selfish motherfucker his balls back right then and there.

  “May I ask how it happened?”

  “He cheated. With one of his graduate students.”

  “I’m sorry. But I meant your mother.”

  “Oh,” Cathy said, embarrassed. “Forgive me—my mind is going in a thousand different directions. Breast cancer. Fought it for years, but in the end it took her quickly. I suppose you could say she was lucky in that respect. You know, the statistics say that Korean women have one of the lowest incidences of breast cancer in the United States. I guess nobody got around to telling my mother that.”

  “I’m sorry, Cathy.”

  “Thank you.” Cathy smiled, for she knew Markham was sincere. “Anyway, Janet was the one who really helped me get through it all, from the time my mother was first diagnosed until the end—and afterward, of course. Helped me stay on track to get the book published, to get tenure and all that. Even before everything happened, I always thought of her as sort of a second mother.”

  “And what about your father?”

  “Retired military. Army. Lives somewhere down in North Carolina now with his second wife—the woman with whom he was cheating on my mother. They divorced when I was in the third grade—he and my mother, I mean—right after she and I moved to Rhode Island.”

  “So you grew up around here?”

  “Since the third grade, yes. My mother had a cousin who lived in Cranston—helped the two of us get settled—and she ended up getting her degree in computers. Carved out a nice little life for the two of us. Before that, I moved around like the typical Army brat. We were all stationed in Italy, near Pisa, when my father met his second wife. She was Army, too. It was after all that went down that my mother and I settled back in the States.”

  “Italy. Let me guess. Is that where you first became interested in Michelangelo?”

  “Yes. My mother was only eighteen when she married my father—met him while he was stationed in Korea. Ever since she was a child she had wanted to become an artist, but back then things weren’t so easy for Korean girls. And being one of five sisters, well, her parents were more than happy to marry her off to an American GI. Anyway, ever since I can remember—since the day I was born, I think—no matter where we were stationed, she used to take me along with her to all the local museums. And during the two years we were stationed in Italy, well, you can imagine the time we had together. I don’t remember much from our first trip to Florence, but my mother used to say that the first time I saw Michelangelo’s David I actually started crying—that I thought the statue was a real man, a giant who had been frozen in ice, and that I cried for him out of pity.”

  Markham laughed.

  “It was funnier to hear her tell it. She was a lovely woman, my mother—very bright, very witty. Never remarried, either. Everything for her daughter. She was only fifty-two when she passed.”

  “I really am sorry, Cathy.”

  “I know.”

  “And your father?” Markham asked after a moment. “You talk to him much?”

  “Once in a great while,” Cathy shrugged. “Even before my parents divorced we were never very close. Last time I saw him was at the funeral—was surprised he even showed up, to be honest with you. Paid his child support over the years, but that was pretty much the extent of our relationship. Didn’t really want anything to do with my mother and me after the divorce. At least, that’s how my mother put it. I know my father would probably tell you different, that it was my mother that took me away from him, but…well, you know, actions speak louder than words and all that. I haven’t talked to him in almost two years now, I think. Has no idea about what happened with Steve.”

  “Steve?”

  “My ex.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course.”

  “And what about you? You said you were working in Connecticut when you met your wife. Did you grow up there?”

  “Yes. Waterford. Parents are still there, too. Happily married now for almost fifty years.”

  “And your wife? How long you two been married?”

  “My wife and I are no longer together,” Markham said flatly. “But we were married just over two years.”

  “Wish I had signed up for the two-year plan. Less investment; less time wasted—get out of it while you’re still young. At least you can look at it that way. I do hope yours wasn’t like mine, though—hope it ended amicably.”

  Markham smiled but said nothing, and suddenly Cathy felt as if she had said something wrong—as if she had gotten too personal, as if she had somehow offended the FBI agent. They drove on in silence for what to Cathy seemed like an eternity—her mind scrambling for a segue to continue their conversation. She had just settled her mind on “I’m sorry” when Markham finally spoke.

  “You must be hungry. Shall I pick you up something before I drop you off back at your house?”

  “No, thank you. I have some leftovers in the fridge that I want to finish before they spoil. But thanks anyway.”

  Markham and Cathy exchanged sporadic small talk for the rest of the trip back to Providence—pleasant for the most part, but lacking the spontaneity, the easiness of their earlier conversation. And by the time Sam Markham reached the Upper East Side, Cathy was filled with a vague sadness reminiscent of those late hours alone in her dorm room at Harvard—that disappointed “postgame analysis” wherein the shy young woman would pick apart her date over and over again in an attempt to figure out why things had gone south. And even though over the course of the day she had hardly begun to think of her time with the FBI agent as romantic, as anything other than professional, when Markham turned onto East George Street, as much as she hated to admit it, Cathy was worried she might not ever see him again.

  “I’ll be in touch with you soon, Cathy,” he said, reading her mind. “Word’s already come down from Quantico that I’ll be working local for a while. Until the Boston off—”

  Had Cathy not been looking at Markham, had she not been so relieved by what the special agent had told her, she most certainly would have spotted the Channel 9 Mobile News Room before he did. And upon following the FBI agent’s gaze, Cathy immediately recognized the white van pulling up to the curb about a hundred feet up the street. There, in front of her house, was the obnoxious yellow 9 with the big blue eye at its center—the same big blue eye that had stared back at her so many times from her television set; the same big blue eye that had watched her leave Dodd’s estate less than an hour ago.

  “I was afraid of this,” said Markham, pulling over. “Damn small town police.”

  Cathy did not need the FBI agent to tell her that the big blue eye had seen them coming, for even before she and Sam Markha
m emerged from the Trailblazer, a cameraman and a reporter with a microphone had already positioned themselves at the end of Cathy’s walkway.

  Markham’s cell phone rang.

  “Yes? Yes, I see them. No, I’ll take care of it. Uh huh. Okay.”

  Markham hung up.

  “I’ll deal with these clowns,” he said, turning off the ignition. “But let’s get you inside first. Don’t say anything.”

  Markham put his arm around Cathy and quickly escorted her to her house, shielding her from the reporter’s microphone as they passed.

  “Ms. Hildebrant,” the reporter shouted. “Can you tell us why you were brought in by the FBI to help with the investigation into Tommy Campbell’s murder?”

  Cathy felt her stomach drop, felt her heart leap into her throat as she and Sam Markham mounted the front steps to her porch.

  “Ms. Hildebrant,” the reporter called again. Cathy could not see him, but could tell by the proximity of his voice that the reporter was following her up the walkway. “Is it true Tommy Campbell’s body was found posed like a statue in Earl Dodd’s garden? A statue by Michelangelo?”

  Cathy—at the door fumbling with her keys—felt Sam Markham leave her.

  “This is private property,” she heard the FBI agent say calmly. “Please move back to the sidewalk.”

  The reporter ignored him.

  “Ms. Hildebrant, is it true Tommy Campbell’s body was painted white like a statue by Michelangelo called Bacchus?”

  Cathy did not see Sam Markham push the camera, did not see him make a grab for the reporter’s arm as she entered her apartment.

  “Hands off the equipment, pal,” Cathy heard the reporter say. She turned around only when she was safely behind the storm door, and saw that the Channel 9 Eye-Team was now backing away from Markham down the walkway.

  “I’m a federal agent and you’re trespassing on private property,” said Markham, holding up his ID badge. “If you won’t comply with my verbal command, I have the legal authority to escort you from the premises by force. Now I’ve warned you once. Please stay off this property.”