THE MONTÉRÉGIE IS AN AGRICULTURAL BELT LYING BETWEEN Montreal and the U.S. border. Composed of hills and valleys, crisscrossed by the rivière Richelieu, and outlined by the banks of the fleuve Saint-Laurent, the region is lousy with parks and green space. Parc national des Îles-de-Boucherville. Parc national du Mont-Saint-Bruno. Le Centre de la Nature du Mont Saint-Hilaire. Tourists visit the Montérégie for nature, produce, cycling, skiing, and golf.

L’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges was located on the banks of la rivière Yamaska, north of the town of Saint-Hyacinthe, in the center of a trapezoid formed by Saint-Simon, Saint-Hugues, Saint-Jude, and Saint-Barnabe-Sud.

The Montérégie is also lousy with saints.

At nine-twenty the next morning, I turned from the two-lane onto a smaller paved road that wound through apple orchards for approximately a half mile, then made a sharp turn and cut through a high stone wall. A discreet plaque indicated I’d found the monks.

The monastery sprawled beyond an expanse of open lawn, and was shaded by enormous elms. Constructed of Quebec gray stone, the place looked like a church with metastatic disease. Wings shot from three sides, and subsidiary winglets shot from the wings. A four-story round tower stood at the junction of the easternmost wing and the church proper, and an ornate square spire shot from its western-most counterpart. Some windows were arched. Others were square and shuttered. Several outbuildings lay between the main structure and the cornfields and river at its back.

I took a moment to assess.

From my cybertour I’d learned that many monks make concessions to economic necessity, producing and selling baked goods, cheese, chocolate, wine, veggies, or items of piety. Some host visitors seeking spiritual rejuvenation.

These boys didn’t appear to be of that mind-set. I saw no welcoming shingle. No gift shop. Not a single parked car.

I pulled to the front of the building. No one appeared to greet or challenge me.

My time on the Web had also taught me that the monks of Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges rise at 4 A.M., observe multiple rounds of prayer, then labor from eight until noon. I’d planned my visit to coincide with the morning work period.

In February that didn’t involve apples or corn. Other than sparrows and ground squirrels, there wasn’t a sign of life.

I got out and softly clicked the car door shut. Something about the place demanded quiet. An orange door to the right of the round tower looked like my best bet. I was walking in that direction when a monk rounded the far end of the spire wing. He wore a brown hooded cape, socks, and sandals.

The monk didn’t stop when he saw me, but continued more slowly in my direction, as though giving himself time to consider the encounter.

He halted three yards from me. He’d been injured at some point. The left side of his face looked slack, his left eyelid drooped, and a white line diagonaled that cheek.

The monk looked at me but didn’t speak. He had hair mowed to his scalp, sharpness to his chin, and a face gaunt as a musculoskeletal diagram.

“I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan,” I said. “I’m here to speak with Sylvain Morissonneau.”

Nothing.

“It’s a matter of some urgency.”

More nothing.

I flashed my LSJML identity card.

The monk glanced at the ID but held his ground.

I’d anticipated a cool reception. Reaching into my shoulder bag, I withdrew a sealed envelope containing a photocopy of Kessler’s print, stepped forward, and held it out.

“Please give this to Father Morissonneau. I’m certain he’ll see me.”

A scarecrow hand snaked from the robe, snatched the envelope, then signaled that I should follow.

The monk led me through the orange door, across a small vestibule, and down a lavishly paneled hall. The air smelled like Monday mornings in the parochial schools of my youth. A mélange of wet wool, disinfectant, and wood polish.

Entering a library, my host gestured that I should sit. A flattened palm indicated that I should stay.

When the monk had gone I surveyed my surroundings.

The library looked like a set transported from a Harry Potter movie. Dark paneling, leaded-glass cabinets, rolling ladders going up to third-story shelves. Enough wood had been used to deforest British Columbia.

I counted eight long tables and twelve card catalogs with tiny brass handles on the drawers. Not a computer in sight.

I didn’t hear the second monk enter. He was just there.

“Dr. Brennan?”

I stood.

