] 16 [

Sunday, November 21, 3 p.m.

Sevigny had spent the last of Saturday afternoon in a rented car parked at the side of Sewatin Road on the outskirts of Port Hardy. He’d flown there from Vancouver and spent the entire flight over the water in a state of bliss. The whitecaps below had appeared as dustings of sugar from that height, and it had put his mind off what could lie ahead of him.

In Port Hardy, he rented a car and went to his motel, a tiny wooden structure off the main drag. His accent seemed to prove to the lady at the desk there that he’d come a long way for some sportfishing, and he let her believe that. He was in plainclothes to keep the curiosity factor at a bare minimum.

He showered and went into town to buy some food, and then drove north out of the townsite. Four kilometres down Sewatin Road, he pulled over and watched, choosing a spot about a hundred metres away from a bank of gleaming post-boxes that lined the road like a scale model of an industrial warehouse. He was unlikely to catch anyone checking their mail on a Saturday afternoon, but there was no point in delaying. He’d likely be in this spot all day tomorrow and Monday as well. The box assigned to “Jane Buck” was one of the ten oversized ones along the bottom of the array, and in the five hours he sat in the car sipping coffee and eating apples out of a paper bag, he saw all of two people come and go. Every half hour he turned on the motor for ten minutes to reheat the car; it was six degrees outside. No one unlocked box number 31290. When it got dark, he went back to the motel, ate two large garden salads, and went to bed.

He returned to his spot at six the following morning. By two in the afternoon, not a soul had come by the postal array. He was freezing and running out of fruit. Then, at three, just as he was beginning to think he was wasting his time, someone came and unlocked 31290. It was a woman. There were two packages in her mailbox. She took them to her car and drove off farther down Sewatin Road. He followed at a comfortable distance, and she eventually turned north onto an unpaved road, followed that for four kilometres, and then turned onto a private lane where the grass had grown up through the carpath. From the road, he could see a small structure in the trees, a rough shack no bigger than a hunting cabin. He pulled his car over and got out in time to see her go behind the house. He went into a crouch and ran through the brush beside the driveway and up over the still-thick lawn to the side of the house. His heart was pounding. He pressed the side of his gun against his leg as he sidestepped the length of the house. When he reached the end of the wall he could see the woman was keying the door to a small shed at the back of the property. She entered the dark space with the two packages and a moment later reappeared empty-handed. He twisted around into the open and drew a bead on her. “Arrête!” he shouted, forgetting himself, and the woman screamed. “Stop!” he said. “Step away! Keep your hands up front!”

The woman’s hands flew into the air, and he rushed to her and spun her around, pushing her back against the shed wall, where he kicked her legs apart. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!” she cried over and over as he patted her down.

“I’m the police!” he said. He’d forgotten in the midst of his anxiety that he was in plainclothes.

She was clean. He spun her to face him. “Please! What have I done?”

“What’s your name?”

“Jane! My name is Jane! My ID’s in the car–”

“You show me.”

She walked in front of him, looking over her shoulder, and when she lowered one of her arms, he reached forward and slapped her under the elbow and she put the arm back over her head. At the car, he saw her purse sitting on the passenger seat and, keeping his gun level on her, he opened the door and took it out. “Show me,” he said, handing her the purse. She fumbled in it and removed a cloth wallet. Her driver’s licence was registered to Jane Buck. He looked at her and then at the picture. “This is really your name?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m asking the questions.”

“But who are you? Why are you doing this?”

“Jesus Christ,” he said and he noticed her wince. He dug his badge out of his back pocket and flipped it to her. She examined it and then looked up at him again and she seemed even more frightened of him. “Okay?” he said. “Now tell me who lives here.”

“I just bring him his mail,” she said, her whole body shaking.

“Who?”

“His name is…his name is Peter.”

“Goddammit!” Sevigny shouted, throwing her things to the ground, “I’m not playing twenty questions, woman. Who lives here, and what have you got to do with them?”

“Peter Mallick! His name is Peter Mallick! I bring him whatever’s in the mailbox. That’s all.”

“The mailbox is registered to you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How do you know that?”

“I’m the police, lady, I showed you my badge. I know what I know. Open that shed again.”

