The Nature of the Beast

  “The other possibility is that it was someone from the outside,” Armand Gamache continued. “Someone who didn’t necessarily know Gerald Bull but knew about Project Babylon. It was, after all, a kind of open secret, with more and more information seeping out after Bull’s death. Project Babylon and its murdered creator became a curiosity, a sort of cautionary tale. But for some, as Professor Rosenblatt said, it was more than that. It became an obsession. Suppose Gerald Bull was finally telling the truth? The plans would be worth hundreds of millions of dollars. And finally, after years of patiently looking, of keeping their ears open for any nugget of information, they heard something significant. A little boy had found a great big gun. In the woods. Not far from Guillaume Couture’s home.”

  “Are you suggesting someone had been looking for Project Babylon for thirty years?” asked Clara.

  Isabelle Lacoste leaned forward, and everyone in the circle did too. Listening intently, drawn into the story.

  “What would people do for power? For wealth?” she asked. “People spent their lives panning for gold, believing they’d find the mother lode. Some people spend all their spare time tinkering in the basement, trying to perfect an invention. Some sit day and night in front of one-armed bandits, thinking any moment they’ll hit the jackpot. People spend their lives writing a book, or looking to cure cancer.”

  She looked over at Gamache and Beauvoir.

  “We have colleagues who’ve spent all their spare time trying to crack a decades-old case. Rational people do become obsessed. And Project Babylon has every element necessary to grab and hold someone. Power and wealth beyond imagining. Is that worth years of work? Decades? Maybe not to you, or me. But to some, yes. The payoff is life-changing.”

  “And all you need to do is be willing to take a few lives along the way,” said Beauvoir.

  Eyes that had been glancing over to Monsieur Béliveau now shifted. To the one person in the room who had admitted to spending years researching Gerald Bull. Had even known the man. And known Guillaume Couture. Probably realized Couture was the architect of Project Babylon, and might even have known Antoinette was his niece.

  And who lived nearby.

  Michael Rosenblatt looked at them, smart enough to recognize what those glances meant. Smart enough to recognize that the facts were building a wall around him.

  “But he stepped in front of Armand,” said Reine-Marie, taking her husband’s hand. “To protect him. He would never have done that if he’d killed Laurent and Antoinette.”

  “Merci, madame,” said the elderly professor.

  But while he said nothing, Armand wondered if that was true. He was glad Delorme hadn’t fired, but he should have. As soon as those plans hit the flames, Sean Delorme should have shot.

  But hadn’t.

  “So who killed Laurent and Antoinette?” Reine-Marie asked. “Do you know?”

  “I’m waiting for more information,” said Lacoste. “We have our suspicions.”

  “And so do I,” said Ruth. “I suspect you still have no idea.”

  “We’ll find out who did it,” Lacoste assured Brian. “Believe me. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Brian got to his feet, weary and disheartened. “I think it was the CSIS agents, and you let them go. I’m going back to the B and B. I need time alone.”

  Professor Rosenblatt got up. “I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind. If I’m allowed.”

  Lacoste nodded.

  “I did not kill Antoinette Lemaitre,” said Professor Rosenblatt, looking at them all, pausing at each face. “And I did not kill that child.”

  Armand walked Brian and Professor Rosenblatt to the door.

  “You’re coming with us?” asked Brian.

  “Non,” said Gamache. “We’ll be here for a couple hours yet, waiting for Agent Cohen.”

  Brian turned back into the bistro, and for the briefest moment his face held an expression Jean-Guy recognized. Another exhausted man washed up on shore.

  And then Brian left, walking ahead of Rosenblatt, who remained on the terrasse talking to Armand. Through the window, the villagers could see the two men, their heads together, Armand’s hand on Rosenblatt’s arm.

  “He’s thanking him,” said Myrna. “For stepping in front of the gun.”

  “You think?” said Ruth.

  And then Professor Rosenblatt left, walking alone toward the lights of the B and B.

