Bulldog’s cheeks flushed red.
“Leave us alone,” he said.
Cathy looked uncomfortably to Markham. He nodded, and she quietly left the room.
“Bill, I know what you’re going—”
“You don’t know shit,” Bulldog bellowed, his fists clenching. “You think you can scare me with ultimatums? You think I give a fuck if you resign?”
“Yes I do,” Markham said calmly. “I think you know how bad it would look if word got out that your obstinacy got in the way of this investigation. And I think you know how bad it would look if I let it be known how close we were to catching this guy, and that you of all people let him get away.”
“Close, my fucking ass—”
“I can catch this guy,” said Markham, leaning on the SAC’s desk. “But I can do it only with your full support and that means Cathy’s support, too. I can’t do it without her.”
The bulldog just stood there—fuming.
“It’s in her book, Bill. The answer is in her book. I know it. It was Cathy who got me close to him that night—Cathy who figured out it was the lighting, the key to the parallel between the environments that was so important for The Sculptor’s exhibition. Don’t you see, Bill? Together we can catch him. You just have to trust me on this.”
“I’m not an idiot, Markham. I know you two have been playing patty cake these last few weeks. And girlfriend or no girlfriend, I’m telling you now that if anything happens to her, you’re done. Meaning, I’ll see to it personally that you’re demoted to the fucking mail room. You understand me?”
“Yes, I do.”
Burrell turned his back to him—his eyes once again falling to the Boston skyline.
“We’ll set her up in your building for two weeks—change her hair color and give her contacts. At the end of those two weeks we’ll reassess the situation. Understand, however, that if at any time I decide it’s too risky—if the press finds out about her, if the location of the safe house is blown, whatever the fuck the reason—if I don’t like the way things are playing out and you two balk, then she’s out and you can do whatever the fuck you want.”
“I understand.”
“But let me be perfectly clear on this, Sam. No matter what happens, you are the one who’s responsible for her. You got me?”
“Yes. Thank you, Bill.”
“Now get the fuck out of my office.”
Chapter 39
The FBI safe house was the only one of its kind left in Rhode Island; it had been initially set up as a surveillance unit after the terrorist attacks of 9–11, and was located on the second and third floors of a commercial building in downtown Providence, directly across the street from the former law offices of a suspected Al-Qaeda sympathizer who was eventually prosecuted. Its original purpose now abandoned, the FBI had since re-outfitted the property into an operations suite with separate apartments, and only in the last year had begun using it as temporary housing for its itinerant agents. The phony placards in and around the building indicated that the second and third floors were occupied by an import/export business, but the private access of the underground parking lot, as well as the building’s card-key security system to the elevator and each floor, made it a doubly safe location for all types of FBI operations.
In an odd way it all felt so normal to Cathy Hildebrant. It looked almost identical to her former digs in Boston, but that she should be staying there with Sam Markham gave Cathy a sense of being home—a feeling of being a newlywed, like when she was first setting up house with Steve Rogers.
Steve Rogers.
Cathy tried not to think of her ex-husband—tried not to think about the images from The Sculptor’s DVD that had been branded into her brain. She knew deep down that it was not her fault and that The Michelangelo Killer had begun hunting victims even before he’d ever heard of Dr. Catherine Hildebrant. But more than the degree of her culpability in her ex-husband’s death, Cathy tried not to think about the mixed feelings she had now that he was gone. No, she would never have wished what The Michelangelo Killer had done to him even on her worst enemy; but what chewed away at Cathy’s guts was the feeling that she had lost him twice, and that, as much as she hated to admit it, the first time around had been harder than the second.
There’ll be time to sort it out later was her mantra—the same one she had repeated to herself over and over during her mother’s battle with breast cancer. Yet instead of following up with encouraging words to stay focused, to finish her book and secure tenure, Cathy now had a new tagline: after I catch The Michelangelo Killer.
Cathy stood before the bathroom mirror and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She did not like how she looked with blond highlights. They made her look cheap, she thought, like a porn star. But it had to be done as part of the deal with Burrell and Boston. What would take more getting used to would be the contact lenses—she had never liked those; they always felt dry and made her eyes look puffy. Again, another necessity, but she would take along her black-rimmed glasses with her just in case. The worst, however, was when she donned her sunglasses. She thought she looked silly. Like a porno-Asian La Femme Nikita.
“You ready?” asked Markham, his head poking through the bathroom door. His presence calmed her, grounded her, but at the same time made her feel ashamed. Yes, despite everything that had happened since she met him, Cathy actually felt happy to finally be alone with him again.
“Yes,” she said. “If you don’t mind being seen with me.”
Markham kissed her neck and left her at the sink. They had spent the night in each other’s arms—made love like a pair of adulterers into the wee hours of the morning—and Cathy’s nostrils were still filled with the strange scent of her hair coloring and Sam Markham’s cologne.