She hesitated but started back toward the rear of the house. “He’ll be very upset if we wake him,” she said. “He’s sick. He needs his rest.” She put the key back in the door and opened it on a shallow, dark space. Despite the cold, he could smell the sourness of the little shack. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and then he could see that there were upward of twenty unopened packages on the floor. He leaped at the nearest one. It had been sent on the seventh of October from Wells, British Columbia, from a woman named Adrienne Grunwald. The one beside it had the name of Morton Halfe and a return address in Eston, Saskatchewan. Then his eye fell on a small box with Gladys Iagnemma’s name on it. It had been sent two days before her death. None of them had been opened. “Fucking hell,” he said under his breath. “Why are all these packages here?”

“I told you, I just–”

“Do you speak to this man? To Peter?”

“He mustn’t be disturbed.”

“Says who?”

“His brother.”

He couldn’t help it; he shook her violently. “Give me a name!” She stared at him in terror, and Sevigny turned her by the shoulder and pushed her back out into the daylight. The back door to the house was twenty metres away. The two windows on either side of it were obscured by curtains. He pulled Buck by her purse strap toward the house.

“No,” she said in a hoarse, frightened voice. “We’re not to go in the house.”

“What is the name of the man whose brother lives here?”

“Please.”

“Then I will ask the man inside this house.”

“I don’t have a key to the house.”

“You have a key. Open the door.”

“Please–” she said, and she opened her arms. He tried the door. “Simon,” she said, “his name is Simon. If he knew we were here–”

“What? He would kill us?”

“Please,” she said. “I vowed–” He didn’t wait for her to finish. He took a step back and smashed the door open with the flat of his boot. The door exploded against the wall on the other side. There was the smell of dust, and then, gusting in under it, a sickening death reek. They both recoiled from it.

“When was the last time you saw the man who lives here?” said Adjutor Sevigny.

“Peter must not…be disturbed,” she said, her voice suddenly querulous as she stepped back from the broken door. Then she turned suddenly and puked on the step. He grabbed her under the armpit and muscled her back out onto the grass.

“Stand up straight.”

“You don’t know what you’ve done–”

“Give me your car keys,” he said. She meekly put them into his hand. “Sit down and don’t move.” He got out his cell and flipped it open. There was no signal. “Goddammit. You have a phone?”

“In my purse.” He grabbed the purse off her shoulder and rooted around in it for her phone. He flipped it open. There was a signal. He dialled Port Dundas. Someone answered in the station house. “Get me Hazel Micallef right away.”

“She’s not here,” said the voice. “Who is this?”

“Detective Adjutor Sevigny! I’m calling from the fucking Pacific!”

“Hold on, hold on, I’ll forward you to her cell, hold on.” He waited through a series of clicks, and then Detective Inspector Micallef picked up before it even rang.

“Hello?” she said, sounding bewildered. “Sevigny, is that you?”

He could hear voices behind her. “I’m here,” he said. He was short of breath. “There is something bad happened here…”

“Where’s ‘here’?”

“I follow the woman after she pick up the mail. After she picked up the mail. I mean, I followed her. I’m at a cabin in the woods, maybe it’s ten kilometres from the town site. There is a man here, she says, Jane Buck.”

“You’re with her right now?”

“I broke the door.”

“Hold on, Detective, just slow down. Where are you exactly?”

“I told you! North of Port Hardy. In the woods. I followed her, I followed Jane Buck here. There is a house. A shack. If there is someone in there, they are not alive.”

“How do you know?”

“I can smell it.”

“Have you been in?”

“Not yet. But there is absolutely for certain something dead in this house.”

She said nothing for a moment. “Do you have something you can soak with water? A cloth or something?” He opened Buck’s purse; there was no Kleenex or hankie, but he saw something he thought would work and reluctantly took it out of its plastic wrap. There was a connector for a garden hose beside the back door, and he turned it on and ran water over the thing and pressed it to his nose and mouth.

“What are you doing?” said Jane Buck, looking at him in disgust.

“Shut up,” he said.

“Now go back in,” said Hazel. “Stay on the line.”

He looked at the frightened woman squatting in the grass and unsnapped his flashlight from his belt. The moment he crossed the threshold to the house, the smell penetrated his makeshift mask. “Shit,” he said.

“What is it?” said Hazel.

