The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“Why don’t you sit in, patron, while we interview him,” said Lacoste.

Armand took a seat across from Al Lepage. He looked at the deep blue eyes, the powerful shoulders, the scored and weather-beaten face. Lepage’s bushy gray beard still had a hint of the bright orange it had once been. It was loose today, not bound by a hair band. It gave him an untamed, wild appearance. His long hair was also loose and tangled so that he appeared to be some sort of missing link. Close, but not quite human.

Except for the eyes. Sharp and intelligent.

Al Lepage looked almost relieved. A beast of burden fallen to its knees, still carrying the load, but going no further. The end of the road.

And then Lacoste had asked him outright if he’d killed his son to keep his secret. He’d created the Whore of Babylon, and now it was marching to his own personal Armageddon. If discovered, it would lead straight to Al Lepage, who led to Frederick Lawson, which led to a village in Vietnam and a massacre.

For an instant Al Lepage looked terrified. But then the expression retreated behind the beard and Gamache wondered if that was its purpose. It was a big, bushy mask behind which Frederick Lawson, the mass murderer, hid.

“What? What?” Lepage asked, looking from one to the other, apparently bewildered. “Hurt Laurent? I could never—”

“Now, we know that’s not true, don’t we?” said Beauvoir, glaring at the man.

Lepage’s breath came in short gasps as he looked from Beauvoir to Lacoste and finally to Gamache.

“Look, I admit I did the drawing. They offered me a lot of money, how could I refuse?”

He stared as though expecting them to understand.

“But I knew nothing about a gun. I hate—”

He stopped himself and looked at them again.

“You hate guns, you were about to say?” said Beauvoir. He shoved his device across the table and Lepage’s large hand instinctively stopped it from sliding off. He looked down at the glowing image.

“Is that your etching?” asked Lacoste.

Lepage nodded.

“As you see,” said Lacoste. “It’s on the gun. The great big gun, where Laurent was killed.”

“I don’t understand,” said Al. “I admit I did the drawing. They were very clear what they wanted, but they didn’t say what it was for and I didn’t ask.”

“And you didn’t notice the huge missile launcher you were using as a canvas?” demanded Beauvoir. “How much acid were you dropping? Look, I know you think you can get out of this, but you can’t. Stop wasting our time, stop making it worse for everyone.” Beauvoir glanced over at Evelyn, who was staring at her husband, dumbfounded. “Start at the beginning. Tell us about the gun and the etching.”

The shaggy head dropped and lifted a couple of times in what might have been assent or despair.

“It was a long time ago,” Lepage finally said. “Two men came to the boardinghouse and asked if I could do a commission. I thought they meant write a song. I agreed. But then they explained it was a drawing, and told me how much they’d pay. They gave me some special paper. One of the men said he’d be back in a few weeks. When he returned he seemed to like it. I bought the farm with the money and never saw him again.”

“You drew it on paper?” asked Lacoste. “Not directly onto the gun?”

“I knew nothing about a gun,” said Lepage. “No amount of money would have made me agree to that.”

“What were the men’s names?” Lacoste asked.

“It was thirty years ago,” said Lepage. “I can’t remember.”

Lacoste looked at Gamache. The photograph was sitting facedown on the conference table in front of him. He slid it over to her, and she handed it to Al Lepage.

“Anyone look familiar?”

Lepage studied it, though Gamache had the impression he was really just trying to figure out what best to say. How much to admit.

“This is one,” he pointed to Gerald Bull. “And this is the other. The one who came to get the work and to pay me.”

He was pointing at John Fleming.

Gamache listened to the words but also to the tone. Lepage seemed to be skimming across the surface of his feelings, reporting something factual that had no emotional content at all. And yet his etching of the Whore of Babylon had reeked of pain and despair. It was not simply lines on a piece of paper, or a gun. Each of those etched lines came from some horrific place and Armand could guess where.

“Didn’t you question why someone would want the Whore of Babylon?” asked Lacoste.

Al Lepage fell silent but they could hear him panting, like a man pursued.

“If you met him you wouldn’t wonder.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Beauvoir.

“He seemed like the sort of person who’d be drawn to that image.”

“As do you,” said Beauvoir.