“If someone checks on me at night he’s usually in his shorts. No brother would enter this room in the dark of night dressed in his robe. And especially with the hood up. It’s too hot. Also, you rented the wrong color robe. It should be brown instead of black. It makes you look like the Grim Reaper. Also, you called me ‘Brother.’ I’m a priest, not a monk. The others know to call me ‘Father,’ if not just ‘Victor.’” Santangelo’s voice ground down to a whisper on the last words.

“Well, you got me there,” Beaufort said, noting the first name.

Santangelo’s hand fluttered over the morphine button again and then must have realized it was too soon for another dose and reluctantly rested on the priest’s chest. “That’s right. You might be evil, but I’ll bet no one ever accused you of being a genius.”

Nothing bothered Beaufort more than being thought evil. Unless it was being thought stupid. His urge to punch the priest’s face was at odds with his need for information. “What did he accuse me of?”

“He?” Santangelo asked, and then apparently decided not to be coy. “As you know, I’m not at liberty to tell you that.”

Beaufort wanted again to clock him then, but that wasn’t his sole purpose. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Strength came back to the voice even though he spoke through clenched teeth. “Do I look like a chump to you?”

“No. And you don’t sound like a priest either,” Beaufort said, thinking of the gullible Abbot Franklin.

“How many have you known?”

When Beaufort stayed silent at that, Santangelo said, “I’m in great pain. Not feeling particularly pastoral. So get on with your business.”

“I just want to ask you a few things, and then I’ll go,” Beaufort said, not taking the time to confirm or deny knowing priests.

“Go ahead. As long as it doesn’t violate the seal of confession or threaten harm to anyone, I’ll give you the answers.” The priest’s tongue darted out of his mouth and whisked from side to side. “I’m not used to talking this much. Could I have a drink of water?”

Santangelo indicated a bedside table with a glass of water on it, half full. Beaufort took the glass, held it to the priest’s lips, and hoped the guy wasn’t a better con than he was. If the man was scared, he wasn’t showing it. Santangelo put his paper-dry hand over Beaufort’s that held the glass. Before he could take it away, Santangelo pulled the hand to his face.

“Your hands are cold and sweaty,” Santangelo said. “The sweat smells like fear.” He sniffed again, as if sampling a new wine. “And a little like damnation.”