The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

On the village green the children and adults had stopped playing, and were all looking toward the stone bridge across the Rivière Bella Bella where a kid was shouting and running into the village.

“Oh no,” said Gabri as they watched through the bistro window. “Not again.”

The boy paused at the edge of the green and gestured wildly with a stick. When no one reacted he looked around and his gaze stopped at the bistro.

“Hide,” said Myrna. “Duck.”

“God, don’t tell me Ruth’s coming too,” said Gabri, looking around frantically.

But it was too late. The boy was through the door, scanning the crowd. And his bright eyes came to a halt. On Gamache.

“You’re here, patron,” the boy said, running over to their table. “You have to come quick.”

Grabbing Gamache’s hand, he tried to pull the large man out of his chair.

“Wait a minute,” said Armand. “Settle down. What is it?”

The boy was bedraggled, like something the woods had coughed up. There were moss and leaves and twigs in his hair, his clothes were torn and he clutched a stick the size of a cane in his scratched and filthy hands.

“You won’t believe what I found in the woods. Come on. Hurry.”

“What is it this time?” Gabri asked. “A unicorn? A spaceship?”

“No,” the boy said, looking annoyed. Then he turned back to Gamache. “It was huge. Humongous.”

“What was?” Gamache asked.

“Oh, don’t encourage him, Armand,” said Myrna.

“It was a gun,” said the boy, and saw a flicker of interest in Gamache. “A giant gun, Chief. This big.” He waved his arms and the stick hit the table next to them, sweeping glasses to the floor.

“Okay,” said Gabri, getting up. “That’s enough. Give me that.”

“No, you can’t have it,” said the boy, protecting the stick.

“Either you give it to me, or you leave. I’m sorry, but you don’t see anyone else in here with tree branches.”

“It’s not a tree branch,” said the boy. “It’s a gun that can change into a sword.”

He made to brandish it but Olivier had come over and caught it with his hand. With his other he held out a broom and a pan.

“Clean it up,” said Olivier, not unkindly, but firmly.

“Fine. Here.” The boy handed Gamache the stick. “If anything bad happens to me, you’ll know what to do.” He looked at Gamache with deadly earnest. “I’m trusting you.”

“Understood,” said Gamache gravely.

The boy began to sweep while Armand leaned the stick against his chair, noticing that it was notched and etched and that the boy’s name was carved into it.

“What did he want this time?” Jean-Guy asked, as he and Annie joined them and watched the annoyed sweeping. “To warn you about an alien invasion?”

“That was last week.”

“Oui. I forgot. Are the Iroquois on the warpath?”

“Done that,” said Armand. “Peace has been restored. We gave them back the land.”

He looked over at the boy, who’d stopped sweeping and was now riding the broom like a steed, using the pan as a shield.

“He’s kind of sweet,” said Annie.

“Sweet? Godzilla is sweet. He’s a menace,” said Olivier, after getting the boy off the steed and refocusing him on the broken glass.

“We thought he was fun at first too. A real little character, until he came running in here telling us his house was burning down,” said Gabri.

“It wasn’t?” asked Annie.

“What do you think?” said Olivier. “We got the whole volunteer fire department rushing over there, only to find Al and Evie working in their garden.”

“We’ve tried talking to them about him,” said Gabri. “But Al just laughed and said he couldn’t get Laurent to stop, even if he wanted to. It’s in his nature.”

“Probably true,” said Myrna.

“Yeah, well, earthquakes and tornados are part of nature too,” said Gabri.

“So you really don’t think Clara can be convinced to help us with the sets,” said Brian. “We’re just a few weeks from opening night and we can use the help. It really is a great play, even if no one knows who wrote it.”

“What?” said Isabelle Lacoste, looking down at the cover sheet of the script and noticing for the first time that there was no name below the title.

“No one knows?” she asked. “Not even you?”

“Well, we know,” said Antoinette. “We’re just not saying.”

“Believe me,” said Gabri. “We’ve asked. I think it was David Beckham.”

“But he’s—” Jean-Guy started to say before Myrna cut him off.

“Don’t bother. Last week he decided Mark Wahlberg wrote it. Leave him his fantasies. And mine. David Beckham.” Her voice became dreamy. “He’d have to come to opening night. Alone. He and Victoria would’ve had a fight.”

“He’d stay in our B and B,” said Gabri. “He’d smell like leather and Old Spice.”

“He’d need a book to read, at bedtime,” said Myrna. “I’d bring some over—”

“Okay, enough,” said Jean-Guy.