The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (38 page)

“Big Boy.” Mary Fraser let that sink in. “Big Boy killed hundreds of thousands. Big Babylon would do worse. Unlike you, Gerald Bull knew his history and knew his clients would too. He also knew the power of symbolism. He comes from a long and proud tradition of making a weapon even more terrifying by appearing to belittle it.”

“Proud tradition?” asked Lacoste.

“Well, a long one.”

Lacoste walked to the window. “If it’s so dangerous, why haven’t you called in the army? The air force?” She scanned the skies. “There should be helicopters overhead and troops on the ground guarding the thing.”

She turned back to the CSIS agents.

“Where is everyone?” she asked.

Sean Delorme smiled. “Don’t you think it might be better not to advertise? The bigger the weapon, the greater the need for secrecy.”

“The bigger the secret, the greater the danger,” said Lacoste. “Don’t you think?”

*   *   *

Armand listened to Clara and Myrna, his face opening with wonder.

“Are you sure?”

“No, not really,” Clara admitted. “I’d have to see them again. I was going to go over there.”

“You need to tell Chief Inspector Lacoste,” said Gamache. “She and Inspector Beauvoir are at the old train station. Whatever happens, don’t tell anyone else. Does Professor Rosenblatt know?”

“No. It didn’t come to me until later.”

“Good.”

Clara stood up. “Coming with us?”

They walked together to the door of the bistro.

“No, there’s someone else I want to see.”

“Want to?” asked Myrna, following his gaze.

“Have to,” admitted Armand.

They parted, Clara and Myrna walking over the bridge to the Incident Room and passing the CSIS agents just leaving. Gamache walked the few paces to the bench on the village green and took a seat beside Ruth and Rosa.

“What do you want?” Ruth asked. Rosa looked surprised.

“I want to know why you wrote those lines from the Yeats poem when you heard that Antoinette had been killed.”

The rain had stopped, and water beaded on the wood. It now soaked into his jacket and the legs of his slacks.

“I happen to know the poem and like it,” said Ruth. “I’ve heard you quote it often enough. About things falling apart.”

“True. But those weren’t the lines you chose.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” muttered either Rosa or Ruth. It was impossible to say which had just spoken. They were beginning to meld into one creature, though Ruth was more easily ruffled.

“You know more than you’re saying,” said Gamache.

“True. I know the whole poem.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre/The falcon cannot hear the falconer.
What’s a gyre?”

“I have no idea,” Gamache admitted. “I think I looked it up once.”

Ruth stared into the late-afternoon sky as the clouds broke up and the sun broke through. Sparrows and robins and crows descended, gathering on the green.

“No vultures,” she said. “Always a good sign.”

He smiled. “You needn’t worry. You’ll live forever.”

“I hope not.” She broke up some bread and pelted it at the head of a sparrow. “Poor Laurent. Who kills a child?”

“Who is slouching toward Bethlehem?” Gamache asked. “Who is the rough beast?”

When she didn’t answer, he stopped her hand before she could cast the morsel of bread, and held her gently, but firmly, until she looked at him.

“Yeats called that poem ‘The Second Coming,’” he said, letting go of her thin wrist. “It’s about hope, rebirth. But that only happens after a death, after the apocalypse, after the Whore of Babylon has arrived in Armageddon.”

“Do you know how ridiculous you sound? You don’t believe that myth, do you?”

“I believe in the power of the imagery. In the symbolism.” He stared at her. “You know about the etching, don’t you? About the Whore of Babylon on the gun. That’s why you specifically quoted those lines about the beast slouching toward Bethlehem, waiting to be born. They’re a reference to the Whore of Babylon.”

Her thin hand fell to her lap, still clasping the bread.

Her face was pale, her eyes stared ahead. Sharp. Searching. Her head cocked slightly to the side. Listening, Armand thought, for the voice of the falconer. Telling her what to do.

*   *   *

“Can we speak to you?” Isabelle Lacoste asked.

Jean-Guy was behind her and Clara stood behind him. Clara had gone to the Incident Room and told them everything, at Myrna’s urging. Myrna had returned to her bookstore, but the others now stood on the porch, waiting for an answer.

“Please, Madame Lepage.”

Evie Lepage stepped back and let them into her home, surprised to see Clara with the Sûreté officers.

