Suddenly Cathy’s breath returned, and she became aware that her legs were moving, dragging her forward against the fear that so desperately wanted her to stay put. Another thhhwhip of a bullet by her left ear, and then the kitchen, the adjoining dining room flying past her in a rush. Cathy found herself at the front door, her fingers like numb hotdogs against the dead bolt—slippery and useless as the sound of footsteps thundered behind her. Cathy turned to find The Sculptor approaching from the dining room. She made a dash to her left—could see the sunlight down the hall at the back of the house; she was aware somehow that if she followed alongside the grand staircase it would lead her back to the mud room door. But the naked, hairless man who looked like a bald Arnold Schwarzenegger intercepted her. Cathy fell backward onto the stairs, The Sculptor standing over her and leveling the red dot of his gun between her eyes.
“I wasn’t expecting this, Dr. Hildy. I hope you won’t think me rude.”
There was no click like in the movies; only the look of curious disappointment on The Sculptor’s face when he noticed his Sig Sauer—its clip spent—had locked itself in the empty position.
Cathy did not wait; in a flash she kicked the heel of her sneaker hard into The Sculptor’s naked testicles. The Sculptor howled in pain—his gun dropping on the steps, his hands instinctively going to his groin as his massive frame fell forward, blocking an escape route past him. Like a crab, Cathy pinwheeled her arms and legs backward, found her footing, and scrambled up the stairs—her disorientation, her terror carrying her right past the servants’ staircase which, unbeknown to her, would have brought her back down into the kitchen.
No, with The Sculptor fast on her heels, in a haze of red wallpaper and richly stained wood, Cathy raced down the upstairs hallway in the opposite direction.
Streaking past one of the bedrooms, out of the corner of her eye she saw the silhouette of a man sitting by a large window. Instinctively, she ran to him.
“Help me!” Cathy cried, dashing into the bedroom and slamming the door behind her. “Call the police!” But when Cathy caught sight of the man’s face, when she looked into the hollow eyes of the helpless, drooling invalid that was The Sculptor’s father, her heart sank into her stomach.
“Albert?” the man croaked, his eyes staring past her.
But Cathy did not have time to lament, for a split second later The Sculptor burst into the room behind her.
“Get away from him!” he bellowed, coming for her in a blur of naked flesh. Cathy backed away against the wall—her hands grasping a stainless steel IV stand just as The Sculptor was upon her. She flung it at him, the plastic bag and its metal arm hitting The Sculptor square in the face. The Sculptor’s hands went to his eyes, buying Cathy enough time to get away from him across the four-poster bed.
Cathy made a frantic dash for the stairs—had just reached the banister when she felt the meaty slap of The Sculptor’s hand on her back. Then suddenly she was flying backward—her feet grazing the top of the railing as she left the floor and sailed through the air. She landed on the hardwood floor with a thud. The pain in her knee, in her buttocks, and in her elbow was excruciating, but Cathy bounced to her feet and ran for the darkened doorway in front of her at the far end of the hall. She made it inside just in time, slamming the door behind her and closing her fingers around the lock just as The Sculptor’s shoulder smacked into the door from the other side.
Another smack and Cathy backed away from the door. The room was pitch black, and Cathy tripped—fell to the floor as something crashed beside her. It sounded like metal, but when Cathy reached for it, her hands closed around something round and rubbery—heavy, but also spongy like a Nerf football.
Then the door exploded open—The Sculptor’s massive leg still cocked as the light streamed in from the hallway behind him. He flicked the switch by the door, and Cathy gazed down in horror at the object in her hands.
It was Steve Rogers’s head—shaved and painted white as marble.
Cathy screamed and threw her ex-husband’s severed head at The Sculptor as she backed away on the floor. Then all at once she froze, her eyes finally taking in the totality of the room into which she had entered—a room with heavily draped windows and black painted walls. Dozens upon dozens of body parts were posed and displayed on pedestals and iron frames—hands; arms and legs; severed torsos, some with a head and an appendage still attached; while other heads stood like solitary busts on pedestals of their own. All the body parts were painted white, and had Cathy not felt her ex-husband’s Plastinated head herself—had she not known who owned the house through which she was being chased—the world’s foremost scholar on the works of Michelangelo would have thought the pieces around her to be made of marble.
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.”
“Mother?” The Sculptor repeated. “Mother is that you?”
“Yes, my Christian. Let me love you again. Just like in the Pietà.”
“Just like in the statue, Mother?”
“Yes, my dear Christian. Mary and Christ. A mother loving her son. Just like in the statue.”
The Sculptor did not move his face—kept it close enough to kiss her—but Cathy felt his fingers on the straps at her wrists.
“That’s it, my son. Let me come forth from the stone. Let me touch you again from beyond the grave.”
First her right, then her left—yes, her hands were free! The Sculptor lay on top of her—his face nuzzling in her neck, the hardness of his erection pressing against her leg.
