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dark. A misty drizzle beaded on his window. He shivered, grieving, too preoccupied to force himself to turn on a light.
    The vespers bell stayed silent, but in rhythm with his daily cycle, he knew that it should have struck by now. He told himself that the mouse's death had disturbed his judgment. Time was passing with exaggerated slowness, that was all. He didn't have a clock in the cell, so how could he be sure when vespers was supposed to occur?
    He counted to one hundred. Waited. Started to count again. And stopped.
    With a painful sigh, he repressed his inhibitions, broke six years of habit, and opened the door.

    Chapter 18.
    A light glowed overhead. The hallway was bare, no paintings, no carpeting. Soundless, deserted.
    That wasn't unusual. True, when the bell tolled, he on occasion met other monks leaving their cells to go to the chapel. But equally often, he went earlier or later than the others and walked alone down the corridor.
    He did so now. Still determined to obey the ritual, he reached the end, turned left, and passed beneath another light to enter the lodge. In shadow, the chapel door was fifty paces ahead of him, to the right.
    His misgivings increased, his instincts alarming him. Instead of continuing toward the chapel, he made an abrupt decision and turned sharply right, descending the stairs to the monastery's refectory. As he expected, at this time of night (and except on Sunday) it wasn't occupied. But thinking of the bread he'd been given, he stared toward a light in the rear where the kitchen was.
    Passing empty tables with barren tops, he took a deep breath, pushed through the swinging door, and studied the massive stove, the vaultlike door to the freezer, the extensive counters and cupboards. And the two dead men on the floor.
    Though custodian brothers, not hermits, they nonetheless wore the white gown, scapular, and hood of the true Carthusian. The chest of each gown was stained with blood, each hood stained red at the temple.
    Drew surprised himself. Perhaps because he'd unconsciously expected something like this, or because his instincts had not been as neutralized as he'd hoped, his heart stayed perfectly calm.
    But his stomach felt scorched.
    The shots would have been silenced to keep the monastery from being alerted, he thought. Two assassins at least. Each brother had fallen in roughly the same position, suggesting that they'd been caught by surprise. No sign of panic, of either brother trying to escape, which meant that they'd been shot in the chest simultaneously. Drew nodded. Yes, two assassins at least.
    And experienced. A wound in the chest was sometimes not fatal. The protocol required a follow-up - just to be sure. And to minimize suffering. The required coup de grace. A shot to each temple. Professional. Indeed.
    Drew controlled the pressure swelling in him, turned, and left the kitchen. Outside the refectory, he nodded in anguish, knowing what he had to do now, what he'd considered doing when he left his room. But he'd put it off as long as possible, until he had no other choice. It would be the absolute violation of the Carthusian rule. As severe as leaving his room at any other time except for the required rituals.
    The thought was repulsive to him. But it had to be acted upon.
    Going up the stairs, he went back the way he'd come.
    He reached the end of the corridor in the lodge and angled right to enter his wing of cells. There he paused at the first door he came to. Studied the knob.
    And opened the door. An overhead light glowed in the workroom. The monk who occupied it must have switched it on as sunset deepened. The man lay sprawled on the floor. The chair before his workbench was overturned. A wedge of bread was clutched in his hand. A pool of urine spread from his gown.
    Drew hardened his jaw and shut the door. Repressing the bile that rose to his mouth, he went down to the next door and opened it. In this case the workroom light had not been turned on. But the light from