“I don’t mean to be rude—” Evie began.

But Clara knew that’s exactly what Evelyn meant to be. If she had a hatchet and some privacy, she’d have used that instead of words.

“—but I’m a little busy. Perhaps you can come back later.”

“You drew the Whore of Babylon on the missile launcher,” said Clara. She brought out her device and showed the picture to Evie. “This is your work.”

“What?”

“I know,” said Clara. “They know. I’m sorry but I’ve told them. Don’t make this worse.”

“The Whore of Babylon?” Evie leaned closer to the image glowing on Clara’s device. “That was on the goddamned gun in the woods? The one Laurent found? Where he was found? Where he wa…” She stumbled to silence, wide-eyed. Wild-eyed.

Clara lowered her arm and turned off the device.

“Yes,” said Isabelle Lacoste.

Clara studied Laurent’s mother. She knew faces. Knew moods. Tried to capture both in her paintings. Her works appeared to be portraits but were actually of the layers of skin underneath, each stretching over a different, deeper, emotion.

If she were to paint Evie Lepage at this moment she’d try to get the emptiness, the bewilderment. The despair. And just there, barely visible in the depths—was that dread Clara saw? Was the mask stretched too tight, was the emotion too strong? Was it breaking through?

And if Clara was to do a self-portrait? There would be anger and disgust and, beneath that, compassion. And beneath that? In the darkness?

Doubt.

“I saw the drawings in Laurent’s room, of the lambs,” said Clara. “The ones you did for him every birthday. The same hand did both. It’s unmistakable.”

But seeing Evie’s alarm grow, Clara felt her own doubt expand, bloat, break through the other taut layers. Until doubt and dread stared at each other across the kitchen.

“It wasn’t you, was it?” said Clara. Stating what would have been obvious had she not been blinded by her own brilliance.

“That picture,” Evelyn gestured toward the now dark device in Clara’s hand, “was on the gun?”

“Yes,” said Beauvoir.

“What is it? You called it the Whore of Babylon.”

“It’s a biblical reference,” said Clara. “From the Book of Revelation. Some interpret it as the Antichrist. The devil.”

It would have sounded melodramatic had two people not already been killed, including this woman’s son.

Evie gripped the Formica countertop behind her.

“Can I see the drawings again?” Clara asked.

They followed Evelyn through the empty home, up the stairs, and into Laurent’s room. There, leaning against the books, was the row of lambs with the ewe and ram on the knoll watching over their child. The drawings progressed from the very first, which simply said “My Son,” through to Laurent aged nine. In each the lamb grew slightly larger, grew up. And then it ended. The lamb to the slaughter.

“You didn’t draw them, did you,” said Clara, seeing it now. “Al did.”

Evelyn nodded. “I thought I made that clear when you came the other day.”

“You might have, but I was so convinced it was you that I never really heard what you were saying. It didn’t occur to me that Al would do these.”

“Did you know your husband helped build the missile launcher?” Beauvoir asked.

“He couldn’t have,” said Evie. “Al hates guns, hates violence. He came here to get away from all that. There’s no way he’d have had anything to do with whatever is in those woods. Not Al.”

The Sûreté agents did not tell her what they knew about her husband. That he was not only capable of violence, he’d been involved in one of the great atrocities of the past century.

“Where is your husband?” Lacoste asked.

“In the field,” said Evie. “He spends all of his time out there now.”

Through Laurent’s bedroom window, past Spider-man and Superman and Batman on the sill, they could see the large man bending over, pulling his crop from the ground.

A minute later Clara and Evie watched as the Sûreté officers approached him. He stood up and wiped his large forearm across his forehead, then dropped his arms to his sides.

Then the Sûreté agents shepherded Al Lepage to the car.

CHAPTER 33

“I knew,” Ruth admitted.

“And Monsieur Béliveau knew,” said Gamache. “That’s why he’s been visiting you so early in the morning when he thought no one would see.”

“He’s a good man, Armand,” said Ruth, warning in her voice. “Too good perhaps.”

“He’s certainly good at keeping secrets.”

“Look, none of us knew what they were actually doing in the woods.”

“You must have suspected.”

“That they were building the biggest goddamned missile launcher this side of the River Jordan? Even I’m not that nuts. Who thinks that?”

“What did you think?” he asked.

