“That’s what Joyce says.”
“What was this wingnut doing in Israel?”
“Nice to see you’re keeping an open mind. Joyce went to research a book on Masada. But the Israeli authorities denied him access.”
“Maybe the Grosset incident is a figment of Joyce’s imagination. Or a story he invented out of spite.”
“Maybe it is.” I helped myself to the last of the salsa. “Or maybe it’s real.”
Nothing much happened for the next few days. I finished the Joyce book. I finished the Yadin book.
Jake was right on that account, too. Yadin described the remains from the Herodian period. He discussed the Romans who’d occupied Masada briefly after 73C. E., and Byzantine monks who’d settled there in the fifth and sixth centuries. He gave detailed information on the period of the Jewish revolt, including an elaborate discussion of the three skeletons found in the northern palace. Wide-angles, close-ups, diagrams, maps. But just one photo and a few paragraphs on the cave skeletons.
Curious.
On Sunday, Ryan and I went skating on Beaver Lake, then gorged on mussels at L’Actuel on rue Peel. I hadla casserole mariniere au vin blanc. Ryan hadla casserole a l’ail. I’ve got to credit the boy. He can handle garlic that would kill a marine.
On Monday I logged into my e-mail and found a report from the radiometric-testing lab.
I hesitated. What if the skeleton was only a century old? Or medieval, like the shroud of Turin?
What if it dated to the time of Christ?
If it did, it did. So what? My estimate of age at death made the individual too old to be Jesus. Or too young, if you believed Joyce.
I double-clicked to open the file.
The lab had found sufficient organic material to triple-test each bone and tooth sample. The results were presented as raw data, then calibrated to a date in years before present, and to a calendar date range, given asC. E. orB. C. E. Nothing politically incorrect about archaeology.
I looked at the dates derived from the tooth.
Sample 1: Mean Date (BP-years before present) 1,970 +/- 41 years
Calendar date range 6 BCE-76 CE
Sample 2: Mean Date (BP-years before present) 1,937 +/- 54 years
Calendar date range 14 CE-122 CE
Sample 3: Mean Date (BP-years before present) 2,007 +/- 45 years
Calendar date range 47 BCE-43 CE
I looked at the femoral dates. Total overlap with the dental dates.
Two millennia.
The skeleton dated to the time of Christ.
I experienced a moment of total blankness. Then arguments and questions bumper-car-ed through my brain.
What did it mean?
Who to call?
I dialed Ryan, got his voice mail, and left a message telling him the bones were two thousand years old.
I dialed Jake. Voice mail. Same message.
Now what?
Sylvain Morissonneau.
The urge expelled all momentary uncertainty. Grabbing jacket and purse, I bolted for the Monteregie.
Within an hour I was at l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges. This time I went straight through the orange door into the lobby separating the library from Morissonneau’s office corridor. No one appeared.
Muffled 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!
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 glass. 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 God 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 paintingThe Resurrection. Words about jihad. Assassination.
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.
