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.

I could have argued that the priest’s death should have been reported, that by failing to do so the monks had broken the law. This didn’t seem the time.

Mumbling condolences, I hurried from the monastery.

On the drive back to Montreal, my fear escalated. What had Jake said about the skeleton Morissonneau had given me? Its discovery could be explosive.

Explosive how?

Avram Ferris had possessed the skeleton and he’d been shot. Sylvain Morissonneau had possessed the skeleton and he was dead.

Now I possessed the skeleton. Was I in danger?

Every few minutes my eyes jerked to the rearview mirror.

Had Morissonneau really died of natural causes? The man had been in his fifties. He’d looked perfectly fit.

Had be been murdered?

My chest felt tight. The car seemed hot and cramped. Though the weather was frigid, I cracked a window.

Ferris had died sometime over the weekend of February twelfth. Kessler/Kaplan had entered Israel on the twenty-seventh. Morissonneau had been found dead on March second.

If Morissonneau’s death was due to foul play, Kaplan couldn’t have been involved.

Unless Kaplan had returned to Canada.

Again, I checked my rear. Nothing but empty highway.

I’d visited Morissonneau on Saturday, the twenty-sixth. He’d died four days later.

Coincidence?

Perhaps.

A coincidence the size of Lake Titicaca.

Time to call the Israeli authorities.

The lab was relatively calm for a Monday. Only four autopsies were in progress downstairs.

Upstairs, LaManche was leaving to lecture at the Canadian Police College in Ottawa. I stopped him in the corridor and shared my concerns over Morissonneau’s death. LaManche said he’d look into it.

I then explained the carbon-14 results on the skeleton.

“Given an estimated age of roughly two thousand years, you are free to release the bones to the proper authorities.”

“I’ll get on it,” I said.

“Without delay. We have such limited storage space.”

LaManche paused, remembering, perhaps, the Ferris autopsy and its overseers.

“And it is best to avoid offending any of our religious communities.” Another pause. “And, remote as the possibility may be, international incidents can arise from the most harmless of circumstances. We would not want that to happen. Please, do this as soon as possible.”

Remembering my promise, I phoned Jake. He was still not answering. I left a message informing him that I was about to contact the Israeli authorities concerning turnover of Morissonneau’s skeleton.

I sat a moment, wondering which agency to phone. I hadn’t asked Jake because I’d promised to speak with him again before I made the call. Now he was unavailable, and LaManche wanted the case resolved.

My thoughts took a detour. Why was Jake so uneasy about my speaking to Israel? What was he afraid of? Was there someone in particular he wanted out of the loop?

Back to the question at hand. I was certain the Israel National Police would have no interest in a death two millennia back. Though Israeli archaeology was not my bailiwick, I knew most countries have agencies to oversee the preservation of cultural heritage, including antiquities.

I logged on to the Internet, and Googled the words “ Israel ” and “antiquities.” Almost every listing included a reference to the Israel Antiquities Authority. Five minutes of surfing got me a number.

I checked the time. Eleven-twentyA. M. Six-twentyP. M. in Israel. I doubted anyone would be working this late.

I punched the digits.

A woman answered on the second ring.

“Shalom.”

“Shalom. This is Dr. Temperance Brennan. I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Hebrew.”

“You’ve reached the offices of the Israel Antiquities Authority.” Heavily accented English.

“I’m calling from the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale in Montreal, Canada.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m forensic anthropologist for the medical-legal lab in Montreal.”

“Yes.” Boredom tinged with impatience.

“Remains have come to light here under somewhat unusual circumstances.”

“Remains?”

“A human skeleton.”

“Yes?” Slightly less bored.

“There is evidence to suggest this skeleton may have been unearthed at Masada during Yigael Yadin’s excavation in the sixties.”

“Your name, please?”

“Temperance Brennan.”

“Hold please.”

I did. For a full five minutes. Then the woman came back on. She did not sound bored.

“May I ask how this skeleton came into your possession?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll explain the situation to the proper authority.”

“The IAA is the proper authority.”

“Who is the director, please?”

“Tovya Blotnik.”

“Perhaps I should speak with Mr. Blotnik.”

“He’s gone for the day.”

“Is it possible to reach-”

“Dr. Blotnik dislikes interruptions at home.”

For some reason, I felt reluctant to divulge the full story. Jake’s admonition not to call before contacting him? LaManche’s reference to international relations? Irrational gut reaction? I didn’t know, but there it was.

“I mean no disrespect. But I would prefer to speak with the director.”

“I am physical anthropologist for the IAA. If the bones are to come here, Dr. Blotnik will direct me to handle the transaction.”

“And you are?”

“Ruth Anne Bloom.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Bloom, but I’ll need verification from the director.”

“That’s a highly unusual request.”

“I’m still making it. This is a highly unusual skeleton.”

Silence.

“May I have your contact information?” Glacial.

I gave Bloom my cell and lab phone numbers.

“I’ll pass on the message.”

I thanked her and hung up.

Logging back on to the Internet, I Googled Tovya Blotnik. The name came up in conjunction with several articles addressing a controversy over an ancient stone coffin called the James ossuary. In each, Blotnik was cited as director-general of the IAA.

Okay. Blotnik was kosher. So why the hindbrain heads-up to be cautious with Bloom?

The fact that Lerner and Ferris thought the skeleton in my lab was Jesus Christ? The fact that Jake asked me not to do what I was doing?

I wasn’t sure. But again, there it was.

I was shooting the last few pictures of Morissonneau’s skeleton when Ryan reappeared, looking like the cat that swallowed Big Bird. I waved him into the lab.

“They’ve got him,” he said.

“I’ll bite,” I said.

“Hershel Kaplan.”

“How’d they catch him?”

“Genius failed to pay for a bauble.”

“He stole something?”

“Slipped a necklace into his pocket. All a terrible mistake. He intended to pay.”

“Of course. What now?”

“I’d like to haul his ass back to Canada.”

“Can you do that?”

“Not unless we charge him. Then we can formally request extradition through external affairs.”

“Have you got enough to charge him?”

“No.”

“He’d fight it anyway.”

“Yes.”

Ryan chin-gestured the skeleton. “What’s happening with Masada Max?”

“Carbon fourteen puts his birthday somewhere around the time of the Bethlehem star.”

“No shit.”

“I’m trying to send him back to Israel.”

I told Ryan about my conversation with the IAA.

“What got your sonar pinging?”

I thought about that.

“Jake told me not to talk to anyone in Israel until I’d spoken with him.”