The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“What do you mean?”


“He saved your life. He saved both of yours.” She looked from Gamache to Beauvoir and back again. “And now maybe you’re giving him a chance to get away.”

“Do you think we’d let a murderer go?” asked Lacoste.

“Well, you let the CSIS agents go, or whatever they were,” said Ruth. “Seems to be the new S?reté policy.”

“If I helped a murderer escape, I’d have to live with that, wouldn’t I?” Armand held the old poet’s sharp eyes.

“I wonder if you could,” she said, getting to her feet. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

She looked at Monsieur Béliveau and put out her hand. “Would you walk me home?”

It was a public declaration of friendship and trust. And perhaps lunacy. He was still a suspect.

“Of course,” said the grocer.

He looked at Isabelle Lacoste, who hesitated, then nodded.

Placing Ruth’s hand around his arm, Monsieur Béliveau escorted Ruth from the bistro.

Armand watched them cross the village green until they disappeared behind the three tall pines.

A few minutes later, in the darkness of the village, a darker figure appeared. It was fleeting, and could have been missed, had Gamache not been looking for it.

“Excusez-moi,” he said, getting to his feet, nodding to Lacoste and Beauvoir, who’d also seen it. “Please stay here,” he said to Reine-Marie, then shifted his eyes to Clara, Myrna, Olivier and Gabri.

“Why?” asked Gabri, getting up. And then he sat down heavily when he saw the expressions on their faces.





CHAPTER 43

Running, running, stumbling. Running.

Arm up against the wiry branches whipping his face. It was dark and he didn’t see the root. He fell, hands splayed, into the moss and mud. His gun dropped and bounced and rolled from sight. Eyes wide, frantic now, he swept his hands through the dead and decaying leaves.

He could hear the footsteps behind him. Boots on the ground. Pounding. He could almost feel the earth heaving as they got closer, closer, while he, on all fours, plowed the leaves aside.

“Come on, come on,” he pleaded.

And then his scraped and filthy hands clasped the grip of the gun and he was up and running. Bent over. Gasping for breath.

He could lose them in the dark. He knew these woods better than most. Better than them.

His hand dropped to the pocket of his torn and muddy jacket. His fingers, knuckles scraped and bleeding, felt inside. And there it was. Safe.

But he was not. His pursuers were gaining on him, closing on him. He didn’t seem able to lose them.

He stopped. Turned. Pulled out the gun. Leveled it at the two men and one woman chasing him. And when they were close, too close to miss, he pulled the trigger.

*

Armand and Isabelle and Jean-Guy had left the bistro, and walked swiftly, quietly, across the village green, keeping to the shadows of the pines, until they arrived at the Gamaches’ home.

Jean-Guy stood on tiptoes and looked into the study window, then crouched down again.

“He’s not there,” he whispered.

“Has he found it?” Lacoste asked.

“One way to find out,” said Gamache. He motioned to Beauvoir to go around back while he and Lacoste, bent over, ran along his verandah to the front door.

Isabelle Lacoste drew her gun and opened the door slowly, carefully. Then stepped inside. Scanning the room. It was empty. She moved swiftly to the study while Gamache went down the hall to one of the bedrooms.

Lacoste opened the desk drawer in the study, then closed it and left, meeting Gamache in the living room.

“Beauvoir’s gun’s missing from his bedroom,” he said.

“The firing mechanism for the Supergun is also missing.” She waved toward the study.

The verandah door opened and Jean-Guy called in, “He’s in the woods. I can hear him.”

They ran out the door, a few paces behind Jean-Guy, who was racing between the trees. He forced himself to slow down now and then to listen. To make sure they were still on the right track. It was pitch-dark but a man running through the autumn forest, through the dead and withered leaves, made a lot of noise. And that’s what they followed.

It was a headlong pursuit. It was no use trying to hide the fact they were after him. It was a race now, through the dark woods. After the man who’d murdered Laurent Lepage. The man who’d murdered Antoinette Lemaitre.

The man who, with the stolen firing mechanism, would murder millions.

Up ahead the running stopped. But they did not. They kept going, straight into the raised gun.

*

He had them in his sights. He waited until he couldn’t miss, and then pulled the trigger.