“If you say so,” Charity whispered, but didn’t believe it for a moment, not with two of the novitiates confirmed dead—murdered, here on the hallowed grounds of St. Marguerite’s Cathedral—and two more missing.

“I do. You’ll see.”

Charity took in a long, deep breath as she hung up. She rubbed her fingers across the smooth, worn surface of her desk, her heart heavy.

Why was she being tested?

She glanced at the crucifix hung on the wall over her door. Jesus’s gaunt frame was etched in dark wood, but even so, the scars of his wounds, the crown of thorns, the nails pounded through his hands and feet, were visible.

How could she possibly think her own pain was anything when she thought of his agony? She crossed herself, closed her eyes, and whispered several prayers.

Then, squaring her shoulders, she picked up the receiver again.

This time to call the police.

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 47

Montoya stormed into the station. He took the steps two at a time and strode directly to Bentz’s office without bothering to drop his sidearm at his desk or grab a cup of coffee from the kitchen.

He’d forgone his run this morning and was itching for a fight.

Bentz was just reading his e-mail while the rest of the department came to life. Cops chatting, keys rattling, phones jangling, air conditioner wheezing, the weekend staff already arriving. The smells were there, too, fresh coffee mingled with floor polish, a burning smell from the overworked copy machine, and the stale odor of human sweat, left over from a recent booking.

All part of the ambience.

“We need to find my brother’s Harley!” Montoya announced, irritated beyond belief. “Right now it’s probably heading northwest on the ten, heading toward Houston or Texas or Arkansas or goddamned Oklahoma! And it’s being ridden by our star witness.”

“Slow down,” Bentz suggested, waving him into a side chair near the corner of his desk. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Montoya preferred to stand and took a spot near the window. “My son of a bitch of a brother,” Montoya said, fury singing through his blood. “What a fuckin’ idiot!” He glanced at Bentz and said, “Don’t even start with some joke about it running in the family.”