The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“It must’ve meant something to you, for you to not just read what Ruth had written, but to say it out loud,” said Clara. “You must’ve agreed.”


Michael Rosenblatt pressed his lips together and lowered his head, either in thought or against the particularly violent gust that hit them.

“I don’t know what’s confidential and what’s public knowledge.” His words were whipped away as soon as they were out of his mouth, but Clara and Myrna were close enough to catch them.

He studied Clara, obviously weighing some decision.

“I was at your solo show, you know, at the Musée d’art contemporain a year or so ago. I thought what you did with portraits was brilliant. You reinvented the form. Reinvigorated it. Gave it depth and a kind of joyful spirit missing in most works today.”

“Thank you,” said Clara.

“You obviously know that art has power,” he said. “It can be freeing, but it can also be a weapon, especially when combined with something equally powerful, like war. Art’s been used to inspire all sorts of things. Public statues of brave soldiers. Paintings of heroic sacrifice. But it’s also been used to put the fear of God into enemies.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Clara asked.

“Because you’ve been kind to me and I can see that not being told anything is making a terrible situation even worse. I can’t show you the gun or talk about it really, and I doubt it would help even if I could, but there is something you might be interested in, might even be able to help with.”

He brought out his iPhone, tapped the screen, then handed it to her.

“What is it?” she asked, looking at the photograph.

“An etching. It’s on the side of the gun.”

Myrna got up and moved to the other side of her friend for a better look. Professor Rosenblatt brushed his finger along the screen and the image changed to show another view of the etching.

Both women stared at the serpent with seven heads, writhing and bucking. A woman on its back. She was even more terrifying than the monster. Hair flowing, back straight, she stared at Clara and Myrna and Professor Rosenblatt. Seeing not just them, but the village behind them and the whirlwind about them. But she herself was calm in the maelstrom. Confident.

A cold drop tapped the top of Clara’s head, startling her. Then another. One fell on the screen, distorting the woman’s face, making it even more grotesque.

“The Whore of Babylon,” said Myrna, and Professor Rosenblatt nodded.

The women looked at each other while Professor Rosenblatt took back the device and slipped it into his pocket, out of the rain. Out of sight.

“From the Book of Revelation,” said Clara.

They were both aware of the reference. And the symbolism.

It was a warning of catastrophe. Deliberate and inescapable. And complete.

“We should get inside,” said Professor Rosenblatt.

The rain was falling more heavily, in great big drops that splattered on the road, and on their backs, and on their heads as they hunched over and ran for it. The trees corkscrewed in the wind and they saw Reine-Marie with Henri racing to get home before the deluge.

The three of them hurried into Myrna’s bookstore. Once inside she got towels to dry themselves off, stoked the woodstove, and poured tea, hot and strong.

Rain now beat against the windows. Rattling them.

“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

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.