John wondered why the man spoke the way a machine gun fired. "Yes, Brother." He waited until the old man left and picked up the robe. "This is pushing it, Mercer, even for you." He wasn't a priest any longer, and he wouldn't put on the facade of being one to make the friars feel comfortable. If his presence was that unwelcome, he'd call Maurice's brother and get a job fixing roofs.

John hung up the robe in the guest room's small closet. His accommodations were surprisingly modern for an abbey, with a standard twin bed instead of the usual pallet provided for the cloistered. Two white-framed watercolor studies of exotic bird- of-paradise flowers had been hung on the walls, which were painted the color of sea glass. A bookcase with a collection of scholarly religious studies and the omnipresent Bible stood beside a simple writing desk, on which a portable radio and CD player sat. No television, of course, but the radio would keep him in touch with world events. There was even a thermostat for him to adjust the room temperature, which the central air-conditioning unit of the abbey kept at a cool seventy-six degrees.

The guest room had a more personal feel than that of a priest's stark cell or the anonymous one-room-fits-all of hotel accommodations. If he stayed on at Barbastro, John knew he'd be comfortable.

What we could really use is a procurator, Mercer had said. You'd make a great go-between.

John didn't want to think about working for the church again even in a civilian capacity. He dressed in the cleanest pair of slacks and plain white T-shirt from his suitcase before walking out of the guest room and following to the sanctuary the sound of bells for matins.

The brothers of Barbastro Abbey were already assembled inside their sanctuary, standing in two rows on either side of the long aisle leading up to the altar, where Mercer was presiding over the morning service. Unlike a parish church there were no pews, only short, narrow knee benches stacked neatly against one wall that would be used for the brothers to kneel on to take the sacrament of communion. Years of burning incense and candles permanently scented the cool air inside the chapel.

Awe and shame battled inside John as he walked in to stand at the end of one of the lines. He still couldn't enter a church without feeling the power of faith, or his own lack of it.

John decided he made a lousy atheist. I don't believe in this empty ritualistic nonsense anymore, and yet here I am, just one of the boys.

As the ringing of the last bell of matins faded, the brothers began to sing the opening hymn of the service.

Dies irae, dies ilia Solvet saeclum infavilla, Teste David cum Sibylla.

It had been so long since John had sung a hymn in Latin for any reason other than to perfect his knowledge of the language of the church that he automatically translated it in his head. Day of wrath, day that will dissolve the world into burning coals, as David bore witness with the Sibyll.Quantus tremor est futurus, Quando iudex est venturus, Cuncta stricte discussurus!

How great a tremor is to be, when the judge is to come briskly shattering every grave.

Tuba mirum spargens sonum Per sepulcra regionum, Coget omnes ante thronum.

A trumpet sounding an astonishing sound through the tombs of the region drives all men before the throne.

Mors stupebit et natura, Cum resurget creatura Iudicanti responsura.

Death will be stunned and so will Nature, when arises man the creature responding to the One judging.

It was a peculiar choice, to say the least, for a matins hymn. The Dies Irae had been composed in the midthirteenth century as a meditation on Revelations, when the Catholics expected Christ to be reborn to the world of man in time for Judgment Day. John had never heard it sung during any service other than at a funeral mass or as a mournful requiem for the dead.

Maybe they're celebrating the death of my calling. Disgusted with his endless self-pity, John looked up at the altar. If You are in here, God, do something. Strike me with lightning. Stop my heart. Make my head explode. Give me some reason to think it all wasn't a waste.

As usual, God did nothing.

Mercer, dressed in the same humble robes as his brother friars, knelt before the altar as the men sang, and bowed his head.

That he was praying was obvious, but psalms and passages of scripture were offered after the singing of the hymn, not during it.

Maybe someone really died around here recently, John thought, startled to find he was singing the last verses of the hymn.

Gratefully he let his voice fall silent with the others.

Mercer continued to pray for several minutes, then crossed himself and stood, turning to face John and the friars. " 'Grace be to you, and peace, from God our Father, and from the Lord Jesus Christ.'"

The friars responded as one with "Heavenly Father, have mercy on us." .

" 'Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath blessed us with all spiritual blessings in heavenly places in Christ,'" Mercer said, stretching out his arms, " 'according as he hath chosen us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without blame before him in love.'""Heavenly Father, have mercy on us," the brothers intoned.

John listened to the rest of the abbot's recitation from the first chapter of Ephesians, but he did not join in the refrain, and he let the words roll away from him rather than trying to hold on to them and see some new meaning in them. For him the Holy Scriptures had become like tumbleweeds in the wind: spreading their seed everywhere but the sterile ground within him.

If God truly wanted John to renew his faith and come back to the church, He'd have to do better than hit him with the joyless, misogynistic admonitions of Saint Paul.

The matins service finished with a psalm and more traditional prayer, and the brothers filed out of the sanctuary still in their two lines. John remained standing in his place, so they all passed him. Not one of the brothers glanced at his face. Many made a point to avert their gazes.

"Don't take it personally," Mercer said as he walked down from the platform around the altar. He looked tired, as if he hadn't slept much. "They're not used to visitors, so they tend to be a little shy."

