CHAPTER TWO

The Santa Barbara wharf was less crowded than usual. Kate and Thomas sat on a bench savoring the ocean breeze with its heavy tang of salt. They watched a gaggle of brown pelicans disdainfully strut among a group of tourists.

“Thomas, I sometimes try and get another viewpoint in a homicide. You are unusually familiar with this case. Do you have any questions?”

“They may sound dumb.”

“My dad, a second-generation cop, said the only dumb question is one you’ve asked before.”

“Smart man. Okay. Since you don’t have any witnesses, what happens next?”

“Find the diary; it is our case. Without the diary as critical evidence, there’s no indictment. No DA would touch it. There are a large number of suspects. Since Fallon obviously didn’t kill his own courier, he is eliminated. Given the diary’s history of homicides, some of them must be connected. That means more leads.”

“How do you keep track of all that?”

“Frankly, I try to think like a dog.”

“A dog?”

“My dad’s first partner as a cop was a German Shepherd named Shotzie. She taught him a lot. For example, when a dog enters a crime scene their nose also tells them information about the previous twenty-four hours. If I could do the same, I’d know how many people had been there, where in the crime scene they went and what they touched. Most of all, I’d instantly recognize them by their scent if we met, though I’d never seen them before. Homicide detectives spend a lot of effort trying to get the same results. First rule—think like the perpetrator.”

“Then why would this perpetrator dismember Denise Hollander’s head and hands to prevent identification, then leave the body on a trail in a public park where it could easily be discovered?”

“That was our first break. I think they goofed when they dumped the body at night. You saw the location; where you enter on that dirt road it appears you’re in the woods. Actually, it’s been a make-out spot since I was in high school. Lots of traffic. Whoever killed her doesn’t know the area. That means they’re from out of town and the murderer isn’t some local soccer mom killing out of boredom.”

“They followed the courier here?”

“And killed her. Now, I have a question. You said the diary might be fake?”

“Fake, or genuine, it is brilliant. Brychan was a linguistic genius. He wrote sections of the diary in four Medieval languages—English, French, Latin, and Gaelic. Fallon hired a team of translators to work on it. But he kept the Gaelic separate; that was to be my job.”

“Why was the Gaelic different?”

“Medieval Gaelic is the hardest; it contains the most critical information.” Thomas opened his wallet, took out a note, and unfolded it. “Brychan left a seven-hundred-year-old clue in English. Fallon sent me a copy.” He handed it to her.

Kate read it aloud, stumbling over several words.

Beefor ye cross three werriors stand

Ant gurds ye last one of our band

Luves face schining shews ye wey

A werriors measure ends ye lai

She gave him a look. “This is English?”

“Middle English, around the time of Chaucer. Spelling was not yet uniform, but you can make sense of it phonetically. Three warriors stand before the cross guarding something hidden among a band or group.”

“Boy, did I miss that.”

“Then the last two lines are rhyming verse. ‘Love’s face shining shows the way; a warrior’s measure ends the lay.’ A lay is a narrative poem. This is like having the last piece of a puzzle but nothing that came before. Tricky?”

“Very. Obviously, the diary is a lot more than just evidence in a homicide.”

The mountain road up to the monastery was a run of narrow tight turns with a steep drop-off on one side to a ravine below. The tires squealed in protest as Kate cornered the curves. Thomas nervously glanced at her.

“My dad had connections in Hollywood with the top stunt driver’s school. For my high school graduation, I was given a course in high-performance driving.”

“I can’t decide whether to pray or jump.”

Kate laughed; he was easy to talk with. Her reputation for bluntness often caused critical evaluation reports from her superiors. She had a low tolerance for fools, whether smart-ass perps, difficult witnesses, or fellow cops. She had even tangled with a judge or two, which once cost her ten days in jail for contempt of court. At the LAPD, her fellow detectives referred to her as “BB” for brass balls. Though she pretended to be irritated, she liked it. Perhaps in order to overcompensate, she often wore skirts and heels on the job. She kept a change of clothes in her car trunk as the situation required.

Thomas was enjoying their rapport but found her attractiveness disturbing. Once in mid-sentence he found his eyes locked on her lovely legs. He forced himself to look away. It was a feeling he had not experienced in nearly two years. Why now?

