Part 17 (1/2)
”How is Yossi?”
”Good.”
I told Morissonneau what Kessler had said about the photo.
”I see.” He arched his fingers and tapped them on the blotter. For a moment his focus s.h.i.+fted to the photocopy, then to the painting to my right.
”Avram Ferris was shot in the back of the head, execution style.”
”Enough.” Morissonneau rose. ”Please wait.” He gave me the palm-stay gesture. I was beginning to feel like La.s.sie.
Morissonneau hurried from the room.
Five minutes pa.s.sed.
A clock bonged somewhere down the hall. Otherwise, the building was silent.
Ten minutes pa.s.sed.
Bored, I rose and crossed to examine the painting. I'd been right but wrong. The canvas and crucifix did const.i.tute a before-and-after sequence, but I'd reversed the order.
The painting depicted Easter morning. Four figures were framed by a tomb. Two angels sat on an open stone coffin, and a woman, probably Mary Magdalene, stood between them. A risen Jesus was to the right.
As in the library, I didn't hear Morissonneau's entry. The first thing I knew he was circling me, a two-by-three-foot crate in his hands. He stopped when he saw me, and his face softened.
”Lovely, isn't it? So much more delicate than most renderings of the resurrection.” Morissonneau's voice was altogether different than it had been earlier. He sounded like Gramps showing photos of the grandkids.
”Yes, it is.” The painting had an ethereal quality that really was beautiful.
”Edward Burne-Jones. Do you know him?” Morissonneau asked.
I shook my head.
”He was a Victorian English artist, a student of Rossetti. Many Burne-Jones paintings have an almost dreamlike quality to them. This one is t.i.tled The Morning of the Resurrection. The Morning of the Resurrection. It was done in 1882.” It was done in 1882.”
Morissonneau's gaze lingered a moment on the painting, then his jaw tightened and his lips went thin. Circling the desk, he set the crate on the blotter and resumed his seat.
Morissonneau paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. When he spoke his tone was again tense.
”The monastic life is one of solitude, prayer, and study. I chose that.” Morissonneau spoke slowly, putting pauses where pauses wouldn't normally go. ”With my vows, I turned my back on involvement in the politics and concerns of this world.”
Morissonneau placed a liver-spotted hand on the crate.
”But I could not ignore world events. And I could not turn my back on friends.h.i.+p.”
Morissonneau stared at his hand, engaged, still, in some inner struggle. Truth or dare.
Truth.
”These bones are from the Musee de l'Homme.”
A match flared in my chest.
”The skeleton stolen by Yossi Lerner.”
”Yes.”
”How long have you had it?”
”Too long.”
”You agreed to keep it for Avram Ferris?”
Tight nod.
”Why?”
”So many 'whys.' Why did Avram insist that I take it? Why did I consent? Why have I persisted in this shared dishonesty?”
”Start with Ferris.”
”Avram accepted the skeleton from Yossi because of loyalty, and because Yossi convinced him that its rediscovery would trigger cataclysmic events. After transporting the bones to Canada, Avram hid them at his warehouse for several years. Eventually, he grew uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable. Obsessed.”
”Why?”
”Avram is a Jew. These are the remains of a human being.” Morissonneau caressed the box. ”And...”
Morissonneau's head c.o.c.ked up. Light reflected from one lens.
”Who's there?”
I heard the soft swish of fabric.
”Frere Marc?” Morissonneau's voice was sharp.
I swiveled. A form filled the open doorway. Placing fingers to lips, the scar-faced monk raised his one good brow.
Morissonneau shook his head. ”Laissez-nous.” ”Laissez-nous.” Leave us. Leave us.
The monk bowed and withdrew.
Lurching to his feet, Morissonneau strode across the office and closed the door.
”Avram grew uncomfortable,” I prompted when he'd resumed his seat.
”He believed what Yossi believed.” Hushed.
”That the skeleton is that of Jesus Christ?”
Morissonneau's eyes flicked to the painting, then down again. He nodded.