“I’m in…a small…it is a small room,” he whispered, choking on the air and taking shallow little breaths. He was trying to hold the cellphone to his head and the mask to his mouth with one hand. “There is nothing here. Cold and dark. Two chairs and a table.” His feet crunched on grit. He lifted his flashlight and swung the beam over the room. “One door in the wall. Over there,” he said.

“Open it. I’m here with you, Sevigny. Open the door.”

He crossed the room, the smell driving at him, and put his hand on the knob. It was cold, stiff. He forced it to the right and the door opened. He lifted his flashlight. “Christi tabernac–”

“Adjutor…”

“My God.”

There was a small bed against the wall across the room, nothing more than a pallet of straw. On top of it, his face a maze of maggots, lay the body of a man, his arms hanging down. A black, roughhewn stone pillar was standing on his crushed chest, as if it had fallen out of the sky. Sevigny looked up, expecting to see a hole in the roof, but it was solid. He looked back down at the ruined body. It was a man who, in life, would have weighed well over three hundred pounds. The body was suppurating a thick black fluid.

“Detective?”

“I find a body,” said Sevigny hoarsely. He tried to describe what he was looking at. His voice seemed to issue out into a huge silence. “I am going to be sick,” he said.

“Hang in there, talk to Ray.” She passed Greene her phone.

“Whose body is it?” said Greene.

“Peter Mallick. Jane Buck says Peter Mallick. Brother of Simon Mallick. I find an unopen package in a shed in back of the house with the date of October seven on it. There are others. He has been dead…a long time.” He turned and ran, unable to contain himself any longer, and heaved violently onto the floor beyond the doorway. “I have never…in my–”

“Easy, Detective.”

“I have a woman on the back lawn…there is something I don’t like about this woman–”

“You better call in the locals,” said Greene.

“I know what to do,” he snapped. He tried to settle himself, and he stepped back into the room and approached the bed. He could only imagine the smell in here had it been ten degrees warmer. “I am trying to look at his mouth.” He leaned down, overwhelmed by the stinking cloud of decay that hung over the body, and used the edge of the flashlight lens to brush the lace of maggots away from Mallick’s mouth. The light turned the inside of the body’s head a sickly dark orange. Sevigny spun and vomited again, then turned back. The mouth was closed in a thin line.

“Try not to soil the crime scene too much,” said Greene.

“There is nothing. His mout’ is just closed.”

“You have an accent when you’re terrified, Sevigny.”

“If you was ’ere, Raymond, I bet you don’t be able to talk English at all.”

He heard a rustle and Hazel’s voice telling Greene off. “Take some pictures for us,” she said, “and get out of there. There’s an RCMP detachment up there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out and get back here. Try not to tell them anything they don’t need to know.”

“Hold on,” he said. “There is a desk in the corner. I didn’t see it from the doorway.” He crossed the room to the desk and shone his flashlight onto its surface. “There is a laptop here–”

“A laptop?”

“There’s a computer in that shithole?” said Greene in the background.

“And some books. Old books.” He opened one. “This one is in Italian…” he said. He pressed the cold pad to his face for a moment. “No, Latin. I recognize it from the nuns.”

“Take it all with you, Detective,” said Hazel. “Do what you have to do and call us from your hotel.”

They heard him helplessly puking.

 

He’d muscled her into the front seat of his rental and on the way back to town she neither protested her treatment nor made reference to her rights. He hadn’t arrested her and he took her meekness as a sign that she thought herself in enough trouble that co-operation was her only option. That or she wasn’t clever enough to know that he had no right to take her with him unless he was going to charge her with a crime. And he had no intention of leaving a paper trail in that town. Port Hardy would barely know he’d been there.

He told her to direct him back to her house and she complied. Her place was just off the main drag, in an old wooden house painted light blue. “Am I going to get my car back?” she asked.

“What do you think?” She stared out the windshield at her house. “Are you guilty of a crime?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

She absently nudged a paper bag on the floor by her feet. An apple core rolled out of it. At last she said, “I didn’t know Peter was dead. All I did was bring his mail.”

“Sure you did,” Sevigny said, “because you knew nothing.” He threw open his door. She waited for him on the other side and got out when he opened her door.

“What are we doing?”

“We’re going into your house.”

She cast a frightened glance over the top of the car, as if she were worried someone might be watching them. “Don’t you need a warrant for that?”

