World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 37

The worst had happened. Harriet was being eaten alive. Not by animals but from the inside out.

Fear, her lifelong companion, had finally consumed her.

Her body still functioned as she raced wildly through the woods, but she’d lost her mind. She’d become the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion, all rolled into one.

And now even her body was giving up. Soon she’d stop running, stop walking, stop crawling, and just lie still. Waiting for death.

She did not have to wait long. A moment later, Harriet Landers ran right into it.

She fell to the forest floor and stared up.

Death hung suspended above her, arms out, wrists bound. The man’s feet slowly swinging like some gigantic clock pendulum signifying that time was up.

From deep inside Harriet Landers came every shriek she’d ever swallowed. All the fear, the frustrations, the anger and buried resentments. The wounds, the pain, the losses and humiliations. The times she’d been ignored, marginalized, diminished. Judged and found wanting. The parties not invited to, the boys who’d mocked her. The girls who’d left her out.

All her insecurities, loneliness, hurts, and rage from birth to this, her last moment, came rushing out.

Amelia Choquet had parked the car so as not to alert anyone of her presence and was creeping carefully along the dirt road when she heard a scream. It was deep in the woods. She’d never heard anything like it and couldn’t figure out if it was human or not.

But she couldn’t take the chance.

Checking the compass on her phone so she could get back and putting on the flashlight, Amelia ran into the forest.

Harriet stopped screaming. She had none left. She had nothing left.

Harriet Landers was finally gone. The last sound that came out was a whimper.

A pathetic little moan as she lay in the fetal position on the forest floor.

In that moment she heard herself. She saw herself. Reduced to a tiny, filthy, weeping and sniveling mass. The world, her world, really would end with a whimper.

Numb. Silent. Paralyzed. Hollow.

As she’d lived, Harriet would die.

Though in that void, something stirred.

A small fuck-it. Then a fuckitfuckitfuckit. Louder and louder. Fuck it.

She got shakily to her feet. If death was coming for her, as it came for this man, she would not die sniveling on the ground.

She heard a sound. Something plunging through the forest toward her. The creature had finally found her. Harriet’s newfound courage withered.

She fell to her knees, and as she did, she felt beneath her torn palms a thick branch. Clasping it, she stood back up and turned to face it.

Fuck it.

The light in her hand swung wildly as Amelia ran, so that she only caught glimpses of something horrific up ahead. A nightmare image of a body suspended between trees, as though crucified.

All her instincts told her to stop, or at least slow down. But she kept running toward the creature.

Something equally horrible was standing in front of it. Holding a weapon. A rifle.

Now Amelia did slow down and brought out her gun.

“Drop it!”

The creature, who looked like a part of the deep forest come alive, raised the weapon further. It was not, as Amelia had first thought, a rifle. It was a tree branch.

She walked forward slowly, gun still out and pointed.

“Drop it,” she said, in French and then in English. “I’m with the Sûreté du Québec. Drop your weapon.”

And Harriet did.

Amelia recognized her now. “You’re Harriet Landers.”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

Harriet didn’t know how to answer. She was hurt and bleeding. But …

“Oui.” Yes, she was okay.

“Who did this to you? To him?”

“I don’t know.”

Amelia shone the light on the body. It was eviscerated. Gutted. Amelia grimaced, then she lifted the light to the man’s face.

It was the caretaker, Claude Boisfranc.

Her tongue stud clicked out, Fuck me, while her mind worked fast. She had to get a message to Gamache. He thought that the caretaker was Fleming. The coroner had told them that. But clearly that was wrong. It was Godin, and he was still out there.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered.

Finding the phone icon, she went to hit it, but her hands were trembling so badly she dropped the phone into the dead leaves. Falling to her knees, she scooped it up and, taking a deep breath, she steadied herself.

“You’ve seen worse, you’ve seen worse, you’ve seen worse,” she muttered to herself. Harriet wondered if that could possibly be true. It was also a strange, though oddly comforting, mantra. One she knew she could use for the rest of her life.

Nothing could ever be worse than this.

Though she was wrong.

Amelia hit the icon for the Chief Inspector’s number.

Nothing. Nothing.

“Fuck.” No signal. They were too deep into the woods.

She composed a text and hit send in the hopes that as soon as even a weak signal appeared, it would go.

“Come on,” she said, checking her compass. “We have to get out of here.”

