"This way, I think," Jennings said, pointing down a long corridor. "Look at the mud."

Ahead of them, the floor was marked with a path of brown discoloration. The movement of feet over the centuries had actually worn down the rock, creating a spillway where water flowed during times of heavy rains. It led toward a huge stone rotunda, sealed off by heavy wooden doors. As they slowly approached, the chant grew closer. Opening the doors, they gazed with awe at the sight before them. It was as though they had entered the Middle Ages, and the presence of God, of spiritual holiness, could be felt as thought it were a physical, living thing. It was a huge and ancient room; stone steps led to a spacious altar on which stood a massive wooden cross, the figure of Christ upon it, chiseled from stone. The rotunda itself was made of stone blocks laced with vines that joined at the center of a domed ceiling which opened at the top to the sky. At that hour, a shaft of light streamed down through it, illuminating the figure of Christ.

"This is what it's all about, man," whispered Jennings. "This is a place of worship."

Thorn nodded and his eyes scanned the chamber, coming to rest on a group of hooded monks, kneeling amid the benches as they prayed. The chant was emotional and unnerving; rising and falling, it seemed to renew itself each time it began to fade. Jennings unsnapped his light meter, trying to get a reading in the dimness of the chamber.

"Put that away," Thorn whispered.

"Should 've brought my flash."

"I said put it away."

Jennings glared at Thorn, but obeyed. Thorn was deeply upset, his knees trembling as though insisting he kneel and pray.

"Are you all right?" Jennings whispered.

"... I'm Catholic," Thorn replied in a quiet voice.

And then his face froze, his eyes riveted on something in the darkness. Jennings followed his gaze, and he saw it too. It was a wheelchair. And in it was the hulking figure of a man. Unlike the others, who were on their knees with heads bowed, the one in the wheelchair sat stiffly upright, his head tilted and arms bent as though paralyzed.

"Is that him?" whispered Jennings.

Thorn nodded; his eyes were wide with apprehension. They moved closer until they could see better; Jennings winced as the priest's features came into view. Half of his face was literally melted; the eye was opaque and stared blindly upward. The right hand was also grotesquely deformed, protruding from a sackcloth sleeve like a smooth, glistening stump.

"We don't know if he can see or hear," said the monk who stood over Spilletto in the monastery courtyard. "Since the fire he's not made a sound."