What the hell am I doing here? At the top of the stairs, there was another door. Just as there had been in the death house in the New Jersey State Prison. Uninvited, more memories of that invaded his mind. The visit from the monk, the black pill, the metal helmet on his head and then seventy-seven zillion volts that were supposed to go through his body to kill him, but didn't.

He was in the next room now and there was an old wooden desk. Behind it sat a uniformed guard, wearing a name tag that read Wm. O'Brien. He was a mediumsized man and Remo noticed one of his arms was shorter than the other. Big knobby wrists stuck out of his blue uniform shirt. His eyes were small and washed-out blue, his nose bulbous with broken blood vessels around the sides and tip.

"I'm Father Tuck. I've come to see the prisoner Devlin."

"Why so hot, Father?" O'Brien asked.

Remo did not answer. Then, he said, "Devlin, please."

O'Brien was very slow getting up from his chair and he looked the priest over carefully, with shrewd eyes, looking past the brown robe-convincing himself that this man was no priest at all. His hands were roughened along the sides of the palms, but his fingernails were manicured and his cuticles formed perfect crescents.

The monk also exuded the aroma of expensive aftershave lotion which was definitely un-priestly, although O'Brien did not know that it was a special French brand named P.C. for post-coitus. O'Brien glanced down as he stepped from behind the desk. The monk's feet seemed to be too clean, and even his toenails had colourless nail polish on them.

Definitely not a priest. O'Brien had been casual about the inspection, but Remo had noticed it and anticipated his conclusion. Damn. Now if there was trouble, two would have to go.

O'Brien said nothing. He took Remo into a small wood-panelled conference room and politely asked him to wait. He disappeared through another door and five minutes later returned with a man in tow.