The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

The worst thing was on the lips of everyone in Three Pines.

Professor Rosenblatt almost felt sorry for the CSIS agents. Almost.

*

Armand Gamache came out of the washroom in his bathrobe, a towel in hand, rubbing his hair dry. Then he stopped. And stood motionless in the middle of their bedroom.

A word had drifted in through the wide-open window, fluttering the curtains as it went by. And that word was “Supergun.”

He shifted his gaze to Reine-Marie, whose eyes were wide with surprise.

“Did you hear that, Armand?”

He nodded and, looking out the window, he saw two villagers walking their dogs and talking, animatedly.

He thought he must have misheard. Surely they said Superman. Or Superglue.

One gestured toward the forest.

Or Supergun.

*

Clara Morrow was woken up by the phone. She answered, dazed, on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Did you hear?” Myrna asked.

“Hear what? The phone waking me up?”

“No, what people are saying. Meet me in the bistro.”

“Wait, what’s this about?”

“The Supergun. Hurry.”

“The what?” But Myrna had hung up.

Clara showered and dressed quickly, her curiosity and imagination fueling each other. But as wild as her imagination could be, it could never have conceived of what she was about to hear.

*

Isabelle Lacoste sat on the edge of her bed in the B and B. She thought about what she’d heard. And what it meant.

Then she gave one curt nod and went into the bathroom to shower and prepare for the day.

There was going to be hell to pay.

*

Ruth Zardo heard the soft knock on the back door.

She was in the kitchen. The coffee was perked on the old stove and she had the toast and jam out.

The knock did not startle her. She’d been expecting it. Rosa, however, looked up from her feed with some surprise. Though ducks often looked surprised.

Ruth opened the kitchen door, nodded and stepped back.

“You heard, Clément?” she asked.

“Oui,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “Worse than we feared.”

“It’s called Project Babylon, of course. What else would it be called?”

“How do you know that?” the old grocer asked the old poet as he sat at her kitchen table. “No one else is saying that.”

“I saw it in some papers last night, over at the Gamache place.”

“You’re not the one who…?”

“Told everyone?” she asked, joining him. “Of course not. We promised each other we wouldn’t. Besides, we didn’t know anything. Not really.”

Monsieur Béliveau looked at her, and she dropped her eyes to the white plastic table.

“We knew enough, Ruth. More than enough.”

“Well, why would I say anything now, after all these years?”

“To take the focus off Monsieur Lepage.” Clément paused before speaking again. “To protect him.”

“Why would I do that? I don’t even like the man.”

“You don’t have to like him to protect him. Do you think he did it?” Monsieur Béliveau asked.

“Do I think Al Lepage killed his own son?” asked Ruth. “It would be a terrible thing. But terrible things happen, don’t they, Clément?”

“Oui.”

Monsieur Béliveau was quiet for a moment, looking out the kitchen door to the rectangle of freshly turned earth in her backyard. She followed his gaze.

“The Fleming play,” Ruth said. “She Sat Down and Wept. A reference to the psalm, of course.”

“Babylon,” he said. “You buried it?”

“I tried to, but Armand came and asked for it.”

“You gave it to him?” It was as close as she’d seen the grocer come to anger.

“I had no choice. He knew I had it.”

Clément Béliveau nodded, his eyes drawn back to the dark hole in the bright green grass. A dead thing among the living.

“Does he know?”

Ruth shook her head. “And I won’t tell him. I’ll keep my word.”

Though words, Ruth knew, were what had gotten them into trouble in the first place.

“Project Babylon,” said Monsieur Béliveau under his breath. “And now it is now. And the dark thing is here.”





CHAPTER 17

Jean-Guy arrived in the dining room of the B and B to find Isabelle Lacoste sitting alone at a large table by the fireplace, rereading the printouts on Gerald Bull that Madame Gamache had found and Gamache had given them the night before.

Gabri had laid, and lit, the fire. An autumn fog had descended, rolling down the cold mountains to pool in the valley. It would burn off in an hour or so, but for now the cheerful little fire was welcome.

“Salut,” said Beauvoir, sitting down. “Did you hear? Someone leaked the news about the gun.”

He took a warm crumpet from the basket on the table and watched as the butter melted into the holes. Then he smeared it with marmalade. His uncle, a devout Québécois separatist, had introduced him to the pleasures of crumpets and marmalade, apparently unaware he was consorting with, and consuming, the enemy.

But allegiances, Jean-Guy knew, lived in the head, not the stomach. He took a huge bite and nodded when Gabri offered to bring a café au lait.