The Nature of the Beast

CHAPTER 22

Once dinner was over and the dishes done, the guests went their separate ways.

“Coming, numbnuts?”

“I just want to get the record, I’ll be over in a minute.”

And he was. Within minutes Jean-Guy was carefully tipping the vinyl record out of the sleeve.

“Here, give me that.” Ruth grabbed the LP from him and almost dropped it on the floor.

Finding the A-side, she put it on the turntable, surprising Beauvoir by fitting the small hole onto the post effortlessly. But he stopped her before she swung the arm of the record player over the precious disc and scratched it.

“Let me do that.”

“Have you ever done it before?” Ruth demanded, shoving him aside with a sharp elbow.

“Hey,” he said. “That hurt.”

“You want to know hurt? Wait ’til your ears get a load of that.” She jabbed her finger at Al Lepage’s record, now going round and round on the turntable. Ruth lifted the arm and expertly, delicately, lowered the needle to the vinyl.

A rhythmic crackling came from the speakers.

And then the first song started with a simple guitar. Classical, melodic. And then a drumbeat, like a metronome. At first a slow march, then it gathered speed, intensity. It picked up more instruments as it began to race along. A piano, strings. Horns. The drum became almost militaristic, building to a vigorous, energetic, stirring crescendo.

And weaving through it was the voice.

Beauvoir sat on the lumpy old sofa and stared at the turntable, marveling at Al Lepage’s deep, gravelly voice.

As the first song wound down, Jean-Guy turned to Ruth. “That was incredible. Even you must see that.”

“Did you listen to the lyrics?”

“I think so.”

“Well, if you thought they were great, more than your nuts are numb. Excuse me, I have to pee.” She rocked herself out of the chair. “I’ve been drinking tea all night.”

When she left, Jean-Guy carefully lifted the arm and replaced the needle at the beginning of the record.

A soldier and a sailor met in a bar, Al sang in his raspy voice. The one said to the other, there you are.

Jean-Guy listened as the soldier and sailor talked about war and love, parted ways, then ended up on different sides of a conflict.

Ruth was right. It was painful, but not in the way Al Lepage probably intended. The story was clichéd, embarrassing, cringe-worthy. The rhymes were either obvious or tortured. But the music and voice obscured that, camouflaging it. Making it appear better than it was. Perhaps, thought Beauvoir, like the man himself.

The next song was on. The music was powerful, with piano and banjo and harmonica. A fusion of folk and rock and country.

Now Al was singing about a dog who gets lost and is just about to curl up and die when he’s found by a pack of wild dogs and saved. He’s accepted into the pack but, too late, he realizes they’re wolves and he’s expected to kill other animals. As they do. Not because they’re cruel but because it’s in their nature. Just as he’s about to kill a little lamb, his heart in despair, he sees a light through the trees and runs toward it. A door opens, and it’s his family. Calling to him. Waiting for him.

Jean-Guy sat on the sofa marveling how a story that should have been, could have been, very moving had been rendered ridiculous by infantile and clunky lyrics and silly attempts to force words to rhyme. Beauvoir was not sure “dog” rhymed with “ideologue.”

It was a shame. Lepage’s ideas, his voice, his music were powerful. His lyrics, on the other hand, were merde. They should never have been shared. Beauvoir wondered how the record had fared.

Jean-Guy was having fun finding words that rhymed with merde, when Ruth reappeared. And glared.

“Had enough?” she asked. “If you keep listening, your brain will turn into something soft and smelly.”

“How do you know? Have you heard it before?”

The mad old poet walked over to her stereo and returned to the sofa holding Al’s record. Her own copy.

“How’d you get this?” Beauvoir asked, taking it from her.

“It’s self-produced. I bought one and listened to it once to be polite, but it’s crap.”

And yet, thought Jean-Guy, she’d kept it. The record didn’t end up in the church rummage sale. Or the dump. And since when was Ruth polite? Or perhaps the question should be, when did she become impolite?

“He used to busk on the street in Cowansville, when he first arrived,” said Ruth. “Sometimes he’d play in the boîtes à chansons in Montréal, but mostly he sang in the coffeehouses around here. That was before Gabri and Olivier opened the bistro.”

“He doesn’t play there now, though, does he?” asked Beauvoir.

“No,” said Ruth. “He stopped singing, thank God.”

Jean-Guy put the album facedown. He didn’t want to look at the smiling young man with the bushy red beard, who had no idea what heartbreak was waiting for him a few decades down the road.

“How did Al Lepage get across the border?” Jean-Guy asked.

“He ran, I guess. Probably chased by a gang of music lovers.”

“Lepage claims he walked across the border from Vermont. But how’d he find Three Pines? He didn’t just stumble into it, did he? He had to have had help.”

