Chartrand showed her and she made a note of it.

“But you say it’s long gone?”

“At least ten years, probably more,” said Chartrand.

“Any suggestion of criminal activity?” she asked.

“No,” said Chartrand. “They seemed to keep to themselves.”

Nadeau picked up her phone and spoke into it. A short time later, a bulky older man in uniform came into the office. He smelled of bachelorhood and fried fish.

“Oui?”

He looked like he might be in trouble, and his eyes shifted from his station commander to Gamache, who was squeezed into a corner and felt the coat tree digging into his back, as though it was a stickup.

“This is Agent Morriseau,” said Nadeau. “He’s been here longer than anyone. These people are asking about a man named Norman. He lived here a number of years ago and started an artist retreat, a sort of colony out by the second concession.”

“You mean No Man?” Morriseau asked, and suddenly had everyone’s attention.

“That’s the one,” said Clara.

“Got quite popular for a while,” said Morriseau. “But then they do, don’t they?”

“They?”

“Cults.” He looked at their surprised faces. “You must’ve known. Otherwise, why’re you asking?”

“It was a cult?” asked Chartrand.

“Yes.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Clara.

“It wasn’t just a bunch of artists painting away,” said Morriseau. “They were into some sort of weird religion.”

“How do you know that?” asked Jean-Guy.

“I made it my business to know,” said the agent. “These places can start out pretty normal and then take a nasty turn. I wanted to make sure they stayed on this side of crazy.”

There was that word again, thought Gamache.

“Why do you say crazy?”

Morriseau turned in the direction of the talking coat tree.

“And what would you call it, sir?” he asked politely.

Gamache decided not to ask him if he ever prayed his lottery ticket numbers won, or the skidding car stayed on the road.

“And did they?” he asked instead. “Stay on this side of the line?”

“As far as I know they did. Then that No Man disappeared. The spaceship must’ve come and taken him away.”

Morriseau laughed, then stopped, having misjudged his audience. It worked in the bar. It worked in the squad room. But these people just stared, as though he was the one who’d crossed a line.

“Any idea where he went?” Beauvoir asked.

“Non. I think people were just happy to see him go.”

Driven out of another place, thought Gamache. Or maybe not.

“Is there anyone still living in Baie-Saint-Paul who was a member of the community?” Clara asked.

“Yes. Luc Vachon.”

“We already know about him,” said Beauvoir. “He’s off painting. Anyone else?”

The agent thought about it, then shook his head.

“Merci,” said the station chief and Morriseau left. She looked at them expectantly. “Is there anything else I can do?”

There wasn’t.

Before they left, Gamache ducked back into Captain Nadeau’s office and asked if they had any sniffer dogs.

“For drugs?” she asked.

“For the other,” he said.

“You think not everyone left,” she said.

“I think there was no spaceship,” he said.

She gave one brusque nod. “I’ll make arrangements.”

He gave her his coordinates, and as he left he saw her walk to the map on the wall.

*   *   *

They returned to the Galerie Gagnon expecting to spend the night there, but Marcel Chartrand surprised them.

“I think I mentioned that this isn’t my main home. I stay here on weekends when the gallery’s busy. My main home is up the coast a few miles. I need to go back there tonight, but you’re welcome to stay here.”

“What would you prefer?” Clara asked.

“I’d prefer it if you came with me,” he said. And while his eyes swept the group and included them all, they came to rest on Clara.

She didn’t shy away from the gaze.

“I think—” Beauvoir began.

“We’d love to come to your home. Merci,” said Clara.

As they packed, Beauvoir whispered to Gamache, “You should’ve said something, patron. We’re better off here than in a house in the middle of nowhere. If we’re going to track down Peter, we need to be asking more questions.”