The Nature of the Beast

CHAPTER 20

“Al?” said Evie, approaching the large man planted in the field. “The police are here.”

Al Lepage remained kneeling on the ground but straightened up. And then he very slowly hauled himself upright. He turned and stared at his wife as though not quite understanding what she was saying.

Evie put out her hand and he took it in his massive hand. And she led him back to the house.

“Al,” said Clara as he passed, but while he looked at her, he said nothing.

Clara wasn’t sure what to do. It seemed invasive, and perhaps even ghoulish, to stay. She didn’t want to appear to be simply curious, collecting gossip. But to leave felt like running away, abandoning them.

She decided to stay. Laurent’s parents had been left on their own far too often and far too long.

“Monsieur, madame,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask to search your home again.”

She glanced at Clara and gave the tiniest of nods of acknowledgment.

“Why?” asked Evie. “Has something happened? Is this about the gun?”

“Gun?” said Al. His slack face tightened up, and his eyes came back into something like focus. “What gun?”

“I was just telling Evelyn,” said Clara. “But I didn’t get to the details. I don’t think Al knows.”

The two Sûreté officers looked at Laurent’s father, wondering, of course, whether that was true.

“I don’t understand,” said Al.

If he did know about the Supergun, thought Beauvoir, he was doing a pretty good imitation of someone who was completely ignorant.

“The thing that was hidden under the netting,” said Lacoste. “In the woods. Where Laurent died. It’s a gun.”

“A cannon, really,” said Beauvoir, studying them. “A missile launcher. It’s called a Supergun.”

“Laurent was telling the truth,” said his father, staring at Lacoste, his eyes pleading for something, though she didn’t know what.

Forgiveness? For ignorance? For her, and her news, to go away.

“I didn’t believe him. I laughed at him.”

“We both did,” said Evie.

“No, you wanted to go and see, in case it was real.”

“But then he told us about the monster,” Evie reminded him. “There was no way to believe that.”

“Christ,” said Al. It sounded more like a plea, a prayer, than a curse. “Oh no.” Lepage shut his eyes and hung his head, shaking it slightly. “I can’t believe it.”

“You’re not the only ones who didn’t believe him,” said Lacoste. “None of us did.”

While she spoke kindly, Chief Inspector Lacoste never lost sight of the fact that she might be speaking to Laurent’s killer.

“May we search your house?” Inspector Beauvoir asked.

Both Evie and Al nodded and followed them inside.

The agents who came with them began the search on the main floor, while Lacoste and Beauvoir went upstairs to the bedrooms.

While Lacoste searched Al and Evie’s room, Jean-Guy went through Laurent’s, opening every drawer, looking behind the posters tacked to the walls. He got on his hands and knees and looked under the bed, under the mattress, under the pillow, under the rug. He searched the closet and the pockets of Laurent’s clothing. Anywhere and everywhere a clever child could hide something. But there was nothing.

Laurent might be inquisitive, creative, but he was not by nature secretive. In fact, he seemed to want to tell everyone everything.

Nothing was hidden.

On the bedside table was a collection of rocks, with quartz and fool’s gold running through them. And a book, splayed open.

Le chandail de Hockey, by Roch Carrier. One of Jean-Guy’s favorite stories growing up. About a Québécois boy, a rabid Canadiens fan, who’s sent a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey sweater by mistake, and has to wear it.

Jean-Guy picked up the book and saw that Laurent was nearing the end of the short story. He replaced the book exactly as he’d found it, his hand lingering on the familiar illustration on the cover.

“Find something?” asked Lacoste.

“Nothing.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Isabelle picked up one of the tiny lamb drawings, reading what was written carefully on the back. My Son. And then a heart. She replaced it. This was a job that had to be done, but it never stopped feeling like a violation.

“You?” Beauvoir asked.

“Nothing much.”

She’d found that Al had an enlarged prostate, and Evie waxed her facial hair, and one of them needed suppositories. They found that Al read books on solar power and historic fiction, and Evie read about organic gardening and biographies.

There was no television in the home and one old desktop computer.

