Gabriel portrayed as Jesus, crucified, hanging from the cross, blood trickling from his wounds, a crown of thorns on his head. His eyes were not downcast but staring out—unblinking, tortured, unashamedly reproachful. They seemed to burn right through me. I peered at the picture more closely—at the incongruous item strapped to Gabriel’s torso. A rifle. “That’s the gun that killed him?” Jean-Felix nodded. “Yes. It belonged to him, I think.” “And this was painted before his murder?” “A month or so before. It shows you what was on Alicia’s mind, doesn’t it?”