This monk was wearing a white cassock and a brown overgarment made up of rectangular front and back panels. No cape.

“I am Father Sylvain Morissonneau, abbot of this community.”

“I’m sorry to come unannounced.” I held out my hand.

Morissonneau smiled but kept his hands tucked. He looked older, but better-fed than the first monk.

“You are with the police?”

“The medical-legal lab in Montreal.”

“Please.” Morissonneau made a hand gesture identical to that of his colleague. “Follow me.” English, with a heavy québécois accent.

Morissonneau led me back down the main corridor, across a large open space, then into a long, narrow hall. After passing a dozen closed doors, we entered what appeared to be an office.

Morissonneau closed the door, and gestured again.

I sat.

Compared with the library, this room was spartan. White walls. Gray tile floor. Plain oak desk. Standard metal file cabinets. The only adornments were a crucifix behind the desk, and a painting above one row of cabinets. Jesus talking to angels. And looking considerably more fit than in the carved wooden version hanging over the desk.

I glanced from the canvas to the cross. A phrase popped into my head. Before and after. The thought made me feel sacrilegious.

Morissonneau took the straight-back desk chair, laid my photocopy on the blotter, laced his fingers, and looked at me.

I waited.

He waited.

I waited some more.

I won.

“I assume you have seen Avram Ferris.” Low and even.

“I have.”

“Avram sent you to me?”

Morissonneau didn’t know.

“No.”

“What is it Avram wants?”

I took a deep breath. I hated what I had to do.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Father. Avram Ferris was murdered two weeks ago.”

Morissonneau’s lips formed some silent prayer, and his eyes dropped to his hands. When he looked up his face was clouded with an expression I’d seen too often.

“Who?”

“The police are investigating.”

Morrissonneau leaned forward onto the desk.

“Are there leads?”

I pointed at the photocopy.

“That photo was given to me by a man named Kessler,” I said.

No reaction.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Kessler?”

“Can you describe this gentleman?”

I did.

“Sorry.” Morissonneau’s eyes had gone neutral behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “That description fits many.”

“Many who would have access to this photo?”

Morissonneau ignored this. “How is it you come to me?”

“I got your name from Yossi Lerner.” Close enough.

“How is Yossi?”

“Good.”

I told Morissonneau what Kessler had said about the photo.

“I see.” He arched his fingers and tapped them on the blotter. For a moment his focus shifted to the photocopy, then to the painting to my right.

“Avram Ferris was shot in the back of the head, execution style.”

“Enough.” Morissonneau rose. “Please wait.” He gave me the palm-stay gesture. I was beginning to feel like Lassie.

Morissonneau hurried from the room.

Five minutes passed.

A clock bonged somewhere down the hall. Otherwise, the building was silent.

Ten minutes passed.

Bored, I rose and crossed to examine the painting. I’d been right but wrong. The canvas and crucifix did constitute a before-and-after sequence, but I’d reversed the order.

The painting depicted Easter morning. Four figures were framed by a tomb. Two angels sat on an open stone coffin, and a woman, probably Mary Magdalene, stood between them. A risen Jesus was to the right.

As in the library, I didn’t hear Morissonneau’s entry. The first thing I knew he was circling me, a two-by-three-foot crate in his hands. He stopped when he saw me, and his face softened.

“Lovely, isn’t it? So much more delicate than most renderings of the resurrection.” Morissonneau’s voice was altogether different than it had been earlier. He sounded like Gramps showing photos of the grandkids.

“Yes, it is.” The painting had an ethereal quality that really was beautiful.

“Edward Burne-Jones. Do you know him?” Morissonneau asked.

I shook my head.

“He was a Victorian English artist, a student of Rossetti. Many Burne-Jones paintings have an almost dreamlike quality to them. This one is titled The Morning of the Resurrection. It was done in 1882.”

Morissonneau’s gaze lingered a moment on the painting, then his jaw tightened and his lips went thin. Circling the desk, he set the crate on the blotter and resumed his seat.

Morissonneau paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. When he spoke his tone was again tense.

