But he could see by the grim expression on Gamache’s face that he’d overstepped, in the question and in the ill-timed attempt to lighten the mood.
“It is,” said Gamache. He closed the file, resting a 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 as shocked as you.” Though it was clear she was anything but surprised.
“I was wrong, Armand.” She took his hand and examined it for a moment, playing with the simple gold wedding band. “When you said there was a connection between Fleming and Dr. Bull I dismissed it. I’m sorry. I should have trusted you.”
“But never blind trust, ma belle,” he said. “You were right to question. What I said sounded delusional. You weren’t to know how brilliant it actually was.”
She laughed and shook her head. “You’re right, judging by past conclusions.”
Armand looked at Beauvoir, watching them. “I’d better go before he eats both chocolatines.”
“There were also a couple of croissants a few minutes ago,” she said. “You’d better hurry.”
“Can I talk you out of this?” Gamache asked Beauvoir, as he approached the car.
“Why don’t you try, while I drive.”
“All right, Frodo. But just remember, this was your idea.”
Beauvoir drove out of Three Pines, amused that he was Frodo and hoping Gamache was Gandalf and not Samwise.
“Do you think Al Lepage knew about the gun?” Beauvoir asked after a few miles.
“I don’t really know. I’ve been wondering the same thing. I suppose it makes sense not to have a stranger at the site of the Supergun, putting an etching on it. After all the secrecy, would Gerald Bull really do that?”
“Agent Cohen did some research,” said Beauvoir. “There is a type of paper that can be used to transfer a drawing or writing into an etching. He might be telling the truth.”
“Hmmmm” was all Gamache would say.
It was a bright morning and they were driving directly into the sun. Jean-Guy put on his dark glasses, but Gamache preferred to just lower the visor.
“I finished reading the play,” said Beauvoir, looking in the rearview mirror at the satchel sitting on the backseat.
“And?”
“When I forgot who’d written it, I thought it was amazing. I got caught up in the story, in the characters. The rooming house, the landlady, the boarders. Their lives. And I laughed—some of it was so funny I thought I’d pee. And then I hated myself.”
“Why?”
“Because John Fleming wrote it,” said Beauvoir. “And when I was laughing, part of me wondered if maybe he wasn’t so bad. Maybe he’d changed.”
He shot a glance at Gamache and saw him nod.
“You too?” he asked.
The nodding stopped.
“No. But I know more about him.”
“Then why were you nodding?”
“Because that’s what Fleming does, what he wants. He tunnels out of his cell through other people’s minds. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to go alone today.”
“Because you’re immune, patron?”
“No, I’m as susceptible as you, but at least there’d only be one of us with Fleming in our heads. And for me, well, he’s already there. The damage is done.”