“You think?” said Harriet, clutching the club and racing after her.

Armand stood in front of The Paston Treasure.

John Fleming was everywhere in this painting, a world not of curiosities but of grotesque bits and pieces of a madman’s mind.

Here were the carved faces of John Fleming’s seven victims. The Beast of Babylon.

Here was the reference to the Québec Bridge, the tragedy that formed and informed the engineer’s ring.

Here was the sheet music. “By the Waters of Babylon.” The song John Fleming used to hum.

And there was more. Things he hadn’t noted before. The small unicorn stickers, like Fiona had had as a child. Like those used in the terrible ledger. There was the model. Like the ones he’d mistakenly thought were Sam’s, but again were Fiona’s.

Were they put there not just to point him to Fiona, but to taunt him with earlier mistakes?

The clocks worried him. They were all set to the same time.

Eleven thirty. And the clock sent to the Mongeau home the day Sylvie died, and left at the Old Train Station by Boisfranc. It was also set to half past eleven.

He looked at his watch. It was ten past eleven.

Then his eyes went back to the painting. And the face, bright, almost illuminated, of the little girl. She looked familiar, but Armand didn’t know if it was just because he’d been staring at the painting for three days now.

Then he had it. He stepped back, as though shoved. The face was Reine-Marie, as a child. From the photograph taken at her first communion. She never looked at it, but he did, sometimes. Marveling at the resemblance between his wife and their granddaughters.

Then, like a building collapsing, everything fell. But instead of falling apart, it fell into place.

Les Puces. Lac Manitou. Mountweazel. The DNA. Sylvie. The God-fearing man. The Fallen Angel. The book. The blood, so much blood. The timing. Three years. The time.

Eleven thirty.

“Ohhh, no,” he whispered.

He dashed off a three-word text to his entire team. Just as he hit send, he heard the Incident Room door open. And a hum. A hymn.

“Armand?”

He turned so quickly he almost fell over the corner of his desk. Standing a few feet into the Old Train Station was Reine-Marie.

And behind her someone, something, else. Something dreadful had just walked in.

John Fleming. But not Boisfranc. And not Godin. Though Armand already knew who it would be.

It was Robert Mongeau. The minister.

Fleming’s eyes, unshielded now by contacts, were unmistakable. The manic energy, the hatred, filled the space, threatening to blow out the windows, the walls, the roof.

But all Armand really saw was the knife at Reine-Marie’s throat.

For a terrible moment Armand thought he might pass out. His heart had suddenly gone into overdrive, his head swam. His eyes blurred.

He steadied himself against the desk, then moved forward, but Fleming tightened his grip on her, and Armand stopped. Never taking his eyes off Reine-Marie’s.

He whispered her name.

She didn’t reply, couldn’t for the blade at her throat. He could barely breathe, barely think. For the blade at her throat.

Calm, calm, calm, calm. He repeated it to himself. The word hardly registered above the shriek filling his head.

He needed to stay calm. There was a way out of this. There must be. If Jean-Guy got his text …

Reine-Marie’s eyes were wide with panic. And apology.

“Ahhh,” said Fleming, watching Gamache. “Now that’s the look I’ve spent years and years dreaming about, Armand. Have to say, it’s even better than I imagined. Your terror, tinged with nausea. The dawning horror. You’re not going to pass out, are you?”

“Let her go,” Armand rasped.

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” But Fleming gripped Reine-Marie tighter. She gave a small gasp.

Armand reached out. “No.”

“No.” Fleming loosened his grip again. “Not yet. Hands where I can see them, Armand.”

“I’m sorry,” Reine-Marie whispered.

Armand held her eyes. “No, no. Not your fault. It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.”

“Your idea of all right must be different from mine,” said Fleming. “You do know it’s your fault she’s here. She came back because you wrote to say you missed her. As I knew you would. As I knew she would. So easily manipulated. Don’t blame yourself, Armand. Actually, blame yourself a little.”

Armand felt himself being dragged into the cave. Deep into Fleming’s mind. If that happened, they were well and truly lost. He had to close his mind to what Fleming was saying.

Jean-Guy was armed. He must have gotten the message by now. But Mongeau had gotten past him. How? Though he suspected. Jean-Guy had gone in, on Gamache’s request, to check on the minister. And Mongeau had surprised him.

