Brother Odd

the novice. "A bit late for that."
        "You knew each other before coming here," I said.
        With increasing rapidity, the cubes were breaking down into ever-smaller units.
        Turning my attention to the brothers, expecting them to support my demand for answers from the Russian, I discovered their attention fixed not on Romanovich or Leopold, but instead half on me and half on the strange-and ever-tinier-objects on the floor.
        Brother Alfonse said, "Odd, in the SUV, when we saw that thing come out of the snow, you didn't seem stunned by the sight of it like the rest of us were."
        "I was… just speechless," I said.
        "There's that eye-twitch tell," said Brother Quentin, pointing at me, frowning as he must have frowned at numerous suspects in the homicide-division interrogation room.
        As the cubes continued dividing, growing dramatically in number, the collective mass of them should have remained the same. Cube an apple, and the pieces will weigh as much as the whole fruit. But mass was disappearing here.
        This suggested that, after all, the beast had been supernatural, manifesting in a material with more apparent substance-but no more real physical existence-than ectoplasm.
        The problems with that theory were many. For one thing, Brother Timothy was dead, and no mere spirit had killed him. The SUV had not been overturned by the anger of a poltergeist.
        Judging by the ghastly expression that had drained all the sunny Iowan charm from his boyish face, Brother Leopold was clearly focused on an explanation different from-and far more terrifying than-any supernatural manifestation.
        On the floor, the cubes had become so numerous and tiny that they appeared to be only a spill of salt. And then… the concrete was bare again, as though the Russian had never emptied anything out of his hat.
        Color began to seep back into Brother Leopold's face, and he shuddered with relief.
        Masterfully deflecting curiosity that might have been directed at him, Romanovich rose to his feet and, to reinforce the brothers' intuitive belief that I knew more about this situation than they did, he said, "Mr. Thomas, what was that thing out there?"
        All the brothers were staring at me, and I realized that I-with my universal key and sometimes enigmatic behavior-had always been a more mysterious figure to them than was either the Russian or Brother Leopold.
        "I don't know what it was," I said. "I wish I did."
        Brother Quentin said, "No eye-twitch tell. Have you learned to suppress it or are you really not being evasive?"
        Before I could respond, Abbot Bernard said, "Odd, I would like you to tell these brothers about your exceptional abilities."
        Surveying the faces of the monks, each shining with curiosity, I said, "In all the world, sir, there aren't half this many people who know my secret. It feels like… going public."
        "I am instructing them herewith," the abbot said, "to regard your revelations as a confession. As your confessors, your secrets are to them a sacred trust."
        "Not to all of them," I said, not bothering to accuse Brother Leopold of being insincere in his postulancy and in the profession of his vows as a novice, but addressing myself solely to Romanovich.
        "I am not leaving," the Russian said, returning the bearskin hat to his head as if to punctuate his declaration.
        I had known that he would insist on hearing what I had to tell the others, but I said, "Don't you have a couple of poisoned cakes to decorate?"
        "No, Mr. Thomas, I have finished all ten."
        After once more surveying the earnest faces of the monks, I said, "I see the lingering dead."
        "This guy," said Brother Knuckles, "maybe he evades a question when he's gotta, but he don't know how to lie any better than a two-year-old."
        I said, "Thanks. I think."
        "In my other life, before God called me," Knuckles continued, "I lived in a filthy sea of liars and lies, and I swam as good as any of those mugs. Odd-he ain't like them, ain't like I once was. Fact is, he ain't like nobody I ever known before."
        After that sweet and heartfelt endorsement, I told my story as succinctly as possible, including that I had for years worked with the chief of police in Pico Mundo, who had vouched for me with Abbot Bernard.
        The brothers listened, rapt, and expressed no doubts.