The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

His mind wasn’t just blank, it was empty. He lowered his gaze from Fleming’s eyes to Fleming’s hands. So white. One flopped over the other.

And then an image crawled out of the drain, and another, of what those pale hands had done. With an effort that actually caused him pain, Gamache looked up.

Would I meet your eyes, and stand,

rooted and speechless,

while the pavement cracked to pieces

and the sky fell down.

All he saw now was the seven-headed beast. Not an etching. Not a metaphor. But the creature John Fleming had created. Armand Gamache knew something that had eluded the court, the cops, Fleming’s prosecutors. Even his own attorneys.

He knew what John Fleming had in mind when he’d committed his crimes. The Whore of Babylon, who brought not simply the end of the world, but eternal damnation.

Gamache took a ragged breath and heard a slight wheeze as the air struggled through his throat.

Across from him, John Fleming’s mouth curved up. Like a blade.

Gamache held Fleming’s calm gaze and conjured Reine-Marie, and their children, and grandchildren, and Henri, and their friends. The chaos of Christmases. Quiet moments by the fireplace. Dancing at Annie and Jean-Guy’s wedding in Three Pines. He called up meals at Clara’s, and drinks in the bistro, and times spent on the bench in the village.

Those muscular memories pushed and shoved and stuffed the others back into their own bedlam. Armand Gamache sat in the sterile room and smelled old garden roses in summer, and heard laughter on the village green. He tasted strong café au lait, and felt the fresh morning mist on his face.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice strong, “to talk to you about Gerald Bull and Project Babylon.”

He was rewarded by a blink. A moment of uncertainty. Of caution.

John Fleming hadn’t been expecting that statement.

“I know you. You were at my trial,” said Fleming. “You just sat and watched. Do you like to watch? Was it fun for you?”

Gamache’s expression didn’t change, but in his peripheral vision he saw Beauvoir stir and he could tell that Fleming sensed it too. A slight reaction. Exactly what he wanted.

It was the first time Gamache had heard his voice. Fleming had not testified at the trial. Armand was surprised by how soft the voice was. There was the hint of a speech impediment. Real? Or manufactured to make him appear more human, even vulnerable?

People instinctively let down their guard when they saw a limp, an illness, a flaw in someone else. Not out of compassion but because it made them feel superior. Stronger. Those people, Gamache knew, did not always last long. It was not a useful instinct.

“What do you want to know?” Fleming asked.

“I want to know how you came to be the project manager.”

“Dr. Bull was looking for someone to coordinate the day-to-day work. Not a scientist. They might be precise, but they’re not good at the big picture. I am.”

“But how did Bull hear about you?” Gamache asked, recognizing that Fleming had only partially answered the question.

“Word gets around.”

“Depending on the circles you move in,” said Gamache. “Who recommended you?”

“It could’ve been any number of happy clients. I worked for an agency that specializes in discretion.”

“Which agency was that?”

“I don’t think you’re listening closely enough. Discretion, remember?”

“Why don’t you want to tell me?” Gamache asked.

“Why do you want to know? Can it possibly matter?”

“I wasn’t so sure before,” said Gamache. “But now I’m beginning to wonder.”

The two men stared at each other.

“Tell me about the Whore of Babylon.”

And now there was a reaction. A thinning of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes. And then the razor smile again.

“I wondered when someone would come asking.” Fleming regarded Gamache as though he was Fleming’s guest and not the other way around.

“And what’s the answer?” Gamache asked.

“Who are you?” Fleming asked.

He hadn’t moved since sitting down. Not a millimeter. His hands, his head, his body remained completely still, like a mannequin. As far as Gamache could tell, he wasn’t even breathing.

There was only that one blink. And the smile. And the soft, flawed voice.

“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,” said Gamache conversationally, “Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”

Was there, from across the table, the slightest pulse of alarm?

Gamache leaned forward and whispered, “That’s who I am.”

“How do you know about the Whore of Babylon?” Fleming asked.

“Which one?” Gamache countered, and again Fleming blinked. And paused.

He has to think, thought Gamache. Which means I’m in his head now. It was not an altogether comforting thought.

“You obviously found the gun,” said Fleming.

“Obviously,” said Gamache. And waited.

“Where did you find it?” asked Fleming.

“Where you left it, of course. It’s not exactly mobile, is it?”