“Jean-Guy?” he asked.

“You’ll see soon enough. Of course, had you recognized me earlier, none of this would’ve happened. That was part of the fun. To give you enough hints, a sporting chance to get out of it. To save yourself and everyone you love and care about.”

Fleming tilted his head and stared at Gamache.

“You’re wondering how you didn’t recognize me earlier.”

He was wrong, of course. Armand was well beyond caring about that. His mind was solely occupied with how to get out of this.

There was a way. There had to be. Think. Think. That’s right, keep talking, you lunatic. Give me time to think.

“I’ll tell you, Armand. It wasn’t just the weight gain, the lifts in the shoes, the beard, and slight hair dye that fooled you. It wasn’t even the contact lenses.”

All Armand heard was blah, blah, blah as his mind worked out logistics. Distance to Fleming. Chance of distraction. Would a loud sound do it? What if he fell? Faked a heart attack?

With lightning speed Gamache grabbed at options, examined them, then tossed them aside, while Fleming showed off his brilliance.

Blah, blah, blah.

But then Fleming said something that penetrated Armand’s thoughts.

“You didn’t recognize me because all you really saw when you looked at Robert Mongeau was the fact he loved his dying wife. It never occurred to you that John Fleming could love that deeply.”

With horror, Armand knew he was right. He’d been blinded by the love Mongeau felt for Sylvie. And out of that blind spot came this monster.

“I did love Sylvie. With all my heart.”

“But you killed her.”

Fleming sneered. “Well, you love your wife, and you’ve killed her.” Now he smiled, seeing the effect that had on Gamache. “Go now to your dwelling place to enter into the days of your togetherness.”

With a jolt Armand recognized the quote from the prayer they’d had at their wedding. “And may your days be good and long upon this earth.” Fleming smiled. “Amen. We’re going to go now to your dwelling place, though I can’t vouch for the rest of the prayer.”

But Fleming didn’t move. Instead, he looked at the painting. His mercurial mood now changed to whimsical.

“That was my companion in the SHU for months and months. Painting.” He laughed and shook his head. “It was therapy. It did help, but not in the way they’d hoped. When Sylvie showed me photos of The Paston Treasure from the exhibition, I immediately saw the potential. It came to me fully formed. An act of God, a gift from God. I could create my own World of Curiosities. Put in all sorts of items you alone would recognize. So with the help of that greedy, stupid warden, I had them bring in art therapy, and use The Paston Treasure as one of the exercises. I already knew how to escape, the head guard and warden were so deeply compromised they’d do anything to avoid exposure. But I needed to know what to do once out. And so I stayed in that hellhole. For you. And painted. And waited. And thought of you, all day, all night. For years. Time and patience. Whoever said they were the strongest of warriors was right. You gave me both, dear man. I might’ve died in prison, but you gave me purpose. You made me strong.”

He actually bowed. Armand leaned forward, about to leap, but Fleming raised his head, raised his eyes. Met Armand’s eyes.

Armand stopped cold. Fleming was trying to provoke him. He wanted him to try it.

Not yet, thought Armand. There’d be time. Time and patience.

Once again, as though reading Gamache’s mind, Fleming glanced at the large clock on the wall.

“I wonder if you’ve figured out the significance of the time. Put your phone and gun on the desk, please.”

Armand took out his phone and glanced at it. No replies yet to his text.

“I’m not armed.”

“Bullshit. Gun on the desk.” Fleming’s manner went from hyper-courteous to enraged in an instant.

Armand put his arms out wide. “Really. I never wear one.”

“Turn your pockets out.” Armand did. “Take off your shoes.” Armand did. “Roll up your pant legs.” Armand did. Then stood up straight.

Fleming glared at him. “I thought you were many things, Armand, but never a coward. What kind of cop doesn’t carry a gun? What kind of cop expects others to protect him? Just one more mistake in a litany of them.”

Fleming shook his head, while Armand thanked God he wasn’t armed.

“Come along, little coward. Back to your home. The walk’ll do you good. It’ll give you a chance to clear your head and come up with a plan. Think, think, think. I’m sure there’s a way out of this. I’ve had years to plan, you have about fifteen minutes. Better think fast.”

They walked slowly through the cool evening, over the Bella Bella, past the three huge pine trees. There was still a light on at the B&B, but the bistro was in darkness, as were the other buildings. Though a weak light shone through the ragged curtains in Ruth’s home.

