The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“Who are they?” asked Reine-Marie.

“At a guess, I’d say National Defence, or maybe CSIS.”

“Or maybe more academics,” suggested Reine-Marie.

*

Once again, Jean-Guy Beauvoir attached the huge plug to the huge receptacle and heard the clunk as the huge floodlights came on.

He kept his eyes on the CSIS agents and wasn’t disappointed.

They’d gone from standing shoulder to shoulder, holding their briefcases like commuters at a train station, to looking like two people who’d lost their minds.

Their eyes flew wide open, their mouths dropped, their heads in unison slowly, slowly tilted back. And they stared up. Up. Had it been raining they would have drowned.

“Holy shit,” was all Sean Delorme could say. “Holy shit.”

“It’s real,” said Mary Fraser. “He did it. He actually built it.” She turned to Isabelle Lacoste, who was standing beside her. “Do you know what this is?”

“It’s Gerald Bull’s Supergun.”

“How did you know?”

“Michael Rosenblatt told us.”

“Professor Rosenblatt?” asked Sean Delorme, recovering enough to stop saying “holy shit.”

“Yes.”

“How did he know?” said Delorme.

“He’s seen it,” said Beauvoir. “He’s here.”

“Of course he is,” said Mary Fraser.

“I asked him to come,” said Beauvoir.

“Ahhhh,” said Mary Fraser, turning away. Her eyes dragged back to the giant gun. But she wasn’t looking at the weapon. The CSIS file clerk was staring at the etching.

“Unbelievable,” she said under her breath.

“The stories were true then,” said Delorme, turning to his colleague.

Mary Fraser took a few tentative steps forward and leaned into the image.

“That’s writing,” she said, pointing to, but not touching, the etching. “Arabic.”

“Hebrew,” corrected Lacoste.

“Do you know what it says?” Delorme asked Lacoste.

“By the waters of Babylon,” said Isabelle.

“We sat down and wept,” Mary Fraser finished the quote, taking a step away from the image. “The Whore of Babylon.”

“Holy shit,” said Sean Delorme.

*

Gamache and Henri walked toward the edge of the village. Henri had his ball, and Armand had his script.

He looked down at the title, smeared with dirt from the grave Ruth had dug for it. But it hadn’t rested in peace. He’d dug it up and now it was time he read it.

She Sat Down and Wept.

It could be a coincidence. Almost certainly was. That the title of a play by a serial killer was so similar to the phrase carved onto the side of the weapon of mass destruction.

Coincidences happened, Armand knew. And he knew not to read too much into them. But he also knew not to dismiss them altogether.

He’d planned to read the play at home, in front of the fireplace, but he didn’t want to sully his home. Then he thought he’d take it to the bistro, but decided against that too. For the same reason.

“Aren’t you giving it more power than it deserves?” Reine-Marie had asked.

“Probably.”

But they both knew that words were weapons too, and when fashioned into a story their power was almost limitless. He’d stood on the porch, holding the script.

Where to go?

To a place already sullied beyond redemption, he thought. Though the only place that came to mind was the forest, where a boy had been murdered and a gun designed to kill en masse had sat for decades. But there were too many people and he didn’t want to have to explain himself.

So if not a place that was damned, there was only the alternative. The divine. A place that could withstand the onslaught of John Fleming.

He and Henri walked to the edge of the village. They climbed the stairs to the doors of the old chapel, always unlocked, and stepped inside.

No one was in St. Thomas’s Church but it didn’t feel empty. Perhaps because of the stained-glass boys, there in perpetuity. Sometimes Armand would go up to St. Thomas’s just to visit them.

He sat now on the comfortably cushioned pew and put the play on his lap. Henri lay at Gamache’s feet, his head on his paws.

The two of them looked at the window, created at the end of the Great War. It showed soldiers, impossibly young, clutching guns and moving forward through no-man’s land.

Armand came here sometimes to sit in the light thrown by their images. To sit in their fear and to sit in their courage.

This place was sacred, he knew, not because it was a church but because of those boys.

He felt the weight of the script on his legs, and the weight of memory. Of what Fleming had done. It came crashing, crushing, down until the script felt like a slab of concrete, pinning him to those memories.

And he heard again the testimony of the shattered officers who’d finally found Fleming. And seen what he’d done. And Armand saw, again, the photographs from the crime scene. Of the demon another demon had created.

The seven-headed monster.