World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 6

The kitchen was spotless. Or almost. There were some marks on the otherwise gleaming stove top where the enamel had been chipped away. There were burns on the counters and linoleum floor, made from smoldering cigarettes and joints.

Gamache put on the kettle, then pulled out his phone and checked. Yes, it had been Inspector Chernin.

Calling her back, he got the news that both search warrants had come through.

“Good. There’s no working vehicle here. Any sign of one by the lake? Hidden in the forest?”

“We’ll look, but no, nothing so far. She got to the lake somehow. We’ll go over the hikers’ car.”

Though both investigators knew few would be stupid enough to report a murder and still be in possession of the victim’s vehicle. Still, some people were just that stupid.

“When you drop them off at the station, find out if Captain Dagenais has arranged for a family friend to come be with the children. If not, then send Agent Moel.” She was trained in grief counseling and had worked with children in the past. “In fact, send her anyway.”

“Oui, patron.”

He hung up and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket.

“I did it.”

Armand turned at the sound of the voice. Fiona was standing in the doorway.

“Pardon?”

“Cleaned. Sam helped. We wanted it clean and tidy for when she came home.”

Armand nodded. He understood, though it was actually the opposite of his reaction when at the age of nine his own parents had been killed by a drunk driver.

He’d grown hysterical whenever anyone tried to move anything. Change anything. Even cook. Or do the laundry. He refused to change out of the flannel pajamas his mother had put him in before she left. Before.

There was always, even now, a before and an after. As there would be for these children.

After days of this, Armand’s grandmother had had to sit him down and explain that his mother and father were not in the objects. They were not in the dust that was accumulating. They were not even in the home.

It was more permanent, far stronger than that.

“They’re here.” Zora touched his head. “And here.” She touched his heart. Then laid her thin hand over her own heart. “A house can change. Things can get lost or broken. But the love you keep inside you is safe, forever. They’re safe, inside you.”

He understood. But still, young Armand needed something more tangible. As long as everything stayed exactly as it was when they’d left for dinner that night, then maybe, maybe nothing else would change.

Maybe they’d come home. It was his job to keep it just the way it was. In case. But if something, anything, changed, then the spell would be broken. And it would be his fault.

It wasn’t so much irrational as magical. And powerful. Only his trust in his grandmother allowed him to loosen his grip. But it took time.

Yes, he understood Clotilde’s children and their need for some control over a situation fast spinning way out of control.

They’d had to do something to survive the long, interminable, cruel hours of waiting. To take their minds off, however briefly, what was becoming inescapable.

And so they’d scrubbed the place clean. For when their mother returned.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding her gaze. “If you want to talk about what’s happened, I’m here. I’ll give you my number.” He took a card out of his jacket pocket. “I promise we’ll find out who did this. But I’m afraid, Fiona, I’m going to need your help. We have questions that need answering.”

She nodded in her solemn way.

He’d just turned back to warm up the teapot when he felt a hand on his hand. He leapt away and stared at her.

The touch had been soft, gentle. Intimate.

Armand broke the eye contact and looked toward the stage and the gathering graduates.

He was determined not to sully the day. A day, an event, he and Reine-Marie had worked toward for years. And that had, years earlier, seemed impossible.

As a sort of palate cleanser, Armand did what he always did. He looked at Reine-Marie. She too had seen him, though Sam Arsenault had less of an effect on her. In fact, she didn’t really understand Armand’s aversion to the pleasant young man.

She took his hand and squeezed.

Armand could not explain it to Reine-Marie or anyone else. He’d looked into the faces of some of the worst humans possible. Truly vile, truly terrifying people. But it was this boy, this young man, who had somehow found the cracks, and a way into Gamache’s head. And messed around in there. Only one other person had managed to do that, and he was in prison for life.

Armand tried to remember when it had begun. When he’d first had an inkling.

“What’re you doing?” he said, staring at Fiona.

“You’ve been so kind,” she said, her voice soft. Inviting. “And you look so sad. I just wanted, just want, to comfort you.”

It was grotesque. And clearly the expression on his face told Fiona she’d misjudged. But still, she came forward, even as Gamache backed up.