At the crest of the mountain, Kate pulled in the parking lot of the monastery, passing a sign that said Saint Joseph’s Anglican Celtic Order. With its all-white Spanish-style architecture it looked like a Catholic convent, which it once was. After Thomas got out of the car, there was an awkward pause.

“Thomas, I have to ask. Why would any man in this twenty-first century become a monk and live in a monastery?”

“Kate, that same question has been asked for over fifteen hundred years since the first Christian monks.”

“In a convent, I wouldn’t last a week.”

She gunned the engine, waved, and drove away.

On the drive back, she was irritated by the paradox. There had been no interest in a man since her tortuous divorce. Am I becoming attracted to a religious eunuch? she wondered. The only man safer than a monk was either gay or dead. She made a mental note to call her therapist, Dr. Ruby Stein. Kate could already hear her laughing.

The two Templars and the Gypsy woman made camp under lofty towers of evergreen sighing in the cold north wind. Brychan was watching her as she moved about cooking their meal. She had told them her name was Sara, and that she was born in a caravan at Cádiz, Spain. She was preparing a stew of dried lentils with blood sausage and a winter hare that Ursus shot with his bow. From her spice bag she added wild onion, garlic, Spanish peppers, and black truffles. Brychan and Ursus shared an uneasy look: they believed truffles were poisonous, like most mushrooms. Sara searched for bread in the Templars’ food pack. She unwrapped a damp linen bundle containing a rock-hard end of rye with a beard of black mold. Brychan stopped her before she threw it away.

“That’s not food. It’s for dressing wounds.”

“Wounds? How?”

“Put the mold next to the wound and wrap it. Leave it two days, then do it again.”

Sara wondered how anyone could believe such filth was medicine. She said a silent prayer that if she were injured, neither knight would attempt to treat her. She even heard that Gadjay kept dogs in their houses. All Roma dogs stayed outside unless they were sick. At night they ringed the camp—perfect lookouts. It was almost impossible to surprise a Roma campsite.

Brychan had seen few Gypsies; they had yet to reach the British Isles in great numbers. Arriving in France but a generation ago, she told him that they called themselves Roma or Romany. “Gypsy” was what outsiders, the Gadjay, called them.

From his interest in languages, Brychan had heard that Romany was unlike any other. A mysterious people, Gypsies told fortunes and possessed healing ways with animals, especially horses. They also crafted peerless silver and leatherwork. Known for their cunning, to be tricked by them was to be “gypped.”

While she was cooking, Brychan talked with her. He was curious about how a Gypsy happened to be Christian. Didn’t they believe in witchcraft? Sara explained that the Roma arrived in France as Christian pilgrims under protection of the Holy Roman Emperor. They practiced their faith in their own way, retaining old traditions. Their patron, Saint Sara, was said to have been a servant to Mary Magdalene. Sara was named after her.

Brychan watched, fascinated, as she worked. Her raven hair matched ebony dark eyes; she was wondrously bloss: well-proportioned, with large breasts. When doing woman’s work, she moved gracefully; when riding a horse, she was gaynley as a man.

Ursus listened critically as they talked. Of all the orders in the Church the Templars were strictest about women. Her very presence violated their vows. A Templar must never be alone with a woman, private conversation with one was forbidden, and no woman could enter a Templar building or church without permission. To travel with one was unthinkable. Ursus feared that if they were discovered by another Templar they would be reported and made to serve the required year’s hard penance.

The men were hungry and their first bites were a surprise, delicious and hearty. Ursus, assuming Gypsy cooking would taste foul, could remember nothing so good in months.

The Templar rule at meals was to eat in contemplative silence or hear scripture read by a brother. But this day had brought sufficient evil, as noted in scripture, and must be resolved. Sara listened as they tried to reason through their situation.

After the robbery they had searched the baggage, salvaging whatever they could. The thieves took the VERITAS chest, the diary, and their horses. But they left behind clothing, food, weapons, even their purse of money. What thief didn’t steal money?

The robbers were traveling overland north, probably to Paris. But to follow with inferior horses would make catching them impossible.

To Brychan, the solution was to quit the trail, take a difficult overland route, and set an ambush.