Lacoste had turned it on and did a search and read emails from clients and family and friends. Condolences that petered out in the last few days.

After the search they met the Lepages and Clara in the sitting room of the small farmhouse. Clara had made tea, and offered the officers some, but they declined.

The room was dominated by a large brick fireplace inserted with a woodstove. Two old sofas faced each other across the hearth, each with a knitted afghan folded across the back. The floors were hardwood, and pocked and scratched. Braided rag throw rugs were scattered here and there on the floors. The old dog lay with its head on its paws by a rocking chair.

A guitar was propped on a stand next to the chair.

Beauvoir walked over to the stereo and looked at the LPs and cassettes.

He pulled out a vinyl album and recognized the smiling man on the cover. With a full head of red hair, a bushy red beard, wearing a plaid lumberjack shirt and jeans with peace signs sewn in. He had everything but a joint.

He also recognized the background, with three tall pine trees.

The album was called Asylum.

“You?” asked Beauvoir, unnecessarily.

Al nodded. Evie took her husband’s hand.

“You’re American, is that right?” asked Lacoste. “A draft dodger?”

Al nodded. “There were lots of us.”

“I know,” said Lacoste. “It wasn’t an accusation. Why did you come here?”

“To get out of the war,” said Al.

“No, I mean, why here specifically?”

“I walked across the border from Vermont. I was tired. It was dark. I saw the lights of the village. So I stopped. Stayed.”

His speech was almost infantile, in spare declarative sentences.

“When was this?” asked Lacoste.

“Nineteen seventy.”

“More than forty years ago,” said Beauvoir.

“Do you know anything about that gun in the woods?” Lacoste asked.

“No. I hate guns.”

“Did Laurent say anything more after he found the gun? Did he talk to anyone else about it?” asked Beauvoir.

Both Al and Evie shook their heads.

“No?” asked Beauvoir. “Or you don’t know?”

“If he spoke to someone else he didn’t tell us,” said Evie. “But he must’ve, right? Was he killed because of the gun?”

“We think so,” said Lacoste. “Can you think of anything Laurent said, anything at all, that could help?”

“He came home, we had supper. Laurent read and Al and I did the vegetable baskets, then we went to bed. It was a normal night.”

“And next morning?” asked Lacoste.

“Breakfast, then he was out the door and on his bike as always.” Evie shut her eyes and both Lacoste and Beauvoir knew what she was seeing. The back of her little boy as he ran out into the sunshine. Never to return.

“We looked in his room but didn’t find anything,” said Beauvoir. “Has anything changed in there? Is there anything new?”

“Like what?” Evie asked.

Like the firing mechanism to a weapon of mass destruction, thought Beauvoir. Or plans for Armageddon.

“Just anything,” he said. “Did he bring anything home recently?”

“Not that I noticed.”

Isabelle Lacoste reached into her pocket, brought out an evidence bag, and placed it on the table between them. And waited for a reaction.

Al picked it up and his brows came together. “Where did you find this?”

“Is it yours?”

“I think so.”

Evie took the cassette out of his hand and read the label.

“Pete Seeger. It’s ours.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Beauvoir.

“Who else would have this?” she asked, holding it up. “Besides, the label’s torn where it got stuck in the cassette player in the truck.”

“One of Laurent’s favorites?” asked Lacoste.

Evie smiled slightly. “No. He hated it. It took a couple of months for Al to pry it out of the machine, so it was all we played when we were driving.”

“He liked it at first,” said Al.

“Yes, but even I grew to hate it. Where did you find it?” Evie asked.

“On the ground by the gun,” said Lacoste. “Did you notice it missing?”

Both Al and Evie shook their heads.

“Why would Laurent take it there?” Evie asked.

“Well, either he did or his killer did,” said Beauvoir.

It took a moment for the implication to penetrate, but when it did Al Lepage stood and faced Beauvoir.

“Are you accusing us? Me?”

“I’m stating what must be obvious,” said Beauvoir, also getting to his feet. “Why would Laurent have a cassette with music he hated?”

