The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (42 page)

“Dr. Bull trusted you too. Seems he did not have good instincts,” said Gamache. “As it turned out, Dr. Bull was the weak link.”

Fleming studied him. Trying, Gamache sensed, to figure out how best to fillet him. Not, perhaps, physically, but intellectually, emotionally.

Gamache didn’t take his eyes off Fleming, but he was aware of Beauvoir at the door, a look of anxiety on his face. Sensing trouble.

“Yes,” said Fleming. “Gerald Bull had a good brain, but he had a huge ego and an even bigger mouth. Too many people were finding out about Project Babylon. He was even beginning to hint that Big Babylon had been built.”

Fleming shook his head slightly. It had the disconcerting effect of looking like the movement of a cheap wooden doll.

“Baby Babylon wasn’t really a secret, was it?” said Gamache. “It wasn’t meant to be. We all knew about it.”

The strategic use of “we” caught Fleming’s attention.

“That was my idea,” he said. “Build the gun on the top of a mountain, pointing into the States. Make it a ‘secret.’” His pallid hands did the air quotes.

“So that all eyes would be on it.” Gamache nodded in appreciation. “Not on the other one. The real one. And they said Gerald Bull was the genius.”

It was said sarcastically, and Fleming flushed.

“It fooled you, didn’t it?”

Gamache lifted his hands then dropped them to the cold metal table, so like an autopsy bench.

“You don’t really know who I am, do you?” said Gamache. It was like toying with a grenade. The guard at the door clutched his assault rifle tighter and even Beauvoir backed away a little.

“No one knew about Big Babylon,” said Fleming. “No one. They thought the Highwater gun was the only one, and when it failed they thought we’d failed.”

“You proved all the critics right,” said Gamache. “Project Babylon wouldn’t work. They laughed and stopped paying attention, and you quietly went about building the real thing.”

It was, Gamache had to admit, genius. A massive act of
legerdemain
, and the sleight of hand had worked. They were able to hide the biggest missile launcher in history because everyone was looking in the wrong direction. Until Gerald Bull’s ego roared to life.

“Of course, the real genius was Guillaume Couture,” said Gamache.

“You know about him?” said Fleming, assessing and reassessing his visitor. “Yes. We’d make a fortune, thanks to Dr. Couture.”

“Until Gerald Bull threatened the whole thing.”

Gamache took the photograph out of his pocket. He hadn’t planned to do this. In fact, his plan was not to do this. But he knew his only hope of getting information out of Fleming was to imply he already knew it.

He smoothed the picture on the metal surface then turned it around.

Fleming’s brows rose, and again his lips curled up. In his youth this man might have been attractive, but all that was gone, eaten away not by his age but by his actions.

Gamache tapped the photo. “This was taken at the Atomium in Brussels shortly before Bull was killed.”

“That’s a guess.”

“You don’t like guesses?”

“I don’t like uncertainty.”

“Is that why you killed Gerald Bull? Because he could no longer be controlled?”

“I killed him because I was asked to do it.”

Ah, thought Gamache. One piece of information.

“You probably shouldn’t have told me that,” said Gamache. “Aren’t you worried that with the gun discovered, you might be next? I’d be worried.”

He was taking a risk, he knew. But since he was in Fleming’s head, he might as well mess around and see what happened.

He saw fear in Fleming’s face and realized that this loyal agent of death was afraid of it himself. Or perhaps not so much afraid of death as the afterlife.

“Who are you?” Fleming asked yet again.

“I think you know who I am,” said Gamache.

Now he was in uncharted territory. Beyond Fleming’s head, beyond even that cavern that had once housed his heart, and into the dark and withered soul of the creature.

He was familiar with Fleming’s biography. A churchgoing, God-fearing man, he’d feared God so much he’d fled him. Into another’s arms.

That was why he’d made the Whore of Babylon. As tribute.

But now Gamache’s thoughts betrayed him. Once again the images of Fleming’s horrific offering exploded into his head. Gamache pushed, furiously shoving the pictures out of his mind. Across from him Fleming was watching closely, and now he saw what Gamache had taken pains to hide, was desperate to hide. His humanity.

“Why are you here?” Fleming snarled.

“To thank you, but also to warn you,” said Gamache, fighting to win back the advantage.

“Really? To thank me?” said Fleming.

