World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 11

The forensics team flew back to Montréal early the next morning with their prisoners.

The hikers had been released, though Gamache had assigned an agent to look more closely into their identities. He also wanted to know more about Clotilde’s history and her family. There must be someone. Parents, siblings, the father of her children.

He and Inspector Chernin stayed behind to fill in some details, leaving Agent Beauvoir to run the detachment.

“You mean I’m in command?” He looked around the empty space as though he’d been given the keys to the kingdom.

Less than a day earlier he’d been in the basement, and now he was in charge.

“Yes,” said Gamache. “It’s all yours. Don’t burn it down.”

As they left, they heard a phone ring. “Sûreté. Agent Beauvoir. How can I help?”

Gamache and Chernin met first with the coroner, who confirmed that death was due to a blow to Clotilde’s head. Almost certainly a brick.

There was no semen. It appeared she had not been sexually assaulted. Most of the bruises were either older or postmortem.

“Toxicology?” Chernin asked.

“Well, she was loaded. Cocaine, heroin. Amphetamines. Looks like she’d have snorted the living room sofa, given a chance. It’s possible she’d have died of an overdose anyway, had the murderer waited or known. The good thing, I suppose, is that given her state she probably didn’t see it coming, or feel anything.”

“But death was the catastrophic blow to her head?” Chernin asked.

“Yes.”

That at least was definite, though it seemed her life was also catastrophic.

“She was dead when she went into the water?” Chernin confirmed, reviewing the report while Gamache looked down at Clotilde’s body. At her face. At her worried expression.

He thought maybe Dr. Mignon was wrong and that, at the last moment of life, she had seen death coming.

“Yes, but this is where it gets interesting,” said the coroner. “As you know, I’m no specialist, so I didn’t put it into the report. I could never swear to this, but I don’t think she was ever completely submerged.”

Gamache turned around. “What do you mean?”

“I think, by the texture and mottling of her skin, and by the damage done by fish and birds, that she spent at least two days only partly submerged.”

He showed them the marks.

“We need her body sent to the coroner in Montréal,” said the Chief Inspector.

Dr. Mignon stripped off his gloves. “I’ll share my report with your coroner. The children?”

“They’re being cared for” was all Gamache could say.

Mignon shook his head and glanced back at the body. “I hope she was a better mother than she appears. Poor one. I can’t imagine she wanted her life to turn out as it did.”

Gamache and Chernin took the report, thanked him, then returned to the Arsenault home for a closer look around in daylight.

After the sleet of the day before, this one had dawned bright and fresh and clear. The ground was wet, of course, but the air smelled fresh, with a bite of cold. Such was the month of November. Unpredictable. Changeable. It could not be trusted.

The sunshine didn’t make the bungalow look more cheerful. In fact, if possible, it looked even worse. Though it didn’t help that they now knew what had gone on inside.

The scent of lemon cleaner still hung in the air. What had seemed fresh now smelled stale, cloying, chemical. Gamache and Chernin walked from room to room. Sometimes picking up items with gloved hands and placing them in evidence bags. Gamache noticed the exercise books with homework done by both Fiona and Sam. He bagged them, along with other small items.

He also picked up a stuffed dog from Fiona’s bed and a model plane Sam had made. Not as evidence. These would, he hoped, offer some small comfort in their new and unfamiliar surroundings.

He paused to look at what Sam had drawn on the walls. It was just meandering lines in crayon. Without, it seemed, purpose or destination. Like ley lines on a map, leading nowhere.

He took a photo.

They did not yet have the murder weapon. There was a pretty good chance it had been tossed into the lake. If so, it had sunk into the mud, to be lost forever.

Still, Gamache had ordered a diving team to look.

It could also have been thrown out a car window to be swallowed up by the thick forest. Leaving the house, and the smell of disinfectant, he walked into the backyard and looked at the mess.

He knew his people had been thorough. If the murder weapon, or any other evidence, was there, they’d have found it. Still, he spent half an hour lifting bedsprings, and tires, and broken garden furniture.

