The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“Let me go with him,” said Beauvoir. “We can’t send him alone.”


“I’m sorry to interrupt again,” said Cohen, again leaning into their conversation. “There’s one flaw in the SHU security. We were trained to expect riots, breakouts, but not a break-in. So it might work. But it needs to be someone they know and trust. Someone they’d never expect would cause trouble. Me. Alone.”

His words said one thing, but his eyes were begging them to disagree. To not send him there at all, and certainly to not send him alone.

“Excuse us,” Lacoste said to Agent Cohen with exaggerated courtesy, and took the other two deeper into the Incident Room. “We have to come to a decision.”

She looked at Beauvoir, at Gamache. She glanced over at Agent Cohen, then up to the clock.

“All right. We’ll send him to the SHU. As you said, it’ll take two hours for him to get there, and we have just over three until the broadcast. We don’t have to decide about Fleming until later, but Agent Cohen will at least be in place.”

Gamache and Beauvoir nodded and Isabelle Lacoste walked back to Adam Cohen.

“This is not sanctioned,” she said. “If you go, you need to be aware of what will almost certainly happen. Even if we’re successful, and you get Fleming out and return him, we will all be fired and probably brought up on charges. Do you understand?”

“My uncle has a poutine stand,” he said. “I think I can get us all jobs there.”

He spoke with such sincerity, Beauvoir didn’t know if Cohen was serious. And he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Or to tell him the real truth. That young Adam Cohen might very well lose more than his job.

Chief Inspector Lacoste wrote up a letter of authorization, printed it out on S?reté letterhead, and handed it to Agent Cohen. Then they walked him to the car.

“If you haven’t heard from me by six you need to go into the SHU, do you understand?” said Chief Inspector Lacoste. “The moment the Gerald Bull story airs on CBC.”

“Yes, sir. Mom. Ma’am.”

“Oh God,” Beauvoir whispered.

“You’ll be fine, son,” said Armand. “Just don’t give Fleming any information. Not your name, not where you’re taking him. Nothing. He’ll try to engage you, just ignore him.” He put out his hand. “Shalom aleichem.”

Adam Cohen looked surprised and pleased. He took Gamache’s hand. “And peace be upon you too, sir. How did you know?”

“I was raised by my Jewish grandmother,” said Gamache.

“B’ezrat hashem,” said Cohen, releasing Gamache’s hand and getting into the car.

They watched him drive off.

“What did he say to you?” Beauvoir asked.

“He said, God willing,” said Gamache.

“I don’t think God has much to do with anything that’s happening,” said Lacoste. Then she turned to the two men. “If the location of the plans really is hidden somewhere in that play, we need to go through it, closely and quickly.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Gamache. “Both Jean-Guy and I have already read it and found nothing.”

“You need new eyes,” said Lacoste. “Do you want me to read it?”

“No, I want the village to read it,” said Gamache. “A play’s meant to be performed.”

“We’re going to put on the play?” asked Beauvoir. “Wait a minute. It can be done. Mom can do the costumes and we can use Uncle Ned’s barn.”

“Calm down, Andy Hardy,” said Gamache. “I meant a read-through. We need people to read it while we listen.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” said Lacoste. “But it’ll take time. An hour and a half at least by the time you even start. By then it’ll be almost six o’clock. If you’re wrong—”

“If we’re wrong we have Agent Cohen in place,” said Gamache.

“Well, it might all work,” said Lacoste. “Don’t these things usually turn out well?”

Gamache gave a single gruff laugh. “Always.”

He started walking rapidly toward the village. “I think we should do it in our home. More private. I’ll round up some people we know we can trust. What is it?”

He’d noticed her hesitation and stopped.

“And who can we trust?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Let me ask you this,” she said. “If someone arrived in Three Pines two weeks ago and met you walking Henri or sitting on your porch with Madame Gamache, would they know who you were and what you’d done?”

He smiled slightly. She had a point.

Who could know that Myrna hadn’t always run a used bookstore, but was once a prominent psychologist in Montréal? Who knew the woman with wild food-infested hair was a great artist?

How many of the people in Three Pines were on their second or third acts? People had hidden depths, but they also had hidden pasts and hidden agendas.

Who could really be trusted?