As Cathy brushed her teeth, she suddenly had the impulse to call Janet Polk—to open her cell phone and leave her surrogate mother a quick message saying she was okay. But that’s a no-no, Cathy thought. Yes, Cathy knew damn well that she was not supposed to talk with anyone other than the FBI until Bill Burrell gave the go ahead—another part of her agreement with Burrell which, like her hair, she regretted. Cathy had not spoken to Janet and Dan since she left the hospital; she had gotten messages to them through Rachel Sullivan, but still she felt guilty, for Cathy knew how worried Janet was since learning about the murder of Steve Rogers.
There’ll be time to sort it out later.
Cathy emerged from the bathroom to find Markham standing in the middle of the common area—his copy of Slumbering in the Stone open before him as if he were an actor about to give a reading.
“What is it?” Cathy asked.
“Nothing, really. Just trying to gather myself before we go—overtired, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, ever since the teleconference with Quantico yesterday, there’s a quote in your chapter on the Pietà that’s been bothering me—a quote attributed to Michelangelo himself, and related by his contemporary biographer, Ascanio Condivi.”
“You mean the quote regarding the Madonna’s youthful appearance?”
“Yes. In your discussion of the various reasons as to why Michelangelo might have sculpted his Pietà with the Virgin Mary as a young woman, you say that the artist himself told Condivi, ‘Don’t you know that chaste women stay fresh much longer than those who are not chaste? How much more so then with the Virgin, who never had even the slightest lascivious desire that might alter her appearance?’”
“Why should that bother you?”
“Well, as we saw with his Bacchus, The Sculptor is well aware of the baggage the contemporary context of his Pietà would carry along with it—that is, how our knowledge of where the pieces came from would affect our perception of it. As we learned with Bacchus—where we, the viewer, see both the mythology of the Roman god and the satyr wound up into the lives of Tommy Campbell and Michael Wenick—when we look at The Sculptor’s Pietà, we see the story of the Virgin and Christ, but we also see th
e stories of the prostitutes—the lascivious desires of their lives. Our minds see the contradiction of the holy and the impure all at once.”
“So you think the message in this case is ultimately one of blasphemy?”
“I don’t know, but I just can’t help thinking there’s something I’m missing—something that connects your chapter in Slumbering in the Stone to The Sculptor’s use of prostitutes for his Pietà—something that goes beyond just the convenience of readily available material.”
“He didn’t only use prostitutes,” Cathy said blandly.
“I’m sorry, Cathy. I know that. But—and you’ll have to forgive me—but I’m thinking it goes beyond the victims’ professions, if you will, to the concept of sin, of sexual impurity. In The Sculptor’s eyes, you see, all of the victims he used for his Pietà were sinners with regard to sex—which brings me to something else you wrote when you spoke of Michelangelo’s influences for his Pietà. You say, ‘Another possible explanation as to why Michelangelo chose to portray his Virgin as a young mother is that he was heavily influenced by Dante’s Divine Comedy. We know that the artist was not only an admirer, but also a scholar of Dante’s work, and therefore must have been familiar with Saint Bernard’s prayer in Canto 33 of Paradiso, which begins, “Virgin mother, daughter of your son.” Here we see the relationship of the Virgin and her Son played out against the inherent contradiction of the Holy Trinity, wherein God exists in three forms: the Father, the Son (God incarnate as Jesus Christ), and the Holy Spirit. Thus, when taken in this undeniably “incestuous” context, if God is both the Father and Son, then the Virgin Mary is both Christ’s mother and His daughter, as well as his wife. One can then argue that Michelangelo is embodying this contradicting but parallel trinity in terms of the figures’ similar ages—a contradiction wherein the father-daughter/ mother-son/husband-wife relationship is skewed, existing in a spiritual realm outside of time, wherein physical age is only a “relative,” earthly index.’”
“So you think then that the Pietà might represent to The Sculptor some kind of warped, confused relationship between a mother and son?”
“I don’t know, Cathy,” Markham sighed. “Maybe I’m just overtired. Maybe I’m looking too deeply into it all. But when you think about how much trouble The Sculptor went through to get the Gambardelli Pietà, it might indicate that we were wrong about its relationship to his victims. Don’t misunderstand me, Cathy. I still think the killer wanted the marble of the statue to connect his victims to his sculptures. And although that plan might have changed, might have evolved into something else when he began focusing on his Bacchus, we now know that we were correct in our theory that The Sculptor had experimented with women before he moved on to males and full figures. However, even though The Sculptor wanted to use a male for the body of his Virgin to get the proportions and the breast placement correct, as well as to embody Michelangelo’s point of view on the female figure in general, I just can’t ignore the differences between how The Michelangelo Killer constructed his Pietà and his Bacchus. When you look at the fact that he used three separate human entities for the Virgin herself, and when you take into account that you discuss in your chapter on the Pietà the relationship between the Virgin and Christ as a contradicting yet parallel trinity to the traditional Christian Holy Trinity—well, it’s a bizarre coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
“Never mind all the metaphorical and moral implications that go along with such a reading of this parallel, incestuous, impure trinity.”
“Is that why we’re going to see the Reverend Bonetti again today?”
“Yes,” said Sam Markham. “I honestly haven’t a clue exactly what or why, but something tells me that there’s more to The Sculptor’s theft of the Gambardelli Pietà than we first realized.”