He did not return to the root cellar. He’d seen all he needed, and anything of value to their investigation had been taken away.

Going back to the house, he found Chernin once again in Clotilde’s room.

“Find anything?”

Linda Chernin held up an evidence bag. “I found this in her bedside drawer. And another just like it in Fiona’s room.” She shook her head. “She couldn’t even let her daughter have these without soiling them.”

“These” were sheets of stickers. Unicorns. Angels. Fairies. Mythical, magical creatures. The same ones used as code beside the names of abusers.

“You?” she asked.

He shook his head and took another tour of the house. Finally, when there was nothing else to see, he returned to the living room.

“What’s bothering you?” asked Chernin, joining him.

“Pains were taken to lose the brick, but not the body. Why? I think whoever killed her wanted Clotilde to be found. The coroner says she was put in shallow water. That cove—the one place any visitor to the lake was likely to find her. If the killer had taken her that far, he could’ve carried her along the shore and dumped the body where it wouldn’t be found.”

“True. Maybe he thought the lake itself was far enough. No one would find her there.”

“But there’d been reports in the media that environmental activists would be scouting out the lake.”

“Yes. I’ve pulled copies of the articles and the interviews on local radio.”

“Do they say when?”

“This week.”

“And when did the reports appear in the news?”

“The first story was two days before Clotilde was killed.”

Gamache nodded. “So whoever put her body there probably knew that those environmentalists would be at the lake. And there’s only one road in. They were bound to find her. But not too soon.”

Chernin nodded, knowing where this was going. “Dagenais said if he’d killed her, he’d have made sure she was never found.”

“Oui. I think that’s true. Once the body was found, he had no option but to call us, and that was a disaster for him. No, if he killed her, he’d make sure she was listed as just one more missing woman. An addict and prostitute. A cursory search would be made, and the file closed.”

“Shit. You think he didn’t kill her?” When Gamache didn’t answer, she continued. “Then who did? The hiker? Could he be the kids’ father? You thought maybe … But they just arrived yesterday morning, and their car shows no signs of blood. We’ll have the DNA report later today. Still…”

Still. It seemed unlikely. They were the ones who reported the body.

“Suppose Clotilde was blackmailing one of her clients. That’s a pretty good motive for murder.”

“Yes,” said Gamache. “But he’d also have to find and destroy her records. No use killing Clotilde, then have us arrive and find the videos and the ledger. Dagenais was the only one who searched and found them.”

“Well, he might have been the only one who found them but not the only one who searched.”

Gamache’s brows rose. “That’s true.”

“Those kids lied to us about Dagenais, they might be lying about someone else. Someone who also threatened them if they told. It seems they’re so used to hiding the truth, it’s become second nature.”

“Agent Moel thinks they’ve been so damaged for so long they might not be able to tell the difference between lying and the truth,” said Gamache. “And maybe not between right and wrong.”

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, his fingers knitted together as though praying. But what he was thinking, what had just entered his mind, was as far from divine as it was possible to be.

Two days later, and back in Montréal, Gamache listened to the handwriting expert who’d studied the record book. It seemed the ledger contained the handwriting of not one but three people.

Clotilde had partners.

He reread the interviews with the men arrested in the pedophilia sweep and reviewed, yet again, the evidence found in the house. Spending extra time with the stickers beside the names.

Finally, dropping his head and closing his eyes, he brought one hand up to his forehead. And massaged. Then, no longer able to avoid it, he gave the rest of the evidence to the handwriting expert.

Clotilde’s car had been found in the possession of one of those men. The one with the unicorn beside his name. The DNA evidence found in the vehicle proved it was how Clotilde’s body got to the lake.

The man had already been arrested, but now Gamache had another talk with him. And with Dagenais.

Only then was he ready to speak to Clotilde’s children.

First, though, since it was going to be delicate and emotional, he called the provincial guardian and the counselor who’d been sent to help the children. He also spoke to the doctor who’d examined them. Her report was both predictable and devastating.

Finally, he called Agent Moel, advising her that he and Chernin would be going over to talk to Fiona and Sam.

