The Nature of the Beast

CHAPTER 6

After a night of searching, his mother and father found Laurent early the next morning. In a gully. Where he’d been thrown, his bicycle nearby. The polished handlebars had caught the morning sun and the glint guided his parents to him.

The other searchers, from villages all over the Townships, were alerted by the wail.

Armand, Reine-Marie, and Henri stopped their search. Stopped calling Laurent’s name. Stopped struggling through the thick brush on the side of the roads. Stopped urging Henri even deeper, ever deeper, through the brambles and burrs.

Reine-Marie turned to Armand, stricken, as though a fist had formed out of the cries. She walked into Armand’s arms and held on to him, burying her face in his body. His clothing, his shoulder, his arms almost muffled her sobs.

She smelled his scent of sandalwood, mixed with a hint of rosewater. And for the first time, it didn’t comfort her. So overwhelming was the sorrow. So shattering was the wail.

Henri, covered in burrs and upset by the sounds, paced the dirt road, whining and looking up at them.

Reine-Marie pulled back and wiped her face with a handkerchief. Then, on seeing the gleam in Armand’s eyes, she grabbed him again. This time holding him, as he’d held her.

“I need to—” he said.

“Go,” she said. “I’m right behind you.”

She took Henri’s leash and started to run. Armand was already halfway to the corner. Sprinting, following the grief.

And then the wailing stopped.

As Armand rounded the corner, he saw Al Lepage at the bottom of the hill standing in the middle of the dirt road, staring into space.

Armand ran down the steep hill, skidding a little on the loose gravel. In the distance he saw Gabri and Olivier arriving from the opposite direction. Converging on the man.

From the underbrush he heard moaning and rhythmic rustling.

“Al?” Armand said, slowing down to stop a few paces from the large, immobile man.

Lepage gestured behind him but kept his face turned away.

Even before he looked, Gamache knew what he’d see.

Behind him he heard Reine-Marie’s footsteps slow to a stop. And then he heard her moan. As one mother looked at another’s nightmare. At every mother’s nightmare.

And Armand looked at Al. Every father’s nightmare.

In a swift, practiced glance, Armand took in the position of the bike, the ruts in the road, the broken bushes and bent grass. The placement of rocks. The stark detail imprinted itself forever in his mind.

Then Armand slid down the ditch, through the long grass and bushes that had hidden Laurent and his bike. Behind him he could hear Olivier and Gabri speaking to Al. Offering comfort.

But Laurent’s father was beyond comfort. Beyond hearing or seeing. He was senseless in a senseless world.

Evie was clinging to Laurent, her body enfolding his. Rocking him. Her mousy brown hair had escaped the elastic and fell in strands in front of her face, forming a veil. Hiding her face. Hiding his.

“Evie?” Armand whispered, kneeling beside her. “Evelyn?”

He gently, slowly, pulled back the curtain.

Gamache had been at the scene of enough accidents to know when someone was beyond help. But still he reached out and felt the boy’s cold neck.

Evie’s keening turned into a hum, and for a moment he thought it was Laurent. It was the same tune the boy had hummed two days earlier when Armand had driven him home.

Old man look at my life, twenty-four and there’s so much more.

From behind them, up the embankment and on the road, came a gasp so loud it drowned out the humming.

One gasp, then a heave. And another heave. As Al Lepage fought for breath through a throat clogged with grief.

Under the wretched sounds, Armand heard Olivier calling for an ambulance. Others had arrived, forming a semicircle around Al. Unsure what to do with such overwhelming grief.

And then Al dropped to his knees and slowly lowered his forehead to the dirt. He brought his thick arms up over his gray head and locked his hands together until he looked like a stone, a boulder in the road.

Armand turned back to Evie. The rocking had stopped. She too had petrified. She looked like one of the bodies excavated from the ruins of Pompeii, trapped forever in the moment of horror.

There was nothing Armand could do for either of them. So he did something for himself. He reached out and took Laurent’s hand, holding it in both of his, unconsciously trying to warm it. He stayed with them until the ambulance came. It arrived with haste and a siren. And drove off slowly. Silently.