  “Did you give him a head start?” asked Ruth when Armand returned to his seat.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He saved your life. He saved both of yours.” She looked from Gamache to Beauvoir and back again. “And now maybe you’re giving him a chance to get away.”

  “Do you think we’d let a murderer go?” asked Lacoste.

  “Well, you let the CSIS agents go, or whatever they were,” said Ruth. “Seems to be the new Sûreté policy.”

  “If I helped a murderer escape, I’d have to live with that, wouldn’t I?” Armand held the old poet’s sharp eyes.

  “I wonder if you could,” she said, getting to her feet. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

  She looked at Monsieur Béliveau and put out her hand. “Would you walk me home?”

  It was a public declaration of friendship and trust. And perhaps lunacy. He was still a suspect.

  “Of course,” said the grocer.

  He looked at Isabelle Lacoste, who hesitated, then nodded.

  Placing Ruth’s hand around his arm, Monsieur Béliveau escorted Ruth from the bistro.

  Armand watched them cross the village green until they disappeared behind the three tall pines.

  A few minutes later, in the darkness of the village, a darker figure appeared. It was fleeting, and could have been missed, had Gamache not been looking for it.

  “Excusez-moi,” he said, getting to his feet, nodding to Lacoste and Beauvoir, who’d also seen it. “Please stay here,” he said to Reine-Marie, then shifted his eyes to Clara, Myrna, Olivier and Gabri.

  “Why?” asked Gabri, getting up. And then he sat down heavily when he saw the expressions on their faces.

  CHAPTER 43

  Running, running, stumbling. Running.

  Arm up against the wiry branches whipping his face. It was dark and he didn’t see the root. He fell, hands splayed, into the moss and mud. His gun dropped and bounced and rolled from sight. Eyes wide, frantic now, he swept his hands through the dead and decaying leaves.

  He could hear the footsteps behind him. Boots on the ground. Pounding. He could almost feel the earth heaving as they got closer, closer, while he, on all fours, plowed the leaves aside.

  “Come on, come on,” he pleaded.

  And then his scraped and filthy hands clasped the grip of the gun and he was up and running. Bent over. Gasping for breath.

  He could lose them in the dark. He knew these woods better than most. Better than them.

  His hand dropped to the pocket of his torn and muddy jacket. His fingers, knuckles scraped and bleeding, felt inside. And there it was. Safe.

  But he was not. His pursuers were gaining on him, closing on him. He didn’t seem able to lose them.

  He stopped. Turned. Pulled out the gun. Leveled it at the two men and one woman chasing him. And when they were close, too close to miss, he pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Armand and Isabelle and Jean-Guy had left the bistro, and walked swiftly, quietly, across the village green, keeping to the shadows of the pines, until they arrived at the Gamaches’ home.

  Jean-Guy stood on tiptoes and looked into the study window, then crouched down again.

  “He’s not there,” he whispered.

  “Has he found it?” Lacoste asked.

  “One way to find out,” said Gamache. He motioned to Beauvoir to go around back while he and Lacoste, bent over, ran along his verandah to the front door.

  Isabelle Lacoste drew her gun and opened the door slowly, carefully. Then stepped inside. Scanning the room. It was empty. She mov
ed swiftly to the study while Gamache went down the hall to one of the bedrooms.

  Lacoste opened the desk drawer in the study, then closed it and left, meeting Gamache in the living room.

  “Beauvoir’s gun’s missing from his bedroom,” he said.

  “The firing mechanism for the Supergun is also missing.” She waved toward the study.

  The verandah door opened and Jean-Guy called in, “He’s in the woods. I can hear him.”

  They ran out the door, a few paces behind Jean-Guy, who was racing between the trees. He forced himself to slow down now and then to listen. To make sure they were still on the right track. It was pitch-dark but a man running through the autumn forest, through the dead and withered leaves, made a lot of noise. And that’s what they followed.

  It was a headlong pursuit. It was no use trying to hide the fact they were after him. It was a race now, through the dark woods. After the man who’d murdered Laurent Lepage. The man who’d murdered Antoinette Lemaitre.

  The man who, with the stolen firing mechanism, would murder millions.