“Stop,” he said. His voice held so much authority that she did. Staring at him, perplexed. She was not used to this reaction.

“You’re safe now, Fiona,” he said, keeping his distance and looking into her eyes. This girl had been raised, groomed, to replace feeling with touching. To confuse caring with caressing. And more.

“I’m not here for that. You don’t need to do that anymore.”

“Do what?” she asked, her schoolgirl persona now fully in place. Her head at a coquettish angle. Her voice innocent. And yet dripping with sexuality.

He tried not to show his revulsion.

He knew, of course, what this was about. Had suspected since he’d seen the studio photo in Clotilde’s wallet. Of the teen made up to look like a little schoolgirl, and the boy with seductive eyes. The photo was in the space where Clotilde’s money was kept.

These children were currency. Investments. As was the studio photo. Not a school picture, like most parents kept, like he and Reine-Marie had in their wallets. This was an advertisement.

He’d hoped, as he’d stood beside that lake, beside the corpse, that maybe he was wrong and his time among the worst of humanity had twisted his perceptions.

But he knew in his heart, a heart that ached now as he looked at the confused girl, that he was not wrong. What Fiona just did, an unmistakable, intentionally clumsy, practiced invitation, confirmed it. She was offering herself to him. As her mother had taught her.

Had Clotilde Arsenault walked through the door at that moment, Armand Gamache was far from sure he’d have been able to control himself.

But she was gone and had left behind a deeply damaged daughter. And a son no doubt equally, if not more, broken.

In the living room, Jean-Guy continued to stare at Sam’s back.

The boy turned around once, but thankfully not to look at the uncomfortable Sûreté officer. Sam had glanced at his sister. It was fleeting. A look Jean-Guy could not decode. She got up and left. Following the Chief Inspector to the kitchen.

It was a relief.

Now he only had the boy to deal with, and Sam seemed completely absorbed in the game show. Though Jean-Guy was not quite so thick as to believe that.

Just as he was beginning to relax—to believe maybe he could handle this, at least until the Chief came back with the tea, tea? tea??—Sam moved.

Picking up the remote, he lowered the sound to a normal level. Then the boy’s head dropped until his chin touched his chest and hair flopped over his eyes.

Beauvoir watched as Sam’s thin shoulders rounded. Then lifted. And fell. Lifted. Fell.

“Sam?” said Jean-Guy, quietly.

The boy turned around and Jean-Guy saw a child. Not a chore.

Sam’s face had crumbled. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Had been, Jean-Guy could now see, for a while.

Sam looked at Jean-Guy. Jean-Guy looked at the boy.

Then he opened his arms and Sam rushed into them. Clinging to Beauvoir. Sobbing. His breath coming in heaves and shudders as Jean-Guy rubbed his back and whispered, “Ça va bien aller. It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.”

It wasn’t.

Gamache returned to the living room with Fiona. He realized that while he needed to protect these children, he also needed to protect himself. The girl could easily accuse him of coming on to her. And worse. Even if easily disproved, the accusation alone would be enough.

He could not give her that opportunity. She was so clearly unbalanced. And who wouldn’t be?

As he entered the room, he saw the boy in Beauvoir’s arms and stopped dead. Could…?

“Agent Beauvoir.” But even as he spoke, he knew there was nothing sexual about this embrace, at least not on Beauvoir’s part. It was clear he was just trying to comfort the sobbing child.

Beauvoir looked over, then released Sam, whispering again, “It’ll be okay, buddy. Right?”

“Oui,” sniffed the child.

As he pulled away, Sam looked at his sister, a questioning glance. Then at Gamache. And smiled. Just for an instant. But it was enough to freeze the head of homicide for the Sûreté in place.

Headlights appeared, and a few moments later Agent Hardye Moel came through the door.

Gamache took her aside. “We’re going to need the provincial guardian. Someone needs to take charge of these children. We’re trying to track down family, even close friends, but so far nothing.”

“I’ll put in a call,” she said, and took out her phone.

“And Hardye, there’re signs these children have been abused.”

“Physically?”