“The monastic life is one of solitude, prayer, and study. I chose that.” Morissonneau spoke slowly, putting pauses where pauses wouldn’t normally go. “With my vows, I turned my back on involvement in the politics and concerns of this world.”

Morissonneau placed a liver-spotted hand on the crate.

“But I could not ignore world events. And I could not turn my back on friendship.”

Morissonneau stared at his hand, engaged, still, in some inner struggle. Truth or dare.

Truth.

“These bones are from the Musée de l’Homme.”

A match flared in my chest.

“The skeleton stolen by Yossi Lerner.”

“Yes.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Too long.”

“You agreed to keep it for Avram Ferris?”

Tight nod.

“Why?”

“So many ‘whys.’ Why did Avram insist that I take it? Why did I consent? Why have I persisted in this shared dishonesty?”

“Start with Ferris.”

“Avram accepted the skeleton from Yossi because of loyalty, and because Yossi convinced him that its rediscovery would trigger cataclysmic events. After transporting the bones to Canada, Avram hid them at his warehouse for several years. Eventually, he grew uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable. Obsessed.”

“Why?”

“Avram is a Jew. These are the remains of a human being.” Morissonneau caressed the box. “And…”

Morissonneau’s head cocked up. Light reflected from one lens.

“Who’s there?”

I heard the soft swish of fabric.

“Frère Marc?” Morissonneau’s voice was sharp.

I swiveled. A form filled the open doorway. Placing fingers to lips, the scar-faced monk raised his one good brow.

Morissonneau shook his head. “Laissez-nous.” Leave us.

The monk bowed and withdrew.

Lurching to his feet, Morissonneau strode across the office and closed the door.

“Avram grew uncomfortable,” I prompted when he’d resumed his seat.

“He believed what Yossi believed.” Hushed.

“That the skeleton is that of Jesus Christ?”

Morissonneau’s eyes flicked to the painting, then down again. He nodded.

“Did you believe that?”

“Believe it? No, I didn’t believe it, but I didn’t know. Don’t know. I couldn’t take a chance. What if Yossi and Avram were right? Jesus not dead on the cross? It would be the death knell for Christianity.”

“It would undercut the most fundamental tenets of the faith.”

“Just so. The Christian faith is based on the premise of our savior’s death and resurrection. Belief in the Passion is pivotal to a creed around which one billion souls fashion their lives. One billion souls, Dr. Brennan. The consequences of the undermining of that belief would be unthinkable.”

Morissonneau closed his eyes, imagining, I could only guess, unthinkable consequences. When he opened them, his voice was stronger.

“Avram and Yossi were probably wrong. I don’t believe these are the bones of Jesus Christ. But what if the press picked up on the story? What if the cesspool that is today’s mass media engaged in one of their nauseating spectacles, selling their souls for a larger share of the audience for the six o’clock news? The ensuing controversy alone would be a catastrophe.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

“I’ll tell you what would happen. A billion lives would be wrenched out of joint. Faith would be subverted. Spiritual devastation would be rampant. The Christian world would be cast into crisis. But it wouldn’t end there, Dr. Brennan. Like it or not, Christianity is a powerful political and economic force. Collapse of the Christian church would lead to global upheaval. Instability. World chaos.”

Morissonneau punched the air with one finger.

“Western civilization would be torn loose at the roots. I believed that then. I believe that even more fervently now, with Islamic extremists pushing their new brand of religious fanaticism.”

He leaned forward.

“I am Catholic, but I have studied the Muslim faith. And I have watched closely developments in the Middle East. Even back then, I saw the unrest and knew a crisis was looming. Do you remember the Munich Olympic games?”

“Palestinian terrorists kidnapped part of the Israeli team. All eleven athletes were killed.”

“The kidnappers were members of a PLO faction called Black September. Three were captured. A little over a month later, a Lufthansa jet was hijacked by more terrorists demanding the release of the Munich killers. The Germans complied. That was 1972, Dr. Brennan. I watched the news coverage, knowing it was just the beginning. Those events took place one year before Yossi stole the skeleton and gave it to Avram.

