World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 30

“Of course it’s him,” said the warden as they sat in his office. “Look.”

He skidded the file across his desk. Gamache stopped it from sliding right over the edge. He was also trying to keep himself from falling over an edge. He realized that his rage was not helpful. It was also, he knew, rooted in fear. In terror, in fact, that John Fleming was no longer in the SHU. He was out. Somewhere.

And Gamache could guess where.

After confronting the imposter, who refused to speak, Gamache had left the interview room.

“I need to search the prison for Fleming,” he told the head guard. “You need to come with me.”

“But there’re hundreds of inmates.”

Gamache turned on him. “Do you have any idea who John Fleming is? What he’s capable of? What it means if he’s not here?”

“But he is.” The guard gestured toward the closed door of the interview room, where the false Fleming was still chained to the metal table.

“I’ve met Fleming,” snapped Gamache. “I helped put him here. He’s unmistakable. I don’t know who that is”—he gestured angrily toward the door—“but it’s not Fleming.”

“Fine. We’ll look. But it’s a massive waste of time.”

Before starting the search, Gamache called Beauvoir. “You spoke to the warden of the SHU yesterday.”

“Yes,” said Beauvoir. He didn’t tell the Chief he was in the car on his way to the prison, for fear Gamache would order him back to Three Pines.

“Call him again. Tell him to come right away and meet me in his office.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

Gamache told him.

“Fucking—” was as far as Beauvoir got before the line went dead. “—hell.”

“Let’s go,” said Gamache, stuffing the phone back into his jacket pocket.

Through the locked barriers they went. One, two, three doors. They were searched and scanned. Gamache’s phone was taken away. Finally, there was a screech of an alarm as the last barrier between them and bedlam closed. They were locked in.

Gamache had been in any number of prisons, but no other was even remotely like the SHU. It was fairly new but felt ancient and derelict. A ruin.

The very air was heavier here. Denser. As though guilt and gravity had partnered, pressing the weight of the accumulated crimes down on them.

Along the concrete corridor the two of them strode, Gamache looking into the cells, looking into the eyes of every madman in the prison. Many he’d put there. Word spread through the population that Chief Inspector Gamache was there, and an uproar ensued. Men, barely more than beasts, screamed his name. Screamed abuse.

They shook and rattled the bars, dragging anything they could find across them.

The head guard began to breathe heavily, his eyes moving this way and that. Trying to keep himself from panicking.

Prisoners spat as Gamache walked past. They tried to piss on him. But Gamache walked through it all, laser-focused on finding, or not finding, John Fleming.

Halfway through, Jean-Guy arrived.

“What’re you doing here?” Gamache asked, though Jean-Guy detected a note of relief.

“What? You’d be lost without me.”

Around them the air was putrid with threats and sweat and the smell of piss. And worse.

Beauvoir took it all in, then said, “Feels like dinner with Ruth.”

Gamache smiled and held Jean-Guy’s arm, in gratitude for that small respite. Then he said, “Go to the warden’s office. Tell him you need the file on Fleming, but don’t open it. I’ll join you when I’ve finished.”

But instead of moving, Beauvoir just stood there. “Non. I’m staying with you.”

“Inspector Beauvoir—”

“Non. You can fire me, but I’m not leaving. Not this time.”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir, lashed to the mast, would sink or swim with this man. Their fates were bound together, as the winds howled, and the storm descended, and they traveled deeper into Hell.

They looked into each of the cells. Into the faces of any number of lunatics. But not the one they were searching for.

John Fleming was no longer there.

Outside the warden’s office, Gamache turned to the head guard. “How long have you been at the SHU?”

“Two and a half years.”

“That long.” Gamache sighed.

“Do you think Fleming’s been gone since then?” asked Beauvoir.

Gamache nodded. “What happened to the former head guard?”

“He retired.”

“I’m guessing suddenly.”

“Yes.”

“And he moved away?”

“To Florida.”

“Can you get us his address?” asked Beauvoir.

It was clear that the head guard was about to object, to say he’d need the warden’s approval. Then he changed his mind. He’d watched these men be verbally abused. Spat on, almost pissed and shit on. And they kept going.

If they could do that, he could do this. Besides, he was beginning to believe them.

He knew John Fleming. At least, he knew his crimes. He’d familiarized himself with the details of each prisoner when he got the job. And no prisoner was more famous than Fleming.

