Joyce was so convinced of the scroll’s authenticity that he spent the next eight years researching Jesus’ life.

I was still reading when Ryan arrived with enough food to feed Guadalajara.

I popped a Diet Coke. Ryan popped a Moosehead. As we ate enchiladas, I hit the main points.

“Jesus viewed himself as a descendant in the Hasmonean line.”

Ryan looked at me.

“The Maccabean kings. His movement wasn’t simply religious. It was a grab for political power.”

“Oh good. Another conspiracy theory.” Ryan dipped a finger in the guacamole. I handed him a tortilla.

“According to Joyce, Jesus wanted to be king of Israel. That pissed Rome off, and the penalty was death. But Jesus wasn’t betrayed, he surrendered to authorities following negotiation by an intermediary.”

“Let me guess. Judas?”

“Yep. The deal was that Pilate would release Barabas, and Jesus would turn himself in.”

“And why would he do that?”

“Barabas was his son.”

“I see.” Ryan wasn’t buying any of it.

“This prisoner exchange involved an escape mechanism, and the whole plan depended on controlling the clock.”

“Life is timing.”

“Do you want to hear this?”

“Is there any possibility of sex right now?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“I want to hear this.”

“There were two forms of crucifixion-slow and fast. Slow, a prisoner could last up to seven days. Fast, you were dead in twenty-four hours. According to Joyce, Jesus and his followers had to time his execution so that fast was the only option.”

“Fast would be my choice.”

“Sabbath was approaching. And Passover. According to Jewish law, no corpse could remain on a cross.”

“But crucifixion was a Roman show.” Ryan went for another enchilada. “Historians agree Pilate was a tyrant and a bully. Would he have given a rat’s ass about Jewish law?”

“It was in Pilate’s interest to keep the locals happy. Anyway, the plot involved the use of a death-mimicking drug. Papaver somniferum orClaviceps purpurea. ”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

“The opium poppy and ergot, a lysergic-acid producing fungus. In modern lingo, heroin and LSD. Both were known in Judea. The drug would have been administered via the sponge on the reed. According to the Gospels, Jesus first refused the sponge, later accepted it, drank, and immediately died.”

“Only you’re saying he lived.”

“I’m not saying it. Joyce is.”

“How do you get a live body down from a cross in front of witnesses and guards?”

“Keep the witnesses at a distance. Bribe the guards. It’s not like there was a coroner standing by.”

“Let me get this straight. Jesus is out cold. He’s whisked to the tomb, later spirited away, nursed back to health, and somehow ends up at Masada.”

“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 marinière au vin blanc. Ryan hadla casserole à 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 Montérégie.

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.

“Arrêtez!”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.

“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.