The Nature Of The Beast Part 61

"That's true," said Brian. "They were in Ottawa. Someone here must've called and told them about Laurent. That must be why it was a day between when Laurent found the gun and when he was killed. They had to drive down and find the boy."

"Yes, that was our thinking," said Lacoste.

"Was?" asked Reine-Marie.

"The murders got all complicated by the gun itself," said Lacoste. "And when Antoinette was killed and we found out about her uncle's connection to Gerald Bull and Project Babylon, the case took on a whole other aspect. But I was trained that, at its heart, murder is always human and often simple."

She looked at Gamache, who nodded acknowledgment.

"While you were reading the play this afternoon, I was going back over the case. It started here, as you said, when Laurent came running in."

She pointed to the door, and they saw again the boy, covered in dirt and pieces of bark and lichen. He was shouting about his find, opening his skinny arms wide, straining to capture the enormity of his find.

A huge gun. In the woods. With a monster on it.

Had it been any other child, had it been an adult, they might have listened.

But it was Laurent Lepage. A boy who slew dragons and rode Pegasus, and fought back invading armies to protect the village.

And did it again the next day. A new day, a new adventure, a new story of great danger and ever greater heroics.

It had been funny, when he was six. By seven it was tiresome. By eight it was annoying. By nine it was too much. But it was in his nature, as his father said, and Laurent would not be stopped.

"No one believed him," said Lacoste. "Or so it seemed. But there was one person here that afternoon who did believe him. Who knew it could be true. He followed him the next day, knowing Laurent would probably return to the gun, which he did. Partly to see the thing again, but also because in his excitement Laurent had left one of his father's ca.s.sette tapes behind. This person killed Laurent and took his body to the side of the road, making it look like an accident."

Once again, she looked over at Gamache.

"We didn't believe the boy," she said. "We thought his death was an accident. We were wrong."

"I didn't believe him either. His death didn't seem like an accident, but finally it was something human and simple that confirmed it. Something you two asked about." He looked at Gabri and Olivier, listening intently.

"His stick," said Olivier.

"Oui. Whoever killed the boy didn't know him well. Didn't realize he carried that stick with him everywhere. It would be by his body."

Even more than "death," even more than "murder," the word "body" shook Armand. He paused to regain his composure.

"But the stick wasn't with him," said Reine-Marie, jumping in to help her husband.

"So who killed Antoinette?" asked Brian. "Was it the same person?"

"Well, that brings us to Project Babylon," said Lacoste.

"Whoever killed Antoinette obviously knew that her uncle was Guillaume Couture," said Jean-Guy Beauvoir, taking up the story. "And knew he worked with Gerald Bull. He might not have known Dr. Couture was the architect of Project Babylon, but probably suspected. It had long been rumored that Gerald Bull was more salesman than scientist. When no plans were found in his Brussels apartment or anywhere a.s.sociated with Dr. Bull, most intelligence organizations and arms dealers gave up. They figured Project Babylon was a bust and its creator was both delusional and dead. But there were some people who suspected that Gerald Bull was telling the truth. Maybe even more than suspected. Maybe they knew because they were in the area when it was being built. And so when Laurent found the gun, this person believed him. And knew if the plans for Project Babylon were anywhere, they'd be in Guillaume Couture's old home."

As Beauvoir spoke, first Myrna, then Reine-Marie and finally the rest began to glance over to the only one who fit the description. Who was in Three Pines when the ma.s.sive weapon was being constructed. And who was in the bistro when, thirty years later, Laurent found it.

Monsieur Beliveau.

The grocer sat perfectly contained, apparently oblivious to the looks, to the facts that were beginning to pile up around him.

"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 bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 Beliveau now s.h.i.+fted. 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. .h.i.t 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 a.s.sured 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 sh.o.r.e.

And then Brian left, walking ahead of Rosenblatt, who remained on the terra.s.se 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 Srete 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 Beliveau and put out her hand. "Would you walk me home?"

It was a public declaration of friends.h.i.+p 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 Beliveau 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 moved 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.