The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

CHAPTER 20

“Al?” said Evie, approaching the large man planted in the field. “The police are here.”

Al Lepage remained kneeling on the ground but straightened up. And then he very slowly hauled himself upright. He turned and stared at his wife as though not quite understanding what she was saying.

Evie put out her hand and he took it in his massive hand. And she led him back to the house.

“Al,” said Clara as he passed, but while he looked at her, he said nothing.

Clara wasn’t sure what to do. It seemed invasive, and perhaps even ghoulish, to stay. She didn’t want to appear to be simply curious, collecting gossip. But to leave felt like running away, abandoning them.

She decided to stay. Laurent’s parents had been left on their own far too often and far too long.

“Monsieur, madame,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask to search your home again.”

She glanced at Clara and gave the tiniest of nods of acknowledgment.

“Why?” asked Evie. “Has something happened? Is this about the gun?”

“Gun?” said Al. His slack face tightened up, and his eyes came back into something like focus. “What gun?”

“I was just telling Evelyn,” said Clara. “But I didn’t get to the details. I don’t think Al knows.”

The two S?reté officers looked at Laurent’s father, wondering, of course, whether that was true.

“I don’t understand,” said Al.

If he did know about the Supergun, thought Beauvoir, he was doing a pretty good imitation of someone who was completely ignorant.

“The thing that was hidden under the netting,” said Lacoste. “In the woods. Where Laurent died. It’s a gun.”

“A cannon, really,” said Beauvoir, studying them. “A missile launcher. It’s called a Supergun.”

“Laurent was telling the truth,” said his father, staring at Lacoste, his eyes pleading for something, though she didn’t know what.

Forgiveness? For ignorance? For her, and her news, to go away.

“I didn’t believe him. I laughed at him.”

“We both did,” said Evie.

“No, you wanted to go and see, in case it was real.”

“But then he told us about the monster,” Evie reminded him. “There was no way to believe that.”

“Christ,” said Al. It sounded more like a plea, a prayer, than a curse. “Oh no.” Lepage shut his eyes and hung his head, shaking it slightly. “I can’t believe it.”

“You’re not the only ones who didn’t believe him,” said Lacoste. “None of us did.”

While she spoke kindly, Chief Inspector Lacoste never lost sight of the fact that she might be speaking to Laurent’s killer.

“May we search your house?” Inspector Beauvoir asked.

Both Evie and Al nodded and followed them inside.

The agents who came with them began the search on the main floor, while Lacoste and Beauvoir went upstairs to the bedrooms.

While Lacoste searched Al and Evie’s room, Jean-Guy went through Laurent’s, opening every drawer, looking behind the posters tacked to the walls. He got on his hands and knees and looked under the bed, under the mattress, under the pillow, under the rug. He searched the closet and the pockets of Laurent’s clothing. Anywhere and everywhere a clever child could hide something. But there was nothing.

Laurent might be inquisitive, creative, but he was not by nature secretive. In fact, he seemed to want to tell everyone everything.

Nothing was hidden.

On the bedside table was a collection of rocks, with quartz and fool’s gold running through them. And a book, splayed open.

Le chandail de Hockey, by Roch Carrier. One of Jean-Guy’s favorite stories growing up. About a Québécois boy, a rabid Canadiens fan, who’s sent a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey sweater by mistake, and has to wear it.

Jean-Guy picked up the book and saw that Laurent was nearing the end of the short story. He replaced the book exactly as he’d found it, his hand lingering on the familiar illustration on the cover.

“Find something?” asked Lacoste.

“Nothing.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Isabelle picked up one of the tiny lamb drawings, reading what was written carefully on the back. My Son. And then a heart. She replaced it. This was a job that had to be done, but it never stopped feeling like a violation.

“You?” Beauvoir asked.

“Nothing much.”

She’d found that Al had an enlarged prostate, and Evie waxed her facial hair, and one of them needed suppositories. They found that Al read books on solar power and historic fiction, and Evie read about organic gardening and biographies.

There was no television in the home and one old desktop computer.

Lacoste had turned it on and did a search and read emails from clients and family and friends. Condolences that petered out in the last few days.