But then again, those females had been bad material all around.
“It’s me, Jim. Chris.”
A light flickered in the young man’s eyes. Instinctively he scanned the street, then glanced quickly at Chris’s license plate. The females had done that, too.
“Oh my God,” said Chris as RounDaWay17 approached his window. “I’m so glad I ran into you before you got to the hotel. I was just going to leave a message for you at the front desk, but you saved me the trouble. They screwed up my reservation. I know I told you the Westin but I’m going to be staying at the Marriott instead. It’s over on Orms Street. Hop in.”
RounDaWay17 scanned the street again-the instinct, the suspicion.
“Or I can just meet you there,” Chris said, smiling. “It’s a bit of a walk, so you’ll have to grab a taxi. It’s up to you.”
RounDaWay17 hesitated only for a moment, then quickly made his way around to the passenger’s side-his overnight bag in the backseat.
Then they were off.
“I have to say, Jim,” Chris began after a moment. “You’re much better looking than your pictures.”
RounDaWay17 smiled thinly. Chris could see that the young man was nervous; he knew that he would soon start telling him how he hadn’t been at this long-perhaps might even say that this was his first time, as some of the females had. But just as Michael and Angelo had been smart enough to know that the females were lying, Chris was also smart enough to know that-if in fact RounDaWay17 did leap into such a narrative-the young man most likely would be lying, too.
Chris stopped at the traffic light for the on-ramp- Cranston, Route 10.
He was first in line.
That was fortunate.
“You ever been there?” asked Chris, pointing past RounDaWay17 to the Providence Place Mall.
“Coupla times,” said the young man.
“Maybe when we’re finished I’ll get you something nice.”
RounDaWay17 smiled again-wider, more relaxed.
The light turned green. Chris headed for the on-ramp.
“We going to Cranston?” asked RounDaWay17.
“You see the sign for that new clothing store up there?” Chris replied. And as RounDaWay17 craned his neck to look out the passenger side window-unwittingly baring his jugular-in a flash The Sculptor hit his target.
The hiss-pop of the gun startled the young man more than the pain of the dart, and RounDaWay17’s hand automatically went to his neck-his fingers closing around the dart at the same time he met his attacker’s gaze. But the damage was done, and just before RounDaWay17’s eyes glazed over, The Sculptor could see in them the grim flicker of realization, of fear.
Then the boy was out-slumped over and sleeping soundly in the passenger seat before The Sculptor even reached the highway.
The Sculptor pulled the dart from the boy’s neck, removed his wig and his glasses, and put everything under the seat. He looked in the rearview mirror-a hand over his bald shaved head.
Now again he was The Sculptor. And now again he was smiling; for The Sculptor knew that the next time RounDaWay17 opened his eyes, he would awaken in the arms of divine release.
Chapter 20
“What’s bothering you, Cathy?”
It was late in the afternoon, and they were stuck in traffic at the Route 93/95 interchange-had hardly spoken a word to one another following the teleconference, the paperwork, and Cathy’s long orientation with Personnel.
“My life,” Cathy whispered suddenly. “My whole life has been dedicated to the work of Michelangelo. And now I’ll never be able to look at his statues, teach a class-never will be able to even think about him the same way again-I mean, without thinking about…”
Cathy trailed off into a quiet stream of tears. And as the Trailblazer inched slowly forward, Markham reached out his hand for hers. She let him take it-felt her fingers melt into his.
“I’m sorry,” was all the FBI agent said.
But for Cathy Hildebrant, it was enough. And once the Trailblazer found its way onto Route 95, once the traffic picked up and they were on their way again, Cathy realized her tears had dried.
The two of them drove the rest of the way to Cranston in silence.
Sam Markham, however, did not let go of Cathy’s hand.
“I’ll be flying off to Washington tomorrow,” he said, parking in front of the Polks’ house. “Official business and to gather the rest of my things-will be back Monday morning. We’ve still got people looking after you, but I want you to call me if you need anything. Even if you just want to talk. Okay, Cathy?”
“Only if you promise to do the same.”
Markham smiled.
“I promise.”
“Okay. I promise, too.”
Then Cathy did something she had never done before in her life: unsolicited and of her own accord, she leaned over and kissed a man on the cheek.
“Thank you, Sam,” she said, and was gone.
Only when she was safe inside the Polks’ kitchen, only when Janet asked her how her day had gone, did Cathy realize what she had done. And just as the shy art history professor began to giggle, back on the road Markham checked his face in the rearview mirror.
He was still blushing.
Chapter 21
“Shake off your slumber, O son of God.”
Why is Papa speaking English?
The seventeen-year-old runaway from Virginia Beach smiled-happy to be home again. But for some reason his bed was cold and hard this morning, and he could feel his heart pounding in his back and in his side against-
The bus station floor. I fell asleep again at the bus station.
Paul Jimenez cracked his eyes-a bright ball of light stinging them to slits.
No, he thought. Something else. I can’t wake up.
“Bad shit,” he heard himself whisper. “Eliot, you motherfuck-”
But then Paul Jimenez remembered that he didn’t talk to Eliot anymore-had not even seen him in over six months, ever since the pigs picked him up for stealing those checks. And Paul never used that shit like Eliot did-never used that shit at all anymore. He had been lucky with that, had been warned about that shit almost a year ago on his first day in town by the guy he met at the Boston Public Library; the guy who smiled a big gold-tooth smile when Paul said he was clean; the guy who told him about the big bucks a kid like Paul could make on Arlington Street as long as he stayed clean.
“You start taking that shit, though,” the guy had said, “and you’re done, son. Hawks ain’t gonna drop that kinda coin for a junkie. Fresh and clean. Remember that.”
Paul’s eyes fluttered wide, and amidst a bright white haze the young man suddenly understood that he was not on the bus station floor; he was not even on the floor at Brian’s-that cold hardwood floor on which he had been crashing with his friends for the last couple of months, and on which a roach tried to crawl in his ear. But he was lying down-yes, could feel something steel-hard on his back and buttocks. And he was groggy, felt like he couldn’t move-had to be doped up on something. Yet at the same time he felt his veins pumping with energy, with the light above him, with the heart pounding beat of-
Music? Somebody slip me shit at the club? Some bathroom floor in Chinatown?
For a moment Paul thought he could see the dance floor, the lights flashing on the college boys-some looking for it for free, some looking to make some extra money to get their Abercrombie & Fitch fix. All the same.