She exhaled heavily, but didn’t speak.

Gamache got up, and walked away.

“Where’re you going, shithead?”

He kept walking.

“Asshat,” she called.

He didn’t turn around.

“Armand?”

But by then it was too late. She saw the screen door of the general store swinging and heard the thwack, as it passed the threshold. Thwack as it came back.

And she heard the familiar squeak of the hinges.

Squeak. Thwack.

She picked up Rosa, holding the duck to her chest. Standing up, she turned to face the door.

The door opened again, squeak, thwack, and the two men walked toward her.

“I’m sorry, Clément, I didn’t mean—”

The grocer held up his hand and smiled. “It’s all right, Ruth. We should’ve said something sooner. It’s time.”

They took their seats, Monsieur Béliveau on one side of her and Armand on the other. The three of them stared ahead, as though waiting for a bus.

“I can’t remember the exact date,” Monsieur Béliveau began without Armand prompting. “Or even the year. Can you, Ruth?”

“All I remember is that it was spring. It must’ve been in the early eighties. I was working on my first collection of poetry.”

“Early eighties?” asked Gamache. “As long ago as that?”

The grocer nodded. “I think so. During a bridge game at Ruth’s home, Guillaume Couture said he’d heard that some rich Anglo was going to build a home in the woods behind Three Pines.”

“And what did you think?”

“We thought nothing,” said Ruth. “Why would we? If someone mentioned to you that they were building a home in the forest, what would you think?”

“I guess I’d just hope it wouldn’t be too disruptive,” said Armand. “That was why Dr. Couture mentioned it to you, of course. To explain any noise and strangers. And no one noticed it wasn’t a woodstove and a kitchen sink being taken into the woods?”

“We weren’t paying attention,” said Ruth. “It was off over there.” She waved behind her, toward the forest. “At most we might’ve heard machinery, but if someone was building a home, you would.”

It would have seemed implausible, incredible. Impossible. How could they have missed a massive missile launcher being hauled into the forest right behind the village? But Gamache remembered what Professor Rosenblatt had said. Gerald Bull had the gun made in pieces, by different factories around the world. The final result was massive, but each piece might not be. It would be taken in a bit at a time and assembled there.

“Did you ever meet this rich Anglo?” asked Armand.

“Once,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “In the hardware store.”

“Where the bistro is now,” said Ruth. “Used to be a hardware store.”

“The fellow introduced himself,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “He wasn’t alone. There was a man with him. His project manager. Seemed a little odd that a log cabin, even a big one, would need a project manager. But we figured it was the sort of thing a rich Anglo would do. They wanted to know if there were any artists around.” The grocer looked uncomfortable. “I sent them to Ruth.”

“To Ruth? Why?”

“I panicked.”

“Panicked?” asked Gamache. “Why would you panic?”

Clément Béliveau looked down at his large hands, and rubbed an imagined stain.

“There was something about them,” he said into his hands. “Something off. They looked okay, if you didn’t look too close or too long.”

He picked up an apple from the grass. With an expert twist of his hands, the apple split in two. He offered one half to Armand.

The outer flesh was white and moist. Perfect. But the core was dark, decayed.

“After a while, in my profession, you can tell when something’s gone rotten,” said the elderly grocer. “Even if it’s not obvious from the outside.”

Armand looked at the apple in his hand, then cocked his arm, tossing it as far as he could.

“I just wanted to be rid of them,” said Monsieur Béliveau, throwing his own piece, and watching it bounce into the tall grass by the pond. Then he looked at Ruth. “I’ve regretted sending them to you ever since.”

Ruth patted his hand. “You’re one of the good ones, Clément. Always will be.”

“What did they want?” asked Armand.

“They wanted to commission a work of art,” said Ruth. “I explained I was a poet and told them to go away. But they wouldn’t leave until I gave them the name of an artist.”

“Evelyn Lepage,” said Gamache.

“Evie?” said Ruth. “No. She was a child at the time. It was Al Lepage.”

Gamache closed his eyes for a moment. Of course, he thought. It couldn’t have been Evie.

“How did you know he was an artist?” Gamache asked. “Isn’t he a musician?”

“If you can call it that. He drew a bit too,” said Ruth. “If you look at the sleeve of his album, you’ll see some of his drawings.”