m.u.f.fled chanting floated from somewhere to my right. I started toward it.

I'd gone ten yards when a voice stopped me.

"Arretez!" More hiss than speech. Halt! More hiss than speech. Halt!

I turned.

"You have no right to be here." In the dim light, the monk's eyes looked devoid of pupils.

"I've come to see Father Morissonneau."

The hooded face stiffened.

"Who are you?"

"Dr. Temperance Brennan."

"Why do you disturb us in our sorrow?" The dead black eyes bore straight into mine.

"I'm sorry. I must speak with Father Morissonneau."

Something flicked in the gaze, like a match flaring behind darkly tinted gla.s.s. The monk crossed himself.

His next words sent ice up my spine.

16.

"DEAD?"

Not a flicker in the gargoyle stare.

"When?" I sputtered. "How?"

"Why have you come here?" The monk's voice wasn't cold or warm. It was neutral, devoid of emotion.

"Father Morissonneau and I met not long ago. He seemed fine." I made no effort to mask my shock. "When did he die?"

"Almost a week ago." Flat, revealing nothing beyond the words.

"How?"

"You are family?"

"No."

"A journalist?"

"No."

I dug a card from my purse and handed it to him. The monk's eyes slid down, back up.

"On Wednesday, March second, the Abbot failed to return from his morning walk. The grounds were searched. His body was found on one of the paths."

I sucked in air.

"His heart had failed."

I thought back. Morissonneau had looked perfectly healthy. Robust, even.

"Was the abbot under the care of a physician?"

"I am not at liberty to share that information."

"Did he have a history of coronary disease?"

The monk didn't bother to answer that.

"Was the coroner notified?"

"The Lord G.o.d reigns over life and death. We accept his wisdom."

"The coroner doesn't," I snapped.

Strobe images. Ferris's shattered skull. Morissonneau stroking a box of old bones. A Burne-Jones painting The Resurrection. The Resurrection. Words about jihad. a.s.sa.s.sination. Words about jihad. a.s.sa.s.sination.

I was growing frightened. And angry.

"Where is Father Morissonneau now?"

"With the Lord."

I gave the monk a screw-you look.

"Where is his body?"

The monk frowned.

I frowned.

A robed arm unfolded and gestured in the direction of the door. I was being ushered out.

I could have argued that the priest's death should have been reported, that by failing to do so the monks had broken the law. This didn't seem the time.

Mumbling condolences, I hurried from the monastery.

On the drive back to Montreal, my fear escalated. What had Jake said about the skeleton Morissonneau had given me? Its discovery could be explosive.

Explosive how?

Avram Ferris had possessed the skeleton and he'd been shot. Sylvain Morissonneau had possessed the skeleton and he was dead.

Now I possessed the skeleton. Was I in danger?

Every few minutes my eyes jerked to the rearview mirror.

Had Morissonneau really died of natural causes? The man had been in his fifties. He'd looked perfectly fit.

Had be been murdered?

My chest felt tight. The car seemed hot and cramped. Though the weather was frigid, I cracked a window.

Ferris had died sometime over the weekend of February twelfth. Kessler/Kaplan had entered Israel on the twenty-seventh. Morissonneau had been found dead on March second.

If Morissonneau's death was due to foul play, Kaplan couldn't have been involved.

Unless Kaplan had returned to Canada.

Again, I checked my rear. Nothing but empty highway.

I'd visited Morissonneau on Sat.u.r.day, the twenty-sixth. He'd died four days later.

Coincidence?

Perhaps.

A coincidence the size of Lake t.i.ticaca.

Time to call the Israeli authorities.

The lab was relatively calm for a Monday. Only four autopsies were in progress downstairs.

Upstairs, LaManche was leaving to lecture at the Canadian Police College in Ottawa. I stopped him in the corridor and shared my concerns over Morissonneau's death. LaManche said he'd look into it.

I then explained the carbon-14 results on the skeleton.

"Given an estimated age of roughly two thousand years, you are free to release the bones to the proper authorities."

"I'll get on it," I said.

"Without delay. We have such limited storage s.p.a.ce."

LaManche paused, remembering, perhaps, the Ferris autopsy and its overseers.

"And it is best to avoid offending any of our religious communities." Another pause. "And, remote as the possibility may be, international incidents can arise from the most harmless of circ.u.mstances. We would not want that to happen. Please, do this as soon as possible."

Remembering my promise, I phoned Jake. He was still not answering. I left a message informing him that I was about to contact the Israeli authorities concerning turnover of Morissonneau's skeleton.

I sat a moment, wondering which agency to phone. I hadn't asked Jake because I'd promised to speak with him again before I made the call. Now he was unavailable, and LaManche wanted the case resolved.

My thoughts took a detour. Why was Jake so uneasy about my speaking to Israel? What was he afraid of? Was there someone in particular he wanted out of the loop?

Back to the question at hand. I was certain the Israel National Police would have no interest in a death two millennia back. Though Israeli archaeology was not my bailiwick, I knew most countries have agencies to oversee the preservation of cultural heritage, including antiquities.

I logged on to the Internet, and Googled the words "Israel" and "antiquities." Almost every listing included a reference to the Israel Antiquities Authority. Five minutes of surfing got me a number.

I checked the time. Eleven-twenty A.M. A.M. Six-twenty Six-twenty P.M. P.M. in Israel. I doubted anyone would be working this late. in Israel. I doubted anyone would be working this late.

I punched the digits.

A woman answered on the second ring.

"Shalom."

"Shalom. This is Dr. Temperance Brennan. I'm sorry, but I don't speak Hebrew." This is Dr. Temperance Brennan. I'm sorry, but I don't speak Hebrew."

"You've reached the offices of the Israel Antiquities Authority." Heavily accented English.

"I'm calling from the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de medecine legale in Montreal, Canada."

"Sorry?"

"I'm forensic anthropologist for the medical-legal lab in Montreal."

"Yes." Boredom tinged with impatience.

"Remains have come to light here under somewhat unusual circ.u.mstances."

"Remains?"

"A human skeleton."

"Yes?" Slightly less bored.

"There is evidence to suggest this skeleton may have been unearthed at Masada during Yigael Yadin's excavation in the sixties."

"Your name, please?"

"Temperance Brennan."

"Hold please."