“But it’s true. You have to realize-just because things don’t have tangible reality, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Ideas are just as real as people and property. Ideas have changed the world, profoundly, to an extent most people never approach. The idea of Santa-the spirit of Christmas-is very real and wonderful.”

“I think you’re stretching a point to win an argument.”

“You can’t ask me to explain the unexplainable, Ben. Some questions simply have no answers. It was meant to be that way. If we could prove empirically that God exists-what would be the point? That wouldn’t be faith. That would be… science class. True religion requires an act of faith-that’s what defines it. That’s what makes it important.”

“This is all sounding pretty mysterious to me, Father.”

Beale settled back into his chair. “I’ve talked to your partner, Christina. I like her a lot.”

“Everyone does.”

“Including you?” He grinned. “Never mind. None of my business. But she tells me that you’re very good at solving mysteries.”

Ben shrugged. “I’ve gotten lucky a time or two.”

“Well, then,” Father Beale said, wrapping his fingers around the silver cross dangling from his neck, “isn’t it time you tackled the greatest mystery of all?”

Ben almost missed it, in the early twilight, as he crossed the parking lot to get to his car. A plain piece of paper, folded over once, and tucked under the driver’s side washer blade.

He looked all around. As far as he could tell, no one else was present. Of course, he’d been in the office almost all day. This note could’ve been left at any time.

He unfolded it. The short message was spelled out in block capital letters: meet at shed behind church at nine. we must talk.

He crumpled the note in his hand. He knew the place-a storage shed where they housed seasonal decorations and gardening equipment and anything else that didn’t fit in the church itself. But who was it from? And what did his correspondent want to talk about?

He knew one thing for certain-if Mike were around, he would tell Ben that under no circumstances should he make this rendezvous. It could be anyone-someone who thinks Ben knows too much, someone who hates lawyers, someone who’s convinced Beale is guilty and wants to take it out on his attorney.

But there was also the possibility that the person who wrote the note knew something about this case, maybe something he or she couldn’t say on the record. Something that might help Father Beale. And if there was any possibility of that…

His throat dry, Ben slid behind the wheel and started toward Seventy-first. This was probably stupid-possibly even dangerous. But he had no choice. He simply had no choice.

As Ben entered the north parking lot at St. Benedict’s, he was surprised to see several other cars already there. Had other people gotten mysterious notes under their windshield wipers? he wondered. Or was something else going on here?

Up ahead, passing by the prayer garden, Ben spotted Father Beale heading toward the church. That was odd. He’d given his client strict instructions to go home and get some rest-because once the trial started, he would have little spare time and even less rest.

Ben ran up behind him. “Father Beale? What are you doing here?”

Beale stroked his snowy white beard. “Vestry meeting,” he said, without much enthusiasm.

“You’re kidding!”

Beale shook his head sadly. “It is Sunday night.”

“I told you to go home and relax. A vestry meeting is about the most unrelaxing thing I can imagine.”

“I am the rector of this church,” he replied evenly. “I can’t miss the vestry meetings.”

“But what’s the point? You know how those people feel about you.”

“I am the rector of this church,” he repeated.

“I need you to be one hundred percent tomorrow, not all strung out from some aggravating, traumatizing meeting.”

“I have to be there,” he said simply.

Ben let him pass, but he was not happy about it. The last thing on earth they needed was another angry confrontation fueling the prosecution theories. Most of the vestry members were on Canelli’s witness list. This would only give them one more horror story to relate to the jury.

Inside the church, Ben saw Dr. Masterson and George Finley and Ruth O’Connell and several other vestry members in the parish hall, waiting for the meeting to begin. They looked about as enthusiastic about this as Father Beale did. Ben toyed with the idea of getting on his cell phone and calling in a bomb threat, just to break up the meeting. Illegal, true, but it would be a mercy to all concerned.

Carol Mason, the gorgeous Sunday school teacher, met Father Beale at the door outside the parish hall. “We have to talk,” she said quietly. She took Father Beale’s hand into her own and held it, leading him away. A surprisingly intimate gesture, Ben thought. He wondered if he was the only one who noticed.

Behind him, outside the parish hall, Ben heard voices-angry voices. He turned quietly and followed the sounds. They were coming from the nursery, of all places, but they were not the voices of children. Two adults were in there, one male, one female. He pressed up against the wall just outside the door and listened.

“Hell, yes!” the man said. “Of course I knew the trial started tomorrow. But I didn’t expect to be subpoenaed!”

“It’s just a precaution,” the female assured him. “Standard procedure. To make sure you’ll be there when they need you.”

“Maybe so, but I still don’t like it. What if they call me to the witness stand and start asking a lot of questions?”

“Like you thought you’d be one of those witnesses they didn’t ask any questions?”

“You know what I mean.”

There was a protracted pause, long and deadly.

“There’s no reason why it should even come up. It has nothing to do with the murders.”

“Susan, I don’t know that.”

There was another pause, even longer than before. Ben took the opportunity to quietly inch his head toward the door, just enough to see who was in there. As he surmised, the woman was Susan Marino, current leader of the vestry. And she was speaking to George Finley.

“A little late to be having second thoughts, isn’t it, George?”

“How did I know it would come to this?” he said, his voice escalating. “How did I know people were going to be murdered?”

“You didn’t, George, and you still don’t. You don’t know anything.”

“Susan-I’m warning you. I do not want this to get out.”

“Then keep your head together and your mouth shut. Look-it’s almost nine. Let’s go to the meeting.”

Ben crept away from the door and segued into the hallway. Bad enough to be eavesdropping; he certainly didn’t want to be caught. He drifted into the narthex and talked to other members of the vestry, but didn’t learn anything of interest. After a few minutes, he gave it up. The meeting was getting ready to start, and he had no desire to experience the acrimony that was sure to follow. Besides, he had a rendezvous to make.

He passed through the front doors of the church and walked around to the back. About fifteen feet away from the south wall of the church was the barn-shaped storage shed.

The door was open, just barely.

Slowly, Ben crossed the darkened yard to the shed. Twilight had given way to night, and there was no moon out, or if there was, it was hidden behind heavy cloud cover. A little light spilled out of the top windows in the back of the church, but not much. If the shed had been any smaller, he might not have been able to find it.

The wind was cold on his cheek; rain was coming, if he wasn’t mistaken. It gave him a shiver. Or something did, anyway.

He took the doorknob in hand and slowly pulled it open. The door creaked like something out of a haunted house, or so it seemed, there in the chilling darkness.