“Maybe he was meant to find Three Pines,” she said, getting up again and gathering Rosa in her arms.

“You don’t believe that.”

“You have no idea what I believe,” she snapped, then softened her expression as she made for the stairs to her bedroom. “Turn off the lights when you leave.”

“Are you going upstairs to heave?” he called after her and heard, out of the darkness, a chuckle.

Jean-Guy leaned back and listened to the music, trying not to hear the lyrics. Something about—

Buy, buy this good apple pie.

Oh no, thought Beauvoir, surely not.

Drove my Honda, which I’m fonda …

He tuned out the lyrics and replaced them with the conversation after dinner, when he and Isabelle had walked to the Gamaches’ from Clara’s so he could pick up the record and they could have a brief discussion about the evening.

“What I find strange,” Isabelle had said, as they sat in the Gamaches’ living room, “is that neither the CSIS people nor Rosenblatt picked up on Dr. Bull’s poor academic record and that maybe there was someone else, the real designer, working behind the scenes. I mean, it was right there. Even Madame Gamache found it.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Reine-Marie.

“Désolé. But you know what I mean. These people are supposedly experts on Gerald Bull, and professionals at deciphering information, and yet they miss that?”

Armand nodded. “Why do you think that is? Beyond the obvious answer that Reine-Marie is far smarter than all of them.”

“Merci, mon cher,” said Madame Gamache. “You know, a lot of geniuses did poorly in school. Maybe that was Dr. Bull.”

“Maybe,” said Jean-Guy. “But I think the CSIS people, and perhaps even Professor Rosenblatt, didn’t miss it. They were just hoping we would. I think they know perfectly well someone else was involved with Project Babylon.”

“And that’s why they’re still here,” said Armand, nodding.

“To look for the plans or the person?” asked Isabelle.

“Both,” said Beauvoir.

“You think the person who designed Project Babylon is here in Three Pines?” asked Lacoste.

“I don’t,” said Beauvoir. “Not really. But maybe. I don’t know.”

“Impressive,” said Lacoste.

Jean-Guy smiled tightly and got up. “I’m heading over to Ruth’s place with Al Lepage’s record. I want to hear it. Coming?”

“No, I’m going back to the Incident Room and see if any reports have come in. Both the Canadian government and the Americans are looking into Al Lepage. Does it seem odd that he arrived in Québec already having a French surname?”

“What strikes me as odd,” said Beauvoir, “is that he said he walked across the border and just stumbled into Three Pines.”

“How else would you find it?” asked Reine-Marie. She thought for a moment. “He was a draft dodger, right?”

The Sûreté officers nodded.

“From what I remember, they were welcomed in Canada,” said Reine-Marie. “I’m not sure they really had to sneak across the border.”

“They were pardoned too,” said Armand. “By Jimmy Carter. Many returned.”

“But not Al Lepage,” said Isabelle Lacoste.

“I’ll ask Ruth if she knows anything,” said Beauvoir.

“One other thing you might check out tomorrow,” said Armand, as he walked them down the path. “Where the CSIS agents disappeared to today. They weren’t in the village and I don’t think they were at the site of the gun.”

That had been an hour ago, and now Jean-Guy found himself alone in Ruth’s living room, listening to Al Lepage’s record.

When it was finished he placed the needle on the spinning vinyl again, but not at the beginning. Sitting back down, he listened, again, to the saga of the dog in the woods. The listener was meant to come away with the heartwarming image of the family not giving up hope, and the dog finding home. But what stayed with Jean-Guy was the image of an animal getting in touch with its true nature. Willing to kill if it had to.

The call came into the Incident Room in the old train station the next morning. It was from the local detachment of the Sûreté.

“Since you’re already here, Chief Inspector, I thought you’d want to know.”

“Know what?”

“A body was found this morning.”

Lacoste grabbed a pen and motioned to Beauvoir, who came over.

“Who?”

She wrote the name on her notepad, and next to it the word murdered. And heard Jean-Guy whisper, “Merde.”

“Where?” Lacoste wrote an address. “Is there a team there?”

“The first response just reported in. I’ve told them not to touch anything.”

Inspector Beauvoir had moved over to his desk and she could hear him calling for a Scene of Crime unit from Montréal.

“Bludgeoned to death at home,” the local agent said. “The place has been ransacked. Looks like robbery. I’ve dispatched an ambulance, of course, but it’s too late.”

“Call the coroner,” said Lacoste.

“Already done. She’ll meet you there.”

“Good.”

She hung up and looked down at her notepad, where a name was written and circled.

Ten minutes later they were kneeling beside the body of Antoinette Lemaitre.