“By the waters of Babylon,” Gamache quoted, his eyes on the elderly scientist, “we sat down and wept. There’s more to tell, Professor. We’ll find out eventually, you know. Why was that etching, the beast, carved into the gun? Why did Gerald Bull put it there? And why that quote?”

Professor Rosenblatt looked around in a glance that would have been ludicrously furtive had they not been talking about a gun whose very existence had killed at least two people. Its maker and Laurent. And whose intent was to kill far more.

Michael Rosenblatt realized, too late, that he had vastly underestimated all three of them. And certainly Gamache. It was true, they would find out eventually.

But perhaps, he thought, his mind racing, not everything.

He might as well tell them. But perhaps, he thought, not everything.

“Gerald Bull was a Renaissance man,” he said, and heard Beauvoir snort. He turned to the Inspector. “The Renaissance created amazing works of art, of innovation. But it was also a brutal time. I’m not unaware of the fact that this is a weapon.”

“Of mass destruction,” said Gamache, who was also having none of this glorification of an arms designer, an arms dealer.

Professor Rosenblatt studied him to see if there was any other agenda, anything else behind the exact words Gamache had just chosen. But there didn’t seem to be.

“True. But he was also a classicist. A man who loved music and art and history. Dr. Bull knew perfectly well what he was building. Stories circulated within the armaments community that he’d not only built the Supergun, but carved a seven-headed beast on it, as a reference to the Book of Revelation.”

He looked at them. Isabelle Lacoste was thinking, trying to remember her Bible classes as a child. Beauvoir shook his head impatiently. And Gamache just stared in a way the professor found disconcerting.

“The Whore of Babylon?” said Rosenblatt.

“Just tell us,” said Beauvoir, his patience at an end.

The professor took out his iPhone, punched at the screen, then put it on the table. Beside the golden madeleines glowed the image of a monster rearing up with seven heads on long serpentine necks springing from the body.

And riding the monster was a woman, not looking out to where the beast was taking her, but staring back at whoever was staring at her.

“Who’s the Whore of Babylon supposed to be?” Beauvoir demanded.

Professor Rosenblatt was about to answer, but then turned to Gamache. “I think you know.”

Gamache hadn’t taken his eyes off the image. “The Antichrist.”

Beauvoir sputtered in amusement. “Oh, come on,” he said, his handsome lean face breaking into deep lines of laughter. “Really?”

He looked at them, his eyes finally resting on the elderly scientist.

“Are you seriously saying that thing in the forest is the devil?”