Yes, Cathy Hildebrant had found The Michelangelo Killer’s sculpture gallery.
Cathy rose to her feet and stumbled backward. The terror was overwhelming her-the scene eerily quiet as The Sculptor approached, a single line of blood running down his cheek like a scarlet tear. The Sculptor paused briefly to pick up the iron stand on which Steve Rogers’s head had been mounted, and as her back slammed against the wall, Cathy watched in terror as he raised the iron stand high above his head.
She closed her eyes.
But instead of the blow she was sure would follow, instead of the pain, Cathy heard the stand drop to the floor-followed by the sound of giggling.
Cathy opened her eyes.
The Sculptor stood before her smiling, his eyes penetrating her own, yet at the same time flickering with the spark of an idea-his fingers resting deviously on his lips like a child who had just played a prank.
“Of course,” he said. “How very silly of me.”
Cathy could only stare back at him in numb confusion.
“The bullets, the empty gun-fate kept you alive, Dr. Hildy. Don’t you see? You were meant to understand, you were meant to be awakened, for only the sculptor’s hand can free the figures slumbering in the stone.”
And with that The Sculptor was upon her.
Chapter 48
Cathy awakened to the sound of humming, of fingers tapping away on a keyboard. Her vision was blurry, but she could make out something square hovering above her-the light coming from her right accentuating its edges. And her neck hurt-her back and buttocks were cold against something steel-hard.
Then Cathy remembered.
The wrestling move; the way The Sculptor had tackled her when she tried to run past him; the way he wrapped his arms around her neck and squeezed her from behind-Good night Irene, Steve used to call it when they played around on the bed. The Sleeper Hold. But there was never that choking feeling with Steve, never a room clad in black with white arms and legs and heads and torsos jumbling up and turning red, then breaking into snow like a UHF channel on an old TV.
Then Cathy understood.
She was naked, on her back-her head locked staring forward at what was clearly a video monitor; her arms and legs were immobile, strapped down against what she knew to be a stainless steel mortician’s table. And then all at once Cathy understood where she was. She was lying on the very same table that she had seen on The Michelangelo Killer’s DVD; the very same table on which she had watched her husband screaming in agony before what was to become The Sculptor’s Pietà.
The Pietà.
As Cathy thought about the fate of her husband-as she thought about what she knew lay in store for her, too-her mind simultaneously raced along with all the theories, all the knowledge about The Michelangelo Killer that she and Sam Markham had culled together in the weeks since she first accompanied him to Watch Hill.
Sam, a voice cried in her head. Where’s Sam?
Ssh! replied another voice. Stay calm. There’ll be time to sort it out later.
The Pietà, Cathy repeated to herself over and over amidst her rising panic. Sam knew that the answer lay in the Pietà-in The Michelangelo Killer’s interpretation of it through Slumbering in the Stone.
Yes, Cathy needed time to think-needed to stay calm, needed to focus on the moment at hand. Although she could not turn her head, Cathy knew that The Sculptor was close. She could hear his humming, the tippity-tippity-tap of his typing only a few feet away to her right.
The Pietà. Sam was right. The Pietà was his first-everything revolved around the Pietà. Everything BEGAN with the Pietà.
Tippity-tippity-tap.
Sam was sure he was onto something-just knew he was so close to unlocking the key to The Sculptor’s mind. The secret lay in the reason why Michelangelo chose to portray his Virgin as a young mother. Dante’s Divine Comedy-Canto 33 of Paradiso. “Virgin mother, daughter of your son.” The inherent contradiction of the Holy Trinity; its “incestuous” context; the impure, almost incomprehensible parallel trinity-the father-daughter/mother-son/husband-wife relationship. That warped relationship between a mother and son.
Tippity-tippity-tap.
Mother and son, mother and son, mother and son…
Tippity-tippity-tap.
The son’s name is Christian. Christian. Christ. Oh my God. Christ.
Tippity-tippity-tap.
Could it be? Could it be that he sees himself as the Christ-that is, that he sees the relationship to his mother through the Pietà? The parallel trinity? Some kind of warped relationship between mother and son? Incestuous? Spiritual, otherworldly incest as defined in Slumbering in the Stone? Could it be?
Tippity-tippity-tap.
Sam said the mother was deceased? Was her name Mary? Is it possible? Could it all be true?
Christian! Oh, dear God, Christian!
Cathy suddenly became aware of movement to her right-saw a shadow cross the frame of the video screen above her.
Then came the smiling face of The Sculptor leaning over her.
“You’re awake, Dr. Hildy,” he said-then began to giggle. “Well, not totally awake, as I’m sure you’d agree.”
The Sculptor left her again, and Cathy could hear the squeaking of something metal-something rolling on the floor. Her heart was pounding-her mind booming with a voice that said her conclusions had to be true-a voice that at the same time told her what she must do to survive!
“However,” said The Sculptor upon his return to the table, “I need to make some proportional adjustments-need to give you some sleepy juice while I work on your boobies. Then you will awake, Dr. Hildy. Then you will come forth from the stone as fate intended.”
Cathy felt something cold and wet on her forearm-knew The Sculptor was prepping her for an injection of some sort.
“But tell me who you are first,” he said, pausing, staring deeply into her eyes. “Surely you must know deep down, surely you must already understand. Tell me who you are to become? Night or Dawn. Dawn or Night? Personally, with your bone structure, I see you unquestionably as the Dawn. However, given your mother’s history with her boobies, perhaps Night is more appealing to you. Either way, I promise I’ll leave it up to you. It’s the least I can do. Yes, after all you’ve done for me. I owe you that.”
Then, without warning, Cathy spoke.
“My dear Christian,” she said-her voice not her own, the subtle flicker of recognition in The Sculptor’s eyes giving her the strength to continue. “Oh my son, oh my dear boy-let me hold you one last time.”
The Sculptor cocked his head-curiously.
“Mary, Mary, mother of God,” Cathy said automatically, an inner force ordering her what to say. “Mother and daughter and wife of the Son. Let me hold you one more time, my Christian. Just like in our Pietà.”
The Sculptor leaned into her.
“I’m here, my Christian. Your Mary-your mother, your daughter, your wife. I knew you would understand. I knew you would find me again-my love, my only son.”
“Mother?” whispered The Sculptor-his eyes glazing over.
“Yes, my Christian,” Cathy said-at once lucid and borderline insane before the foul heat of The Sculptor’s breath. “It’s your Mary-your wife, your mother. Loosen the straps, my son. Let me make love to you again. Let me make love to you again in that special way, the way no one else understands-our secret. Yes, just like when you were a boy, my Christian. Let me take you in my arms and hold you the way I used to-just like in the Pietà.”