“May I make a suggestion, patron?” Hardye Moel had spent the days and nights since the discovery of their mother’s body with the children. She knew them well.

“Of course.”

“Any talk of her killer needs to be handled with care. I know you’re aware of that, Chief, but there is something you can do that might help.”

“What’s that?”

“Get Agent Beauvoir down so he can be there when you speak to them.”

Gamache knew that Beauvoir and Sam had, with his permission, kept in touch. With the understanding that if the boy said anything important to the case, Beauvoir would pass it along.

“Agent Beauvoir seems to have made a connection with Sam, which for that boy is pretty remarkable,” Moel explained. “I think Sam sees Beauvoir as a sort of big brother, maybe even a father figure. He trusts him. I think, if you’ll forgive me, he sees you as an authority figure. Someone likely to judge and punish him. He doesn’t like or trust you.”

Gamache heard this without surprise. He’d seen the expression on Sam’s face, had felt the hostility radiating off the boy. He suspected Agent Moel was understating Sam Arsenault’s feelings toward him.

“Having Agent Beauvoir here,” Moel continued, “might make it less traumatic.”

Gamache wasn’t so sure about that, given what was about to happen, but anything that might help the children was worth doing.

He’d handed the stuffed toy and model plane to Agent Moel to give to them. And he’d bought another model for Sam to make and a packet of stickers for Fiona. He wondered if putting fairies and unicorns on things acted as a kind of charm? The way others use incense and a crucifix? Was it a way to ward off evil?

How much worse would the girl’s life have been without the help of angels and fairies and unicorns? And yet, the cheery stickers had ended up in that terrible tally of abuse.

He sent for Agent Beauvoir and put off the meeting with Fiona and Sam until Beauvoir could arrive the next day.

It turned out to be a disastrous decision. One that would have consequences for years to come.

That night the children got by the Sûreté officer guarding them, mostly because she was looking for external trouble, not runaways. It took the combined efforts of the Montréal police and the Sûreté, as well as emergency and social services, to find them. And even then, they only found Sam.

He’d been badly beaten and left for dead in a back alley in the inner city. When he’d come to in the hospital, Gamache was there. Agent Beauvoir was holding the boy’s hand.

It seemed the boy’s injuries, while bad, were not as life-threatening as they appeared. It was mostly cuts and bruising around his head where he’d been hit, repeatedly, with a brick.

Sam Arsenault, tiny and vulnerable in the big hospital bed, roused. Jean-Guy Beauvoir bent over him and whispered that he was safe. That it would be okay.

Armand listened, and was glad he’d made one good decision, and that was not to tell Agent Beauvoir what they knew.

That it would not be okay.

Sam’s bruised and bloodshot eyes shifted from Jean-Guy to Gamache. And remained there. And Armand knew then with certainty that Sam was not safe. Never was. Probably never would be.

When questioned, the boy refused to say who’d done that to him. Gamache found it interesting, even telling, that he didn’t say he didn’t know. He just wouldn’t say.

He also refused to tell them where Fiona was. While others were afraid she was dead, Gamache himself, though worried, never actually believed that.

They found her a day later, hustling on boulevard de Maisonneuve. Her first question was “Is Sam okay?”

“He’s recovering in hospital,” Gamache said, watching her closely.

“From what? What’s happened to him?” Her voice rose. Her panic sounded genuine. But Gamache knew that her entire life had been an act. A magic trick, meant to misdirect, to deceive. To hide what was really happening inside that home. Inside their lives. Desperate for people to see the happy stickers and not the horrors.

Fiona was an accomplished liar. What she did not do well, if at all, was tell the truth. Though not for the first time Gamache wondered if she and Sam could even tell the difference.

When Sam was well enough, he rejoined his sister at the home in Montréal where they were staying. Gamache, Beauvoir, and the counselor sat in the kitchen with the children, mugs of hot chocolate and tea in front of them. Inspector Chernin and Agent Moel sat in the next room, where they could follow what was happening but not overwhelm Fiona and Sam.