“And sexually.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” She exhaled and shook her head.

“I need to question them.”

She stared at him for just a moment, then nodded. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

And she was, saying quietly to Gamache, “Someone will be sent, but probably not until the morning. I can stay with them until then.”

“Merci,” he said.

Agent Moel introduced herself and took a seat beside Fiona, who moved a few inches away, while Sam remained stuck to Agent Beauvoir’s side.

“Do you mind answering some questions now?” the Chief Inspector asked, looking from Sam to Fiona.

Sam shrugged and Fiona nodded.

He started off with some simple questions. How long had they lived there? What school did they go to? What grades were they in? Questions with clear, definite answers. Ones without, he hoped, an emotional resonance.

Then he moved to the next level.

“Is your father part of your lives?”

The brief report on Clotilde did not list a husband or partner, or father to the children.

“No,” said Fiona. “Mom never talked about him.”

“And we never asked,” said Sam. “We don’t want to go live with him, if that’s what you’re getting at. You can’t pawn us off on him.”

“No, that wasn’t what I was thinking.”

In fact, the thought that had come to Armand in the kitchen was what the children’s father would have done if he found out what Clotilde had done to the children.

Would he have lost his mind? Lost his head? Would he have found his hand closing around a brick? Had he lashed out, killing her?

But if that was the case, the father would have to be someone visiting from elsewhere, not a local man. Someone for whom this situation would be news. Someone the children might not have even met.

Gamache’s mind went to the hikers. A man and woman. About the right ages.

“Did your mother have any visitors just before she disappeared?”

“No,” said Fiona. “No one visited.”

Gamache leaned forward. “That isn’t true, is it? You can tell me. You need to tell me. We’ll find out eventually.”

“Just the usual,” mumbled Fiona.

“Do you know their names?” He kept his voice neutral, matter-of-fact.

Fiona shook her head. “Just nicknames. Mr. Smells Like Shit. Mr. Fat-ass. Mr. Garbage Breath.”

Gamache suspected there were other, less juvenile, names they called these men. He certainly had some himself.

Beauvoir listened to this, perplexed. It seemed the Chief Inspector knew something he did not. He looked over at Sam, whose expressive face had gone blank. Jean-Guy had never seen a face so devoid of thought or human emotion. It was like the boy had turned into a waxwork.

“Did your mother have a special friend?” Gamache asked.

“Is that supposed to be code?” Fiona demanded.

“Just a question. But an important one.”

“No. No one special,” said Sam, his voice as flat as his expression. “You’ll never find out who did this, will you.”

“Why do you say that?” Gamache asked.

“I just know. We know cops. They don’t care.”

“I do. Agent Beauvoir here does. Agent Moel does.”

“Right.” Sam turned away and stared at the blank television screen.

Gamache did too. “That’s a nice television. Is it new?”

“We’ve had it for a while,” said Fiona.

“When was the last time you saw your mother?” he asked, returning his attention to the girl.

“That morning, when we went to school. She was in bed.”

He had to ask. “Alone?”

“Yes, alone.”

He wasn’t convinced. But there was time to get at that truth. The autopsy and DNA samples would help.

“Did she take the car when she left?” he asked.

“Well, it’s not there, is it?” said Sam. “What do you think?”

Just then Inspector Chernin arrived with the warrant.

“We’re going to have to search your home,” Gamache told the children. “We’ll be as quick as we can and return everything to the way it was.”

Agent Moel said to Fiona, “Is that all right?”

Beauvoir wondered what would happen if Fiona said no. But she didn’t. She just nodded.

Agent Moel looked at Gamache. “We’ll be fine. I’ll make more tea.”

Again with the tea, thought Beauvoir. Was there something about that drink he’d missed? Unless it was brewed from marijuana, he doubted it would do what Agent Moel hoped.

Inspector Chernin coordinated the search, assigning Beauvoir to join the officers outside and leaving Agent Moel with the kids.

Gamache pulled Chernin and Pierre Gendron, the IT specialist, aside, and told them what Clotilde had been doing.

“Oh, shit,” said Chernin, and shook her head. “What mother, what monster, does that?”

