World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 34

Myrna was getting more and more worried. She’d texted Harriet and called. Emailed and sent a WhatsApp.

But no reply.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” said Clara. She was on the stool in front of her easel. Myrna was on the sofa, her bum on the floor and her knees up around her ears. “She’s just ignoring you. She’ll calm down eventually. Give her space.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’m going over to the B&B.” She groaned in an unsuccessful effort to get up.

Clara sighed. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

“I did,” said Myrna, finally rolling off the sofa. “I don’t agree.”

“Look, why don’t you call Gabri. Ask if Harriet’s returned. She’s staying there now, right?”

“Yes.” It was a good idea. As the phone rang, she looked at the painting Clara was working on.

It was a swirl of giddy colors. It looked like a hot mess.

After speaking to Gabri, she hung up and sighed. “She’s back. Harriet and Sam returned to the B&B a few minutes ago. They ordered an early dinner from the bistro.”

“Good,” said Clara, turning back to the canvas. “See? Safe and sound.”

Though Myrna was far from certain that was true.

Harriet stirred. And threw up. Her head felt like it had been split in two, and she tasted blood, mixed with the vomit.

She tried to move, but couldn’t. It took her fuzzy brain a moment to realize she was tied up.

That can’t be true, she thought.

Her vision was blurry, but she could see enough to know she was in the forest. Darkness was closing in again.

This can’t be happening, she thought.

Just as she lost consciousness, she saw something on the ground a short distance from her. It looked like a body. It looked like …

“Sam?”

“Got it. The information on McNee,” said Beauvoir, standing outside Gamache’s car. “He worked in northern Québec, building bridges. Married. Two daughters. Born and raised—”

“Yes, yes, I know all that. But his schooling. His training?”

Beauvoir skimmed. Then looked up. “He was a civil engineer.”

Gamache called Nathalie Provost again and this time got through.

“I just sent it off to you,” she said. “Is everything all right? You sounded stressed.”

“Just fine, better now that I have the list. Thank you.”

He hung up, then clicked on the list. And there was the confirmation.

“Conner McNee was the last person to wear the ring,” he told Beauvoir.

The full horror of what Gamache was saying struck Jean-Guy. John Fleming had kept the ring, for years. And dropped it there, like a land mine for Gamache to step on.

It was a message, a warning. He could go anywhere. Do anything. He could get deep in Gamache’s home, into his life, and Armand could not stop him. He moved, seen but unseen, through the community, through their lives, with impunity.

The engineer’s ring, a symbol of what could happen when mistakes were made, was now used to taunt Gamache with his own mistakes. And the deaths that resulted.

“We need to arrest Godin,” said Gamache, striding through the late- afternoon sun toward the old farmhouse. “Take him in for questioning. We can keep him for twenty-four hours before having to charge.”

“You think he’s Fleming?” asked Beauvoir, running to catch up.

“I don’t know, and we don’t have time to find out. We have to get him off the streets.”

But Godin wasn’t there, and neither was his car.

“Damn,” snapped Gamache. “I should have had him under surveillance.” He turned to Beauvoir. “We need to send out a province-wide alert. And get local agents out here. We need a ground search. And, Jean-Guy, get up to the lake house. Make sure they’re safe.”

“You don’t think—”

“I think Fleming has had years to plan this, and I don’t think he’ll stop at me.”

“I can send members of our own team, and I can stay with you.”

“No. Fleming has too much information. I have no idea how he’s getting it. If he bribed the head guard and the warden, it’s possible he also got to someone inside the Sûreté.”

Inside the homicide unit. Gamache was loath to think that, but he had not grasped quickly enough exactly what was happening, who was behind it, the lengths he’d gone to, and the size of the threat. So far at least two people had been murdered, perhaps more.

Now was not the time to underestimate. He needed to assume the very worst.

Matthew 10:36.

“There are members of our team we can trust, have trusted with our lives,” said Beauvoir. “I’ll call Isabelle. She’s vacationing at Mont-Tremblant. That’s close to Manitou. I’m as anxious as you to protect the family. Annie. My own children. But I also know that the best way to do that, the only way to do that, is to catch Fleming. And he’s here.”