  Up ahead the running stopped. But they did not. They kept going, straight into the raised gun.

  * * *

  He had them in his sights. He waited until he couldn’t miss, and then pulled the trigger.

  But nothing happened. He pulled it again. But by then it was too late, they were on him, Isabelle Lacoste tackling him, and Beauvoir piling on.

  Armand Gamache, a few paces behind the younger agents, pulled out his device and turned on the flashlight app. And there, in the beam, was their murderer. The man who’d searched, like a pirate for treasure, like a leech for someone else’s blood, for decades. And when he’d finally found Project Babylon, all it brought was death.

  In the beam of light was Brian Fitzpatrick.

  CHAPTER 44

  Adam Cohen had arrived back and now sat in the bistro by the fire, picking the label off his beer. He’d been offered a stiff cognac, and had taken a sip because Gamache had one and it looked so good. But while it looked like maple syrup, it tasted like turpentine.

  They had the bistro to themselves. It was late and Olivier and Gabri had cleaned up and left, handing the key to Gamache with the request that they lock up when they were done.

  Now it was just the Sûreté officers, helping themselves to the chips and mixed nuts and the drinks.

  Jean-Guy tossed a birch log onto the fire and the embers exploded then drifted up the chimney. They stared, mesmerized.

  “But why didn’t the gun fire?” Adam Cohen asked. “Brian was pointing it right at you.”

  “Seems the firing mechanism was missing from that too,” said Lacoste. “We knew he didn’t have a gun, and we suspected he’d look for one in the Gamaches’ home, so Inspector Beauvoir deliberately left his behind, in his nightstand.”

  “Why not just take out the bullets?”

  “He might’ve checked,” said Beauvoir. “But no one thinks to check the firing pin.”

  “We learned that trick from Guillaume Couture,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “He took the firing mechanism out of the Supergun for the same reason. So that no one else could use it.”

  “He had a conscience after all,” said Gamache. “But it took the murder of Gerald Bull for him to come to his senses and see that this was not just a job, not some challenge or a problem to be solved as elegantly as possible. What he’d created would kill hundreds of thousands of people.”

  “The plans were missing,” said Jean-Guy. “He might’ve thought Bull destroyed them himself, or he might’ve even suspected that Fleming had stolen them.”

  “If he did suspect, he probably didn’t want to confront the man,” said Isabelle.

  “Why not?” asked Cohen.

  “Would you?” she asked.

  The young agent shook his head. He still looked pale and shaken from his encounter with John Fleming.

  “All Dr. Couture could do to disable Big Babylon was take out the firing mechanism,” said Lacoste. “He must’ve taken it home and made it look like two separate pieces. He told his niece about it, but Antoinette didn’t pay much attention until Laurent found the gun, and then was killed.”

  “But what about Brian?” said Cohen. “How did he know about Dr. Couture and Project Babylon and Antoinette?”

  “He told us they’d been together for ten years,” said Beauvoir. “That meant they met in 2005. What else happened that year?”

  “Guillaume Couture died,” said Lacoste. “Antoinette moved into his home, and the obit appeared in the McGill Alumni News. Brian Fitzpatrick was an alumnus. He admits now he recognized Gerald Bull in the photo.”

  “But how did he even know about Gerald Bull?” asked Cohen. “He’s not a physicist.”

  “No, but he was an opportunist,” said Lacoste. “He’d become fascinated by the story of Dr. Bull. In the interrogation tonight, Brian admitted he found out about Gerald Bull and Project Babylon while researching the area for a surveying course. Baby Babylon was mentioned in some obscure publications, and on digging deeper he found vague references to another possible missile launcher Bull had planned. Bigger, more powerful.”

  “Worth a shit-load of money,” said Beauvoir.

  “What started as a lark, a kind of hobby to find out more about Gerald Bull and this secret testing ground, turned into an obsession,” said Lacoste.

  “And when he saw the obit,” said Beauvoir, “and realized Dr. Couture must’ve not only worked with Bull, but been close enough to have been with him in Brussels, that’s when Brian decided to come down and make the acquaintance of Couture’s only living relative.”