“How are you feeling?” Gamache started. His voice soft. Calm and calming.

“Okay,” they said, as one.

Gamache looked at Sam. The boy’s face was swollen and bruised from the beating in the alley. There was a bandage on the side of his head.

“Are you sure?”

Sam just nodded, not meeting the Chief Inspector’s gaze.

“I know you’ve been asked this before, but I want to ask again. Is there anyone we should be calling? Any family?”

Sam shook his head, and Fiona said, “It’s just us.”

Gamache caught the eye of the counselor. They both knew this was a hallmark of abuse. Isolation.

Armand had planned to tell them something he rarely talked about. His own childhood. That he’d lost both parents suddenly when he was about Sam’s age.

He wanted to open up to them in hopes they’d relax and open up to him. It was, he admitted, slightly manipulative. But more than anything, Armand wanted Fiona and Sam to know that while shocking and devastating, it was possible to survive. And even, with help, be happy one day.

Behind the children, he could see into the neat living room of the cheerful house. There, on the coffee table, was the new model plane he’d given Sam. Already built.

Armand was glad. Daniel, his son, had also loved making models. They’d done quite a few together. The model he’d chosen for Sam had looked like a good one.

But now he hesitated to tell them about his parents, for a number of reasons, not least of which was that this was about their loss, their pain. Not his. Though there was another reason, one that was instinctive and indistinct.

Instead, he asked, “Why did you run away?”

They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally Fiona said, “We were bored.”

It was not the answer any of them expected, but upon reflection Gamache realized their lives had been, from the moment of waking to going to sleep, chaotic. Filled with violence, anxiety, danger, pain. Uncertainty. Drama. Activity. People.

It’s not that they liked it. It was all they knew.

A nice, comfortable, safe, and calm home was completely foreign. Perhaps even frightening. It allowed thoughts and feelings to surface.

They wanted to get back to the distractions, to the devil they knew. So they’d headed to the inner city.

Though Gamache was not convinced. He thought there was another reason. Leaning forward, he repeated, “Why did you run away?”

“I told you,” said Fiona, clearly annoyed at being doubted.

“You didn’t take any clothes with you. You didn’t pack.” His voice remained calm, kindly even. But his eyes were steady. “You didn’t leave. You ran away. Why?”

Fiona looked at Sam.

“Tell us.” Beauvoir spoke gently, looking at the boy. “It’s okay. We won’t be mad.”

“We heard that you were coming over.” Sam’s eyes shifted now, landing on Gamache. “We didn’t want to see you.”

“Why not?” he asked, though he could have provided the answer.

He’d have been partly right, but mostly wrong. The answer, when it came, stunned him.

“Because we don’t like you, okay?” snapped Sam. That much Gamache expected. The rest he did not. “We’ve seen men like you. We know what you really want.”

Then the thin, bruised child made an obscene gesture.

Gamache was prepared for some sort of verbal abuse, but he had not expected this. Even though he knew that Sam did not believe what he said. Even though he knew no one at that table believed it. Even though he knew it was a calculated, perhaps even rehearsed, attack designed to inflict maximum damage, still it left him shaken.

He stared into Sam’s eyes. And there he saw not fear, not pain, but triumph. The boy knew he’d scored a direct hit. Somehow this child had recognized the very worst thing this grown man could be accused of. And then accused him.

But along with the triumph, there was something else lurking in those eyes. It was relief. Like an addict getting a hit. Or a starving creature that fed on someone else’s pain, enjoying a meal.

This was a child whose only feelings involved agony.

The slap, the punch, the kick, the burn, the penetration. The betrayal. And sometimes it was the spoken word. It was all he knew. So why wouldn’t he inflict all that on others?

Armand looked at Sam and his heart broke. And out of that wound came the words from the Zardo poem.

Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair / That you would greet each overture with curling lip.

But he knew the answer. They had the names. And addresses. They had them in custody. They had the body in the morgue.

The question now was, were Fiona and Sam beyond repair?