A little while later Reine-Marie and Armand drew the curtains of their home, to keep out the sunshine. They unplugged the phone. They carefully took the burrs off a patient Henri. Then in the dark and quiet of their living room they sat down and wept.

“I’m sorry, patron,” said Jean-Guy. “I know how much you cared for him.”

“You didn’t have to come down,” said Gamache, turning from the front door to walk back into their home. “We could’ve spoken on the phone.”

“I wanted to bring you this personally, rather than email it.”

Gamache looked at what Jean-Guy held in his hand.

“Merci.”

Jean-Guy placed the manila file on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

“According to the local Sûreté, it was an accident. Laurent was riding his bike home, down the hill, and he hit a rut. You know what that road’s like. They figure he was going at a good clip and the impact must’ve thrown him over his handlebars and into the ditch. I’m not sure if you saw the rocks nearby.”

Gamache nodded and rubbed his large hand over his face, trying to wipe away the weariness. He and Reine-Marie had caught a few hours’ sleep then gotten up to the sound of rain pelting against the windowpanes.

It was now late afternoon and Jean-Guy had driven down from Montréal with the preliminary report on Laurent’s death.

“I did see them. This’s fast work,” said Gamache, putting on his reading glasses and opening the file.

“Preliminary,” Jean-Guy said, joining him on the sofa.

It was pouring outside now. A chilly rain that got into the bones. A fire was lit in the hearth and embers popped and burst from the logs. But the men, heads together, were oblivious to the cheerfulness nearby.

“If you look here.” Beauvoir leaned in and pointed to a line in the police report. “The coroner says he was gone as soon as he hit the ground. He didn’t…”

He didn’t lie there, in pain. As it got darker. And colder.

Laurent, all of nine years of age, didn’t die frightened, wondering where they were.

Jean-Guy saw Gamache give one curt nod, his lips tightening. There wasn’t much comfort to be found in what had happened. He’d take what he could get. As would Evie and Al, eventually. The only thing worse than losing a child was thinking that child had suffered.

“His injuries are consistent with what the police found,” said Jean-Guy. He sat back on the sofa and looked at his father-in-law. “Why do you think it might be more than that?”

Gamache continued to read, then he looked up and over his half-moon glasses.

“Why do you think I do?”

Jean-Guy gave a thin smile and nodded toward the report. “Your face as you read the report. You’re scanning for evidence. I spent twenty years across from you, patron. I know that look. Why do you think I wanted to be here when you read it?” He tapped the report. “I cared for him too, you know. Funny little guy.”

He saw Gamache smile, and nod.

“You’re right,” Gamache admitted. “I thought something was wrong from the moment we found him. All sorts of small things. And one big thing. Kids fall off bikes all the time. I can’t tell you how often Annie landed headfirst. Only repeated blows to the head could explain her attraction to you.”

“Merci.”

“But surprisingly few die. Laurent also wore a helmet most of the time. Why not yesterday? He had it with him. It was tied to the handlebars of his bike.”

“Laurent probably wore the helmet when he left home and when he arrived where he was going. But he took it off in between, when no one was looking. Like most kids. I used to take off my tuque in the middle of winter, as soon as my mother couldn’t see me. I’d rather freeze my head than look stupid. Don’t say it,” Jean-Guy warned, seeing the obvious comment coming.

Gamache shook his head. “It just wasn’t right, Jean-Guy. There was something off. The trajectory, the distance he traveled. The distance his bike traveled—”

“—is all explained here.”

“In a report slapped together quickly. And then there was the position of the bike, and Laurent’s body.”

Jean-Guy picked up the photographs from the police report and studied them, then handed them to Armand, who placed the pictures back in the file.

He saw that face, that body, all day long. It was burned into his memory. No need to look at it again.

“They look like they were thrown there,” said Gamache.

“Oui. When he hit that rut,” said Jean-Guy, trying to be patient.

“I’ve investigated enough accidents, Jean-Guy, to know that this does not look like one.”

“But it does, patron, to everyone but you.”