“I am a tolerant man. I have nothing but the highest regard for my Islamic brethren. Muslims generally are hardworking, family-centered, peace-loving people who adhere to the same values you and I hold dear. But, among the good, there exists a sinister minority driven by hate and committed to destruction.”

“The jihadists.”

“Are you familiar with Wahhabism, Dr. Brennan?”

I wasn’t.

“Wahhabism is an austere form of Islam that blossomed on the Arabian Peninsula. For over two centuries it’s been Saudi Arabia’s dominant faith.”

“What distinguishes Wahhabism from mainstream Islam?”

“Insistence on a literal interpretation of the Koran.”

“Sounds like good old Christian fundamentalism.”

“In many ways it is. But Wahhabism goes much further, calling for the complete rejection and destruction of anything and everything not based on the original teachings of Muhammad. The sect’s explosive growth began in the seventies when Saudi charities started funding Wahhabi mosques and schools, called madrassas, everywhere from Islamabad to Culver City.”

“Is the movement really that bad?”

“Was Afghanistan that bad under the Taliban? Or Iran under the Ayatollah Khomeini?”

Morissonneau didn’t pause for an answer.

“Wahhabis aren’t simply interested in minds and souls. The sect has an ambitious political agenda focused on the replacement of secular leadership with a fundamentalist religious governing group or person in every Muslim country on the planet.”

Jingoist paranoia? I kept my doubts to myself.

“Wahhabis are infiltrating governments and the military throughout the Muslim world, positioning themselves in anticipation of ousting or assassinating secular leaders.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Look at the destruction of modern Lebanon leading to the Syrian occupation. Look at Egypt and the murder of Anwar Sadat. Look at the attempts on the lives of Mubarak of Egypt, Hussein of Jordan, Musharraf of Pakistan. Look at the repression of secular leaders in Iran.”

Again, Morissonneau raised a hand and pointed a finger at me. It now trembled.

“Osama bin Laden is Wahhabi, as were the members of his nine-eleven teams. These fanatics are engaged in what they call the Third Great Jihad, or holy war, and anything, anything is fair game if it advances their cause.”

Morissonneau’s hand dropped to the crate. I saw where he was going.

“Including the bones of Jesus Christ,” I said.

“Even the purported bones of Jesus Christ. These madmen would use their power to manipulate the press, twisting and distorting the issue to suit their purposes. A media circus over the authentication of Jesus’ bones would maim the faith of millions, and hand these jihadists the means to erode the foundation of the Church that is my life. If I could prevent such a travesty I felt obliged to do so.

“My primary reason for taking these bones was to protect my beloved Church. Fear of Islamic extremism was secondary back then. But as the years passed, that fear grew.”

Morissonneau drew air through his nose and leaned back.

“It became the reason I kept them.”

“Where?”

“The monastery has a crypt. Christianity has no prohibition against burial among the living.”

“You felt no obligation to notify the museum?”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Dr. Brennan. I am a man of God. Ethics mean a lot to me. This was not easy. I struggled with the decision. I have struggled with it every day.”

“But you agreed to hide the skeleton.”

“I was young when this began. God forgive me. I saw it as one of the necessary deceits of our time. Then, as time passed and no one, including the museum, seemed to be interested in the bones, I thought it best to let them lie.”

Morissonneau stood.

“But now it is enough. A man is dead. A decent man. A friend. Perhaps over nothing more than a box of old bones and a lunatic theory in a crazy book.”

I stood.

“I trust you will do everything in your power to keep this affair confidential,” Morissonneau said.

“I’m not known for my warmth toward the press.”

“So I’ve heard.”

I must have looked surprised.

“I placed a call.”

So Morissonneau’s life wasn’t all that cloistered.

“I’ll contact the Israeli authorities,” I said. “It’s likely the bones will return to them, and it’s doubtful they’ll be calling a press conference, either.”

“What happens now is in God’s hands.”

I lifted the box. The contents shifted with a soft clunking sound.

“Please keep me informed,” Morissonneau said.

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll attempt to keep your name out of this, Father. But I can’t guarantee that will be possible.”

Morissonneau started to speak. Then his mouth closed and he quit trying to explain or excuse.