Chapter 40
The Reverend Robert Bonetti watched them from his office window—had requested on the telephone that they enter at the back of the church so as not to disturb his parishioners, who would be coming and going all day for confession. When he saw them emerge from the Trailblazer, at first the old priest did not recognize the blond woman with the sunglasses who accompanied the FBI agent named Markham. Only when they passed outside his window did Father Bonetti realize the pretty art history professor from Brown University had finally decided to come out of hiding.
Although Reverend Bonetti rarely watched television or sat in front of a computer screen, and although he preferred to read or watch his tiny collection of old black-and-white movies on the rectory’s ancient VCR, even he knew what had happened to Catherine Hildebrant—to her ex-husband, yes, but also to her. Bonetti knew that the media was claiming it was her book, Slumbering in the Stone, that had inspired The Michelangelo Killer to commit his atrocities; he knew that, since the death of her husband, she had withdrawn from the public eye—probably had gone into protective custody, the papers said. Oh yes, he had read the news stories, had seen Hildebrant’s picture many times on Meghan O’Neill’s Special Report: The Michelangelo Killer series on Channel 9. And now there were the rumors that the first statue—the one with the football player and that poor little boy from Cranston—had originally been dedicated to her, too.
When he heard the outside door slam, Father Bonetti’s heart went out to Catherine Hildebrant as it had so many times over the last couple of weeks. But he needed to move quickly, and just as the knock came at his office door, the old priest slipped the copy of Slumbering in the Stone that he had picked up a week earlier into his desk drawer.
“Come in.”
Cathy entered first, followed by Markham.
“Dr. Hildebrant,” said Reverend Bonetti, offering his hand. “Despite the circumstances, it truly is a pleasure to see you again. I won’t pretend that I don’t know what’s happened to you over the last few weeks. But let me first offer my condolences for your loss, and second, my support in this difficult time. If there’s anything I can do, you’ll tell me?”
“Thank you, Father.”
Another round of pleasantries, and the three of them took their seats around Father Bonetti’s desk.
“Now,” said the priest. “To what do I owe this return visit?”
“I’d like to ask you a few more questions, Father,” said Markham. “Specifically with regard to your Gambardelli Pietà.”
“I’m not sure what else I can tell you. I’ve seen the police photos, the composite sketches of your man. There’s no one I know who fits that bill, and certainly no one that could afford twenty-five thousand dollars for a statue.”
“I understand that, Father. But I was hoping you could perhaps tell us a little more about the statue itself. You said that there was originally a picture of it on your Web site?”
“Yes. It was a photograph of the votive chapel—the one off the main church that I showed you—the one that currently houses our replacement Pietà.”
“Was there anything on the Web site, however—a caption or an accompanying description—that identified the statue specifically as a Gambardelli Pietà?”
“Not that I recall, no.”
“The picture then—was it a close-up of the statue, or taken at a distance?”
“I guess you could say it was taken at a distance. It has been a tradition at St. Bart’s for many years to move the pyramid of votive candles into the main church after Thanksgiving in order to accommodate the three life-size Nativity statues that occupy the chapel during the Christmas holiday. I believe it was around that time that the photograph was taken. There is no manger to house the Nativity—just the architecture of the chapel itself—so the Gambardelli Pietà would have been visible against the wall behind the statues of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
“The family who donated the Pietà,” Markham continued. “What was their name?”
“Well, now,” said the priest, leaning back in his leather chair. “For the life of me, I can’t remember. If you’ll recall, our original Pietà was donated a few years befo
re I arrived. There was a plaque engraved with the family’s name at its base, but of course that was stolen along with the statue. I’m ashamed to admit, Agent Markham, that—for all the time I’ve spent in this church—I’m not sure I ever knew the family’s name. Strange isn’t it? How you can pass by something every day and not really see it?”
“And you never had the plaque replaced?”
“No. The family who donated the statue moved away many years ago. Matter of fact, if my memory serves me, they hadn’t lived here for decades before I arrived—moved to a wealthier neighborhood—the gift of the Pietà being a bit of sentimentality on the part of one of their old matriarchs, I take it. However, our deacon at the time of the theft, a Scalabrini who has since moved on, took it upon himself to track them down. He did find someone—a daughter I think—but the person to whom he spoke said not to bother having another plaque made, as the family did not want to be associated with our church anymore.”
Markham and Cathy exchanged a look.
“This deacon,” said the FBI agent. “Do you know how he discovered the family’s name? Are there records of donations and things of the like in your files?”
“I assume that’s where he found it, yes—perhaps also from asking around the congregation.”
“And these records, these files—do you still have them?”
“I would think so. But to be honest, Agent Markham, I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for them. Any records older than five years we move to the basement, where they’re stacked in a dead files pile along with all the documents that were transferred from the old church after its renovation in the late 1960s—stuff going back almost a hundred years. Ironically, it was the deacon’s search for that family’s name that was our motivation to start cleaning house down there. However, even if you did find the actual record of the donation, Agent Markham, you might still have to track down the surviving family members like our man did three years ago. If you’d like, I can find out from the Scalabrini Fathers where the deacon is stationed—can ask him if he remembers the last name, where the family is living now, and can get back to you early next week.”
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