The Nature Of The Beast Part 30

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 ill.u.s.tration 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.

After the search they met the Lepages and Clara in the sitting room of the small farmhouse. Clara had made tea, and offered the officers some, but they declined.

The room was dominated by a large brick fireplace inserted with a woodstove. Two old sofas faced each other across the hearth, each with a knitted afghan folded across the back. The floors were hardwood, and pocked and scratched. Braided rag throw rugs were scattered here and there on the floors. The old dog lay with its head on its paws by a rocking chair.

A guitar was propped on a stand next to the chair.

Beauvoir walked over to the stereo and looked at the LPs and ca.s.settes.

He pulled out a vinyl alb.u.m and recognized the smiling man on the cover. With a full head of red hair, a bushy red beard, wearing a plaid lumberjack s.h.i.+rt and jeans with peace signs sewn in. He had everything but a joint.

He also recognized the background, with three tall pine trees.

The alb.u.m was called Asylum.

"You?" asked Beauvoir, unnecessarily.

Al nodded. Evie took her husband's hand.

"You're American, is that right?" asked Lacoste. "A draft dodger?"

Al nodded. "There were lots of us."

"I know," said Lacoste. "It wasn't an accusation. Why did you come here?"

"To get out of the war," said Al.

"No, I mean, why here specifically?"

"I walked across the border from Vermont. I was tired. It was dark. I saw the lights of the village. So I stopped. Stayed."

His speech was almost infantile, in spare declarative sentences.

"When was this?" asked Lacoste.

"Nineteen seventy."

"More than forty years ago," said Beauvoir.

"Do you know anything about that gun in the woods?" Lacoste asked.

"No. I hate guns."

"Did Laurent say anything more after he found the gun? Did he talk to anyone else about it?" asked Beauvoir.

Both Al and Evie shook their heads.

"No?" asked Beauvoir. "Or you don't know?"

"If he spoke to someone else he didn't tell us," said Evie. "But he must've, right? Was he killed because of the gun?"

"We think so," said Lacoste. "Can you think of anything Laurent said, anything at all, that could help?"

"He came home, we had supper. Laurent read and Al and I did the vegetable baskets, then we went to bed. It was a normal night."

"And next morning?" asked Lacoste.

"Breakfast, then he was out the door and on his bike as always." Evie shut her eyes and both Lacoste and Beauvoir knew what she was seeing. The back of her little boy as he ran out into the suns.h.i.+ne. Never to return.

"We looked in his room but didn't find anything," said Beauvoir. "Has anything changed in there? Is there anything new?"

"Like what?" Evie asked.

Like the firing mechanism to a weapon of ma.s.s destruction, thought Beauvoir. Or plans for Armageddon.

"Just anything," he said. "Did he bring anything home recently?"

"Not that I noticed."

Isabelle Lacoste reached into her pocket, brought out an evidence bag, and placed it on the table between them. And waited for a reaction.

Al picked it up and his brows came together. "Where did you find this?"

"Is it yours?"

"I think so."

Evie took the ca.s.sette out of his hand and read the label.

"Pete Seeger. It's ours."

"How can you be sure?" asked Beauvoir.

"Who else would have this?" she asked, holding it up. "Besides, the label's torn where it got stuck in the ca.s.sette player in the truck."

"One of Laurent's favorites?" asked Lacoste.

Evie smiled slightly. "No. He hated it. It took a couple of months for Al to pry it out of the machine, so it was all we played when we were driving."

"He liked it at first," said Al.

"Yes, but even I grew to hate it. Where did you find it?" Evie asked.

"On the ground by the gun," said Lacoste. "Did you notice it missing?"

Both Al and Evie shook their heads.

"Why would Laurent take it there?" Evie asked.

"Well, either he did or his killer did," said Beauvoir.

It took a moment for the implication to penetrate, but when it did Al Lepage stood and faced Beauvoir.

"Are you accusing us? Me?"

"I'm stating what must be obvious," said Beauvoir, also getting to his feet. "Why would Laurent have a ca.s.sette with music he hated?"

"To hide it?" asked Evie, standing beside her husband. Holding his hand not for comfort but to stop him from doing something they'd all regret.

Here was a man who might hate violence, Beauvoir knew, but who was capable of it.

"We've heard the rumors," said Al. "They think I killed my own child. Some are even saying Laurent wasn't mine. That Evie..." He was overcome and couldn't go on. The ma.s.sive man stood within six inches of Beauvoir, staring at him. Not angry anymore, but desperate. If Al Lepage was a mountain, they were witnessing a landslide.

"Al," said Evie, pulling him away. "It doesn't matter what people say. We have to help the police find out who did this to Laurent. That's all that matters." She turned from her husband to Lacoste. "You have to believe it wasn't us. Please."

The other Srete agents came up from the bas.e.m.e.nt and shook their heads. Nothing.

Chief Inspector Lacoste picked up the ca.s.sette. "Thank you for your time."

"May I take this with me?" asked Beauvoir, holding up Al Lepage's record. "I'll be careful with it."

Al waved at him, dismissing the man, the record, the question.

Clara walked with Lacoste and Beauvoir to the cars.

"You don't really think Al or Evie had anything to do with Laurent's death, do you?" she asked.

"I think people can do terrible things," said Beauvoir. "Lash out. Hurt or even kill someone they love. That man is coming apart."

"From grief," said Clara.

"From something," said Beauvoir.

Once in the car, Beauvoir turned to Lacoste. "Did you notice anything strange about the Lepages?"

Lacoste had been quiet, thinking. Now she nodded.

"Neither of them asked about the gun," she said.

Beauvoir nodded. "Exactly."

They spent the balance of the afternoon following up on the interviews and checking facts and details.

Isabelle saw Gamache leave his home with Henri, first glancing in the direction of the old train station, then turning away and walking out of sight.

A few minutes later she found him on the bench above the village, Henri sitting by his side.

"You aren't avoiding me, are you?" she asked, joining Gamache on the bench. "Because this isn't a very good hiding place."

He smiled. His face creasing with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Perhaps I am," he admitted. "It's not personal."

"It's professional," she said, and nodded. "It must be strange not to be in charge of the investigation."

"It is, a little," he admitted. "It's hard not to slip back into the old roles. Especially since-" He spread his large hands, and she understood the enormity of his struggle. "Laurent."

She nodded. This murder had hit home.

"You need your s.p.a.ce, Isabelle. It's your investigation. I have no desire to return, but-"

"But it's in the blood."

She glanced down at his hands. Those expressive hands. That she'd held, as he lay dying. As he'd sputtered to her what they both knew would be the last thing he'd say.

Reine-Marie.

She'd been the vessel into which he'd poured his final feelings, his eyes pleading with her to understand.

And she did.

Reine-Marie.

She'd held his hand tightly. It was covered in his own blood and that of others. And it mingled with the blood on her hands. Her own, and others.

And now catching killers was in their blood.