“I could get a warrant. Do you want me to get a warrant?” Another look up the street. “Are you expecting someone?”

“They don’t like attention. Simon and Peter. They would be upset if they knew I was talking to you.”

“Well at least one of them will never find out.”

“I’m the secretary, okay? That’s all. I volunteer my time.”

“Why?”

She shook her head slowly, her upper lip in her teeth. “Look. I have nothing. I have the church and my government cheque and that’s it. And my car.”

He reached for his wallet in his back pocket, and she followed it with her eyes as he brought it up between them and opened it to take out two twenties. She made no sign of being disappointed that money was about to change hands. He folded the bills in his hands and held them out, then pulled them back just a little. “How does a woman with nothing have a house?”

“It’s not my house,” she said. “It’s the church’s.” He kept the money in the air. “It’s theirs, okay? They own the house.”

He gave her the cash and led the way to the front door. “When we’re done here, if I think you’ve been helpful, I’ll drive you back to your car,” he said.

 

He got back to the motel just after 4 p.m. A low, dusky light was lying across the harbour and the die-hard pleasure-boaters were heading out in the cool fall air to fish or take in the sunset. The only thing between them and the giant evening sun was an imperceptible line separating the earth from everything else. He’d taken a small folder of paper from Jane Buck’s house. Nothing that would incriminate anyone, but he had a sense that some of the information in that folder, at the right time, would cast a little light in the right direction. More pressing, however, was the laptop. He placed it on the little wooden desk in the motel room along with the books. The books were old; some were bound in leather. His mother had once had high hopes for him entering the priesthood, but even given his years in the seminary, his Latin was worse than poor. The only book in English was an old formulary, a guide to the uses of various plants. This made sense: it was clear by now to them all that the Belladonna was a self-taught pharmacist of some kind, except his specialization ran to the lethal. He checked all of the books for markings, but they were clean.

The computer had been used for a single purpose: apart from the operating system, the only program was a web browser about five years out of date. It had even been stripped of the games that came with it. Sevigny clicked the open browser, but there was no signal here. The browser returned a grey screen with the news that the “server was not found.” He was fairly certain the killer wasn’t getting a signal out in the death shack either, so where was he hooking up to the Internet? There were no bookmarks in the browser, but when he pulled down the history, he saw links for an online email service and links to a site called Gethsemane. He knew what Gethsemane was. He was going to have to get online to find out what it meant to the Belladonna.

He called the front desk, and they were happy to let him use their single computer, but there was no way to connect this laptop to the Internet. They wanted to help him. He told them he was looking for a good place to fish steelhead. “The man in room five caught a lunker this morning just five kilometres out in Bear Cove.”

“That’s great,” said Sevigny. “But I still need the Internet.”

There was an Internet café in town, but it closed at four o’clock on Sundays in the winter. He asked the woman if she knew the name of the person who owned the Internet café, and she did. It was Kevin Lawton. “Everyone calls him ‘Kev,’” she said. There were five thousand people in Port Hardy. He called directory assistance and got the man’s home number. He reached the man’s daughter, who gave him her father’s cell number. The man was on a boat.

“Who?” said Kevin Lawton.

“Se-vin-yee,” said Sevigny. He could hear the wind coming out over the ocean.

“Well, I’m fishing tarpon, buddy,” he said. “Not that they’re interested in me, I’ll tell you that.”

“I’m on police business. This is what you would call an emergency.”

“Bad connection,” said the man, “You sound like a Spaniard.”

“Close,” said Sevigny. “I’ll pay you two hundred dollars to open your café for one hour.”

“Oh fer jeez sake,” said Lawton, “if it means that much to you, I’ll go fishing tomorrow.”

Tomorrow was Monday, thought Sevigny. A regular business day, but then again, he didn’t have much of a sense of what kind of world he was in now, anyway. Maybe they went fishing here anytime they wanted.

He met the man at his café, and Lawton refused Sevigny’s money and let him in. He snapped the lights on, revealing a small establishment done up in a Hawaiian theme. Sevigny was about to ask, but then thought better of it. The man put a pot of coffee on to brew.

The laptop was set up for a wireless connection, and as soon as Lawton had his system running, the browser came to life. Sevigny clicked the link for Gethsemane and the page that came up showed a single image: the rough black stone he’d found standing on Peter Mallick’s staved-in chest. He ran the cursor over the image, but there was nothing.

