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descending into an even more basic motive, survival. And the years had made no difference. He still retained the instinct, and his training had been so effective that even now he was capable of unleashing death automatically - as a knee will jerk when the hammer taps.
    If I'd killed him by chance, I wouldn't care. But I did it reflexively. Because I was better at it.
    Oh, Jesus. He prayed, recalling with horrow what he'd done with the crucifix. Have mercy on this sinner. I didn't want to become what I am. It was forced upon me. But I should have had more control.
    While rain streaked down his face, mingling with tears, he bowed his head toward the man he'd killed and struck his breast. Through my fault. Through my most grievous fault.
    He wanted to vomit.
    Still, he had no choice. He had to keep himself in control. Bitterly he stood and took off his robe and hair shirt. His naked body shivered in the icy rain. He stripped the dead man, putting on his clothes. If he was compelled to reenter the world, he couldn't expect to survive by attracting attention in a habit. He had to take precautions. This man had not been alone; others were out there, waiting to kill him. Why? He didn't know. But a new understanding had come to him. His motive had passed beyond the need to avenge his fellow monks. A base emotion, necessarily dismissed. For now that he'd killed again, he'd put his immortal soul in jeopardy, and whoever was responsible had better have a damned good reason.

    Chapter 24.
    His enemy's clothes fit Drew badly, everything too loose. He had to pull his own socks over the dead man's in order for the hiking boots to feel firm. The jeans sagged as if he'd been on a diet, which in fact he had. If not for the padded vest on top of the heavy outdoor shirt, Drew might have looked as if his chest had caved in. He put the handkerchief that contained Stuart Little into a pocket of the vest and tied the skipping rope around his waist. He retrieved the photographs from his robe and slipped them into the other pocket of the vest. Then he stalked up the slope toward the tripod, rifle, and infrared scope.
    Rain drenched him. Glancing around, he focused on the knapsack that his opponent had wedged in the crook of a tree. He opened it...
    A Mauser pistol. He checked it, making sure that it was fully loaded, and shoved it behind his jacket, beneath the belt at the base of his spine.
    Two magazines filled with ammunition. He put these in the pocket with Stuart Little.
    A large plastic bag containing chocolate bars, peanuts, and dehydrated fruit. Starting with the peanuts, wanting their salt, he chewed them slowly, hungrily.
    No time. What else could he scavenge before he left? He forced himself to think. What else would he need to confront the world? What had he formerly taken for granted but learned to live without?
    One item occurred to him, and he reched for the hip on the jeans he wore, removing the dead man's wallet. He opened it, squinting to protect his eyes as lightning flashed, and saw several twenties and fives. All right, then, he had what amounted to another weapon. In a compartment of the wallet, he felt several plastic cards, which he assumed would be a driver's license and credit cards. All the statistics on them would be fake, of course. A professional would never go into an operation with bona fide I.D., the purpose of the documents merely to avert suspicion if the man were inadvertently involved in a traffic incident or forced to spend a night in a motel. But the fake identity would survive offhanded scrutiny, and Drew could temporarily use it.
    What else? As he glanced around, debating, he suddenly heard a voice behind him. He crouched, spinning, his palms raised to defend himself. Despite the shrieking wind, he heard the voice again - ahead, to his left, strangely muffled, loud yet distant.
    "George?"
    Drew frowned, suspicious, scanning the woods.
    "George, where are you?" The voice sounded amplified, vaguely metallic.