"I remember how it is to be the new brother in the cloister," John told him. He could smell toothpaste on his old friend's breath, but no hint of alcohol-and then he felt ashamed for checking. "Don't worry about it."

"I know what you're thinking," his friend said as they left the sanctuary and crossed the short cement walkway to the refectory.

"Who died and made us sing that hymn?"

John looked up at the wide sky over the abbey. It seemed twice the size it had been in Chicago, but there were few tail buildings in this part of the country, and much less air pollution.

A ripple of clouds, like strips of corrugated white paper, began to reflect the intense gold and pink of the rising sun. Florida was a beautiful, unreal place, and to a former Chicago street kid, as alien as Mars.

Mercer nudged him. "You loathed it that much?"

John forced himself to focus on his conversation with the abbot. "It is a requiem piece, Mercer. Not exactly how we used to start off our day in the Rockies."

"We're working through some of our own problems here," the abbot said as he opened the door to the dining hall room where the brothers shared their meals. "Some of the older brothers take comfort in the old ghastly stuff. Me, I'd like some John Denver songs, but I don't know how to play the guitar, and you've heard me sing."

"I've heard you screech off-key," John said, shaking his head. "Better stick to the requiems."

Mercer nodded, satisfied. "Exactly. Now, I'm going to ask you to say the blessing over the meal, so stop looking as if you've been sucking jalapenos."

John took the empty seat to the right of Mercer's place at the head of the long trestle table. The abbot remained standing and beamed like a proud parent at the men lining the long benches on either side of him. "Good morning, brothers."

"Good morning, Father," the friars answered in unison.

John felt foolish not replying, but some of Mercer's attitude toward the other friars bothered him a little. It seemed far more patronizing than it should have been, in his opinion, but perhaps that was how Mercer maintained his authority at the abbey.

"Our guest, Brother John Patrick, is joining us for a time here at Barbastro," Mercer was saying. "I would like to thank Brother Ignatius for helping to make Brother John comfortable"-he nodded toward the sour-faced friar who had taken John to his room the previous night-"and I would impose on the rest of you and ask that you do the same. Whatever our position in life, we are all the sons of God, and we serve as one family."

Except me, John thought. No God, no family, no desire to serve anyone, not even myself. What am I doing here?

The abbot turned to address him. "Brother Patrick, would you offer thanks for the bounty of the table?"

John nearly got up and walked out, but he found being rude was more revolting than feeling hopeless. So he bowed his head and in a monotone repeated one of the thousand variations of grace that he knew. It seemed the ultimate in hypocrisy to sit with these men of faith and offer thanks after so many months of eating alone without a single word of gratitude to anyone but the occasional waitress who refilled his coffee cup or brought him a bottle of ketchup. It also gave him a sense of moving back in time instead of forward, and that any moment a black cassock would cover his street clothes and someone would want him to offer Mass or hear confession.

"May God forgive us for the weakness of our spirits," John heard himself add on to the end of the prayer. "The gratitude of the wayward soul is the sincerity of the starved dog." He looked up and saw some of the brothers staring at him. "Amen."

The brothers reluctantly echoed his last word and, after an awkward silence, began to pass around the food.

"That was rather interesting," Mercer said as he filled his coffee mug and passed the thermal carafe to John. "What do you say for dinner? 'Blessed be the serial killers, or else the devil would have no one to torment'?"

"If you don't like my act," John replied, "don't put me on a stage."

Breakfast was a Spartan selection of hot oatmeal, cold cereal, and waffles, as the Franciscans believed in ample but plain food.

Still, there was plenty of fruit on the table, as well as black tea and orange juice to relieve the blandness of the main dishes.

John expected the brothers to eat in silence, as was traditional at the abbey where he had gone after returning in disgrace from South America. Mercer again surprised him by asking questions and encouraging conversation about the tasks that needed to be accomplished for the day. He listened as the brothers spoke about their individual responsibilities, and offered advice or decisions as needed.

"There was a terrible news report on the radio this morning," one of the younger friars said. "The body of a man was found in the yard of a summer home belonging to an importer and his wife. They said the dead man had been mutilated."

Now Mercer looked as if someone had shoved hot peppers in his mouth. "That is not something we wish to discuss at the table, Brother Robert."

"I only thought... it might be a sign of things to come, Father," Robert said, his gaze shifting around the table. "We were told to watch, weren't we?"

"Being watchful," Ignatius told him, "does not mean babbling on about the sins of the world."

"We do work in the outside world, so it is a good thing to keep in touch with what is happening there," Mercer said. "Robert, I would prefer you not listen to the radio in the mornings. The news programs put out a great deal of inappropriate material for their listeners, who are almost always caught in rush-hour traffic. Their stories are entertaining, even shocking, but rarely do they inform us of the facts."

John stared at the abbot and opened his mouth to tell him he was full of it. An image of him hammering nails into shingles made him return his attention to the cold waffle on his plate.

"Someone will have to attend to the services," Brother Ignatius said, at the same time giving Robert a final, hard glare. "Seeing as you were up all night again, Father."