He went back to the history menu and clicked on the Belladonna’s webmail link. He got a home page with a login screen. The computer filled in the username. It was “simon.” The password window was blank.

Lawton came over with coffee and a thick piece of carrot cake. The smell of it made the back of Sevigny’s jaw ache: he hadn’t eaten since he’d been sitting in his car on Sewatin Road. Lawton looked over his shoulder, and Sevigny lowered the screen. “This legal?” he asked.

“Let’s say the owner of this computer would not be happy to see me doing this.” He took a massive forkful of the carrot cake. It was salty-sweet.

“You know the password?”

“Not a clue.”

“Sometimes there’s a keychain in one of the preferences folders that’ll tell you the password, or at least give you a bit of code you can paste in.”

“I’ll try that,” said Sevigny. Lawton began to move away. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” said the man, stopping.

“You know the name Simon Mallick?”

“I heard of him, but it’s been a while. He was the pastor of a church up here.”

Sevigny got out his notebook. “Where is this church?”

“There wasn’t really a ‘where’ to it, if you get my drift.”

“I don’t.”

“More of a ‘what.’ It was him and a bunch of back-to-basics types. They were scattered all over Vancouver Island, but the Mallick place was sort of their Mecca. They’d assemble up here once in a while and go baptize a bunch of people in kayaks, that sort of thing. They were harmless…there’s about a thousand little religions festering in the trees out here, you know? Most of them disappear up their own assholes, excuse my French.” Sevigny narrowed his eyes. “Mallick’s group called themselves the Western Church of the Messiah. They were vegans, if that tells you anything.”

“When’s the last time you saw him? Simon?”

“Oh God,” said Lawton, and he drew his hand over his mouth. “It’s been absolutely years. Him and his brother, Peter, live up in a little shoebox out in the forest. Is all this about the church?”

“No,” said Sevigny flatly.

Lawton looked at the empty plate in Sevigny’s lap. While talking to Lawton, he’d devoured the entire slice. “I could just put that back into the cupboard. You want another one?”

Sevigny did but said no. He felt he couldn’t waste his hands on anything but what was in front of him. Lawton dipped his head and told his guest that if he needed anything, he’d be at the front desk playing online poker. “Good luck,” said Sevigny.

So, a priest of some kind. He supposed that made some sense, but he didn’t know how he could apply that information to the problem in front of him. He returned his attention to the little white box where the password went. The box was the keyhole. He typed in “Peter,” and “Mallick,” and “PeterMallick,” to no effect. He went back to the Gethsemane site and rolled his cursor all over the rock again. Nothing happened.

The Garden of Gethsemane was where Jesus had been taken by the Romans the night before his crucifixion. It was an olive grove. Sevigny recalled that the night before his crucifixion, Jesus had bled in the garden. In the story, his blood was likened to olive oil. Sister Agata had raised her bony arm and cried out, “Jésus s’est oint!” Jesus had anointed himself.

Sevigny typed in “Gethsemane” and nothing happened. He typed in “Jesus” and “Jesu” and “Goddammit” and nothing happened. He felt like throwing the laptop across the room. He stared at the screen until it felt like the tiny dots of light there were going to burst apart. There was something behind that light; the barrier was an atom wide. He just had to lay the right word overtop of it and it would part for him. He typed in “JaneBuck,” and the page returned the error message again.

He tried “petersimon,” and “simonpeter” and “simon.” Would this man, as smart as he was, make his username and his password the same thing?

He would not.

Sevigny sat back in his chair with a groan and closed his eyes. He’d barely slept since his plane had landed. It would be something unguessable. He leaned forward again and typed in the number of Jane Buck’s rural postbox–“31290”–and the killer’s inbox opened before his eyes like a blossom. He heard himself gasp. The inbox was empty. Sevigny, his hands quaking, checked the sent folder, but it was empty as well. There was nothing in “outbox.” He clicked the “deleted items” folder, and a list of emails trickled down the screen.

Sevigny clicked on email after email. Name after name sang to him. After reading a dozen of the terse messages, he went back to the Gethsemane web page and added a forward slash and the word mashach to the URL and the black stone evaporated like so much steam and revealed the world to him.

 

“Braid Vincent’s hair less.”

“Cull those berry vines.”