“For your service and your silence,” said Gamache, and saw the creature pause.

“And the warning?”

Fleming’s voice had changed. The slight impediment had disappeared. The softness now sounded like quicksand. Gamache had hit on something, but he didn’t know what.

His mind raced over the case. Laurent, the missile launcher, the Whore of Babylon. Highwater. Ruth and Monsieur Béliveau. Al Lepage.

What else, what else?

The murder of Gerald Bull. Fleming had admitted to that. Gamache tossed it aside as done.

Fleming was staring at him, realization dawning that Gamache was a fraud, was afraid.

Gamache’s mind raced. Guillaume Couture, the real father of Project Babylon. Was there more? Gamache scrambled. What was he missing?

What warning could possibly be issued? What could a confined man have done?

And then he had it.

“
She Sat Down and Wept
,” he said, and saw Fleming’s face pale. “Why did you write it, John? Why did you send it to Guillaume Couture? What were you thinking, you little man?”

Gamache reached into his satchel and dropped the script, with a bang, onto the metal table.

Fleming unfolded one hand and caressed the title page with a finger that looked like a worm. Then a look of cunning crept into his face.

“You have no idea why I wrote this, do you?”

“If I didn’t, why would I be here?”

“If you did, you wouldn’t need to be here,” said Fleming. “I thought Guillaume Couture might appreciate the play. He gave me the plans, you know. Wanted nothing more to do with Project Babylon. I thought it poetic that the only clue to the whereabouts of the plans would rest with the father who abandoned them. Have you read it?”

“The play? I have.”

“And?”

“It’s beautiful.”

That surprised Fleming and he examined his visitor more closely.

“And it’s dangerous,” Gamache added, placing a steady hand on the play and dragging it toward himself, out of Fleming’s reach. “You should not have written it, John, and you sure as hell should never have sent it to Dr. Couture.”

“It frightens you, doesn’t it?” said Fleming.

“Is that why you did it?” said Gamache. “To try to frighten us? Was this”—he poked the script as though it was
merde
—“meant as a warning?”

“A reminder,” said Fleming.

“Of what?”

“That I’m still here, and I know.”

“Know what?”

As soon as the words escaped his mouth Gamache wished them back. But it was too late. He’d been wandering in the dark and now he’d walked off a cliff.

His only hope had been in keeping Fleming guessing, making him believe he knew more than he did. Was one of “them.” But with that question he’d given himself away.

The guard backed up against the door, and Beauvoir’s face went white. Gamache felt himself shoved in the chest by the force of Fleming’s personality. The back of the chair stopped him. Had it not, he had the overwhelming impression he’d have fallen, fallen. Straight to hell.

Armand Gamache had been in the presence of malevolence before. Wretched men and women who’d tried to exorcise their demons by placating them. Feeding them terrible crimes. But of course it only made them more monstrous.

But this was different. If Project Babylon had a flesh and blood equivalent, it was John Fleming. A weapon of mass destruction. Without thought, or conscience.

“Who are you?” Fleming demanded.

His gaze traveled over Gamache, taking in his face, his throat, his chest. His hair, his clothing, his hands. His wedding ring. “You’re not a cop. They have to identify themselves. Not a journalist. A professor writing a book on me perhaps? But no. Your interest isn’t academic, is it?” His eyes bored into Gamache. “It’s personal.”

Fleming sat back, and Gamache knew that he’d lost.

But it wasn’t over yet. Not for John Fleming. His fun had just begun. Fleming tilted his head to one side, coquettishly. It was grotesque.

“You got in here, so you must have some pull.” He looked around before his eyes zipped back to Gamache. Studying him, like a butterfly pinned to cardboard. “You’re older, but not old enough to be retired.”

Fleming’s gaze shifted to Gamache’s temple.

“Nasty scar. Recent, but not immediate. And yet, you look healthy. Hearty even. Grain-fed. Free-range.”

He was toying with him, prodding him, but Gamache wasn’t responding.

“Your physical health wasn’t the issue, was it?” asked Fleming, leaning forward. “It’s emotional. You couldn’t take it. You’re broken. Something happened and you weren’t strong enough. You let down people who were depending on you. And then you ran away and hid, like a child. Probably in that village. What was its name?”

