The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) - Louise Penny Page 0,118

heavy hand on it, then he looked at Jean-Guy. “Why did you leave when Lepage was telling us about the Son My Massacre?”

“I was overcome,” he said. “I was afraid I was going to either be sick or attack him. That something awful was going to happen. I couldn’t believe anyone could do those things. And then the girl.”

His voice trailed off and he rubbed his face again.

He wanted with all his heart to tell this man everything, and he almost did. But then stopped himself.

“What did John Fleming really do, patron? What don’t we know that you do?”

Gamache felt the file folder under his hand, but didn’t look down at it.

As soon as they’d arrived home, Armand had gone to the locked room in the far corner of the basement. In the course of a long career investigating murder, he’d come across things that could not be used, were not pertinent. Other people’s secrets, their shames, even their crimes.

He’d kept them in files in his basement, under lock and key, where he could guard them, and hide them, and get at them if he needed to. And today, he needed to. The rest of the basement had bright lights, but this room had just the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. It swung a little when Armand pulled the chain, dirt and dead bugs baked onto the bulb. The light revealed boxes neatly arranged, like bricks in a wall. And bricked up, at the very back, was the box he was looking for.

He’d brushed off the dust and spiderwebs and brought it upstairs into the study. And then he’d had a long, long shower. And dinner. Only later did he return to the box sitting so innocently on the floor of the study.

Gamache had opened the lid, half expecting a shriek to escape. But of course there was only silence, except for the comforting murmur of Reine-Marie and Jean-Guy in the next room.

Closing his eyes for a moment and steeling himself, he opened the first file, and started to read. To remember. And then the screaming started. Not from the files, but from inside his own head as the sights and sounds from the trial of John Fleming burst out from where he’d locked them away.

He saw again the images and imagined the sounds. The crying and the pleading.

Had one of Fleming’s victims knelt silently, not begging for mercy? Not screaming in terror, not crying out for her mother, her father, her God? Had she instead looked at him with pity?

“I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know, Jean-Guy. John Fleming killed seven people over the course of seven years. One in each decade of life. A woman in her twenties, a man in his thirties, and so on. Made him very hard to catch since the murders seemed completely unrelated and were a year apart.”

Beauvoir noticed that the Chief did not mention any victim younger than twenty, though Jean-Guy knew they existed.

“Their bodies weren’t found until after he was arrested,” said Gamache.

“There’s more, patron. What is it?” whispered Beauvoir. “Tell me.”

He could see that his father-in-law wanted to.

“It’s something to do with what Fleming did to them, isn’t it?”

“Seven,” said Gamache. “There were seven of them. But I didn’t see the significance at the time. No one did. But now I know.”

“What? What do you know?”

“By the waters of Babylon, we sat down and wept. Babylon, Jean-Guy. The Whore of Babylon.”

“Oui?” said Jean-Guy. But even as he said it he could see Gamache step back, close the door. Somehow Jean-Guy had missed it.

“John Fleming committed his crimes in New Brunswick,” said Gamache, his voice businesslike again. “And was brought to Québec, where it was felt he might get a fairer trial. He was sent to the Special Handling Unit where he’s been ever since.”

Jean-Guy saw Gamache’s hand tighten around the tissue.

Beauvoir got up and nodded. “I’d like to come with you tomorrow.”

Gamache also rose. “Thank you, mon vieux, but I think this is better done on my own.”

“Of course,” said Jean-Guy.

* * *

Next morning Jean-Guy Beauvoir was waiting by the car with two travel mugs of café au lait from the bistro and two chocolatines.

“Just because we’re going to Mordor doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves on the way,” he said, opening the passenger-side door for Armand.

Gamache stood on the path, adjusted his satchel over his shoulder, and looked at Reine-Marie.

“Did you know about this?”

“That Jean-Guy meant to go with you all along?” she asked. “No. I’m