Gamache walked to the door and stepped onto the porch, scanning the horizon in case Beauvoir was returning with Vachon. But there was no one, and nothing, there.

He turned back to the cabin and saw Peter approach the bed. Then Peter reached out and did what he knew he shouldn’t. He broke the rules, and brushed Norman’s hand with one finger. The lightest of strokes.

Gamache gave him that private moment. He stepped off the rickety porch and looked around, turning full circle in the bright sunshine.

There was no movement. There was no sound.

Nothing.

How bleak it must have been for No Man.

For Peter.

When the only sound was the hacking, rattling cough of a dying man.

When the only activity was shopping, cooking, cleaning. Bathing a dying man.

How tempting it must have been, to leave.

But Peter Morrow had stayed. Right to the end.

“I’ll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country,” said Gamache.

“Pardon?”

Peter had come onto the porch and was watching Gamache.

Armand turned and said to Peter, “I will pray you find a way to be useful.”

Peter stood, as silent and solid as the world around them.

“Gilead,” said Gamache. “The tenth muse is not, I think, about becoming a better artist, but becoming a better person.”

Gamache stepped onto the porch. “You found a way to be useful.”

Maybe this wasn’t Samarra after all, thought Gamache. Maybe it was Gilead.

Peter seemed to relax. Some tension, held all his life, escaped.

He followed Gamache inside.

Armand stared down at the body in the bed. Thinking, thinking.

Peter had been here alone this morning. Standing sentinel. Guarding the body until help arrived. But there had been one visitor.

Luc Vachon. Who’d helped Massey kill Norman. Who’d delivered the asbestos-infected supplies.

But, but … what had Beauvoir said? What had Peter said, when told?

That the beauty of the plan, for Vachon, was that he could delude himself into believing he wasn’t doing anything wrong. But suppose. Suppose. It wasn’t a delusion?

Gamache held his hand to his mouth and rubbed as he looked down at Sébastien Norman.

He brought out his device and hit it rapidly with his finger until that painting appeared again. The distorted, demented face glared at him. Dared him.

Peter looked at it. “I remember that. From the yearbook. Professor Norman painted it. We’d assumed it was a self-portrait.”

Peter was caught between revulsion and awe. He looked over at the body on the bed.

“But it’s not him.”

“No,” said Gamache. “It’s Massey. Professor Norman had seen it even then. That there was some other Massey, beneath the veneer.”

Gamache looked closely. His eyes sharp. Studying the contours of the face, the eyes, the strong chin and cheekbones. Looking beyond the expression, to the man.

“Oh,” he said, the word coming out as a sigh. “Oh no.”