It was said gently, but firmly. Gamache took off his glasses and looked at Beauvoir.

“Do you think I want it to be more than an accident?” he asked.

“No. But I think sometimes our imaginations can run away with us. A combination of grief and exhaustion and guilt.”

“Guilt?”

“Okay, maybe not guilt, but I think you felt a responsibility toward the boy. You liked him and he looked up to you. And then this happens.”

Beauvoir gestured toward the photographs. “I understand, patron. You want to do something and can’t.”

“So I make it murder?”

“So you question,” said Jean-Guy, trying now to diffuse an unexpectedly tense situation. “That’s all. But the findings are pretty clear.”

“This is too preliminary.” Gamache closed the file and pushed it away. “They’ve jumped to an obvious conclusion because it’s easy. They need to investigate further.”

“Why?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Because I need to be sure. They need to be sure.”

“No, I mean, let’s assume for a moment this wasn’t an accident. He was a kid. He wasn’t violated. He wasn’t tortured. Thank God. Why would someone kill him?”

“I don’t know.”

Gamache did not look at the pile of dirty pages on the table by the back door where they’d sat since he’d dug them up. But he felt them there. Felt John Fleming squatting there, listening, watching.

“Sometimes there’s a clear motive, sometimes it’s just bad luck,” he said. “The murderer has a plan of his own and the victim is chosen at random.”

“You think a serial killer murdered Laurent?” asked Jean-Guy, incredulous now. “A regular murderer isn’t enough?”

“Enough?” Gamache glared at the younger man. “What do you mean by that?”

His voice, explosive at first, had dropped to a dangerous whisper, and then he recovered himself.

“I’m sorry, Jean-Guy. I know you’re trying to help. I’m not making this up. I have no idea why anyone would murder Laurent. All I’m saying is that I’m not sure it was simply an accident. It might have been a hit-and-run. But there’s something off.”

Gamache reopened the dossier. At the list of items found in Laurent’s pocket. A small stone with a line of pyrite through it. Fool’s gold. A chocolate bar. Broken. There were pine cone shards and dirt and a dog biscuit.

Then Gamache looked at the report on the boy’s hands. They were scratched, dirty. The coroner found pine resin and bits of plant matter under his nails. No flesh. No blood.

No fight. If Laurent was murdered, he didn’t have a chance to defend himself. Gamache was relieved by this at least. It spoke of a boy doing boy things in the last hours, minutes, of his life. Not fighting for that life, but apparently enjoying it. Right up until the end.

Gamache raised his brown eyes to Jean-Guy.

“Would you look into it?”

“Of course, patron. I’ll come back down for the funeral and try to have some definite answers by then.”

Beauvoir thought about where to start. But there wasn’t much to think about. When a child dies, where do you look first?

“You said his father wouldn’t look at the boy, at his body. Is it possible…?”

Gamache considered for a moment. Remembering the weathered, beaten face of Al Lepage. His back turned to his dead son and wailing wife. “It’s possible.”

“But?”

“If he killed Laurent in a fit of rage he might try to hide it, but it would be simpler, I think. He’d bury the boy somewhere. Or take the body into the woods and leave it there. Let nature do the rest. If it was murder, then someone put some thought and effort into making it look like an accident.”

“People do, of course,” said Jean-Guy. “The best way to get away with murder is to make sure no one knows it’s murder.”

They’d wandered into the kitchen and were pouring coffees. They sat at the pine table, hands cupped around the mugs.

Beauvoir missed this. The hours and hours with Chief Inspector Gamache. Poring over evidence, talking with suspects. Talking about suspects. Comparing notes. Sitting across from each other in diners and cars and crappy hotel rooms. Picking apart a case.

And now, sitting at the kitchen table in Three Pines, Inspector Beauvoir wondered if he was humoring the Chief by agreeing to investigate a case that almost certainly only existed in Gamache’s imagination. Or maybe he was humoring himself.

“If it was murder, why not just bury him in the forest?” asked Jean-Guy. “It would be almost impossible to find him. And as you said, the wolves and bears…”

Gamache nodded.

