“I understand that but-”
“I can’t guarantee your safety down there, Cathy,” Burrell said, rising. “Hell, I shouldn’t even have you as a consultant on the case anymore.”
“She’ll be fine with me, Bill,” said Markham. “We can set her up in a room in my building-I’ll be personally responsible for her, twenty-four-seven.”
“Both of you were at the teleconference today, Sam. Both of you understand now what this guy is all about. We can tie him to at least nine murders, including Gabriel Banford and the two policemen. That’s at least nine. Who knows how many of Rachel’s missing prostitutes are his. Who knows how many more there are that we don’t know about-prostitutes, young men, women, children. He doesn’t hunt in one demographic, Sam. He chooses his victims according to some sick plan that parallels the artistic output of Michelangelo. I mean, Christ, what’s to say he won’t come after Cathy next?”
“I can’t stay in hiding all my life,” Cathy said.
“No, but you can goddamn well stay there a little longer.”
An awkward silence fell over the office as the SAC turned his back on them-staring absently out his window to the Boston skyline.
“I understand what you’ve been going through, Cathy. I understand that you’ve been cooped up with us for almost two weeks now. I know it must make you feel isolated, helpless, and a little stir crazy-being away from the people and the places you love. That’s to be expected. But at least there’s the buffer of distance between you and the killer; at least the press doesn’t know where you are. If you go back to Providence, if you start working the streets with Markham again, someone might spot you, might notify the press. And if the media finds out where you are, then The Sculptor might find out, too.” Burrell turned to face her. “Look, Cathy, if you can just hold out a little longer, if you can just sit tight until we get something solid-”
“You can’t hold me here against my will.”
“You’re right,” said Burrell. “But I can fire you from the case if you choose to leave protective custody. Is that what you want me to do?”
Both Cathy and Markham knew the SAC was bluffing, but it was the FBI agent who called him on it.
“If she goes, I go.”
Burrell looked at him incredulously.
“I mean it,” Markham said. “I’m done-I’m through with the Bureau for good. You can’t fire me, Bill, but I can quit. I can fly back to Quantico and hand in my resignation first thing in the morning.”
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.