The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

He heard soft laughter down the line.

“I’m afraid I haven’t described it well,” Beauvoir said. “I don’t have the vocabulary, especially in English. Or in French, for that matter. I’m not talking about a shotgun or a handgun. This seems like a sort of missile launcher, but of a design I’ve never seen before. It’s in the middle of the forest, in the Eastern Townships.”

Professor Rosenblatt leaned back, as though shoved. “In the Townships?”

“Oui. It was hidden under camouflage netting and overgrown. It seems to be old,” Beauvoir went on. “Probably been there for decades. Professor?”

The silence down the line made Jean-Guy Beauvoir wonder if it had gone dead. Or Rosenblatt had.

“I’m still here. Go on.”

Beauvoir took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “It’s huge. Bigger than any weapon I’ve ever seen. Ten times, a hundred times bigger. We needed ladders to get onto it, and even they aren’t long enough.”

And again, the line appeared to go dead.

“Professor?”

Beauvoir did not expect an answer. What he did expect to hear was a dial tone.

“I’m here,” said Rosenblatt. “Is there anything on it at all that might identify it?”

“Not a serial number or a name,” Beauvoir said. “Though it’s possible we missed something. It’ll take a while to go over every inch.”

Rosenblatt made a humming sound, like his brain was whirring.

“There is one thing,” Jean-Guy said.

“Yes?”

“It’s not exactly an identifying mark, but it is unusual. It’s a design.”

Michael Rosenblatt stood up at his kitchen table, spilling his coffee over that morning’s Montréal Gazette.

“An etching?” he asked.

“Oui,” said Beauvoir, standing up slowly at his desk in the Incident Room.

“At the base?”

“Oui,” said Beauvoir, caution creeping into his voice.

“Is it a beast?” Rosenblatt asked, finding it difficult to breathe.

“A beast?”

“Un monstre.” His French wasn’t very good, but it was good enough for that.

“Oui. A monster.”

“With seven heads.”

“Oui,” said Inspector Beauvoir. He sat back down at his desk in the Incident Room.

Professor Rosenblatt sat back down at his kitchen table.

“How did you know?” Beauvoir asked.

“It’s a myth,” said Rosenblatt. “At least, that’s what we thought.”

“We need your help,” said Inspector Beauvoir.

“Yes, you do.”





CHAPTER 11

“Hello?”

Michael Rosenblatt opened the wooden door and stuck his head in, without great optimism.

This must be a mistake, he thought.

The place looked abandoned, like most of the old train stations in Québec. But the guy at the bistro had pointed him in this direction.

“Bonjour?” he called, louder this time.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw the outline of something large and it stopped him from going further into the gloomy building.

He peered at it. His eyes must’ve been playing tricks on him because it appeared to be a fire truck. Parked in the middle of an old train station. Which he’d been told was the S?reté office. Nothing was making sense.

He turned around, unsure what to do next.

“That was fast,” said a man’s voice.

From behind the fire truck came a man with his arm extended.

“Professor Rosenblatt? I’m Jean-Guy Beauvoir,” he said. “We spoke on the phone.”

“How do you do?” said Rosenblatt, taking the strong hand.

Before him was a S?reté officer in his late thirties. Attractive and well groomed. Slender but not thin, he gave the impression of immense suppressed energy. A slingshot about to be released.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir saw a short elderly man in a tweed jacket and bow tie. His white hair was wispy on top and his midsection was comfortably rounded.

With one soft hand, Professor Rosenblatt pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. With the other he clutched a battered leather satchel.

But the eyes were bright. Sharp. Assessing. Despite his appearance, there was nothing muddled, nothing befuddled about this man.

“Thank you for coming. I didn’t expect you so quickly,” Beauvoir said, and turned to walk back into the old railway station.

“I don’t live all that far from here.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I retired down here, though I have to say this village comes as a bit of a surprise. I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s difficult to find,” said Beauvoir. “Hope you didn’t have trouble.”

“I’m afraid I have no sense of direction,” said Rosenblatt, following Beauvoir. “It’s a source of some embarrassment. I suspect it undermines my credibility as a specialist in guided missiles.”

He described how he’d wandered the back roads, pulling over now and then to consult maps and his GPS. But no village called Three Pines seemed to exist. He grew more and more anxious, turning, turning, turning at random, trying this road, that dead end.