“To hide it?” asked Evie, standing beside her husband. Holding his hand not for comfort but to stop him from doing something they’d all regret.

Here was a man who might hate violence, Beauvoir knew, but who was capable of it.

“We’ve heard the rumors,” said Al. “They think I killed my own child. Some are even saying Laurent wasn’t mine. That Evie…” He was overcome and couldn’t go on. The massive man stood within six inches of Beauvoir, staring at him. Not angry anymore, but desperate. If Al Lepage was a mountain, they were witnessing a landslide.

“Al,” said Evie, pulling him away. “It doesn’t matter what people say. We have to help the police find out who did this to Laurent. That’s all that matters.” She turned from her husband to Lacoste. “You have to believe it wasn’t us. Please.”

The other Sûreté agents came up from the basement and shook their heads. Nothing.

Chief Inspector Lacoste picked up the cassette. “Thank you for your time.”

“May I take this with me?” asked Beauvoir, holding up Al Lepage’s record. “I’ll be careful with it.”

Al waved at him, dismissing the man, the record, the question.

Clara walked with Lacoste and Beauvoir to the cars.

“You don’t really think Al or Evie had anything to do with Laurent’s death, do you?” she asked.

“I think people can do terrible things,” said Beauvoir. “Lash out. Hurt or even kill someone they love. That man is coming apart.”

“From grief,” said Clara.

“From something,” said Beauvoir.

Once in the car, Beauvoir turned to Lacoste. “Did you notice anything strange about the Lepages?”

Lacoste had been quiet, thinking. Now she nodded.

“Neither of them asked about the gun,” she said.

Beauvoir nodded. “Exactly.”

They spent the balance of the afternoon following up on the interviews and checking facts and details.

Isabelle saw Gamache leave his home with Henri, first glancing in the direction of the old train station, then turning away and walking out of sight.

A few minutes later she found him on the bench above the village, Henri sitting by his side.

“You aren’t avoiding me, are you?” she asked, joining Gamache on the bench. “Because this isn’t a very good hiding place.”

He smiled. His face creasing with amusement.

“Perhaps I am,” he admitted. “It’s not personal.”

“It’s professional,” she said, and nodded. “It must be strange not to be in charge of the investigation.”

“It is, a little,” he admitted. “It’s hard not to slip back into the old roles. Especially since—” He spread his large hands, and she understood the enormity of his struggle. “Laurent.”

She nodded. This murder had hit home.

“You need your space, Isabelle. It’s your investigation. I have no desire to return, but—”

“But it’s in the blood.”

She glanced down at his hands. Those expressive hands. That she’d held, as he lay dying. As he’d sputtered to her what they both knew would be the last thing he’d say.

Reine-Marie.

She’d been the vessel into which he’d poured his final feelings, his eyes pleading with her to understand.

And she did.

Reine-Marie.

She’d held his hand tightly. It was covered in his own blood and that of others. And it mingled with the blood on her hands. Her own, and others.

And now catching killers was in their blood.

Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t died. And he’d continued to lead them for many investigations. Until the time had come to come here.

He’d done enough. It was someone else’s turn.

Hers.

“You and Madame Gamache seem happy here.”

“We are. Happier than I ever thought possible.”

“But are you content?” Isabelle probed.

Gamache smiled again. How different she was from Jean-Guy, who’d come right out and demanded, “Are you going to stay here doing nothing, or what, patron?”

He’d tried to explain to Jean-Guy that stillness wasn’t nothing. But the taut younger man just didn’t understand. And neither would he have, Gamache knew, in his thirties. But in his fifties Armand Gamache knew that sitting still was far more difficult, and frightening, than running around.

No, this wasn’t nothing. But the time was coming when this stillness would allow him to know what to do. Next.

What next?

“Please take the Superintendent’s position, patron. There’s a lot left to do at the Sûreté. A mess still to clean up. And you saw those two recent recruits. The new agents have no discipline, no pride in the service.”

“I did notice that.”

“If those are the ones coming up through the ranks, we’ll be back where we started within ten years.” She turned to fully face him. “Please, take the job.”