Like everyone else, the head guard knew the broad strokes of his crimes.

Over the course of seven years, John Fleming had kidnapped and murdered seven people, men and women, young and old. One a year. His victims were completely random, from a clerk at the Hudson’s Bay Company, to a bridge builder, to a fisherman, and more. Each in a different decade of their life.

That he knew. That everyone knew.

What wasn’t said was what this madman had done with the bodies.

On arriving at the SHU, the head guard had read the file. Seen the photos. And then spent every hour of every day wishing he had not.

His job now was to make sure these men stayed behind these iron doors. And none more than Fleming.

It became clear to him that this was not just a job, it was a sacred duty. The Special Handling Unit was filled with murderers, mass murderers, child murderers. Serial killers.

The deranged, the criminally insane, lived out their lives within those walls, waiting for their own deaths. No family, no friends ever came. Not even the Grim Reaper wanted to visit. Many of the inmates lived to a ripe old age. Some were over one hundred years old. Unable to live. Unable to die.

Of all these criminals, John Fleming was the worst. The head guard knew that. And now, standing outside the warden’s office, staring into the deep brown eyes of the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, he’d begun to suspect that the worst had happened.

“I’ll get it for you,” he said.

“Merci.”

With that, the Sûreté officers walked into the warden’s office.

The warden was furious. He’d been dragged out of bed, forced back to the office, and was now being accused of allowing the most dangerous prisoner in the SHU to escape.

Gamache put on his reading glasses and scanned the file, though he knew what he’d find. Lies. A deliberate counterfeit.

Sure enough, the file showed a photo and description of the man Gamache had just met. It was close, the resemblance almost uncanny. But it was not John Fleming.

The litany of Fleming’s crimes was there, along with psychiatrist reports. There was an all-too-brief description of Fleming’s background, including his education.

It said the same thing as Gamache’s private records. John Fleming was a mathematician. Not an engineer.

Gamache snapped the file shut, then handed it to Beauvoir, but not before removing the photographs of what Fleming had done and putting them into his pocket. Leaning forward, he spoke with blistering courtesy to the warden.

“The man introduced to me just now as John Fleming is not John Fleming. I know it, and you know it, sir. And you know that, despite what the record says, I can prove it.”

Though Gamache also knew that could be problematic. If as much trouble had been taken over this escape as it seemed, the DNA and prints of the false Fleming would now be in the official file.

John Fleming would have dissolved and re-formed into someone else.

But the real file, along with evidence of other crimes he might have committed, were intact. The real John Fleming was in the locked room in Gamache’s basement.

But he’d have to prove that his files were legitimate, and the now official records were fakes. That would take more time than they had.

“There’s nothing to prove,” said the warden. “Listen closely, Chief Inspector. I’ll say this once. You’re a breath away from a lawsuit that will ruin you. It’s one thing to come in here with both boots and insist a prisoner has escaped, when there’s no proof. In fact, there’s a whole lotta proof that he’s safely locked up.” He gestured toward the file now in Beauvoir’s hands. “But you refuse to believe the evidence of your own eyes.” He stared into Gamache’s steady gaze and seemed to get stuck there for a moment, before plowing on. “It’s a whole other thing to accuse me, accuse him”—the warden pointed to the head guard—“in front of witnesses, of a cover-up. That’s actionable. Let me just be clear. Are you actually saying we’ve knowingly allowed a criminally insane prisoner to escape?”

“Non.”

“No?” The warden looked confused.

“Not him—” Gamache tilted his face toward the head guard. “Only you.”

The warden colored. But Gamache went on, his voice deep and calm. It was a calm Beauvoir knew well. Had first heard on the shores of that pewter lake, a lifetime ago. When he’d first met Gamache. When he’d first learned that what met the eye and what was the real story could be two very different things.

“Now, let me be clear,” said the Chief Inspector. “The lede here isn’t what this means for me, or you. It’s that a lunatic has been allowed out in the community. That’s what matters. Finding him is what matters. Whose life is ruined, yours or mine, can be sorted later. You need to tell us everything you know. Now!”

The last word was snapped out with such force the head guard jumped.

Jean-Guy could see the tremble in Gamache’s right hand. It was getting more and more pronounced. He was barely containing his rage.

