“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 titledThe 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.”