He stood rigid, his arms taut at his side, fists in balls, staring, glaring at Gamache.

“All right,” Gamache conceded. “Call Isabelle. Then you lead the search for Godin. I’m going back to pick up the caretaker.”

As Gamache drove, he whispered, “I’m coming for you.”

Then, from inside his own head, he heard the sneered reply.

Time’s up.

Gamache went directly to the church, but there was no sign of the caretaker. Just the scraper still lying on the landing. He placed it in a tissue and put it in his pocket. Then he carefully entered the chapel, standing with his back to the door, allowing his eyes to adjust.

He could see Robert Mongeau sitting where he’d left him, his head bowed in prayer.

Taking a quick look around to see if he could spot the caretaker, Gamache walked quietly up to the minister.

“Robert?” But he didn’t move. “Robert?”

When he got close, Gamache noticed a dark patch on the side of Mongeau’s head. He slipped into the pew, just as the minister slumped. Gamache caught him and laid him down, feeling for a pulse.

He was alive, but there was a lot of blood. Mongeau’s eyes opened but seemed unfocused.

“It’s all right, Robert. It’s Armand. It’s going to be all right.” His hands moved swiftly over the minister’s body, looking for other wounds. “Everything will be fine. Stay with me.”

But Robert’s eyes had rolled to the back of his head, and his lids had closed.

Armand tore off his jacket and pressed it to the minister’s head wound, then he quickly considered. He could call an ambulance, but that would take too long.

Lifting Mongeau, he carried him out of the church, down the stairs, and to his car. Seeing this, Gabri and Olivier came running out of the bistro, and Ruth limped quickly across the green.

“Help me,” said Gamache as he struggled to gently lay the minister across the back seat.

Mongeau groaned as Gabri crawled in the other side, took his shoulders, and pulled him across.

“I’m coming with you,” said Ruth. “I know first aid.”

Gamache did not protest. As much as Gabri liked to refer to the elderly poet as the Labrador on the leg of life, she was indeed trained.

Besides, she was already in the car, cradling Robert’s head.

They watched in surprise as Gamache ran back to the church. Once inside, he quickly searched between the pews. Then behind the curtains at the altar. Then downstairs he raced.

But Claude Boisfranc was gone.

Returning to the car, he waved off their questions, then drove as fast as he could to the hospital. When they arrived at Emergency, Mongeau was wheeled in semiconscious, protesting feebly that he was all right, before throwing up and asking for Sylvie.

“You okay?” Armand asked Ruth.

Ruth was looking unwell too.

“Yes, I suppose.” She looked at the swinging doors through which the emergency staff had wheeled the minister. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I found him like that.”

“That’s why you went back to the church, to see if you could find whoever attacked him.”

“Yes.”

“But why would anyone want to hurt the minister?” She turned her rheumy blue eyes on him. “And so soon after Sylvie died. A coincidence?”

It was clear she did not believe that for a moment.

“I don’t see how.” But he had a pretty good idea who. “Can you stay here and wait to see how Robert is?”

“Where will you be?”

“I’m going downstairs to the morgue.”

“Is that your happy place?” Ruth called after him, but he was already through the door, showing his ID to the orderly who’d stepped forward to stop him.

The coroner looked up. “You didn’t have to come here, Armand. I could’ve called you. But no results yet.” Sharon Harris looked at him more closely. “Are you okay?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You have blood on you.”

He looked down and realized his shirt and slacks were stained from when he’d carried Mongeau to the car.

“Someone else’s. I brought a friend to Emergency.”

“Jesus, looks bad. Hope he’s okay.”

“Head wound. They bleed.”

Dr. Harris glanced at the deep scar by the Chief Inspector’s temple and imagined the blood from that.

“Can you tell me anything at all about Sylvie Mongeau?” Gamache stepped to the other side of the autopsy table where the woman’s body lay.