There was no answer to that question, so they focused on the ones they could answer. “I’ll check her computer and phone,” said Gendron. He headed off to find them.

“The hikers now admit they’re members of the environmental group Assez,” said Chernin. “They came to investigate the old-growth forest. Apparently logging rights at the lake have been sold and a protest is planned. They’re the advance team.”

“Why not tell us that to begin with?”

“Well, they’re more than a little paranoid, given that their group isn’t often welcomed with open arms by the locals. What they’re planning is probably illegal. There were reports in the local paper that they’d be in the area, though they say they just arrived this morning.”

“You believe them?”

“Reserving judgment, patron. But that’s their story. By the way, their vehicle is clean, and yes, it belongs to the man.”

Gamache found it interesting that it was known around town that someone from the radical environmental group would be at the lake.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir was still in the living room. He found he was reluctant now to leave the boy, who clung to his hand.

“It’ll be okay, Sam.” He knelt at eye level and held the boy’s bony shoulders. “Do you trust me?”

Sam held his eyes. Held. Held. Then nodded and whispered through hiccups and caught breath, “Oui.”

“Bon,” said Jean-Guy. He found a Kleenex and wiped Sam’s face, then got him to blow his nose, as though he were four years old and not ten. “When I get back, we’ll talk. Okay?”

He looked down at the slimy tissue, then at Sam, and made an exaggerated grimace.

Sam gave a grunt of laughter.

It took less time than Chief Inspector Gamache expected.

The old desktop computer was on a crate in Clotilde’s bedroom, her passwords “hidden” in one of her dresser drawers in a jumble of underwear.

The keyboard yielded no prints. Any that had been there were wiped.

Gamache stood behind his agent. It took slightly over a minute to find what Gamache had known, from the moment he’d looked at the photograph in Clotilde’s wallet, would be there.

But still, it was a shock. Was always a shock when he and his agents came face-to-face with how truly abhorrent some people were.

He tasted bile and felt a burning in the stomach, and wanted to turn away. Seeing the images felt itself like a violation.

Gendron went from file to saved file. Clicking. Resting just long enough to know what was happening on the videos. Then moving on to the next, and the next. And …

Gamache’s jaw tightened, and he took a ragged breath. He leaned forward and hit pause. He couldn’t take any more.

“That’s enough. Get a copy of everything. And I want names. I want to know who these…” He gestured to the screen, trying to find the word. But no appropriate one existed. “… are.”

Gamache forced himself to stare at the picture frozen on the screen. Then he looked toward the living room. His heart pounded. He was overcome with the need to act. To do something, to burn off this surge of rage. He felt, for a moment, unable to breathe. As though he’d fallen into a cesspool and was drowning.

Who did this to children? To their own children?

He forced himself to stay calm. He needed to keep his eye on the long view. If he was going to help Fiona and Sam, he had to shove his own feelings, his revulsion, down. When he’d made sure the children were safe and would get the help they needed, then he’d go after each and every one of these … these … creatures.

He was about to leave when he turned to the unfortunate Agent Gendron. “Someone was here after Clotilde disappeared and before we arrived. Otherwise, we’d have found her prints on the keys. If that person wasn’t here to erase that”—he gestured toward the image on the screen—“then why?”

“I’ll find out,” said Gendron.

“Merci.” He held the agent’s eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, Pierre.”

He’d have to get this man counseling. And time off, after this. Of all the caves they had to enter, this one was the darkest.

He turned to another agent in the room. “Find out, please, where in the house those videos were shot.”

“Oui, patron.”

“Still no sign of her car?” he asked Chernin when he found her.

“We’re looking. If it was used to move her body, then the killer must’ve ditched it.”

“And walked back?” said Gamache, more to himself than anyone there. This crime had all the markings of a two-person job.

“The videos could’ve been shot somewhere else,” said Chernin.

“Maybe, but I doubt it. These things are kept close to home. Is there a basement?”

“Not that we’ve found. The garage is too full of junk. They weren’t shot there.”

Gamache needed some fresh air, needed to try to clear his mind and slow his heart before going back into the living room to face those children. Knowing what had happened to them was one thing, seeing it was something else.

