“Beyond.” Montoya wended his way along the path to the wide double doors leading into the hallway connecting the cathedral to the convent.

Any sense of propriety or decorum at St. Marguerite’s had fled when the 911 call had come into the department and cops had been sent to the scene.

Now the staid old cathedral and grounds were a madhouse.

Not only the cemetery where the body had been discovered, but also the chapel, cathedral, outbuildings, and convent itself had been roped off, on lockdown. Police were crawling over the old brick buildings. The press, ever alert, was on hand, reporters standing in front of the cathedral, with camera crew and lights, alerting the city of another homicide at the nunnery.

The circumstances were almost identical to Camille Renard’s murder.

Another nun.

Another bridal gown.

Another altar cloth placed over her face by the reverend mother.

Another ring of jewel-like beads of blood in the fabric around her throat.

This time, though, the killer had struck in the cemetery rather than the chapel.

Why?

Already the interviews were being set up, the parish sealed off, everyone within the walls being questioned. Other cops had been dispersed into the neighborhood, still more patrolling the streets, all hoping to find someone suspicious, something out of the ordinary that would help them nail the son of a bitch.

Of course, the killer could already be long gone, having made good his escape before the police arrived.

Montoya walked along the hallway to the reverend mother’s office. Once again, the body had been found at midnight, the chapel bells still ringing. The first officer had arrived eight minutes later, just long enough for Sister Lucia to phone the police and wake the reverend mother, in that order, much to Sister Charity’s dismay.

Sister Lucia.

Again.

What was that all about? Brinkman was right—her discovery of both bodies put her under suspicion. Along with all the “how did that happen?”

Montoya had arrived at twelve twenty-seven. He’d parked near the cemetery as a news van from a local station had rolled down the street, nosing into a spot near one of the emergency vehicles.

There was a surreal and chilling quality to this murder, another layer.

He, and the rest of the department, had believed that the murder of the first victim, Sister Camille, had been an isolated case. He’d thought she was killed because she was pregnant, involved with a priest, or because of some other personal reason. He’d believed her to be a target, not a random victim, because whoever had killed her had taken time with the crime, ensuring that she was wearing a wedding dress, killing her at close range, feeling her life ooze from her body.