“Well”—Dr. Harris glanced down—“given the mottling and the dilation in her eyes, I’d say it looks suspicious, but we need to wait for the blood and tissue tests. After that, I would have to do a full autopsy.”

“If I got you DNA samples, can you compare them?”

“Yes, of course. It won’t be official, you’ll need forensics for that, but it will be accurate. For this woman?”

“No. One’s for a Fiona Arsenault. I’ll have those sent over from her files. Another is also on file now. A man named Godin. I’ll have that sent to you too. The other one is here.”

He brought the scraper out of his pocket.

She put on gloves and took the scraper over to her workbench. “You think they might be related, or the same person?”

“Definitely different people, but yes, they might be related.”

“This’s to do with this woman’s death?”

“I think so.” He paused, but the clock was ticking and now was not the time for discretion. Besides, he’d need the coroner’s help. “I’m looking for John Fleming.”

Dr. Harris turned to look at him. “Fleming? The serial killer?”

“Oui.”

“You do know he’s in the SHU, right?” When the Chief Inspector didn’t answer she repeated, her voice strained, “Right?”

“He’s out.”

“Out? Out? Someone let him out? Out?” Her mind was snagged on that word.

“Sharon, were you involved in the case?”

“He’s out?” Her voice was now barely making it through her constricted throat. “How the hell could that happen?”

“Were you on the case?” he repeated.

She took a couple of breaths. “I was in training, so I wasn’t the lead coroner. Never testified. But I saw…”

“Yes.”

“… what…”

“Yes.”

“… he did.”

“Oui.”

She looked at him. “You did too.”

“Oui.”

It was a small club. With a horrific entrance requirement. Armand quickly patted his pockets. The photos from the file. He’d put them in his jacket. The one he’d used to staunch Robert’s wound. It was still upstairs.

He’d have to go back up and get them before anyone else joined the club.

Gamache sent the DNA results from Fiona’s and Godin’s files to Dr. Harris, then he called Jean-Guy and told him about Mongeau.

“I can’t find the caretaker,” said Gamache.

“And I can’t find Godin. Fleming can’t be both of them. He’s fucking with us. What do you want to bet he’s killed one of them, and just wants us to waste time and effort looking for both. Who do you think is Fleming, Godin or Boisfranc?”

“Look, at this stage I think I might be Fleming.”

Beauvoir laughed. “I’ll organize another search for Boisfranc and send out an alert. Can we get Boisfranc’s DNA?”

“I have it. Dr. Harris is doing a swab now. We just need to get Fleming’s real DNA results to compare.”

“I’ve pushed the prosecutor’s office, but they just laughed when I told them Fleming might’ve escaped. I’ve sent them the warden’s confession. I’ll call the head prosecutor. Why would Fleming want to kill the minister? Why then and not when he killed Sylvie?”

“I questioned Robert this afternoon about Boisfranc. Maybe Robert decided to give Boisfranc a chance to explain. If the caretaker is Fleming, Robert would’ve inadvertently warned him.”

It was like the minister to do that. And he’d led Robert right into it.

And yet, even that didn’t ring quite true. As Beauvoir had said, why not kill both the Mongeaus? Fleming had never been squeamish about a body count.

The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss / There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

There was, Gamache knew, a reason for this. But he’d have to go deeper into the cave to find it. And the wicked secret.

“I’m going back up to Emergency. I left Ruth there.”

“Ruth? Jesus. Like those people aren’t suffering enough. I’ll continue the search for Godin. It’ll be too dark in the woods soon, and we’ll have to call it off ’til morning.”

Armand was just leaving when Dr. Harris called him over.

“I have the results, but there’s a problem. Look.”

He leaned into the microscope. As head of homicide, he’d studied innumerable DNA results and had a practiced eye. “Which is which?”

“The one on the left is Godin. The middle slide is the woman’s DNA profile. On the right is, well, the men.”

He turned his head from the slides to look at her. “Men?”

“Yes. The scraper thing was contaminated. There were two sets of DNA. Both male. Maybe yours. Maybe someone else’s. Someone else handled the scraper.”