The air outside was bracing. He took several deep breaths and pulled his coat tighter around him. Flashlights were bobbing as officers searched the backyard. Calling one of the lights over, he saw it was Agent Beauvoir.

“What’ve you found?”

“No bricks.”

“Anything else?”

Beauvoir raised his brows. He’d only been looking for the murder weapon. He thought that was the purpose.

“Well”—he searched his mind—“there’s a lot of junk. Old tires. Boxes. Plastic containers. It’s basically a garbage dump. They just tossed the shit out the back door.”

“Show me, please.”

Gamache accompanied Beauvoir around the overgrown yard. It was indeed clogged with garbage. Including something interesting. Putting on gloves, Gamache yanked an unwieldy shipping box from the pile.

It was what the television had come in. Replacing it, he called over a senior agent and had a word with him before walking back to the house.

But his footsteps slowed as he approached the back door. Reluctant, he admitted, to return inside. He stood in the cold and dark and stared at the small house. It looked so plain. So much like all the other houses on the street, on so many Québec streets. Modest homes with decent men and women inside. And some who were not so decent.

How to tell them apart? It was impossible, from the outside. You had to go in, and even then, you had to look closely. And even then …

There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

That was part of the horror, and the price, of his job. Paying close attention as warped minds tried to pass as normal.

Wondering, always wondering, what was really happening on all the quiet streets. In all those homes. In all those heads. And whether, despite looking and listening closely, he was still missing something.

Through a lit window he saw his IT specialist hunched over the computer keyboard.

Then his eyes dropped to the base of the house. Turning on his flashlight, he let it play over the cinder block foundation. Then he began to walk around the building, following his light.

He hadn’t gone far before he saw it. What so many of these older rural homes had. On so many roads just like this.

A root cellar. Accessed from the outside.

Calling several agents over, one of whom turned out to be Beauvoir, he instructed the Scene of Crime officer to video what was happening, and the forensics agent to swab the handle and check for prints. Then he nodded to Agent Beauvoir, who stepped forward and gave the door a mighty yank.

It opened so easily, he stumbled backward into the Chief, who held him upright in a grip far stronger than Beauvoir expected.

They stared at the opening. A black hole. This door had been opened often. And recently.

Gamache went in first. There was silence behind him as the agents followed. Alert. Watchful. Tense.

No one liked going into a dark, enclosed space, least of all cops.

Gamache instinctively held his flashlight away from him as he played it around the walls. If there was a gunman hiding there, he’d aim for the light. Best not to have it in front of his chest or face.

He saw cinder block walls, a dirt floor. The ceiling was beamed. At slightly taller than six feet, Gamache could just stand upright.

The cellar was colder than the outside. It smelled of dirt and decay. Something played against his face and he batted it away before realizing it was a string. Pulling it, a single bulb came on, revealing a cot shoved against the far wall.

There was nothing else in the open space.

No root vegetables were stored there for the winter. No mason jars of preserves. No wood stacked up for the woodstove. This was a space used for only one thing.

The lightbulb swung lazily, playing off their faces.

Beauvoir stood in the low, dark room and could feel the walls closing in. He’d never been fond of enclosed spaces, but now he could feel panic welling up. Unaware of what had been found on the computer, he still knew this was not a place he wanted to linger in.

But he also realized he would have to. He took a step forward, but Gamache stopped him and gestured to the dirt floor. When Beauvoir still didn’t see it, Gamache knelt and pointed his flashlight.

There were three small holes. The indents made by a tripod, which would have been pointed toward the cot.

“You know what you have to do,” he said to the officers, then turned to Beauvoir. “Come with me.”

While relieved to be leaving, Beauvoir was also miffed. The Chief Inspector didn’t seem to trust him to collect evidence.

And he was right.

Once back in the house, Gamache approached the head of his forensics team and instructed him to go into the root cellar. “Have the mattress wrapped and taken to the evidence locker at the detachment. Make sure it’s locked inside along with everything else, and keep all copies of the key.”

“Yessir,” he said. “All copies? What about the station commander?”

