Free The Sculptor by Gregory Funaro Page B

moving again, panning down over Bacchus’s chest, over his belly, to his hairless groin—to the place where his penis should have been.
    “What the hell is going on?”
    The Sculptor increased the speed, the intensity of his stroke—did not pause at the point in the video when the image above Campbell changed, when the young man finally saw himself , the clusters of grapes and vine leaves surrounding his face.
    “What the fuck is—”
    And as Tommy Campbell began to tremble violently on the screen above him, the heavy pounding of The Sculptor’s hand finally joined him with his Bacchus’s heart.
    “This can’t be happening. I must be dreaming!”
    “No, my Bacchus. You are finally awake.”
    And thus, as he had done so many times before, at the precise moment of his Bacchus’s release, The Sculptor once again released himself into the darkness of their divine communion.

Chapter 10
    The two of them were alone again, and when Special Agent Sam Markham finally spoke to her, Cathy Hildebrant felt as if she had been interrupted while watching a primetime crime drama—one of those woodenly acted, corpse-ridden soaps with which she had become so infatuated, and which she was so embarrassed to admit to her colleagues she actually followed . Even upon hearing Markham’s voice, even upon recognizing the traffic light at which they were stopped—a traffic light that subliminally spoke to her of the silent twenty minutes she and the FBI agent had traveled from Watch Hill—Cathy still had only a vague, detached awareness that the movie she had been watching in her mind had been real and that she had been its star .
    “You ever been there?” Markham asked.
    “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
    “The University of Rhode Island. Sign back there said you make a left at the light. Your head seemed to follow it as we passed.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was looking at it.”
    “College town means there’s probably a Starbucks nearby. Interested in a cup of coffee? Want me to check the GPS?”
    “No, thank you.”
    The light turned green and Markham drove on.
    “Yes,” Cathy said after a moment.
    “Change your mind?”
    “No. I meant, yes I’ve been to the University of Rhode Island. Only once. As a guest speaker a few years back when my book came out.”
    “You had a lot of speaking engagements? After your book was published, I mean?” The FBI Agent made no attempt at delicacy; no attempt to conceal that he was looking for yet another connection between Dr. Catherine Hildebrant and the killer in the movie of her mind. And all at once the weight, the reality of the last few hours came rushing back to her; all at once the tears overwhelmed her eyes.
    “I’m sorry,” said Markham. Cathy swallowed hard, and turned again toward the window. A long, uncomfortable silence followed.
    “Been almost fifteen years since I was there last,” Markham said finally. “At URI, I mean. Hardly remember it, really. Like you, I was there only once. With my wife, for homecoming during the fall. She was a graduate of their oceanography program. Had a real love for that school. Wasn’t too crazy about it myself—football stadium was kind of dinky, I thought. I guess it was supposed to be a pretty good one back then—their oceanography program, I mean. Not sure what the story is now, though. Lot can happen in fifteen years.”
    Cathy suddenly realized that the FBI Agent had opted to take the longer route back to Providence—Route 1 instead of I-95—and more than the sincerity of his attempt at small talk, more than his disclosure of something personal, what settled Cathy’s tears was Sam Markham’s tone—a tone that for the first time that day was hesitant and awkward; a tone that for the first time that day made him seem human .
    “That’s an interesting pairing,” said Cathy—surprised at the sound of her voice, at how eager she was to talk about anything but the day’s events. “How does an FBI agent end