He looked across at Jean-Guy, the younger man’s brows furrowed, thinking. Following a line of reason. How often, Gamache wondered, in small fishing villages, in farmers’ fields, in snowed-in cabins in the wilderness, had the two of them struggled through the intricacies of a case? Trying to find a murderer, who was desperately trying to hide?

He missed this.

Was that why he was doing it? Had he turned a little boy’s tragic death into murder, for his own selfish reasons? Had he bullied Jean-Guy into seeing what didn’t exist? Because he was bored? Because he missed being the great Chief Inspector Gamache?

Because he missed the applause?

Still, Jean-Guy had asked a good question. If someone had in fact murdered Laurent, why not just hide the body in the deep, dark forest? Why go through the “accident” charade?

There was only one answer to that.

“Because he wanted Laurent to be found,” said Jean-Guy, before Gamache could say it. “If Laurent remained missing we’d keep looking for him. We’d turn the area upside-down.”

“And we might find something the murderer didn’t want us to find,” said Gamache.

“But what?” Jean-Guy asked.

“What?” Gamache repeated.

An hour later Reine-Marie returned from visiting Clara to find the two of them in the kitchen, staring into space.

She knew what that meant.

Laurent Lepage’s funeral was held two days later.

The rain had stopped, the skies had cleared and the day shone bright and unexpectedly warm for September.

The minister, who did not appear to know the Lepages, did his best. He spoke of Laurent’s kindness, his gentleness, his innocence.

“Who exactly are we burying?” Gabri whispered, as they got down once again to pray.

Laurent’s father was invited to the front by the minister. Al walked up, dressed in an ill-fitting black suit, his hair pulled back tightly, his beard combed. He held a guitar and sat on a chair set out for him.

The guitar rested on his lap, ready. But Al just sat there, staring at the mourners. Unable to move. And then, helped by Evie, he returned to his seat in the front pew.

The interment, in the cemetery above Three Pines, was private. Just Evelyn and Alan Lepage, the minister and the people from the funeral home.

In the church basement, Laurent’s teachers, classmates, neighborhood children picked at food brought by the villagers.

“Can I speak with you, patron?” asked Jean-Guy.

“What is it?” asked Armand when he and Jean-Guy had stepped a few paces from the group.

“We’ve gone over it and over it. There’s no evidence it was anything other than an accident.”

Beauvoir studied the large man in front of him, trying to read his face. Was there relief there? Yes. But there was also something else.

“You’re still troubled,” said Jean-Guy. “I can show you our findings.”

“No need,” said Gamache. “Merci. I appreciate it.”

“But do you believe it?”

Gamache nodded slowly. “I do.” Then he did something Beauvoir did not expect. He smiled. “Seems Laurent wasn’t the only one with a vivid imagination. Seeing things that aren’t there.”

“You’re not going to report an alien invasion now, are you?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

Gamache tilted his head toward the buffet and Beauvoir smiled.

Ruth was pouring something from a flask into her waxed cup of punch.

“Merci, Jean-Guy. I appreciate what you’ve done.”

“Thank Lacoste. She approved it and even put a team on it. The boy died in an accident, patron. He fell off his bike.”

Once again Gamache nodded. They walked back to the others, passing Antoinette and Brian on the way.

Brian said hello, but Antoinette turned away.

“Still mad, I see,” said Jean-Guy.

“And it’s only getting worse.”

“What’re you two talking about?” asked Reine-Marie, as Armand and Jean-Guy rejoined her.

“Antoinette,” said Jean-Guy.

“She looked at me with loathing,” said Myrna.

“Me too,” said Gabri, walking over with a plate filled with apple pie while Olivier’s was stacked with quinoa, cilantro, and apple salad.

“Play not going well?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Once they found out who wrote it, most of the other actors also quit,” said Gabri. “I think Antoinette was genuinely surprised.”

Myrna was looking at Antoinette and shaking her head. “She really doesn’t seem to understand why anyone would be upset.”

“So the play’s canceled?” asked Jean-Guy.