  “Antoinette,” said Cohen. “Ten years ago.”

  “He’s told us everything now,” said Lacoste. “With the plans gone and the gun found there’s nothing left for him.”

  “But how did you know it was Brian Fitzpatrick who’d killed Laurent and Antoinette?” asked Cohen.

  “It was, finally, very simple,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “As I went back over the file, over the statements and evidence, and the sequence of events, a few things became clear. The killer had to have been in the bistro that day when Laurent came in. He had to have heard the story of the gun and believed it. That narrowed the suspects down considerably. It also had to be someone who didn’t know the boy well. Who left the stick behind. And it had to have been someone who knew that Antoinette would be alone that night. Who fit? A few people.”

  “But only one person knew that Brian would be away in Montréal all night,” said Beauvoir. “And that was Brian. He was also in the bistro when Laurent came roaring in.”

  “Most of what we knew about Antoinette, and especially the night of her death, we heard from Brian,” said Lacoste. “And most of it was a lie. Including that she was expecting guests. But what he didn’t know was that she’d begged off of Clara’s party and was taking her uncle’s things to the theater instead. To get them as far away from her as possible.”

  “And that was another clue,” said Beauvoir. “The fact Antoinette did it when Brian was away instead of asking for his help.”

  “You think she suspected him?” asked Cohen.

  “I’m not sure, but it’s possible. What is clear is that Brian started and even fueled the controversy surrounding the Fleming play. He was the one who told us Fleming wrote it. And he continued to support her in producing it, when everyone else backed away.”

  “He wanted the controversy and the distraction,” said Beauvoir.

  “A killer hides in chaos,” said Cohen, and the homicide investigators smiled.

  “I was hampered by a misconception,” Lacoste admitted. “I was sure the killer had to have been connected to Gerald Bull. Had to have been involved with Project Babylon either as a scientist or as another arms dealer or one of the intelligence agents. But that would put the person well into their fifties. It didn’t occur to me the killer could be someone younger, who’d become obsessed with finding the gun. But once I set all that aside and just lo
oked at the facts, all the confusion cleared away.”

  “Brian says he didn’t mean to kill Antoinette,” said Beauvoir. “He says she came home and found him searching. In the argument she fell and hit her head.”

  “Do you believe him?” asked Cohen.

  “It might be true,” said Lacoste. “But I think he’d have killed her anyway. He’d have had to. For the same reason he killed Laurent. To keep her quiet.”

  “He’d been quietly searching the home for years,” said Beauvoir. “That’s how he found the Fleming play. And he took a job surveying the area. That gave him an excuse to look for the gun. He admits he even came within yards of it, but missed it because of the camouflaging.”

  “He’d all but given up, when Laurent showed up in the bistro,” said Lacoste.

  “Did you suspect him, sir?” Cohen asked Gamache, who’d been sitting quietly, listening.

  “Not for a long time. I thought it was strange, though, that everyone else was upset by the Fleming play, except Brian. He said he was just being loyal to Antoinette, but it was more than that. He really didn’t care. For him it was just a tool, a kind of stink bomb he tossed into the case. As it turns out, of course, he should have paid more attention to the play. The very thing he was searching for, had killed for, was in the one thing he dismissed. Fleming’s play. She Sat Down and Wept.”

  “I take it John Fleming was not pleased about being taken back to the SHU,” said Beauvoir, but on seeing the look on Agent Cohen’s face, he immediately regretted his near-jovial tone.

  “It was awful.” Even Cohen’s lips were white and Jean-Guy wondered if the young man might wake up with white hair the next morning. “I’ve never believed in the death penalty, but as long as John Fleming’s alive I’m going to be afraid.”

  “Did he threaten you?” asked Gamache.

  “No, but…”

  Young Agent Cohen turned even paler.

  “… I made a mistake, sir.”

  “It’s all right,” said Gamache.

  “You don’t understand,” said Adam.

  “But I do, and it’s done now. Please don’t worry.”