The Nature of the Beast

CHAPTER 34

Ten lambs were lined up down the center of the conference table in the Incident Room, facing Al and Evie Lepage.

“You drew the etching,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “You knew the gun was there. What did you do, Monsieur Lepage, when your son came home and told you what he’d found in the forest? A giant gun with a monster on it. We’ve been looking for someone, just one person, who’d believe such a far-fetched story. And we’ve found him. You. Did you take him back there? Did you kill your son to keep your secret?”

Al gaped at them, his blue eyes wide with terror.

“You knew if the gun was found, the etching would eventually be traced back to you,” Lacoste pressed on. “And we’d start asking questions. We’d find out who you really are. And what you did.”

Evelyn turned to her husband. “Al?”

Gamache sat across from the couple and waited for the answer.

He’d been on the bench with Ruth and Monsieur Béliveau when the vehicles drew up to the old railway station.

He’d been trying to absorb the news that John Fleming was once in Three Pines. Was in fact Gerald Bull’s project manager. In a slight daze he watched Beauvoir and Lacoste get out of the car with Al Lepage, while Clara and Evie climbed out of the pickup truck. Evie ran to her husband’s side while Clara hesitated, then walked back to her home.

Gamache turned back to Ruth and Monsieur Béliveau.

“When you sent John Fleming his way, did you know who Al Lepage really was?”

He hadn’t directed the question specifically to either one, but both nodded.

“You helped him across the border.” It was a statement, not a question, and once again, they nodded.

“It was 1970,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “We were involved in the peace movement, working to get draft dodgers across. We were approached about a special case.”

Ruth was silent, her thin lips all but disappearing.

“You didn’t approve?” asked Gamache.

“I was conflicted,” she said. “I couldn’t decide if I thought Frederick Lawson was also a victim of the war or a psychopath.”

“A conflict,” said Monsieur Béliveau with a small smile. “Your own civil war.”

Armand knew if he’d said such a thing Ruth would have lashed out at him, but with Monsieur Béliveau, Clément, she accepted what he said.

“Because I wasn’t sure, and he hadn’t been convicted, I didn’t feel I could refuse,” said Ruth. “But it didn’t mean I had to like it. Or him.”

“It helped that we didn’t have television at the time. The signal didn’t make it into the valley,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “We’d read the reports of the atrocity in the newspapers and seen the photographs, but it wasn’t until years later that we saw the newsreels.”

“If you’d seen film of the Son My Massacre,” Armand asked, “would you have helped Frederick Lawson find sanctuary here?”

“We’ll never know, will we?” Monsieur Béliveau looked at the tree-covered mountains. “We set him up in the boardinghouse. It’s now the B and B.” He gestured toward Olivier and Gabri’s place. “And helped him get work singing at local boîtes à chansons.”

“He changed his name,” said Ruth. “No one else knew who he really was and what he’d done. But we did.”

“So when it came time to throw someone to the wolf you chose him?” asked Armand.

“Is that really necessary, monsieur?” asked Monsieur Béliveau.

“It’s all right, Clément. He’s just speaking the truth.” She turned back to Armand. “Al Lepage or Frederick Lawson or whatever he chose to call himself was already damned. What I hadn’t counted on was that in doing it, I was too.”

“That’s not true, Ruth,” said Monsieur Béliveau.

“But it is. We both know it. I sacrificed him to save myself.”

“Who hurt you once so far beyond repair,” said Gamache, quoting her most famous poem.

“So far beyond repair,” Ruth repeated. She looked at Gamache and almost smiled. “I was nice once, you know. And kind. Perhaps not the most kind, or the nicest, but it was there.”

“And still is, madame,” said Armand, stroking Rosa. “At your core.”

He got up and excused himself. Lacoste and Beauvoir needed to hear about this. He arrived at the Incident Room just as Lacoste was placing the ten lamb drawings down the center of the conference table, facing Laurent’s parents.

Armand caught her eye and she came over, followed by Beauvoir.

“I was just speaking with Ruth.”

“Yes, we saw,” said Beauvoir. “And Monsieur Béliveau.”

“She knew about the drawing of the Whore of Babylon. She’s the one who recommended Al Lepage for the job.”

He told them what he’d discovered and then, from his breast pocket, he brought out the black-and-white photograph of the three men.

Isabelle and Jean-Guy looked at the familiar picture, then at him. Waiting.

“Gerald Bull had a man with him when he was here working on Project Babylon. A man he introduced as his project manager.”

Gamache tapped the photograph. “This man. Ruth recognized him.”

His finger landed on the third man, whose face was turned away from the camera, and down.

“Oui?” said Lacoste, leaning in for a better look.

Beauvoir also studied it. He’d wondered about that third man and had harbored a suspicion that it was Professor Rosenblatt. But he couldn’t make the contours of the face, the forehead, the chin fit. Even allowing for thirty years of food, and drink, and worry, it was not Michael Rosenblatt.