He looked down at the village.

“It’s so beautiful,” he said, almost under his breath.

She followed his gaze and looked at the cottages, the gardens, the three soaring evergreens on the village green. And she knew those weren’t what made this village so attractive.

Gabri came out of the bistro and headed to the B and B. He spotted them on the ridge and waved. Sarah stood at the door of her boulangerie and flapped a towel embedded with flour. They could see movement through the window of Myrna’s New and Used Bookstore.

Isabelle suddenly felt horrible, for making him feel this shouldn’t be enough.

Gamache lifted his gaze from the village to the rolling mountains covered in a forest that had taken root thousands of years ago. The brilliant autumn leaves interspersed with pines.

“Look at it,” he said, shaking his head slightly, almost in disbelief. “I sometimes sit here and imagine the wildlife, the lives, going on in that forest. I try to imagine what it must’ve been like for the Abenaki, before the Europeans came. Or for the first explorers. Were they amazed by it? Or was it just an obstacle?”

He spent a moment imagining himself an early explorer.

He’d have been amazed. He was even now.

“Not surprising the gun wasn’t found,” he said. “Even if you knew it was there, and were looking for it, you’d probably never find it. You could walk within a foot of the thing and still miss it.”

Isabelle Lacoste stared across the village to the vast forest.

“What’s shocking is that it was found at all,” he said.

“What’s shocking is that it’s there,” said Lacoste, and saw him nod.

“After you left this morning I asked Professor Rosenblatt about that.”

He told her about the two theories put forward by the scientist. That the Supergun was either a display model to show potential buyers, or it was placed deliberately to hit targets in the United States.

“But either way, why here?” she asked. “Why not the forests of New Brunswick or Nova Scotia? Or somewhere else in Québec along the U.S. border? Why here?”

She pointed to the ground.

Armand Gamache had been sitting there wondering the same thing. Someone had planned this, probably for a very long time. And then placed it. Carefully. Intentionally. Here.

“Three Pines isn’t on any map,” he said. “That would be an advantage when trying to hide something, but at the same time the village would provide services and workers when needed.”

“Except according to all our interviews, no local worked on the site,” she said.

“No one willing to admit it.”

“Oui,” said Lacoste.

Armand Gamache returned his gaze to the forest. He wasn’t sitting there with Henri simply marveling at the wildlife it contained. He was also scanning it. For new growth among the old. For holes in the canopy.

For evidence of one reference in the redacted notes the censors had failed to find. And black out.

“Professor Rosenblatt read the notes Reine-Marie printed out,” said Gamache.

“Did he find them interesting?” asked Lacoste.

“He didn’t seem to. And he either missed, or chose not to mention, the plural.”

The one letter among hundreds, thousands. Like a single tree in a forest. But one that changed everything.

“The s,” said Lacoste. “Superguns.”

Then she too looked across at mile after mile of forest.

“We told the Lepages about the gun,” she said. “Today, when we searched their place again.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No, though they admitted the Pete Seeger cassette was theirs but didn’t know how it got near the gun. But that’s another interesting thing. When we told them about the Supergun, they seemed surprised but neither of them asked any questions about it. Not one.”

“They might be absorbed in grief,” he said. “People don’t behave normally when there’s been a death, especially a violent one. Especially a child.”

“True.” After a few moments she spoke, under her breath. “Why here?”

“The gun?” he asked.

“No, the man. I asked Al Lepage that question. Why did he come to Three Pines, when he was dodging the draft.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he’d walked across the border from Vermont and saw the lights of the village.”

Now she turned to look at her former boss. His brows were raised, but he said nothing.

“But he couldn’t have, could he?” she said. “The forest is too thick. No one would just walk across the border, unless they wanted to get lost in the woods. He’d have to have known where he was going.”

Gamache nodded.

“He’d have to have had a guide. Someone who brought him here.”

They looked again at the old village. And the tall pine trees planted for one purpose. To signal to those seeking sanctuary that they were safe.

They’d made it to Three Pines.