Ursus was opposed. If they guessed wrong going overland, they could lose the robbers.

“Are you sure they are going to Paris?” Sara asked.

“It appears so,” Brychan answered.

“The Roma go to Paris every year before Lent to sell to the crowds. We know trails to avoid the King’s soldiers. You saved my life. I will lead you.”

Brychan looked at Ursus who was shaking his head. “Brother Ursus, we are pursuing them with cavalry horses. The thieves ride our German breed, which are unmatched for endurance. Once they know we are following, they need only release the slow packhorses. Then we would never catch them.”

Ursus understood horses better than anyone Brychan knew. In the Holy Land, the Bedouin who treated their horses like family, taught him. It was said that Ursus could follow a trail over trackless rock.

Ursus looked angrily at the woman: once again she was causing trouble, as was their way.

Brychan read his look. “Brother, the rule concerning women must be ignored when weighed against our mission. We must not fail.”

To avoid further argument, Ursus rose and moved beyond the firelight. He stared at the trees silhouetted against the starry sky and while listening to the whispering night, from long practice, slipped into prayerful meditation.

•••

Sherif Sir Gilbert de Bage ordered his men to halt and make camp. It was too dark to continue tracking by torchlight. Even the relentless Templars would be forced to stop.

He had intensified the pursuit when he found eight dead bandits in the forest. It did not matter that the Templars slaughtered outlaws who would have been hanged immediately if caught. King Philip’s bounty on Templars was paid in gold bezants. As High Sherif serving the Duke of Auvergne, Sir Gilbert could keep all bounty for himself. The bounty on two Templars was a small fortune.

When he began tracking the Templars, they had eight days lead. That changed when the sherif came across the bodies of four King’s Cavalry and an old Gypsy.

At first, Gilbert doubted they were connected. Why would two Templars kill a total of twelve men in two skirmishes when they could simply avoid fighting? The sherif, who well knew weapons and modes of combat, had carefully examined the dead. His experience told him almost as much about the fight as if he had witnessed it; their different blades marked each warrior’s action.

One Templar was extremely strong and a master of the two-handed broadsword. His first opponent was almost cut in half while mounted; another’s ribs were crushed beneath his mail; a third was gutted and beheaded—all by this same warrior’s powerful blade.

The second Templar, who slew the sergeant, had a sword that could pierce heavy mail; probably the new Toledo blade. They were expensive beyond any common soldier’s means.

No Templar is a mere horse thief, yet two on foot attacked and killed four mounted King’s cavalry and took their horses: proof they were either demons from hell or Zealotes. The sherif was surprised to discover that when he followed their trail, another set of tracks revealed the Templars also were tracking someone.

For three grueling days the sherif mercilessly pushed his men, closing the gap. The Templars were now but two days distant. They did not know they were being followed; surprise would give the sherif a critical advantage when they met.

Thomas was out early the next morning after the homicide. He was in town having just made a delivery of Monk’s Bread to the Community Food Bank. The job rotated among the monks and it was his turn.

The delivery truck was an ancient Econovan with a prima donna ignition that started on whim. After cranking easily that morning at the monastery, now when Thomas turned the key, it grunted, coughed, and died.

He got out and raised the hood without the vaguest idea what to do. Frustrated, he looked at the Saturday traffic passing by. He was offering a quick prayer when someone approached him from behind.

“Are you one of the Monk’s Bread people?”

As Thomas turned, he was slammed in the head by a hard blow and dropped to the ground. When he looked up, there was a dark sedan backing toward him.

Two men jerked him to his feet and shoved him toward the car.

“Police! Hands in the air!”

All turned to see Kate, shielded by the open door of an unmarked car, showing a badge and pointing an automatic.

One man hit Thomas with his handgun and he dropped to his knees. Then both men jumped into the waiting car and cut across traffic so that Kate could not fire because of the other cars. In seconds they were gone.

She rushed to Thomas.

“Don’t get up,” she said. “I’m calling the paramedics.”

Woozily, he managed to stand. “What are you doing here?”

She began dabbing his bleeding head with her handkerchief. “Yesterday, I thought we might be tailed, but who tails a cop? So, I followed you today to see if anyone was tailing you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I would look silly if I were wrong.”

“Next time, look silly.”

