The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) - Louise Penny Page 0,32
saw him smile.
She hesitated by the chair at the head of the conference table. This was awkward. Every other time they’d sat there, Chief Inspector Gamache had assumed that seat.
This time, though, he walked right by it and sat to her left. Leaving Inspector Beauvoir to sit on her right-hand side.
Armand Gamache knew his place. Had, in fact, chosen it.
“So, this is what we know,” said Lacoste. “We have a massive gun hidden in the forest and a boy who was killed there and then his body moved. You knew Laurent better than we did,” Lacoste said to Gamache. “What do you think happened?”
“Well, he obviously found the gun,” said Gamache. “It looks like someone wanted to stop him from telling anyone about it.”
“But he’d already told lots of people,” said Jean-Guy. “All of us, for a start. Everyone in the bistro that afternoon heard him.”
“Maybe the murderer didn’t realize that,” said Gamache. “Maybe he wasn’t in the bistro when Laurent came running in.”
“So you think after he left us, he told someone else?” asked Lacoste. “Someone who killed him to keep him quiet.”
Gamache nodded. “It’s also possible he went back there on his own and interrupted someone. Though the site seems abandoned.”
“We’ll know more when forensics is done,” said Lacoste. “But that was my impression too.”
“So where does that leave us?” asked Beauvoir.
“I think whoever killed Laurent didn’t know him well,” said Gamache.
“Why do you say that?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Well, for one thing, he believed Laurent. He was a great boy but he was a fantasist. Everyone knew he made up stories, and this one was as far-fetched as all the rest. A giant gun in the woods, bigger than any house.”
“With a monster on it,” said Lacoste.
The boy, like a specter, appeared. Skinny. Covered in mud and leaves and urgency. Eyes bright. His arms stretched as wide as he could make them. Reciting his tall tale. Too tall for any of them to climb.
But someone had heard the story. And believed it.
“The killer must’ve known Laurent was finally telling the truth,” said Beauvoir.
“Exactement,” said Gamache, nodding.
“You think someone knew about the gun and kept it secret for years? Decades?” asked Lacoste.
“Might’ve even been guarding it,” said Beauvoir, warming to the theory. “And then Laurent finds it. Disaster. He had to silence the boy and the only way to do that was to kill him.”
“So who knew it was there?” asked Lacoste.
“Whoever put it there in the first place,” said Gamache.
“You think whoever built that gun is still around?” asked Lacoste.
“Maybe,” said Gamache, leaning forward in his chair.
“So who else did Laurent tell?” asked Lacoste. “Where did he go after he left us?”
“Home,” said Beauvoir, looking at Gamache. “You drove him home.”
“I did. May I?”
Gamache indicated the evidence they’d collected. It was bagged and sitting on the table.
“Oui,” said Lacoste. “It’s been swabbed and fingerprinted.”
Gamache picked up the cassette tape. The Very Best of Pete Seeger.
Gamache read the song list. “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” “Michael Row the Boat Ashore.” “Wimoweh.” He smiled. That had been Annie’s favorite song as a baby. He too was a Pete Seeger fan. Or had been until he’d spent the first year of her life listening to “the lion sleeps tonight.” All day and all night.
He scanned the rest of the songs. All classic folk tunes, including “Turn! Turn! Turn!” Gamache had forgotten Seeger had written that song, based on Ecclesiastes.
“To everything there is a season,” he said.
“Pardon?” said Lacoste. “What did you say?”
“Al Lepage has cassette tapes in his pickup truck.”
He handed her the cassette and wondered if, in driving Laurent home, he’d delivered the boy into the hands of his murderer.
* * *
“General Langelier? This is Chief Inspector Lacoste, with the Sûreté du Québec.”
“Good evening, Chief Inspector.”
There was slight censure in his voice. Clearly a late call to the armed forces base was not to his liking. She could almost see him looking at his watch and thinking that the United States had better be invading, or this call was not warranted.
It was past eight in the evening and she was alone in the Incident Room. They’d had sandwiches and drinks brought over from the bistro, and worked through dinner.
She’d sent Jean-Guy off to organize their rooms at the B and B, and was just getting the paperwork done. How often had she left Chief Inspector Gamache alone in some far-flung incident room, in a shed, a barn, an abandoned factory? A single light burning late into the night.