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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.”