“I am so sorry.” His warm scent blended with the tang of lemon verbena from working the herb garden. She could almost taste him. “I’m taking you to the ER.”

“No, I’m okay.”

She saw he was going to be stubborn.

“Do you feel well enough to eat?” she said.

“Monks are always hungry.”

“Good. Fallon is flying in on his private jet to meet us for brunch.”

In a parked car half a block away, four men had watched the assault on Thomas. One of them, Sid Carver, swore. “Jeeeesus! How many people are after this monk?”

He touched instant dial on his cell. A voice said, “This is Victor.”

“Carver. Big problem. Before we could grab the monk two guys out of nowhere jumped him. Then a cop appeared, and they took off. A cop! What should we do?”

He held up the phone for the others to hear. There were several seconds of silence.

“Where is the monk now?” the voice asked.

“With the cop.”

“I’ll report it to Leo. He will definitely want to meet with you. Be ready.” The line went dead.

Carver, amazed, looked at the others. “That’s frigging unbelievable! I’ve never heard of Leo personally meeting with anybody.”

In a luxury suite at the Hilton off the 101 in Santa Barbara, Nora Pittman paced in irritation. Ravel Marinero, a man in his mid-forties, stood waiting impatiently. His dark olive face was born to have numbers under it on a police bulletin board. He wore a plastic windbreaker beaded with droplets still wet from a thundershower. His predator eyes followed her.

Nora, smoking a brown cigarette, moved through a maze of her Vuitton luggage strewn across the floor. She was in her mid-fifties and casually dressed in muted tans and browns. Some men would have found her attractive except for something in her eyes that cautioned trouble. It appeared when conversing with her: a lightning intelligence and direct questions.

“How do you know she was a cop?” she asked. “They usually work in pairs.”

“She flashed a badge.”

“Three of you, one of her, and you still didn’t snatch the monk?”

“She was a cop! You didn’t say the monk had police protection.”

Nora didn’t argue. In spite of his ordinary appearance, Ravel was an assassin with extraordinary skills. He worked alone, which was unique; most assassins work in teams. Of both Puerto Rican and Basque parentage, he was highly respected and on call with several extremist groups in Europe. She asked, “Would you recognize this cop again?”

“Anywhere.”

“Next time, kill her and grab him.”

She dismissed him with a nod. With a look of irritation, he left. After the door closed, she grabbed a porcelain table lamp and hurled it against the wall, sending pieces flying. She felt better.

Sid Carver and three of his team had been following the monk’s van all morning waiting for the right opportunity to nab him. Suddenly, two men grabbed him and got away. Then a cop appeared—a total disaster. Now they were nervously waiting in a shabby motel room for Leo’s arrival.

A few weeks earlier, Carver, known as the Broker, had been hired by “Mysterious Leo,” as he was called, to put a team together to kidnap the monk. Carver had worked for Leo twice before: once, hiring a team to deal with a cartel selling stolen assault weapons, and then a political kidnapping. He’d never actually met Leo; connections were always through his middleman, Victor. Carver knew Leo by reputation: “Super nasty.” During the illegal arms deal, when the other side discovered Leo was involved, they shaved their price. Carver was impressed. Now, because of their failure to kidnap the monk for Leo, he was also very nervous.

Only three of the team were with Carver that morning when the monk was snatched. It never occurred to him that he would have needed more. While he was waiting, he tried to estimate who was his weakest link so this didn’t happen again.

Steiner, the “old man,” was German, and his family had been part of the Baader-Meinhof terrorist group of the seventies. Wojowitz worked mainly for Israeli gangs operating in the States. His contacts seemed endless; he even kept close ties with rival Russian drug lords. Grigsby was Chicago mob muscle; his size came with a vicious reputation. Oddly, he was known to be henpecked by his very diminutive wife, a truth which nobody mentioned unless seized with a death wish. Alonzo was Colombian cartel; he seldom spoke but watched everything with a half-smile. Carter suspected the smile didn’t change even when he pulled the trigger.

When Leo finally arrived, to Carver’s surprise, he was alone. He had expected an entourage of flunkies. Leo was Black, another surprise, though it was known that he was not American. One look confirmed his bad-ass reputation. He was expensively dressed and had an attitude that reeked of power. It was said that some actually became sick in his presence when he was angry. Now, Carver believed it. Leo did not need thugs to intimidate.

