The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“But again,” said Jean-Guy. “Why?”


“Look at Laurent,” said Armand. “What did he do? He made up stories. All sorts of stories. All of which were in his imagination. Myrna thinks he wanted attention. The boy who cried wolf. But even he was finally telling the truth. Suppose Laurent was too.”

“About the alien invasion?”

“About the gun.”

“And the monster riding it?” asked Jean-Guy.

Armand sighed. “He was given to exaggeration,” he admitted. “And that’s where he lost us. Had Laurent stuck to just the gun story—”

“—the gun that was bigger than any house?”

“—then we might’ve believed him. As it was no one even listened. We just tuned him out. He begged me to go with him and I never even considered it,” said Gamache. “Had I gone with him…”

His voice trailed off. It was a realization that had been creeping up on him most of the day, but this was the first time he’d voiced it.

“I’m coming down,” said Jean-Guy.

“It’s all right, I’ve lined up some people to search,” said Armand. “It could take a while. We might never find it.”

“Well, what can I do?”

“Ask the coroner to reexamine the medical evidence. Ask her if it’s possible the injuries were inflicted by something other than an accident.”

“D’accord. I’ll also go over the photographs and other evidence.” Jean-Guy paused. “You really think someone killed the kid? You know what that means?”

Armand Gamache knew exactly what it meant.

It took a certain kind of person to kill a child. Chief Inspector Gamache had tracked a few of them down in his long career. Fighting to find the murderer, but also fighting to keep his own repugnance, his own rage, at bay. Fighting to keep the thought of his own children out of an already complex and volatile mix.

That was the problem. They were the most difficult murderers to find, not simply because if they were willing to kill a child, they were willing to do anything, but also because the emotions of the family, the witnesses, the friends, the public and the investigators were heightened. Volcanic. It could obscure the truth, warp perceptions.

And that gave the murderer a huge advantage.

It was also the kind of murder that could pull a community apart. Even he, looking out the window at the villagers going about their lives, was thinking only one thing.

Was it one of them?

*

People from miles around volunteered to help scour the woods for the little boy’s stick. Armand hadn’t explained why they were looking, not the truth anyway. Instead he’d told people it would mean a great deal to Al and Evie to have Laurent’s prized possession.

It would take two days of searching the forest before they found it. And what they found wasn’t the stick. Not at first. The first thing they found was the monster.





CHAPTER 8

Jean-Guy Beauvoir had come down to Three Pines to help on the second day of the search.

It was mind-numbing, back-breaking, frigid work in the dark, dank forest. But none of the villagers had dropped out. They took it in rotations, two hours at a time, and just about everyone had volunteered for a stint.

“The coroner agreed it was possible Laurent’s injuries were caused by being hit, rather than hitting the ground,” said Jean-Guy. “He was a little kid, even for a nine-year-old. It wouldn’t take much. It’s a terrible thing, to take the life of a child.”

“Yes it is.”

“I also looked again at the photos from the scene and stopped there on my way out. You could be right.”

“Merci,” said Gamache, picking up a stick, examining it and tossing it behind him.

“And since you begged for my help, it was the least I could do.”

Armand smiled. “I’m lost without you.”

Jean-Guy looked around. They could hear the shuffling of the other searchers, but couldn’t see them.

“You might be lost with me.”

Decades’, centuries’ worth of fallen leaves had dried and decayed on the forest floor, so that as they walked it gave off a musky, woody scent that was not unpleasant.

The leaves overhead were changing, and with the bright sun on them it felt like they were walking under a massive stained-glass dome.

“Over here,” came a yell.

Gamache and Beauvoir stopped and turned in the direction of the voice.

“I’ve found something.”

It was Monsieur Béliveau, the grocer. He stood, tall and thin, in the middle of the woods, waving. Gamache and Beauvoir began to walk quickly, then broke into a jog.

Others, hearing the shout, also began to head over.

“Stop,” shouted Gamache, picking up speed, running between the trees, trying to get ahead of the stampede. “Arrêtez. Right now. Stop.”

And they did. Not all at once, but the authority in his voice eventually registered and everyone ground to a halt, scattered through the woods.

“Did you find Laurent’s stick?” Beauvoir asked as he approached the grocer.