27
A hallway lined with artwork in gilded frames ran the length of the house. Most were copies of Renaissance paintings with a gruesome Biblical theme—crucified Jesus in agony, saints being martyred in horrific ways, and depictions of hell. I recognized a few from an art appreciation course I’d taken in college—Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights, Grünewald’s The Temptation of St. Anthony, and David’s The Judgement of Cambyses.
One, which was less gruesome, I identified as Rembrandt’s The Return of the Prodigal Son. I suppressed a laugh as I passed it. It had always looked like a man giving a blow job to another.
An open door on the left revealed an office with an antique walnut desk and matching bookshelves lining the walls.
“This is my office,” Wilkes said, shuffling past.
“Mind