“Who is he, patron?” asked Beauvoir.

Isabelle Lacoste looked up from the picture and met Gamache’s eyes.

“My God, it’s John Fleming,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Please,” said Beauvoir, with a dismissive snort. But Gamache hadn’t laughed. Didn’t correct Lacoste.

Jean-Guy looked more closely and remembered the coverage of the trial, years earlier. John Fleming had been both completely unremarkable and completely unforgettable.

And there he was again. Now that he knew, it seemed so obvious. And yet—

“How could that be?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Gamache, putting the photograph back in his breast pocket. “But I do know he’s the one who commissioned Al Lepage to create the Whore of Babylon.”

They looked over at the couple waiting quietly at the table.

“Why don’t you sit in, patron, while we interview him,” said Lacoste.

Armand took a seat across from Al Lepage. He looked at the deep blue eyes, the powerful shoulders, the scored and weather-beaten face. Lepage’s bushy gray beard still had a hint of the bright orange it had once been. It was loose today, not bound by a hair band. It gave him an untamed, wild appearance. His long hair was also loose and tangled so that he appeared to be some sort of missing link. Close, but not quite human.

Except for the eyes. Sharp and intelligent.

Al Lepage looked almost relieved. A beast of burden fallen to its knees, still carrying the load, but going no further. The end of the road.

And then Lacoste had asked him outright if he’d killed his son to keep his secret. He’d created the Whore of Babylon, and now it was marching to his own personal Armageddon. If discovered, it would lead straight to Al Lepage, who led to Frederick Lawson, which led to a village in Vietnam and a massacre.

For an instant Al Lepage looked terrified. But then the expression retreated behind the beard and Gamache wondered if that was its purpose. It was a big, bushy mask behind which Frederick Lawson, the mass murderer, hid.

“What? What?” Lepage asked, looking from one to the other, apparently bewildered. “Hurt Laurent? I could never—”

“Now, we know that’s not true, don’t we?” said Beauvoir, glaring at the man.

Lepage’s breath came in short gasps as he looked from Beauvoir to Lacoste and finally to Gamache.

“Look, I admit I did the drawing. They offered me a lot of money, how could I refuse?”

He stared as though expecting them to understand.

“But I knew nothing about a gun. I hate—”

He stopped himself and looked at them again.

“You hate guns, you were about to say?” said Beauvoir. He shoved his device across the table and Lepage’s large hand instinctively stopped it from sliding off. He looked down at the glowing image.

“Is that your etching?” asked Lacoste.

Lepage nodded.

“As you see,” said Lacoste. “It’s on the gun. The great big gun, where Laurent was killed.”

“I don’t understand,” said Al. “I admit I did the drawing. They were very clear what they wanted, but they didn’t say what it was for and I didn’t ask.”

“And you didn’t notice the huge missile launcher you were using as a canvas?” demanded Beauvoir. “How much acid were you dropping? Look, I know you think you can get out of this, but you can’t. Stop wasting our time, stop making it worse for everyone.” Beauvoir glanced over at Evelyn, who was staring at her husband, dumbfounded. “Start at the beginning. Tell us about the gun and the etching.”

The shaggy head dropped and lifted a couple of times in what might have been assent or despair.

“It was a long time ago,” Lepage finally said. “Two men came to the boardinghouse and asked if I could do a commission. I thought they meant write a song. I agreed. But then they explained it was a drawing, and told me how much they’d pay. They gave me some special paper. One of the men said he’d be back in a few weeks. When he returned he seemed to like it. I bought the farm with the money and never saw him again.”

“You drew it on paper?” asked Lacoste. “Not directly onto the gun?”

“I knew nothing about a gun,” said Lepage. “No amount of money would have made me agree to that.”

“What were the men’s names?” Lacoste asked.

“It was thirty years ago,” said Lepage. “I can’t remember.”

Lacoste looked at Gamache. The photograph was sitting facedown on the conference table in front of him. He slid it over to her, and she handed it to Al Lepage.

“Anyone look familiar?”

Lepage studied it, though Gamache had the impression he was really just trying to figure out what best to say. How much to admit.

“This is one,” he pointed to Gerald Bull. “And this is the other. The one who came to get the work and to pay me.”

He was pointing at John Fleming.

Gamache listened to the words but also to the tone. Lepage seemed to be skimming across the surface of his feelings, reporting something factual that had no emotional content at all. And yet his etching of the Whore of Babylon had reeked of pain and despair. It was not simply lines on a piece of paper, or a gun. Each of those etched lines came from some horrific place and Armand could guess where.

“Didn’t you question why someone would want the Whore of Babylon?” asked Lacoste.

Al Lepage fell silent but they could hear him panting, like a man pursued.