“Damn,” he said, and went back to the microscope. “Looks like Fiona and Godin aren’t related.”

“Agreed, but I need to look more closely. There are similarities between hers and the contaminated one. But with the cross contamination, it’s impossible to tell. I will say, just my guess, that the person who handled it last is probably the relative.”

And that, Gamache knew, was the caretaker. Claude Boisfranc.

“You can at least eliminate me.”

She did a swab before he left to go back up to Emergency.

Once there, he was surprised to see Robert Mongeau sitting in a wheelchair, beside Ruth. His head was bandaged, and he was pale. Armand’s bloody jacket lay across his lap, and on top of it were the photographs, facedown.

“Robert, what are you doing? You should be in a bed.”

“What are these, Armand?” the minister asked, his voice weak and small, but determined. It was obvious what he was talking about.

Gamache held Robert’s eyes and saw something deeply troubling there.

“You looked at the pictures,” he said.

“They fell out of your jacket. I wouldn’t have looked, had I known.”

Armand’s eyes traveled over to Ruth, and his heart dropped. “You showed them to Ruth?”

“What are these? What’s it of?” Mongeau asked. “Why do you have them? What…? Why…?”

Armand reached out and gently tugged them out of the minister’s hands, picking up his jacket at the same time.

“They’re from a long time ago, Robert.” He looked at Ruth. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’ve seen worse.”

For some reason, he believed her. Though he could think of only one thing worse than those photographs, and that was the man who’d done it.

“Can you excuse me?” Without waiting for a reply, Armand walked through the swinging Emergency doors. As he did, he stuck the photographs in his slacks pocket.

“What are you—” the doctor asked, but then her eyes traveled to the blood on his shirt, then to his face. “Chief Inspector? Are you all right?”

“I am. The blood belongs to the man Mongeau you just treated.”

“Yes. Head wound.”

“It wasn’t an accident. Can you tell me what the weapon was?”

“I wasn’t sure what had caused it. I asked him, but he didn’t remember. I thought maybe he’d tripped and hit his head.” She’d walked over to her desk. “I picked these out of the wound.”

The doctor handed him a small sterile plastic bag.

Gamache took it. He was shocked and yet not surprised. It felt as though elements were both falling apart and falling into place. Their rightful place.

The bag contained tiny pieces of what looked like brick.

“You released Monsieur Mongeau?” he asked, tucking the bag into his pocket.

“Yes. There’s no skull fracture and I don’t think there’s a concussion. Looks like he turned his head at the last moment, so it became more of a glancing blow. Enough to knock him out and cause a lot of bleeding, but not enough to seriously hurt him.”

She paused and stared at the head of homicide. “Was that the intention? Did someone try to kill that man?”

“You’ll obviously keep this to yourself.”

She nodded. “I gave him a dozen stitches. He’ll need watching, and someone to change the dressing. I also gave him some antibiotics and painkillers.”

Armand returned to the waiting room. “Did you see who did this to you?”

“I’d have told you if I had,” said Robert. He looked drained.

Ruth was looking at the minister with concern.

“I’d like to go home,” he said. He was weak and wilting. “Please. Do you mind driving me?”

“You can’t go home, Robert,” said Armand, wheeling him out. “You’re coming back with me.”

“Armand?” Ruth touched his arm and motioned him to step away.

“Are you sure he’s okay,” she whispered, glancing toward the minister, who was staring into space.

“The doctors have released him. I’ll take good care of him.”

She nodded and seemed distracted by some thought.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I just … be careful, Armand. That’s all.”

He knew what she was saying. Whoever did this might try again. Almost certainly would. That alone was reason enough to bring Robert Mongeau back home with him. Where he could protect the man. And maybe, maybe, catch the assailant when he did try again.

Fiona put the tray on the table.

Grilled salmon, roasted cauliflower with orange and dill crumb, and baby potatoes for Harriet, and piri-piri chicken thighs with roast parsnips and sweet potatoes for Sam.

