I was stepping out of my shower when the phone rang.

Wrapping myself in a towel, I did a slip-’n’-slide across the tile, bolted to my bedroom, and grabbed the handset.

“Sylvain Morissonneau.”

“You’re a rock star,” I said, jotting the name on the back of a bank statement.

“You have me confused with Sting,” Jake said.

“Was Morissonneau involved in the skeleton heist?”

“No.”

“Where is he now?”

“Lerner never knew Morissonneau all that well. Says he left for Paris shortly after the other two met at Yeshiva. Hasn’t seen or heard from Morissonneau since seventy-one.”

“Oh.”

“I did learn one thing.”

I waited.

“Morissonneau’s a Cistercian.”

“A Trappist monk?”

“If you say so.”

After a defrosted dinner of Thai chicken and rice, I booted my computer and began a Web search.

Charlie kept squawking “Get Off of My Cloud.” Birdie purred on the desk to my right.

In the course of my research, I learned several things.

In 1098C. E., a renewal movement began within Benedictine monasticism, at the monastery of Cîteaux, in central France. The idea was to restore, as far as possible, the literal observance of the Rule of Saint Benedict. I never learned what that meant.

The Latin word for Cîteaux isCistercium, and those who signed on to the reform movement came to be known as Cistercians.

Today there are several orders within the Cistercians, one of which is the OCSO, Cistercian Order of the Strict Observance. Trappist, the nickname for the OCSO, came from another reform movement at another French monastery, La Trappe, in the seventeenth century.

Lots of reform movements. Makes sense, I guess. Monks have a lot of time to reflect and decide to do better.

I found three Cistercian monasteries in Quebec. One in Oka, near Lac des Deux-Montagnes, One at Mistassini, near Lac Saint-Jean. One in the Montérégie region, near Saint-Hyacinthe. Each had a website.

I spent two hours working through endless cyberloops explaining the monastic day, the spiritual journey, the meaning of vocation, the history of the order. Search as I might, I found no membership listing for any of the monasteries.

I was about to give up when I stumbled on a brief announcement.

On July 17, 2004, the monks of l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges, with Fr. Charles Turgeon, OCSO presiding, chose their eighth abbot, Fr. Sylvain Morissonneau, 59. Born in Beauce County, Quebec, Fr. Morissonneau attended university at Laval. He was ordained a priest in 1968, then pursued academic studies in the United States. Fr. Morissonneau entered the abbey in 1971. For eight years prior to his election, he served as the monastery’s business manager. He brings to the office skills both practical and academic.

So Morissonneau had stuck with the contemplative life, I thought, clicking from the monastery’s website to MapQuest Canada.

Sorry, Father. Your solitude’s about to be busted.

THEMONTÉRÉGIE IS AN AGRICULTURAL BELT LYING BETWEENMontreal 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 4A. 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.