All the way, Armand’s mind was working.

Think. Think. Think.

If all Fleming had was a knife, there was a chance. Armand knew most people who held weapons on others at close quarters eventually lost concentration. A moment was all he needed. That and a sliver of daylight between the blade and Reine-Marie.

At their front door, he paused.

“Open it, Armand.”

Even before stepping inside, he heard the dogs barking from behind the study door.

Then he saw Sam standing over Jean-Guy, who was slumped against the wall. His hands and legs bound up in Christmas tinsel. Blood streamed down his face, and a brick lay on the floor. But he was alive.

Sam was holding a gun. Beauvoir’s Glock.

“Jean-Guy,” said Reine-Marie, and tried to move forward, but Fleming held her fast. Sam cocked the gun and placed it to Beauvoir’s head.

Armand stared at Jean-Guy, who stared back. His eyes were bleary as he tried to focus.

“Désolé,” Jean-Guy whispered.

“Welcome home.”

Armand turned to the voice. Fiona was standing by the fireplace, holding the framed picture that had hung on the wall. It was done by his granddaughter, Florence, during the pandemic.

The little girl had drawn a cheerful rainbow and beneath it the words Ça va bien aller.

All will be well.

“You know my daughter,” said Fleming. “I want to thank you for looking after her. Making sure she was safe in prison. Getting the École Polytechnique to admit her into distance learning. People are kind. And then you vouched for her and got her released on parole. I am grateful.”

Fleming’s eyes flickered to the clock on the mantelpiece. As did Armand’s.

It was 11:21.

“And while Sam isn’t my biological son, he is family in every way that matters. I recognized that early on. I think you did too.” Fleming looked around. “I’ve always liked this room. Cheerful, welcoming. Filled with your treasures. A microcosm of a life fully lived, as the historians would say. Books. Family photographs. Art. That’s a Morrow, isn’t it? Some of this stuff no doubt picked up in galleries and flea markets on your travels together. Les Puces? You didn’t pick up on that, did you?” He nodded toward the framed drawing that Fiona held. “Done by one of your grandchildren, I imagine. I’ll be meeting them soon.”

“Don’t you—” began Reine-Marie.

Beauvoir shouted an expletive and struggled against his bonds. Sam placed his boot on Jean-Guy’s chest and pushed him roughly back against the wall.

“Ahhh, careful now,” Fleming whispered into Reine-Marie’s ear. His breath hot. Moist. “Best to learn from your husband. If you do nothing, there’s a possibility I’ll lose focus and then you’ll have your chance. That is what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Armand. What you’re waiting for?”

Armand was silent and Fleming sighed.

“I’ve planned meticulously. No piece out of place. Nothing extraneous. A purpose for everything. It took me years, but finally I knew I could predict your every move. Suspecting poor Monsieur Godin. He had to go, of course. Hiring poor Boisfranc. He was so grateful. Even the attack on Mongeau in the church. Sam did it, of course. A glancing blow, but enough to draw a lot of blood. I knew there was no way you’d let me go home alone. Not after that. I knew you’d have to invite me here. Into your home. Kindness kills. Remember that.”

Gamache felt physically sick. If it really was that well planned, then …

“Sylvie was Mountweazel, wasn’t she?” he finally said.

He’d at first thought their only real chance was to engage Fleming long enough for the Sûreté to arrive. Now he knew he didn’t have to. And he saw a tiny glimmer of hope.

The very thing that brought them to this could help them get out of it.

John Fleming was not only a planner, he was an overplanner. The details he was so proud of had allowed him to escape from the SHU, had brought them here, to this moment, but they also imprisoned him. He would not deviate from his plan.

Armand knew that John Fleming could have already killed them many times over. That much was obvious. But what was also now obvious was that he was waiting for the perfect time.

The right time. Eleven thirty.

Armand shifted his eyes to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, by where Fiona was standing. Her hand was resting on Florence’s drawing as though she enjoyed sullying one of their treasures.

Eleven twenty-two.

Eight minutes.

Think, think. Think.

Fleming’s eyes followed Armand’s. Then returned.

“All will not be well, of course.” It took Armand a fraction of a second to figure out what he was talking about. Fleming thought he was looking at Florence’s drawing. Not the clock.