She’d brought it over from the bistro, putting in the order with Olivier.

“Young lovers,” she said and saw him smile.

Once in the room, she locked the door, drew the curtains, mashed up the food, and then flushed it down the toilet.

Harriet roused. Her head still felt like it had been split open, but her eyes were clearer and she felt more alert.

The forest seemed in perpetual twilight, as though the sun were afraid to drop into the woods. But one thing that was dropping was the temperature.

A chill went through her, acting as a bucket of cold water to the face. She was no longer in any doubt. She was tied to a tree, her ankles also bound.

“Sam?” she whispered. It looked like he was lying on his side, a few feet from her. Still. Too still. Raising her voice a little, not wanting to alert her captors that she was conscious, she repeated, “Sam?” But the body didn’t move. Finally she shouted. “Sam!”

Nothing.

And now she just screamed. Not his name, not anyone’s. No words. Just a shriek. Startled birds took off, and squirrels scampered away from this new beast.

Her heart pounded, her head pounded.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

After what seemed hours, she’d exhausted herself. No one answered. No one came. But they must have been looking for them. A search party? Someone would know they were missing.

Myrna sat in the bistro with Ruth and Clara.

They were silent. Ruth had told them what had happened to Robert.

“Something’s wrong,” she now said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“I’d call murder and attempted murder more than wrong,” said Clara.

“I need to find Harriet,” said Myrna. “I need to make sure she’s all right.”

“She is,” said Gabri, joining them. “Fiona came and got them some dinner. They’re eating at the B&B.”

“I guess she’s not ready to see you yet,” said Clara.

She glanced over at Ruth, who was staring into the fire.

“Well, they’re not starving,” said Gabri. “Chicken thighs for him, roasted cauliflower and grilled salmon for her.”

“That’s not right,” said Myrna. “Must be the other way around. Harriet hates fish.”

“Guess so,” said Gabri. “I must’ve heard wrong.”

“You need to eat,” said Armand.

He’d warmed up some broth and cut a slice of fresh bread for Robert, placing a slab of aged cheddar on the side of the dish. All bland, but nourishing.

Robert picked up the mug of soup, then put it down again, as though it were too heavy.

“I’d like to get some sleep if that’s all right with you, Armand.”

He helped Robert upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms, the minister leaning heavily on his arm. After getting him showered, Armand put Robert into fresh pajamas, then tucked him into bed. The meds had kicked in, and the minister had become groggy.

Armand had read the doctor’s instructions. He was to waken Robert every couple of hours, to make sure he was all right.

Armand checked the windows. Where normally he’d have opened one for fresh air, now he made sure they were closed and locked.

He then went through the rest of the house, checking and double-checking. Turning on all the lights. He was not sure if it was for strategic purposes or because he knew, from childhood, that monsters hate the light.

He suspected the latter. He also found himself singing softly as he went.

“Hooray for Captain Spaulding…”

Jean-Guy had texted. He was on his way back. While the early June sun was still just over the horizon in the village, it had gotten too dark in the forest to continue. The searches for Godin and Boisfranc would have to pick up at first light.

Once every room had been searched, every closet opened, the underside of every bed inspected, every window locked, every light turned on, Armand returned to the living room.

Reine-Marie and Amelia’s flight would be landing soon.

He wrote both to say an agent would meet them at the airport and drive them straight to the lake house in the Laurentians where the rest of the family was staying.

He then wrote separately to Agent Choquet.

Do not leave Madame Gamache. You are to guard her and the family. Confirm.

Twenty minutes later Jean-Guy returned. They did not eat dinner. Neither was especially hungry, but there was another reason. Both knew if there were injuries, if surgery was needed, it was best to have an empty stomach.

Messages came through twenty minutes later, from both Reine-Marie and Amelia. They were on their way to the cabin.

Armand’s shoulders dropped a little. One less worry.

He and Jean-Guy spent the early evening going over and over the evidence. They discussed, but mostly they waited.

For Fleming.

And then, at almost nine p.m., there was a knock on the door.