“Rave, you violent bears.”

Jill Yoon looked up from her computer. Hazel Micallef, Ray Greene, and James Wingate were staring at the fridge doors, which were covered with a bedsheet. On it, the green ligature had been clothed with a human face. Yoon had explained that she’d developed a digital mouth that averaged together the measurements of the victims’ sixteen mouths. The mouth that spoke to them from James Wingate’s fridge was, she said, the visetic offspring of sixteen dead bodies. Now they spoke as one, in a computerized voice. But they said such things as:

“Dave plows yearly,” and “Cube the vibrations.”

“Cube the vibrations,” said Ray Greene. “That’s going to come in handy one day, I feel certain of it.”

“How many different things can it say?” asked Hazel.

“Twenty-four hours isn’t a lot of time for something like this. I haven’t nearly exhausted all of the possibilities.”

“But?”

“But I’ve come up with a vocabulary of sixty-eight words,” said Jill Yoon, “and I’m up to a hundred and fifty-five phrases.”

“Do we want to hear any more of them?”

Yoon searched down her list. They stared at the bedsheet, where their sixteen dead had been melted down into a living, electronic face. It breathed in and said, “A cute doe saves belief.”

“Fuck,” said Ray Greene. He walked into the living room and sat heavily on Wingate’s couch. “I liked this better when there was a possibility we could have programmed Hazel’s lips to promise me a raise.”

“We’re not going to hit on it right off, Ray. It’s not an exact science.”

“That’s right, it’s witchcraft.”

Wingate was standing beside the fridge, staring at the inhuman face. “What if it’s not in English?” he said. “You made DI Micallef talk French earlier.”

“It was a party trick,” said Jill Yoon. She’d borrowed one of Wingate’s sweaters from the dresser in his bedroom and moved around in it like a clapper inside a bell. She’d raided his bed for its sheet. He’d felt sick when she called them back to his apartment at five in the afternoon and seen that she’d all but moved in. The sink was full of dishes from some kind of pasta meal she’d made herself from shrimp in his freezer, olive oil, fresh peppers, and a sundried tomato pasta he’d hidden at the back of a cupboard and never imagined she’d find. For a tiny thing, she ate like a bear. He wanted her out as soon as possible. “I have high-school French, that’s it.”

“How does the program know English?” asked Hazel.

“I taught it. I read it A Midsummer Night’s Dream, half of Executioner’s Song, and Snoopy comics. I still read to it sometimes, like it’s my kid. It wants to learn.”

“We need Sevigny,” she said.

Ray groaned from the couch. “What, we’re going to wait until our man in B.C. flies back, then get him to read the collected works of Voltaire into this thing just so it can tell us how to trim raspberry vines in French? Honestly, Skip, I think you were right. We should seriously consider distributing the drawing that girl made. If he’s in the Maritimes, then it’s only a matter of days before he’s finished what he’s doing, and by the looks of it, he’s the only one who really knows what he’s doing.”

“I’m calling Sevigny,” Hazel said, and she pulled her cell out of her pocket. “Damn it, does he even have a cellphone?” As she was saying this, she heard a voice calling to her from her hand. She put the phone back to her ear. “Hello?” she said. “Sevigny, is that you?”

Wingate and Jill Yoon watched her straining to hear Adjutor Sevigny. She covered the phone with her hand and said to them, “He’s in a shack somewhere.” Wingate could hear the man’s clipped voice cutting in and out from the mouthpiece. He was terrified, that much was clear. He watched Hazel’s face, then Greene’s, for some clue as to what had happened. Sevigny was far away. Hazel had passed the phone to Greene, but grabbed it back from him. He said, “There’s a computer in that shithole?” and with that, Wingate knew a door had swung wide.

“Take it all with you, Detective,” said Hazel Micallef. “Do what you have to do and call us from your hotel.” She snapped the phone shut. “He found a body. He found Jane Buck and she took him to a body.”

“Sev was going to give him mouth-to-mouth,” said Greene, “but he said he hates the taste of maggots.”

“Ray.”

“Sorry.”

“Strike French,” Hazel said to Jill Yoon. “We don’t need it. James, go pluck Father Glendinning from his Sunday roast and bring him to me. Tell him to find his oldest Bible. We’re going to teach Miss Yoon’s computer how to speak Latin.”