The Sculptor

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” she asked.

“I asked you if you wanted a refill.”

“No, thank you.”

“How’d it go?”

“Typical-the usual this and that percentage about the new book deal. But the big news is they want me to fly out to Hollywood to act as a consultant on the film-preproduction meetings and a bunch of other stuff that I didn’t quite catch.”

“Already?”

“Next week.”

“You mean when Janet and Dan are supposed to visit?”

“Yes.”

“Damn. They move fast out there.”

“I told Rhonda I couldn’t, and she said she’d see if they could rearrange things around my schedule.”

“That’s my little powerbroker,” said Sam Markham, wincing as he leaned in to kiss her. Cathy rubbed his shoulder.

“It’s bothering you this morning?”

“Nah,” he said, smiling. “Just a little sore from moving, I think.”

Cathy knew he was lying-knew that her Sam would never complain. She kissed him-the conversation with Rhonda about percentages, about the movie rights to her unfinished book evaporating all at once when she looked into her husband’s eyes, when she was reminded once again how lucky she was to still have him.

Indeed, The Sculptor’s Sig Sauer had done a number on Special Agent Sam Markham, top to bottom-shattered the bones of his left shoulder, collapsed his left lung, and took out a nice chunk of his right leg, too. The doctors said Markham’s shoulder would heal up fine-might feel some pain now and then when it rains-but he could expect to have a slight limp for the rest of his life. The bandages for the last phase of the reconstructive surgery on his right ear had come off a week earlier, and Cathy often began to tear up when she caught herself unconsciously stroking that side of his face.

Yes, it truly was a miracle that Sam Markham was alive; truly a miracle the way they ended up saving each other from The Sculptor. That they were married in a small ceremony the previous fall seemed only natural. That Cathy should take his name? Well, she knew her mother would approve. But that Dr. Catherine Hildebrant, the preeminent scholar on the works of Michelangelo, should resign her position at Brown University and move down to Connecticut to be with her husband? Now, that was giving in to fate.

And so it was at moments like these-when they were alone, when they sat together in silence on the back porch of their new home-that Cathy Markham felt at once both guilty and grateful for the man who had changed her life so drastically: The Michelangelo Killer.

When all was said and done, the official FBI report would credit Christian Bach (aka The Michelangelo Killer, aka The Sculptor) with no less than twenty-one murders, including Gabriel Banford and Damon Manzera. The body parts of eleven more women-eight identified as prostitutes from Providence and Fall River, Massachusetts, and three still listed as Jane Does-were discovered on Bach’s property: some were preserved as sculptures in Bach’s “art gallery,” while other discarded pieces were found buried in the woods directly behind the burned-out shell of the carriage house. And even though dogs had been brought in to search the rest of Bach’s property, even though they found no more victims beyond the immediate vicinity of what the press had dubbed, “The Michelangelo Killer’s Studio of Death,” Markham had a gut feeling that Christian Bach’s body count might be even higher.

Bach’s East Greenwich neighbors, his few remaining acquaintances, and the members of the wealthy circles in which his family once traveled were all shocked and outraged to discover that one of their own could have committed such unimaginable crimes. True, they knew the handsome and brilliant young Bach had become something of a recluse after the death of his mother. And true, he had broken off all ties with both sides of his family in order to care for his father. But such a move was not unusual in families where money was concerned, especially the kind of money in Bach’s family. Yes, one couldn’t be too careful nowadays with relatives looking for a handout or making claim to money that wasn’t theirs-an unpleasant fact of life made only clearer by the swarm of vultures that was now trying to get a piece of Christian Bach’s father. And besides, the young Mr. Bach had maintained his grounds with such care, had been so kind to the children at Halloween, had been so generous with his donations to his various philanthropic organizations that-well…