“I’m here, Mother.”
“That’s my little Christian,” Cathy groaned—a wave of nausea making her tremble. She swallowed hard and ran her nails down The Sculptor’s muscular back. “The strap on my head, my Christian—across my chest and on my feet—release me from my slumber, my son. Let your mother go. Let me make love to you again after all these years—let me sit up and hold you just like in the statue.”
Outside herself, Cathy watched the scene unfold before her as if she were sitting in a movie theatre. She gazed upon The Sculptor with detached terror as he, zombielike, his eyes locked with hers, unbuckled the straps on her head and feet. And when he sat beside her on the table, when he released the strap about her chest, Cathy watched herself in numb amazement as she sat up on the mortician’s table and took The Sculptor in her arms.
“Let me hold you, my son. Let me make love to you just like in the statue.”
The Sculptor lay across her lap—closed his eyes and suckled at Cathy’s breast as the man once called Christian moved her hand to his groin.
“This makes Mommy sorry?” mumbled The Sculptor. “This makes Mommy love me again?”
“Yes, my Christian,” Cathy sputtered—the dam that was her will, her sanity, about to break. “Mommy is so very sorry, but don’t ever forget that Mommy loves you.”
Her fear, her revulsion rushing back all at once, as Cathy’s left hand closed around The Sculptor’s shaft, the fingers of her right found the IV needle. Without thinking, without pausing, Cathy Hildebrant brought down the stubby steel barb hard into The Sculptor’s eye—heard a squirty pop and felt his penis go limp as he shrieked in pain, as his hands flew to his face and he flopped off her lap like a fish.
Cathy dropped from the table, The Sculptor writhing on the floor only inches away from her—his screams swallowed up by the spongy black walls surrounding him. Despite her panic, Cathy could not help but notice the computer screen. She did not pause, however, when she saw the figure of Michelangelo’s Dawn floating in the black like a corpse on the sea. No, instead Cathy immediately went for The Sculptor’s video camera—picked up the tripod and brought it down like a club on the back of his head as he rose to his knees. The Sculptor—a hand at his eye, the blood spurting between his fingers—braced his fall with his free arm; he just knelt there stunned for a moment staring at the floor. But as Cathy brought the tripod up again, The Sculptor unexpectedly kicked out his leg like a mule, knocking the video camera from Cathy’s hands and sending her flying into the mortician’s table. It swung on its chains—gave way to her weight as Cathy fell backward. There was a loud crack—the feeling of the floor giving way beneath her—and suddenly Cathy was falling.
In the split second that it took her to hit the cement below, Cathy understood what had happened—remembered all too well what the mortician’s table had looked like from the DVD and knew that she had fallen into a trap underneath. But unlike her intellect, her feet were not so accommodating; and C
athy slammed into the first floor of The Sculptor’s studio—her left ankle buckling and twisting in a bright burst of pain. Cathy howled and stumbled against the van—the force of her impact bouncing her backward into a pile of plastic sheeting. Yes, there was light down here cast from a small black-and-white monitor atop the drafting table.
And then there was the smell. The strong smell of—
Nail polish remover?
Cathy did not have time to think. She could hear The Sculptor scuttling above her. She screamed and staggered to the garage door—tried to lift it by its handle but it would not budge.
“Help me!” Cathy cried. “Somebody help me!” Like a caged rat, Cathy zigzagged to the rear of The Sculptor’s studio—found no exit there either and collapsed at the edge of the stainless steel hospital tub. The smell of the nail polish remover was stronger here; it was coming from inside the tub—a tub that looked to Cathy like a chrome coffin.
The Plastination chemicals, Cathy thought. The acetone.
Cathy spied a cup on the ledge of The Sculptor’s slop sink and made a limping dash for it. She was back at the tub just as The Sculptor’s feet dropped through the trap door in the ceiling. Cathy threw open the lid and plunged the cup into the cold, stingy liquid. Quickly she brought it out again, hiding it from view as she crouched by the tub, as she turned to face her attacker. Her eyes met The Sculptor’s as his feet hit the floor. He just stood there, staring at her for what seemed like forever—his one good eye blinking robotically as the blood trickled down from the other’s pulpy socket.
Then The Sculptor began to giggle.
Amidst her paralyzing fear, out of the corner of her eye Cathy spied the glow of the garage door button to her left—two of them, in fact, across the hood of the van on the opposite wall next to a door.
“All right,” Cathy hissed, gripping the cup of acetone. “You can’t get it up for anyone but your mother, so I guess you’ll have to kill me you sick son of a bitch.”
In the shadows, in the dim light cast from the TV monitor, Cathy could not see the look in The Sculptor’s remaining eye. No, all Cathy Hildebrant could make out was the clenching of The Sculptor’s fists, the cocking of his elbows and the lowering of his head.
The Sculptor Page 29
