Kathy Reichs - Code

“Do it.” I yielded the keyboard.

Shelton’s fingers danced as he adjusted search functions.

“Hell-o. What’s this?”

I hunched over his shoulder. The screen contained a pleasant image of a country road lined with giant oaks. In the corner was a soft logo, white on black.

Mepkin Abbey.

“A monastery.” Hi was leaning in close beside me. He did not smell tremendous.

“Monks?” Shelton snorted. “Seriously? In South Carolina?”

The website was organized and professional. A link at top read: “Who We Are.”

“Click that.”

Shelton did. The next page contained a mission statement and group portrait.

“These guys pray all day,” Hi said. “And they don’t talk.”

Shelton chuckled. “You’d never make it.”

“Weird.” Hi was scanning text. “They also sell produce, tend gardens, and operate a modern library. And the grounds are open to visitors every day.”

“Mepkin Abbey is a Trappist monastery,” Shelton read aloud. “These guys follow something called the Rule of Saint Benedict. That’s news to me, but it fits our search.”

I ignored their banter, eyes glued to the photo. “Nice robes, don’t you think?”

“Ah-ha!” Hi crowed.

Shelton nodded. “Nice catch, Tor.”

The picture showed twenty monks in two rows, standing in a beautiful flower garden. All were smiling. The average age appeared to be north of sixty.

But that wasn’t what had me grinning.

The men wore identical robes.

Identical black-and-white robes.

I kissed my index finger and pressed it to the screen.

“Gotcha.”

CHAPTER 29

“TURN IN … HERE .”

I pointed to an odd marker beside the highway—a large white M , with a white cross rising from its center. The name Mepkin Abbey was carved into the stone pedestal.

“Took us long enough.” Ben had been driving for over an hour. Add that to the ninety minutes we’d waited for Ben to reappear, and we’d burned off half the afternoon.

Shelton yawned, scratched the top of his head. “Talk about living in the boonies.”

“They probably don’t have cable,” Hi quipped. “Or indoor plumbing.”

We cruised down the tree-lined drive we’d seen on the abbey’s website, massive live oaks flanking us on both sides. Sunlight and shadow danced on the windshield.

The setting was serene. Idyllic. Perfect for the contemplative life.

“Keep your eyes peeled during the tour,” I reminded them. “The next cache must be hidden on these grounds.”

I’d brought two trowels in my backpack, just in case. Only nine hours remained to crack the Gamemaster’s clue.

“Monks live out here?” Shelton was peering out a backseat window. “In the middle of South Cack nowhere?”

“Since 1949.” Hi began reading from his iPhone. “Founded by monks from the Abbey of Gethsemani, in Kentucky, the Mepkin brotherhood belongs to the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance.”

“What does that mean?” Shelton asked.

“Don’t ask me. But if you want to join, I’ll put in a good word.”

We parked in a guest lot, then followed a hedge-lined path to the welcome center. Inside was a shock—the interior was modern and well appointed. Exchanging astonished glances, we wandered into the gift shop.

And received a second surprise. The shop was airy and brightly lit. Tables and shelves overflowed with monastic artwork, carved bowls, knickknacks, knit scarves, blankets, and other handicrafts. Cookbooks and monastic texts shared space with vases and monk-made jams.

The store had an eclectic, arty feel, quite at odds with my expectation of dour monks living in stark, Spartan silence.

“Tory, look!” Hi pointed to a bookcase packed with idols and figurines.

“Nice.”

Excited, I scanned the assortment. There! On the middle shelf—a statue of Saint Benedict identical to the one in my bag.

I couldn’t help but smile. “We’re definitely in the right place.”

Hi slapped me five. Ben nodded, looking pleased.

“Can you believe they sell beer?” Shelton was eyeing a tower of six-packs. “Do monks like to booze it up?”

“Our vows do not require abstention from alcohol.”

We turned to see a small, clean-shaven man in his mid-forties. He had dirty blond hair fading to gray, sea green eyes, and soft, almost feminine features. He wore the black-and-white robes of a Mepkin brother.

“Indeed, the Order is somewhat famous for brewing,” the monk said. “Mepkin offers some of the finer ales produced by Trappists worldwide.”

“The shop is lovely.” Random, but he’d caught me off guard. “I didn’t expect so much … color. Variety.”

“You’re not the first to say so.” The monk smiled. “Our store offers a wide range of items created in the monastic tradition, as well as works by local artisans. All reflect the beauty of God’s creation.”

“Do you make anything here?” Shelton asked.

“We do.” The monk hefted a jar labeled Oyster Mushroom Powder. “Chapter forty-eight of the Rule of Saint Benedict states, ‘For then are they monks in truth, if they live by the work of their hands.’ We produce and sell goods to provide income for the monastery, and to honor the Lord through work. Our mushrooms are world famous, and our garden compost is top-notch. We also offer an array of honey products and a delightful fruit syrup.”

“I thought you guys didn’t talk.” Hi wheezed as my elbow found his gut. “Took a vow of silence, I mean.”

“A common misconception.” The monk adopted a lecturing tone. “Saint Benedict described speech as disruptive to a disciple’s duty for quietude and receptivity, and a temptation to exercise one’s own will, instead of God’s. As adherents, we respect his call for silence, but take no vow. That said, we only speak when necessary, and idle chatter is discouraged. We take our meals in contemplative peace, perhaps listening to a reading by a fellow brother.”

“This isn’t idle chatter right now?” Hi dodged my second jab.

“Of course not,” the monk replied good-naturedly. “To instruct the inquisitive is to spread the joy of God. My name is Brother Patterson. I’m Guestmaster for today’s tour. Were you planning to join us?”

“Tory Brennan,” I replied. “And yes, that’s why we’re here.”

“Wonderful.” Patterson beamed. “We have so few younger visitors. Please follow me. Others have come today as well.”

We exited into a tidy flower garden.

A wealthy-looking couple was gabbing loudly about the proper care of azaleas, while a trio of nuns glared in disapproval. Beside them, an elderly couple whispered quietly in what sounded like German.

“Welcome to Mepkin Abbey.” Patterson addressed the group. “We are a Roman Catholic order of contemplative monks, more commonly known as Trappists. We live in silence and solitude, according to an ancient discipleship that focuses on seeking God through communal living. We praise our Lord through prayer, meditation, work, and hospitality. Again, welcome.”

The female azalea freak dabbed on shiny lip gloss. “What’s a Trappist?”

“The movement originated in Normandy in 1664, in reaction to relaxed practices in many Cistercian monasteries. In 1892, blessed by the Pope, the Trappists formed an independent order dedicated to closer adherence to the Rule of Saint Benedict.”

Lip Gloss blinked. “Saint who?”

“Saint Benedict,” Patterson answered patiently, “who wrote his Rule in the sixth century, describing the ideals and values of monastic life. The Trappist goal is to adhere to his three vows: stability, obedience, and fidelity to monastic life.”