Don’t remember it
, Gamache prayed.
Don’t remember
.

“Three Pines.” Fleming smiled. “Nice place. Pretty place. It was a kind of rock, with time moving around it, but not through it. It wasn’t really of this world. Is that where you live? Is that why you’re here? Because the Whore of Babylon was disturbing your hiding place? Marring Paradise?” Fleming paused. “I remember there was a woman who sat on her porch and said she was a poet. She’s lucky so many words rhyme with fuck.”

He didn’t just remember Three Pines, every detail seemed etched in his memory.

“I’m not the only prisoner in this room, am I?” Fleming asked. “You’re trapped in that village. You’re a middle-aged man waiting out his days. Do you lie awake at night, wondering what’s next? Are your friends growing bored with you? Do your former colleagues tolerate you, but cluck behind your back? Is your wife losing respect for you, as you grip the bars and look at her through the prison of your days? Or have you dragged her into the cell with you?”

John Fleming was looking at him. Triumphant. He’d filleted Gamache after all. Eviscerated him. The man lay gutted before Fleming. And both knew it.

Fleming throbbed, emitting malevolence on a scale Gamache had never known before.

“Mary Fraser,” Gamache said, his voice low.

He felt a slight hesitation in the force of personality across from him, and he used it to push forward.

“She’s in Three Pines,” said Gamache. “Along with Delorme.”

He thrust the words at Fleming, then followed them with his body. Ignoring the throbbing in his head, he stood up and leaned forward, hands splayed on the cold metal table, only stopping when his face was within an inch of Fleming’s.

Fleming also stood and closed the tiny gap between them, so that his nose was actually touching Gamache’s. His fetid breath was in Gamache’s mouth in a mockery of intimacy.

“I don’t care,” Fleming whispered.

But what Fleming had done was confirm he knew who they were. Up until that moment it had been a guess on Gamache’s part.

“They know everything,” said Gamache.

“Now that’s not true,” said Fleming, and while Gamache was too close to see the smile, he felt it. “Or you wouldn’t be here. You might have the gun, but you haven’t found what really matters. What only I can find.”

“The plans,” said Gamache. “You took them from Bull when you killed him in Brussels.”

But by Fleming’s reaction, he could see that was wrong. He thought quickly, trying not to be distracted by Fleming’s face touching his. He stared into those eyes, their lashes almost intertwining.

And then Gamache moved away, back across the table.

“No,” he said. “Dr. Bull didn’t have them. He didn’t need them. They weren’t his plans, after all. They were Couture’s. The plans never left Québec.”

“You’re getting closer,” Fleming said in a singsong voice, a parody of a children’s game of hide and seek.

Fleming sat back down.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he said to Gamache. “You have the gun but not the plans. Funny, isn’t it? That little village has so many hiding places, and so much to hide. I wonder if it really is Paradise, or something else? What would hell look like? Fire and brimstone, or some beautiful place, in a glade or valley? Luring you in with the promise of peace and protection, before turning into a prison. The cheerful grandmother with the lock and key.”

Fleming examined Gamache.

“I know where the plans are. You might find them without me. Or you might not. Or…” Fleming paused, and smiled. “While you’re turning over every stone, someone else might find the plans to Project Babylon. And then what?”

“What do you want?” Gamache asked.

“You know what I want. And you’re going to give it to me. Why else would you be here?”

“You thought I was someone else,” said Gamache. “Someone you’ve been waiting for all these years. Someone who terrifies you.”

He looked at the black-and-white photo of the fathers of Project Babylon. Two dead men and one imprisoned for life. But there had been someone else in Brussels that day, Gamache realized. There had to have been.

“Who took the picture?” he asked.

Fleming leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. But something had shifted. Fleming’s fingers were closed tight around the bones of his arms. The sardonic smile was forced.

Gamache had hit on something.

“You helped create Project Babylon,” Gamache pressed. “On the orders of someone who wanted you to keep an eye on Gerald Bull. The same person who took the photograph. Who was there with you all in Brussels. But you lied to them, didn’t you, John? You told them about Highwater, but not the other. You killed Bull when he got too dangerous, started talking, starting hinting there was another gun. Then you stole the plans and hid them. Believe me, John, you don’t want freedom. You wouldn’t live a day outside these walls. You’re a polio victim and this is your iron lung.”