“No,” said Clara. “That’s the weird thing. She refuses to cancel it. I think Brian is now playing all the parts. She just can’t accept reality.”

“Seems to be going around,” said Armand.

“You mean Laurent?” asked Olivier. “Now there was someone whose understanding of reality was fluid.”

“Remember when he claimed there was a dinosaur in the pond?” said Gabri, laughing.

“He almost had you convinced,” said Olivier.

“Or the time he saw the three pines walking around?” asked Myrna.

“They walk all the time,” said Ruth, shoving in between Gabri and Olivier.

“Fueled by gin,” said Clara. “Funny how that works.”

“Speaking of which, there’s no gin. Someone must’ve drunk it all. Get some more,” she said to Myrna.

“Get your own—”

“Church,” Clara interrupted Myrna.

“We’re at a child’s funeral,” Olivier said to Ruth. “There is no alcohol.”

“If there ever was an occasion to drink, this is it,” said Ruth.

She was holding Rosa in much the same way Evelyn Lepage had held Laurent. To her chest. Protectively.

“He was a strange little kid,” said Ruth. “I liked him.”

And there was Laurent Lepage’s real eulogy. Stories of his stories. Of the funny little kid with the stick, causing havoc. Creating chaos and monsters and aliens and guns and bombs and walking trees.

That was the boy they were burying.

“How many times did we look out at the village green and see Laurent hiding behind the bench, firing his ‘rifle’ at invaders,” asked Clara as they left the church and wandered down the dirt road into the village.

“Lobbing pine cones like they were grenades,” said Gabri.

“Bambambam.” Olivier held an imaginary machine gun and made the sounds they’d heard as Laurent engaged the enemy.

Clara tossed an imaginary grenade. “Brrrrccch.” As it exploded.

“He was always prepared to defend the village,” said Reine-Marie.

“He was,” said Olivier.

Gamache remembered the pine cone seeds found in Laurent’s pocket. He’d been on a mission to save the world. Armed to the teeth. When he died.

“I actually thought his death was no accident,” Armand confided to Myrna as the others walked ahead, across the village green. “I thought it might be murder.”

Myrna stopped and looked at him.

“Really? Why?”

They sat on the bench in the afternoon sun.

“I’m wondering the same thing. Is it possible I’ve been around murder so long I see it when it doesn’t exist?”

“Creating monsters,” said Myrna. “Like Laurent.”

“Yes. Jean-Guy thinks part of me wanted it to be murder. To amuse myself.”

“I’m sure he didn’t put it that way.”

“No. It’s how I’m putting it.”

“And how are you answering that question?”

“I suppose there might be some truth in it. Not that I’m bored, and certainly not that homicide amuses me. It revolts me. But…”

“Go on.”

“Thérèse Brunel was down last week and offered me the job of Superintendent overseeing the Serious Crimes and Homicide divisions.”

Myrna raised her brows. “And?”

“The truth is, I’ve never felt so at peace, so at home as I do here. I don’t feel any need to go back. But I feel as though I should.”

Myrna laughed. “I know what you mean. When I quit my job as a psychologist, I felt guilty. This isn’t our parents’ generation, Armand. Now people have many chapters to their lives. When I stopped being a therapist I asked myself one question. What do I really want to do? Not for my friends, not for my family. Not for perfect strangers. But for me. Finally. It was my turn, my time. And this is yours, Armand. Yours and Reine-Marie’s. What do you really want?”

He heard the thump of pine cones falling and stopped himself from turning to look for the funny little kid who’d thrown the “grenades.” Kaaa-pruuuchh.

Then another one fell. And another. It was as though the three huge pines were tapping the earth. Asking it to admit Laurent. The magical kid who’d made them walk.

Armand closed his eyes and smelled fresh-cut grass and felt the sun on his upturned face.

What do I want? Gamache asked himself.

He heard, on the breeze, the first thin notes. From Neil Young’s Harvest. Armand looked up to the small cemetery on the crest of the hill. Outlined against the clear blue afternoon sky was a large man with a guitar in his arms.

And down the hill the words drifted … and there’s so much more.