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“Which book is it?”

“I’m F.I.N.E.”

They both knew Ruth’s code. The letters stood for “Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical.” Which Ruth was. Which most people were.

“And the poem where the card was?”

“Just a moment, I’ll find it.” There was rustling as the book was taken out of the evidence bag. Gamache knew that slim volume of poetry well. He and Reine-Marie had a dog-eared copy in their own bookcase. Ruth had even signed it, if a scribbled Fuck Off could be considered a signature.

Robert Mongeau, with his back to Gamache, was studying The Paston Treasure. It was almost certainly the reason for his visit. While his calling might be from God, that did not stop the minister from answering more human callings. Like curiosity.

“Oh, by the way, I’ve arranged lunch with Sam at the bistro,” said Jean-Guy. “Fucking gloves,” he mumbled.

Armand noticed that Mongeau was peering closely at the painting and was just about to ask him to step back when the minister did just that. And started softly humming.

“Got it,” said Jean-Guy. “The poem is called ‘Waiting.’”

“I know it.”

And the tune the minister was humming? Did he know that too? It seemed familiar.

Mongeau’s voice grew more assured, so that Armand could now hear the song clearly.

“We sat down and wept,” Mongeau sang in a soft but a clear tenor. “And wept.”

Armand turned to face the minister, and as he did, the phone and Beauvoir slipped from his hand.

“Patron?” came the tiny voice from below. “Armand? Is something wrong? What’s happened?”

Words from Ruth’s poem “Waiting” sprang to Armand’s mind. Dredged up by the music.

And now it is now, and the dark thing is here.

The waiting, it seemed, was over.

CHAPTER 25

Gamache picked up the phone.

“Come back,” he said to Beauvoir. “And bring that book with you.”

“On my way.”

Gamache then walked over to Robert Mongeau. “Why were you singing that song?”

“‘By the Waters of Babylon’?” said the minister, surprised by Armand’s tone. “It’s a hymn.” He waved toward the painting. “There. The sheet music by the girl. That’s what it is. Why? What’s wrong?”

There was obviously something very wrong. His hazel eyes searched Armand’s, but found no answer there. Just more questions.

“Can you help me roll up the painting? It needs to go back into the evidence room.”

“Yes, but, Armand, what’s wrong? Was it the song? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Mongeau himself seemed upset now.

“It’s all right,” said Gamache, even as he tried to steady the slight tremble in his right hand. The one that shook, since the shooting, since the grievous head wound, whenever he was especially tired or stressed. It, along with a small limp when exhausted, was his “tell.”

“What a strange painting,” said Mongeau. “Is that the Québec Bridge?”

The minister pointed to a jug, almost obscured by the other items on the table. It was painted in relief, and so the image was doubly difficult to make out.