“Get him out of my office,” the warden ordered, but the guard didn’t move.

Gamache had had enough. He stood up so quickly his chair squealed against the linoleum floor.

The warden, seeing this and sensing the danger too late, scrambled to his feet and reeled back, trying to get out of the Chief Inspector’s grasp as Gamache moved forward.

He did not make it.

Gamache was upon him, stopping just inches from the man. He didn’t touch the warden, but the force of his wrath pressed the man hard against the wall.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Gamache shouted, finally letting all his pent-up anger out. Aiming it at this stupid, stupid man. “You’ve released a monster.” Gamache reached into his pocket and brought out one of the photographs.

“Look,” he roared, shoving the picture into the man’s face. “Look!”

The warden dropped his eyes to the picture.

And blanched.

Beauvoir, tense, ready to act, knew then that the warden had never really read Fleming’s file, and if he had, he hadn’t bothered, or dared, look at the pictures. Of the seven-headed creature John Fleming had created. The Beast of Babylon.

He himself had never seen it, and now Jean-Guy realized Gamache had removed the photos from the files so he would not. But the look of sheer horror on the warden’s face told the story.

“You let this madman out,” Gamache shouted. “How much did it cost? What were you paid? What’s the going price these days for monsters, you stupid piece of shit?”

He was practically screaming. Shaking with fury and on the verge of tears.

It went beyond anger, beyond rage, into a territory Beauvoir had never seen in the Chief Inspector. Gamache was losing it.

“Where is he? Where?”

When the warden didn’t answer, Gamache lifted his hand toward the man’s throat. Jean-Guy stepped forward just before it got there and pulled Gamache back.

The Chief shook him off and moved toward the warden again. Beauvoir gripped more tightly and this time dragged Gamache back.

“Get away,” he hissed into Armand’s ear. “Go. Step away.”

It was, he realized, almost exactly what Gamache had said when saving him from Fleming years ago.

Gamache stumbled back, his eyes drilling into the now pale and trembling man. He yanked his arm free, straightened his clothes, took a deep ragged breath, then turned to Beauvoir.

“Charge him. He’s an accomplice in the murder of Patricia Godin. More charges will follow.” Gamache, trembling with rage and adrenaline, glared at the warden, then said in a whisper, far more frightening than the shouting, “Do you know what you’ve done?”

“You can’t arrest me. I did nothing wrong,” the warden shouted as Gamache reached the door. “You have no proof.”

“Be quiet, you goddamned fucker,” shouted Beauvoir.

Gamache turned back. “You’d better pray we find some.”

He slammed the door behind him.

“What did he mean by that?” demanded the warden.

Beauvoir turned him around and shoved him against the wall.

“Imagine what will happen if you’re released,” Beauvoir snarled before snapping the cuffs in place and turning him back around.

It took the man a moment to see what Beauvoir meant. To imagine what Fleming would do to him now that he was no longer useful.

While Beauvoir drove the pale and panicky warden to the Sûreté in Montréal to be booked, Gamache returned to Three Pines, needing to pull over a couple of times to regain something close to composure.

What he’d almost done, and might have had Jean-Guy not been there, shocked the Chief Inspector. If he was going to find Fleming, he could not afford to lose his mind.

He needed help.

“Captain Moel? Hardye?”

“Armand? What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry for the early-morning call, but I need to see you.”

“Of course, let me just check my agenda—”

“Now. Can you come down to Three Pines?”

The head of counseling at the Sûreté paused for just a moment, looking at her packed schedule. “Of course. I’ll leave right away.”

Once off the phone, and still sitting on the side of the road, he called Reine-Marie.

There was no answer. He called Agent Choquet. No answer.

Trying to keep his anxiety in check, he told himself they were safe. They were far away and well out of it. They were just busy.

But he also knew that John Fleming could be anyone, anywhere. Including at the Norwich Castle Museum.

Armand tried again. No answer. He shot off a text. You okay? Call me.

Then he placed a call to Florida to speak to the former head guard of the SHU.

The number on file had been disconnected.

He then called the local sheriff. After checking, the sheriff said that the man Chief Inspector Gamache was looking for was dead. Murdered. Two years ago.

No one had been arrested for the crime.

Armand placed another call to Reine-Marie and felt his heart pound with each unanswered ring.