“My God,” said Myrna, wiping her face. “If that drawing was meant to terrify, it worked. Isn’t the goddamned gun scary enough? Who needs to do that as well?”

“Can I see it again?” Clara asked, and Professor Rosenblatt gave her his iPhone. She stared at the image, making it larger, then smaller.

“It wasn’t signed?” she asked.

“Nothing as convenient as that,” said the professor. “Why?”

“Most artists sign their work in one way or another. There’s writing on it though.”

“Yes, a biblical quote. In Hebrew.”

“The one you and Ruth quoted?” asked Myrna.

“No, another one. About Babylon.”

“Why was the Whore of Babylon put on the gun?” Clara asked.

“We think it was supposed to be a sales tool to appeal to the buyer.”

“And who was the buyer? The devil?”

“Pretty close.”

“Some rough beast,” said Clara, staring at the etching. “Slouching toward Bethlehem.”

“And his route took him right through Three Pines,” said Myrna.

Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

The wipers on Gamache’s car were working furiously, thumping and sweeping, thumping and sweeping away the rain, trying to clear a semicircle of visibility.

When they arrived at the theater, Brian bolted out. Armand waited in the car until he got inside, but saw Brian put his hands in the pockets of his jacket, then bring them out and try other pockets. Then he looked over at Gamache.

Armand turned the car off and dashed over, head down against the driving rain.

“Do you have the keys?” he shouted.

Once again Brian searched the pockets and shook his head. “They’re in my jacket. This’s yours.”

Gamache tried the handle. It turned and the door opened.

“Thank God,” he said, quickly following Brian inside. “But shouldn’t this be locked?”

He closed the door against the beating rain.

“Antoinette sometimes forgets to lock it,” said Brian, running his hands through his wet hair. “I’m okay now, you can go if you want to.”

“I think I might wait until the storm passes,” said Armand, feeling a little bad since he knew Brian desperately wanted time alone. “I’ll just wait in the theater for a few minutes.”

Brian went over to a panel and with a clunk turned on the stage lights, but not the house lights. While Armand took off his sodden overcoat and chose a seat in the darkness a few rows back, Brian sat on the sofa on the stage. Folding his hands on his lap, a calm seemed to come over him. He looked like a man meditating. Eyes closed, face tilted slightly upward, peaceful though not, Gamache supposed, at peace.

This was Brian’s sanctuary and Gamache was aware he was an intruder. He felt like a voyeur. Watching an intimate act. An uninvited audience at a private play.

He averted his eyes, looking around the set.