"My insomnia is a plague on us all," Mercer said. "John, if you're feeling rested, Brother Nicholas could use your help in the gardens."

"Brother Nicholas?" He looked down both sides of the table. When the elderly, windblown friar who had woken him for matins lifted his spoon and waved it, John leaned over and said to the abbot in a lower voice, "He's your gardener?"

"It was that or the kitchens," Mercer murmured back. "Try to keep him from using the electrical equipment. He fancies himself a handyman, but yesterday he almost electrocuted himself after rewiring the hedge trimmer."

"Should Brother Patrick make a trip into town for us today?" one of the younger friars, a nervous, fair-haired man in his twenties, asked. "There are several things Brother Paul will need for the infirmary."

"I'd rather stay on the grounds and familiarize myself with the abbey," John said. He noted the glances the brothers were exchanging with one another, and how some seemed to be fearful. "I'll keep out of the way, of course. I don't want to cause any disruption of your routines."

"You already have, Brother," Ignatius said.

"We will all agree that change is often a good thing," Mercer countered before John could reply. "It gives us the opportunity to examine ourselves and see if we are fulfilling the vows we have made."

"The vow," Brother Nicholas said, pounding the handle on his spoon on the table in emphasis. "Before all others. That is everything. That is..." He drifted off, staring at his spoon for a moment before digging into his oatmeal without another word.

"That reminds me," Mercer said. "We have a number of lightbulbs in the cloister that need changing. Brother Joshua, please attend to these. Is there any other business to discuss?" He looked around the silent table. "Very well, then. I would prefer not to be disturbed until vespers. A good day to you, brothers."

"And to you, Father," the men replied in chorus.

"If you're finished pretending to eat those waffles, John," the abbot said as he rose from the table, "I'll show you where we keep the gardening equipment."

Chapter 9.

"Why am I here instead of at home trying to sleep through Gloria's game shows?" Harry demanded as he dropped his tray on the cafeteria lunch table.

Sam was tired, too. She'd had the strangest night, dreaming nonstop about making love with Lucan the nightclub owner, of all people. "Garcia decided at the last minute to put us all on switch shifts until the new guys are trained." Which meant she'd be working days and nights for another month or two, assuming she lived that long.

"I still can't believe they're letting that chickenshit bastard come back here." Her partner dropped into his chair hard enough to make the leg ends squeal against the scarred terrazzo floor. "Screw Garcia; take your vacation time."

"I'll run out of that eventually," Sam reminded him as she removed the plastic lid from her coffee cup, "and he'll be here waiting when I get back." She added one sugar and saw her partner grimace and massage his chest. "Take your pills before you eat.

Gloria will beat me if you mess up the trip to Cancun."

"Don't know why I've got to take her to Mexico, for Christ's sake. We've got the prettiest beaches in the world right here."

Harry shook out a pair of tablets from a brown bottle and popped them in his mouth. "She's planning another frigging surprise party, too, isn't she?"

"Next Friday, right after we get off here. She said you'd better look surprised, too, or else." Sam awkwardly used her right hand to push a plastic fork through her fruit-and-nut salad. She'd taken the gauze bandage off her left hand, but it was still sore.

"You hear anything about this guy Suarez?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Ortenza knows him from EC. Says he's not real happy about a female partner, or working graveyard."

"Ortenza is so full of shit that he can play good cop/bad cop by himself," she reminded him.

"Yeah, my feeling." Her partner picked up his chicken sandwich and tried a bite. "The guy is supposed to be tight with Garcia.

He recommended Suarez for the slot."

"Good for him." Sam wasn't going to resent Suarez sight unseen. She knew how it felt.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, until a shadow fell between them on the table. Sam looked up into black sunglasses. The man wearing them was about her height, Hispanic, and built like the front end of a truck. He wore a dress uniform with lieutenant bars gleaming on his collar. Blue lights reflected in his coal-black hair, which he wore in a long but neatly combed style.

Ex-undercover, she guessed. And very, very cool.

"You Detective Brown?" When she nodded, he held out a broad, square brown hand with discreetly manicured nails. "Adam Suarez. Good to meet you."

"You, too, Lieutenant." She liked the fact that he didn't talk to her tits, as most male officers did when they met her, and shook his hand. From the grip she surmised his strength, which was sinewy and tight, and the fact that he was careful not to use it on her. "My partner, Harry Quinn." She waited until the two men shook hands, and nodded to an empty chair. "Join us?"

"Thanks, but I can't. I've got a briefing to catch." He took out a business card and put it on the table. "If you have a minute, give me a call. I'm on swings in EC until I move to Homicide. Have a good shift." With a nod for Harry, Suarez walked off.

"Woo-hoo, he talks pretty. You see the gleam on that brass?" Harry waggled his brows. "Elvis hair, too. Looks better without the chunky sideburns. Think he plays the girl, or Garcia does?"

Sam snorted. "Why do guys automatically assume that a well-groomed, nicely dressed, polite man is gay?"

"How would I know?" Her partner held up his hands. "I'm the straightest guy on the force, remember?"

She studied his rumpled jacket and the blob of mayonnaise that had landed on his tie. "If you're the prime example of heterosexuality around here, then the human race is doomed."