“All copies.”

Then he told Chernin what they’d found.

“I’ll look for the camera,” she said.

As Gamache and Beauvoir approached the living room, they could hear that the television was once again on but at a normal volume.

Agent Moel got to her feet, but Gamache waved her down. Then he looked at the children, who’d turned to him. Seeing his expression, they dropped their eyes.

They knew he knew.

Gamache sat on the footstool opposite Fiona and said to Sam, “Please, join us.”

The boy looked at Jean-Guy, who nodded. Then Sam went over and sat beside his sister on the sofa.

Fiona was trembling slightly. Agent Moel saw this and, knowing what was coming, she shot a glance at the Chief Inspector.

Is this necessary? she was clearly asking.

Apparently it was.

“I need to ask you some questions.”

Agent Moel took Fiona’s hand. It was cold to the touch. The children seemed shell-shocked as their world exploded around them, spewing their guts, their secrets, everywhere. For all these strangers to see.

“Did anyone come to the house after your mother disappeared?” Gamache asked.

It was obviously not the question they’d been expecting. They looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“Are you sure?” he pressed, gently.

“Yes,” said Fiona. “We’re sure.”

He waited. The show on the TV was now some crime drama. Cars were zooming through city streets. Shots were being fired.

And still, he waited.

“You can tell me,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re safe now.”

He heard Sam snort.

He did not lean closer, as he would have with an adult, as he would have with any other children. Instead, he let them have their space.

“We opened your mother’s computer. And we found the basement. I know. Everything.”

But he was wrong. He didn’t yet know everything.

“No one came,” mumbled Fiona, staring at the patch of carpet between her running shoes.

Beauvoir, watching this, was just beginning to suspect what that tripod, what that soiled mattress and cot in the root cellar were for. But his mind stopped at the entrance to that dark place. Unwilling to enter.

“Patron? Désolé.”

Agent Gendron was standing at the door to the living room.

“Excusez-moi.”

Gamache got up and took the IT agent aside. “What is it, Pierre?”

“Someone tried to wipe files from the hard drive. They got most of it, but some images, while corrupted, remained. Only a few frames. Here’s a screen grab.”

Armand Gamache stared at the photograph and knew he had now seen the worst.

But still he was wrong.

He was right, though, in one respect. He knew it was no longer possible to separate his feelings from his thoughts.

Seeing the look on the Chief’s face, Agent Gendron asked, “Do you know this man, patron?”

Gamache didn’t answer. His hand hung loose at his side, the photo still in it, as he searched the horizon. Putting pieces together.

The children’s lying. The brick. The computer images. The big box behind the house. The hikers. The fact no one had been found to look after Clotilde’s children.

This photograph.

“Get everything you can off that hard drive. I want it all emailed back to Sûreté headquarters and copied to my address. Then secure the computer.”

“I’ll send it to the evidence room.”

“No. Keep everything here for now. Prepare to fly back to Montréal with it.”

“D’accord, patron.” The order contradicted what they’d been told earlier. Before the screen grab.

“Bon. Alors, there must be records too. Either on the hard drive or a notebook. Names, addresses. Accounts. Dates and times. Look for it. Take this place apart if you have to.”

Though Gamache suspected they wouldn’t find it. It would be the first thing destroyed by the killer. He adjusted that. The second thing destroyed. The video was the first.

“Someone tried to erase or destroy at least one, maybe more, of the videos, but others he left untouched,” said Gamache.

“Looks like he only tried to erase his own.”

“Yes. I want to know if he tried to destroy any others.”

“Yessir.” Gendron left.

Folding up the picture, Gamache placed it in his jacket pocket. He thought for a moment, then had a word with the head of forensics, who looked at him, astonished, but nodded assent.

As he headed back down the hall toward the living room, Gamache saw Fiona staring at her feet. But her brother was staring at him.

It was a look the Chief Inspector had seen before. Rarely, but it was unmistakable. It was the look of someone who’d done something spectacularly wrong and would keep doing it until stopped.

It was the look of someone who knew they would not be stopped.

It was the look of someone unhinged.