“If you met him you wouldn’t wonder.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Beauvoir.

“He seemed like the sort of person who’d be drawn to that image.”

“As do you,” said Beauvoir.

He turned his laptop around so the Lepages could see the screen, then he hit a key and beyond the field of lambs in the foreground, a newsreel played out.

Beauvoir, Lacoste and Gamache couldn’t see the images, but they could see their effect. Evelyn Lepage put her hand to her mouth. Al Lepage closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open. Sounds, so small they might have come from an infant, escaped his throat.

Jean-Guy had muted the reporter’s commentary so all the Lepages had were the pictures, made the more powerful by the silence.

Al Lepage’s framed lambs had their backs to the Sûreté officers, and Gamache read the writing on the back of each. Laurent, aged 2, Laurent, aged 3, and so on. But it was the very first one that caught his attention.

“My Son,” it said. Just that. And a heart. My Son.

Son My.

Had this man killed again? His own son this time, and Antoinette Lemaitre? To keep his secret safe? It was a hell of a secret, and a hell of a crime.

“Al?” Evie said, when the newsreels ended in a freeze frame. “Why’re they showing us this?”

“She doesn’t know?” asked Beauvoir.

Al shook his head then turned to her. He took her hand and looked down at it. So familiar. So unexpected. To have found her late in life, and fallen in love. And taken her hand.

“I’m not a draft dodger, Evie,” he said quietly. “And my name isn’t Al Lepage. It’s Frederick Lawson. I was a private in the army. I deserted.”

His wife looked from him to the screen, then back.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “It’s not true.” She stared at him, searching his face. Then her eyes returned to the pile of bodies on the path, the bright green fields behind them and the little lambs in front. Her hand slid out of his.

No one moved, no one spoke. There was complete and utter silence, as though they too had been paused. And then it was shattered by a single word, screamed.

“Nooooooo.”

It came out of her like a blast furnace and she began pounding his chest, no longer making words but just sounds. Howling.

Lacoste started to get up but sat back down.

Lepage did nothing to defend himself, except close his eyes. It seemed he even leaned in to the fists, welcoming the beating. The Sûreté officers watched as Evelyn Lepage’s life well and truly collapsed. Armand narrowed his eyes, not wishing to watch something so private, so intimate, so painful. But needing to see it.

He watched and wondered if little Frederick Lawson had raced through the woods, as Laurent had. A stick for a gun. Playing soldier. Fighting the enemy. Sacrificing himself in deeds magnificent and heroic.

One thing Gamache knew for sure. Little Frederick Lawson had not picked up his stick, pointed it, and slaughtered a village filled with old men, and women and children. So how did one become the other? How did a nine-year-old boy acting out heroics become a twenty-year-old man committing an atrocity?

Evelyn only stopped pounding on her husband’s chest when she was too exhausted to go on.

“You did that?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

He tried to take her hand again, but she batted him away, flailing her arms.

“Go away, get back,” she demanded.

“I was a different man back then,” he pleaded. “It was war, I was young. The platoon leader said they were Viet Cong.”

“The babies?” she said, her voice barely audible.

“I had no choice. It was strategic. They were the enemy.”

His voice petered out and with it the litany, the liturgy, the story he’d told himself every day, until he believed it. Until the miracle occurred, the transubstantiation. Until Frederick Lawson became Al Lepage. Troubadour. Raconteur. Organic gardener and aging hippie. Draft dodger.

Until a lie became the truth.

But the ghosts had pursued him over the border and across the years.

There had been no escape for Frederick Lawson after all. No second chance. No rebirth. His past had shown up one day, and knocked on his door, and asked him to do an etching. Looking into those dead eyes, Frederick Lawson knew this pretty village had offered him sanctuary but not pardon.

“There was one young girl—”

Al Lepage stopped, and Gamache thought he could go no further. Hoped he could go no further. But Lepage gathered himself, and his burden, and moved on.

“She couldn’t have been more than ten years old. She knelt on the ground in front of me, her arms out. She said nothing. Not a word, not a sound. No begging, no crying. There was no fear. None. All I could see in her eyes was pity.”

Pity, thought Gamache. That was the expression Lepage had put on the face of the Whore of Babylon. The emotion he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t contempt, it wasn’t arrogance, or amusement. It was pity. For the hell to come.

That was the root of that etching. The rot.

But Al Lepage wasn’t finished yet.

“I was alone,” he said, his voice detached, filled with wonder. “I could’ve let her go.”

Jean-Guy stood up suddenly. His face was contorted with rage and he looked about to pour it all over Lepage, but instead he walked swiftly, unsteadily away, knocking over a wastepaper basket and banging into a desk before making it to the bathroom.

Lepage lifted his eyes from the screen and looked at Gamache.

“But I didn’t.”