He turned to Fiona. She seemed surprised by what Sam had said, had implied. Though he couldn’t really tell. Was she? Maybe not. Maybe it was part of the act.

Maybe that was their game, their unnatural connection.

Armand realized with a jolt that while the accusation was patently false, it had, against all odds, succeeded. Sam Arsenault had done something the very worst, the most brutal criminals had failed to do, though God knew they’d tried.

The boy had found a way into Gamache’s head and left the Chief Inspector foundering. Unsure. Questioning his judgment, his perceptions.

The way in had not been the insult. Armand Gamache’s extreme empathy for them had left him vulnerable. The way in was through his heart.

And that was why, he now realized, he hadn’t told them about his own loss. It was too personal. He’d sensed even then the danger of opening up too much.

Fortunately, Gamache didn’t have to rely on judgment when he had facts.

“We’ve arrested the men who visited your home—”

The counselor had advised Gamache and the other agents not to ask Fiona and Sam about the abuse. They’d need a lot of therapy, a lot of help, before they could talk about it. And for now there was no need. There was more than enough evidence to charge the men.

“One of them was found to have your mother’s car.”

“Did he do it?” Fiona asked.

Gamache hated every moment of this. Only Chernin and the counselor knew what was coming next, and he could sense their discomfort. But he pressed forward. Deeper into the cave.

“No. He didn’t kill your mother.”

“How do you know?” demanded Sam.

“Because we know how he got her car. He told us.”

“He could be lying,” said Fiona. “Don’t murderers lie?”

“All the time,” said Gamache, his voice soft. “We also found the record book and video camera.” Now he paused, looking at them. “We know.”

“You know what they did to us,” said Sam, his chin dimpling, his lower lip quivering. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m not asking you about what you both went through. I wouldn’t make you talk about it. But there is something I do need to talk to you about.”

His voice was neutral. As though the subject, the next words, were not going to explode their lives. It was vital not to feed any hysteria. To remain, and invite, calm.

“The writing in the record book started off as your mother’s, but then, about six months ago, it changed. Two more people took over. You two.”

“That’s a lie,” Sam shouted. His small face crumpled and his eyes filled with tears. He looked at Beauvoir. “It’s a lie.” His voice was high now, barely more than a squeak.

Agent Beauvoir was so surprised by what Chief Inspector Gamache had just said, had just implied, that he sat there, openmouthed.

“It isn’t,” said Gamache. “We gave your exercise books with your homework to our expert. There’s no doubt.”

They were staring, eyes wide. But he pressed on.

“We found your mother’s blood in the trunk of her car. The man who bought it said you”—he turned to Fiona—“threatened to expose him if he told anyone who sold it to him. He tried to burn it, but we still found enough DNA.”

“No!” Fiona looked terrified. “It never happened. He’s lying. He killed her and stole it.”

Gamache’s heart ached, but still he had to do this.

“I think you killed your mother, Fiona. I think you did it in self-defense, after years of abuse. I’m not sure you meant to, or that you even really knew what you were doing. And I think Sam helped you.”

There it was.

Armand stood in the darkest cavern in the deepest cave with these two children, surrounded by dripping nightmarish stalactites. Sharp, slimy spikes of undeniable facts that had snagged and caught these children.

At that moment Armand Gamache hated his job.

Sam had thrown himself into Jean-Guy’s arms, burying his head in his chest. Clinging to the young Sûreté agent and sobbing that he didn’t do it. That it was a lie.

Then he looked up and whispered something.

Jean-Guy bent down, and Sam, slobbering and shuddering, repeated it.

No one else heard, but when Beauvoir looked over at Fiona, they could guess what Sam had just confided. And Beauvoir confirmed it.

Sam had told him that it had been his sister’s idea. She’d killed their mother, then forced him to help. He was afraid of her. She’d tried to kill him too. In the alley.

Fiona’s eyes widened. But she did not deny it.

Jean-Guy missed the look in Sam’s eyes as he turned to the Chief Inspector. But Gamache did not.

He saw satisfaction. Almost amusement. He saw a challenge.