Without a word, Leo carefully studied each face. Although they all were pros, this operation was too sensitive to rely on simply buying their services. Absolute secrecy was essential. Unknown to them, each was chosen with a vulnerable key that could be wound to his breaking point. Leo was the keeper of the keys.

Apparently satisfied, Leo stepped back. His slight smile did not reach his eyes.

Leo had spent a lot of time alone, and Carver could sense the unmistakable taint of solitary confinement. He was wearing black leather dress gloves in summer—no careless prints. This guy covered everything.

When Leo finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. “The monk is your only priority. Understood?”

One or two nodded; nobody spoke.

“You never act without an order. Any order you get, you obey.” He looked at Carver. “Is that absolutely clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Carver answered.

Grigsby, the broody hulk, cleared his throat. “Look, when you say any order, does that . . .”

“It means exactly any order.” Leo glanced at Carver for confirmation. Carver nodded.

Leo looked again at each face, fixing it in memory. “No failure. No excuses.”

He walked out of the room. They all exchanged wary looks.

Before meeting Fallon for brunch, Kate Googled his name for background. His billions were not the result of some nerd working out of his garage. Driven by both a genius IQ and what was unexpectedly described as “multiple neurosis,” he graduated high school at age twelve. After receiving a PhD specializing in brain research at Cal Tech, Fallon earned a master’s at MIT in computer science. He immediately started his own company, Med-Tek, specializing in software for cutting-edge medical research. Though successful, the company was highly controversial.

Aside from legitimate research and development, Med-Tek’s notoriety came from radical experiments with animals on behavior modification that utilized computer-chip brain implants; these were called BCI, which stood for Brain-Computer Interface. Many corporations had done similar experiments, but Fallon claimed his to be “the cutting edge in New Age therapy.”

On Fallon’s website Kate found a range of bizarre experiments. Rats were remote-controlled like toy cars. Most disturbing was a male chimpanzee named Butch implanted with a brain chip; he mounted a female named Sheba at the touch of a remote switch. Sexual intercourse was repeated again and again during the same session until Butch collapsed from exhaustion. Sheba, relieved, took a nap.

“Who needs Viagra?” Kate muttered.

Strangest of all, Fallon promoted his own controversy. Kate discovered a segment on his website devoted to negative comments from across the media. Scientific American, Psychology Today, The Lancet—all the press was unfavorable. Even Rolling Stone chimed in: “Fallon is a triple threat: brilliant, creative, with the monstrous ego of an intellectual bully.”

Kate wondered: who publishes negative commentary about themselves? Obviously, a supreme narcissist who is totally confidant in who they are. In a celebrity culture where media attention is vital, Fallon promoted his own controversy, which guaranteed continuous media coverage.

Kate was surprised to discover that he was also a famous gourmet, traveling all over the world to dine on exquisite meals prepared by superstar chiefs. Often these were filmed and featured on various network food shows which added to his celebrity.

Researching further, Kate ran Fallon’s name through several police databases that cross-referenced criminal activity. It was a routine her father used on all names connected with a case, including victims, witnesses, and suspects. Occasionally, interesting data would turn up. He called it looking for the “edge.”

Kate soon found an edge and a name: Gladys Pullman, a homicide victim who had worked closely with Fallon at Med-Tek. Kate wanted to find out more but would have to delay until after her brunch.

When Thomas and Kate arrived at the Four Seasons Hotel dining room she was surprised to find Dr. Fallon already there. It had been her experience that the more prominent the person, the longer the wait.

Kate mentally ran her assessment of Fallon: mid-fifties, brown eyes, hair professionally tinted to cover gray, height five-eight to ten, weight one-fifty to sixty. Build: pudgy masked by expert clothes styling. His face was framed in oversized black-rimmed glasses—a part of his signature look. He was said to be tailored by the most expensive shops on Savile Row and was never photographed without coat and tie. Despite his arrogance, there was an unexpected charm as he dominated the conversation. He was holding court.

Thomas listened to Fallon’s small talk while they waited for drinks. It was odd trying to reconcile this congenial Fallon with the arrogant ass with whom he’d spent tedious hours discussing the Templar diary over the phone.

