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“What?” I looked down, expecting to see blood, but there was none Then I reh Berryman had sent to accompany the Arikara Indian skeleton was a vest — a Kevlar vest, a bulletproof vest — and the Bible verse Hugh had referenced, Ephesians 6:11, adnized the vest right away; Hugh wore it whenever he worked a death scene, and I’d often teased him about it But noed ain

Before I could explain, Miranda reached to iven e of Saint Christopher had been obliterated; lodged in its place, at the center of the“My God,” Miranda breathed “Incredible Absolutely incredible What are the odds? So you’re not even hurt?”

“Easy for you to say,” I grunted “Feels like I’ve been kicked by ato ease

“You’ll have a nasty bruise, I’,” said Father Mike “Maybe even a cracked sternuhty lucky fella” He leaned closer, noticing the vest, inspecting it “Takin’ no chances, were you, Bill Brockton?” He shtly “This vest, by the by — it wouldn’t have stopped that slug, lad It’ll stop a 9-ood reverend baptized you with”

Miranda stared at Father Mike, then looked again at the shattered ht Jutting froreen and gold, an incongruously synthetichas a circuit board in it,” she said slowly “Is this a tracking device? Have you been following Dr Brockton?”

He shrugged “Even Saint Anthony can use a bit of help”

She eyed him warily “So who are you, really? You’re clearly not a small-town Irish priest”

Other things began to crystallize in my mind “It wasn’t just coincidence that I”

“I don’t believe in coincidence, lad It’s true, I’d had my eye on you”

“That was you with the binoculars and ca pictures, the day ere up here on this bridge? You’ve been after the bones all along”

“And that whole story about the IRA and your brother,” I added “That was total bullshit”

“No, not total I did lose a brother in the Troubles, but it wasn’t the Brits killed hi went off pre penance for Jimmy till the day I die”

“But you’re not really a priest”

He shrugged “A priest, no And if you ask the Holy Father about me, he’ll say he’s never heard of me But I serve the church I like to think of ht Templar”

“So why do you want the bones?” Miranda asked “Or why does the pope, or whoever the hell is your boss?”

“To cover the church’s arse, Miss If these are the bones of Christ, it buggers the story about the Resurrection and the ascension into Heaven You can see the difficulty, can’t you?”

“But they’re not the bones of Christ,” I said “They’re the bones of Meister Eckhart, a fourteenth-century theologian and preacher I already told you that”

“Aye, so you did You also told me that Eckhart was murdered — crucified, no less — by a cardinal who later became pope

And that Eckhart, not Christ, is the er the Holy Father if word got around?”

I felt like such a fool It was obvious — in the way he carried himself, in the ease hich he handled the weapon — that he was a soldier or cop Was he one of the pope’s Swiss Guards? Or part of soency — a Vatican version of the CIA? How could I have e priest?

The rifle was slung loosely over his shoulder It had a collapsible stock and a large-diaht vision On top of the scope was a thin, cylindrical gadget that I guessed to be a targeting laser