Fleming didn’t realize Gamache knew the significance of the time.

“For you or, sadly, little Florence,” said Fleming. “Or Zora. Or Honoré, or even Idola.”

Jean-Guy shrieked, struggling, flailing against his restraints. “Fuck you. Fuck you!” he screamed. “I’ll kill you!!”

Fleming was smiling. Clearly fed and made plump by rage and terror.

“You didn’t think I’d stop with you? I’d hoped they’d all be here, but you were smart enough, Armand, to send everyone to the lake house. Lac Manitou. You didn’t pick up on that either, did you? In our conversation in the chapel I mentioned Lac Manitou. And even intimated I knew that Reine-Marie was in London. You’d sent out word that she was in Gaspé with a sister, so how could I possibly know she was in England? I wondered if I’d gone too far. But you didn’t notice. You were blinded by my grief, my sorrow at losing Sylvie. And so you missed the very clues that could have saved your wife. Your whole family. You were too slow.”

Armand was silent. Thinking. Thinking.

“If you loved her, why did you kill her?” asked Reine-Marie.

“I bet you can guess.” When Reine-Marie was silent, he turned to Armand. Who also remained quiet. “Guess!” Fleming shrieked.

The dogs set up more barking, throwing themselves against the study door.

Fleming’s restraints were weakening, Gamache could see. The outbursts coming more frequently, with greater and greater force.

Whether this was in their favor or not, he didn’t know.

“Release Reine-Marie, let her come over here, and I’ll tell you.”

Fleming grinned. “Really? That’s your idea of bargaining? Telling me something I already know in exchange for a hostage?” He looked at Reine-Marie. “Did you know you married not just a coward but an idiot? I’ll tell you what, Armand. I won’t slit her throat right now if you tell me. But make sure you’re right. If you’re wrong…”

Armand stared at him for a moment. His mind working fast. “You killed her because she’d invited Myrna over for tea.”

He’d considered this before, but with all that had happened in the meantime, he had to recall the details. The theory.

“Sylvie made it sound like it was for the book, but you knew you weren’t even halfway through the one you were reading together, so why would Sylvie ask for another? You were afraid it was about something else. You were afraid of what Sylvie was going to say to Myrna. A therapist.” As he said that he could see that it was wrong. Regroup. Regroup. “But more than that, she’s Harriet’s aunt. You were afraid that Sylvie, so close to death, might be trying to make amends. It wouldn’t be much, could not right the balance of what you and she have done, but it might save at least one life. She would warn Myrna about Sam.”

He looked over at the young man, smirking.

“Did you kill her?” Armand asked. “Harriet.”

“What do you think?”

Reine-Marie groaned, and took several quick, shallow breaths.

“You were afraid that, doped up on painkillers, she’d even confess who you really are,” Armand continued. “And so you killed her.”

Fleming’s face had grown hard, his grip on the knife had tightened. Armand had to do something. Say something.

“But finally, you did it out of love and kindness. As you say, kindness kills.”

Sam, Fiona, Jean-Guy, Reine-Marie, and even Fleming all looked at him, astonished.

“Sylvie was facing a long, painful death.” Armand glanced at Jean-Guy, then continued. “It wasn’t murder, it was a mercy killing.”

“It wasn’t a mercy killing,” Jean-Guy shouted. “It wasn’t love. It was the cold-blooded act of a lunatic.”

Sam made a move, but Fleming stopped him. Recognizing what Jean-Guy was trying to do. Perhaps even seeing the collusion between the two Sûreté officers.

Beauvoir was trying to provoke one of them into hitting him. And that would be the distraction, the moment Armand needed.

The focus would shift, and in that split second he would make his move.

Armand had worked it out. Everything that would happen.

Fleming would be, for just a moment, distracted by the attack on Jean-Guy. Allowing Armand to rush forward, grabbing Fleming’s hand and yanking the knife away from Reine-Marie’s throat.

Run! Run! he’d shout.

By then Sam would have turned the gun on him.

Fleming was older. Smaller. If he could just reach him, Armand was confident he could easily overpower the man and use him as a shield. Sam would shoot, but the bullet would hit Fleming. Armand would push the body forward, onto Sam. That would give him the seconds he’d need to tackle the younger man.

Sam was fitter, younger, stronger. But Armand had the great advantage of experience. And desperation. He would subdue Sam.

But none of that happened.