The drinks arrived—Chablis for Kate, beer for Thomas. Fallon raised his glass of mineral water in a toast.

“To happier circumstances,” he said. Then the charm vanished. “I have suffered two devastating losses. The courier Denise Hollander, my assistant of sixteen years, was brutally murdered and is irreplaceable. The stolen Templar diary is priceless.”

He turned to Kate and said, “Detective, you should know that I pride myself in a gift for retaliation.”

“Hopefully, that won’t be necessary.” Kate was confident. “With our police coverage, the diary will soon be recovered, which will lead us to the killer.”

“That’s why I am offering five hundred thousand for information leading to the conviction of Denise’s Hollander’s killer.”

“That is very generous.”

“A term rarely applied to me, Detective Flynn.” He appraised her knowingly and said, “Did Google mention that I married my stepmother the day after we took Daddy off life support?” He shrugged. “It didn’t last. Passion is wrongly compared with fire; it is more like ice. When it’s gone, everything begins to rot.”

Kate was amused at the bizarre image. “No. Google didn’t mention that.”

Fallon glanced at Thomas. “I fear I have shocked our monk.”

“I doubt if you fear shocking anyone,” Thomas said.

“You see, Detective Flynn, when Brother Thomas and I began our association, I warned him that I am a militant atheist. As a fervent hedonist I embrace every indulgence—food, sex, everything except alcohol, which dulls both senses and intellect.”

She savored a swallow of wine. “Mmm. You’re right, I do feel dumber.”

“May I tell you something about the miraculous brain?” Fallon reached in the breadbasket and held up a roll. “There’s a theory that all ideas are atomically structured. The brain metabolizes solid food into abstract thought. How many thoughts in a slice of bread? Imagine— we may owe E equals MC squared to Einstein’s bagel.”

“An interesting idea,” Kate said.

“Very.” Thomas agreed. “Especially since you, an atheist, are paraphrasing the French Jesuit priest and scientist, Teilhard de Chardin.”

Fallon frowned, irritated at being topped. “Let’s talk business. Regarding the diary, my attorneys have managed to put limitations on its use.”

“What limitations?” Kate asked.

“After you recover the diary, it may not be duplicated without a court order.”

“I am not aware of any such law.”

“It’s being rushed through the California legislature this week. No national treasure in written form may be duplicated without notarized permission of its owner.”

Thomas interrupted. “But the diary is not a national treasure.”

“It is now. My attorneys have filed the paperwork. Only a few pages of the diary were duplicated for translation. The three I sent you. Are they safe?”

Kate frowned at Thomas; he hadn’t told her. He avoided her look. “Yes, I have them.”

Fallon, sensing the tension between them, played to it. “As you can see, Detective, your monk is also a man of mystery.”

Kate agreed, “And so are you. How did you manage to limit our use of key evidence?”

“Power. And power is also knowing who to buy.”

“In other words, a bribe.”

“The perfect word. You should also know that I am bringing in my own investigative team to find the killer.”

“And when you do, will you turn them over to the police?” she asked.

“It depends on how quickly they give me the diary. I will do every. . . .”

Thomas interrupted again. “You mean after you finish with them?”

“Precisely.” He turned to Kate. “My attorneys assure me it would be very difficult to prosecute me should I find the killer in a foreign country and do whatever is necessary to recover the stolen diary.”

“You think that’s where he’ll be?”

“It is certainly where he will end up.” He smiled. The topic was finished; his Jekyll–Hyde charm reappeared. “Kate, do you like Mexican cuisine?”

“My favorite.”

“Will you join me for dinner? I have a reservation in Cancún with a famed chef named Javier who is a genius with seafood, especially with a rare prawn he discovered. I’m told our meal will make it extinct. We’ll jet back from Mexico tomorrow in time for you to go to work.”

“Sorry, Dr. Fallon, I don’t have time. Now I have to catch the killer before you do.”

On the mountain road back up to the monastery, there was little conversation; both were still absorbed in the Fallon meeting. Rounding a turn revealed a dazzling panorama of shimmering ocean. Kate pulled over. Below, the cobalt Pacific was patiently carving the bay a wave at a time as it had for eons.

