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Автор: Gregory Funaro
Издательство: Ingram
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Жанр произведения: Ужасы и Мистика
Год издания: 0
isbn: 9780786024193
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      TRACKING A KILLER

      “All this is just a precaution, Cathy,” Markham said. “In case he tries to make contact with you, to leave you another note—that is, if the notes you received five years ago are related to Tommy Campbell’s murder to begin with.”

      “They are, Sam. You know they are.”

      “I can’t be sure—might be just a strange coincidence. However, since it’s all we have to go on right now, we’ll see how far that road leads us. But the last thing you want right now is for the press to know the extent to which you’re involved in this. In fact, if my gut is right, I think that’s just what the killer wants to happen.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “It’s obvious that whoever murdered Tommy Campbell and that boy had been planning this crime for a long time—perhaps even years. And until the autopsy results come back, until we get an idea of exactly how this person murdered and preserved his victims—how he actually created that sick sculpture of his—the only window into his motives right now is you. You and your book.”

      “So you’re saying you think this maniac is using me?”

      “I’ll have a better idea once I read your book. But judging from the great lengths to which the killer went to put his sculpture on display in Dodd’s garden—a display that the killer obviously intended as some kind of historical allusion publicly dedicated to you—well, it’s clear to me that whoever did this thought you of all people would understand his motives…”

      THE SCULPTOR

      Gregory Funaro

image

      PINNACLE BOOKS

       KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      As always, for my wife and my father; but also for my

      grandfather, whose statue of David in the backyard I was

      sure came alive at night.

      The best artist has that thought alone which is contained within the marble shell; only the sculptor’s hand can break the spell to free the figures slumbering in the stone.

      —Michelangelo Buonarroti

      Contents

      Prologue

      Exhibit One: Bacchus

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Exhibit Two: The Rome Pietà

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Exhibit Three: Toward David

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Chapter 43

      Chapter 44

      Chapter 45

      Chapter 46

      Chapter 47

      Chapter 48

      Epilogue

      Acknowledgments

      Prologue

      “Shake off your slumber, O son of Jupiter.”

      Tommy Campbell, lightning fast wide receiver for the Boston Rebels, opened his eyes expecting to see the end-zone. He could hear the cheers of the crowd—that familiar drone of “Sooooup!” coming from the stands—and his heart was pounding, could feel it pumping in his thighs as he ran. Yes, he was sure that he had caught the ball—his fingertips, the palms of his hands electrified with that familiar sting of “Touchdown!”

      But as the cries of his fans quickly faded, as his vision cleared into a bright ball of light, amidst a milky haze Tommy Campbell understood all at once that he had been dreaming. Yes, he was lying down—could feel something cold, something steel-hard on his back and buttocks. He felt groggy, doped up on something, but at the same time alive with energy. And he thought he recognized the light hovering above him.

      From a movie? Or from that time in the hospital. When they operated on my—

      “That’s it,” said a deep voice to his right. “Come forth from the stone.”

      “Not my knee again, Doc,” said Tommy. His throat was dry, and his words came out in spurts of cracked whispers. “Tell me it’s not my knee…”

      No reply, but instead a dull prick, a tug at the skin on his forearm. His heart was racing now—even more so than before his first start as a freshman at Boston College; even more so than before his first game as a second round draft pick with the Rebels. But this was different. Indeed, Tommy felt as if there was a war raging inside him: one side trying to drag him back down to his dream, to his winning thirty-seven yard touchdown versus the Dolphins; the other, trying desperately to pull him awake, to bring him back to reality—to wherever he was now.

      “Where am I?” Tommy whispered. The light above him solidified into a white rectangle—like a floating movie screen only a few feet from his face, its edges sharp against the surrounding darkness. Yes, his senses were returning quickly now—the blood pumping fast through his veins—and with every beat of his heart the memories came flooding back.

      He had been drinking a beer on the porch, looking out over the water—had made only a brief appearance at the victory celebration that afternoon in Boston; had wanted to spend time with his parents down at Watch Hill in Rhode Island before the big game, before flying off to Tampa to prepare for the Super Bowl versus the Giants. He had been alone—Yes, Vicky is gone now, and Mom and Pop had gone to bed. And it had been cold, the January moon dancing playfully on the frigid waters of Foster Cove—those very same waters in which Rhode Island’s favorite son used to swim with his father as a boy.

      “Pop?” Tommy croaked. “You there, Pop?”

      Then he remembered the wasp—Wasps in January?—the hiss, the sharp pain as if something had bitten him on the neck, right on the jugular. Tommy Campbell had shot up instantly, sure that the top of his six-foot-six