She asked, “Should I have gone with Fallon to Cancún?”

“It depends upon what you’re willing to do for a Mexican dinner.”

“Like trading my virtue for tacos?”

They laughed and watched the ocean, each absorbed in their thoughts.

Thomas was wrestling with the Fallon paradox: why was a scientist and atheist obsessed with the Templars, a religious order? He had hoped their meeting would clarify some questions but discovered only that Fallon had a complex agenda. Thomas was annoyed by something else—his irritation at the thought of Kate flying to Cancún with Fallon. Why did he care?

When Kate drove them into the monastery parking lot, she killed the engine but continued staring straight ahead. The anger she struggled to contain finally erupted.

“When were you going to tell me about the duplicate pages from the diary?” she said.

“Fallon swore me to secrecy. I had to respect that unless it became relevant to your case.”

“The diary is missing. Those pages are evidence that it exists.” She turned to him. “That makes it relevant.”

“Kate, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“This is a homicide, Thomas. No more secrets. Agreed?”

“Then you should also know more about me. On the Internet, find my book and follow wherever that leads. Afterwards, I’ll answer any questions. The title is Merlin: Legend, Wizard, Saint.”

When she drove away, the questions were already forming.

At exactly eight the next morning, Kate arrived at the monastery. When she entered, she heard the echo of monks chanting somewhere deep within its walls. Brother Barnabas, the monk assigned to greet visitors, was wearing the distinctive habit of the order, a dark blue denim monk’s robe with a red cord knotted at the waist. As a Catholic, Kate had seen many monks; they’d worn white, black, brown, or gray robes with a white cord tied at the waist.

Brother Barnabas seemed uneasy when she asked to see Brother Thomas.

“Please wait here.” He disappeared down a chilly corridor, his steps sounding on the Spanish tile floor.

Given the sanctified atmosphere, Kate imagined taking off her blouse and running topless and laughing down the hall. Before she could enjoy the fantasy, Abbot Methodius appeared. He was in his late fifties, with an oyster pallor contrasting his blue robe.

“You wanted to see Brother Thomas?”

Kate showed her badge. “Detective Flynn.”

“Oh, dear . . . Lord.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know exactly how to—”

“What’s wrong!”

“Brother Thomas was abducted last night.”

Her gut wrenched. “Abducted?”

“Yes. He—”

“How in hell could he be abducted from a monastery?”

“Brother Barnabas was on night duty. Around one-thirty there was someone at the door. When he opened it, three men overpowered him and drugged him with a needle. When all the brothers were assembled, Brother Thomas was gone.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No. There was a phone call. A man said that if we notified the police, they would kill Brother Thomas.”

Kate flared. “God DAMMIT!”

The words echoed in the hallowed monastery for the very first time.

“Detective, you can’t report this. Not until we have been contacted about his ransom.”

“Ransom? For a monk? This is about that damn diary!”

Before Methodius could answer, an elderly monk entered. He was frail, nearly skeletal and wore thick glasses. Instead of aged wrinkles, his skin was a sallow parchment drawn over a skull that looked more like a museum artifact. There was a small bandage on the side of his head. Somehow, he looked vaguely familiar to her.

“Father Abbot, is there any more news about Brother Thomas?” he asked nervously.

“Please calm yourself, Brother Simon, or you’ll be back in the hospital.” He introduced them. “Detective, you may also recognize him as Dr. Simon Springer, the famed astrophysicist.”

“Cosmologist,” Brother Simon corrected.

Kate then remembered pictures in the media. The physicist-monk lecturing eminent scientists, his robe standing out in a sea of suits. She indicated his head bandage. “Were you hurt by the kidnappers?”

“No. Do you always jump to conclusions?”

The Abbot smoothly interrupted. “Brother Simon goes to the hospital regularly for dialysis. Last week he fell and injured his head.”

Kate, annoyed by Simon’s comment, pointedly handed her card to Methodius. “My phone numbers, in case you think of something.” She looked from one to the other. “One question. Since they got the diary when they killed Denise Hollander, why abduct Thomas?”

Simon’s look marked her as hopelessly dense. “Obviously, they need him to translate the diary. My God! You’re a detective and didn’t see that?”