by Louise Penny
They looked at each other and the younger man nodded.
“So Brian admits it all?” said Cohen, leaving the subject of Fleming.
“Hard to deny it, when we found him with the firing mechanism he stole from my desk,” said Gamache.
“That was dangerous, wasn’t it?” said Cohen. “Suppose he’d gotten away?”
“It wasn’t the real one,” said Lacoste. “That’s safe under lock and key. We needed to flush him out. We didn’t have enough evidence against him. He had to incriminate himself.”
“So you let him think you’d stolen the firing mechanism,” said Cohen to Gamache, who nodded.
Young Agent Cohen took a swig of his beer, then reached for the chips, putting some in his mouth before he realized they were not potato but apple chips.
He looked at Chief Inspector Lacoste, and Inspector Beauvoir. His bosses. And he looked at Monsieur Gamache. And he looked at the strong beamed ceiling and thick plank floors and solid fieldstone hearths of the bistro. He looked out the window, but saw only their own reflection.
And he finally felt safe.
CHAPTER 45
Isabelle Lacoste and Adam Cohen walked up the steps to the B and B. The porch light had been left on by Gabri and the door was, of course, unlocked.
“You said you made a mistake with Fleming,” Isabelle asked. “What was it?”
Adam Cohen gnawed his lip and watched Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir walking, heads down and together, toward the light at the Gamache home. But then the two men paused, veered, and took a turn around the village green.
“I said his name,” said Cohen.
It took Isabelle Lacoste a moment to realize what Cohen meant, and then she too looked at the two men, strolling around the edges of the village green.
Adam Cohen, in his excitement, had called out over the phone. He’d said his name. Monsieur Gamache. And John Fleming, in the backseat, would have heard.
* * *
“I wanted to ask you about Professor Rosenblatt,” said Jean-Guy. “What did you say to him tonight, out on the terrasse? Did you thank him?”
“Non. I warned him.”
“About what? He stepped in front of the gun. He saved your life and probably mine, and allowed the plans to burn. Kept them out of the hands of those CSIS agents or whatever they are.”
“I wonder if that’s true.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t think Professor Rosenblatt does much that is unconsidered. I think he knew the moment to get those plans had passed. And when he stepped in front of the gun, he knew that while Delorme might shoot us, he wouldn’t shoot him.”
Gamache remembered that moment with complete clarity.
When Michael Rosenblatt had stepped in front of him, with the gun pointed at his chest, Gamache had had the overwhelming impression that Rosenblatt was in no danger.
In that split second, as the plans burned, Delorme should have shot. But didn’t. To kill Gamache and Beauvoir, for plans that were almost certainly gone, would trigger an international manhunt. And so Professor Rosenblatt had done the only thing possible. He’d stepped in front of the gun, not to save Gamache or Beauvoir, but to salvage whatever he could of the situation.
“You think Rosenblatt’s one of them? A CSIS agent, or something?”
“Or something,” said Gamache.
He did not believe Michael Rosenblatt was himself a killer, though he thought the man might be capable of it. But he did think Rosenblatt knew Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme much better than he pretended.
After all, who called them to Three Pines? Who told them about finding Project Babylon?
Gamache had suggested as much to the retired scientist when they’d parted on the terrasse. And warned him he’d be watching.
“You still think I’m mixed up in this?” Rosenblatt had asked.
“I think you know far more than you’re telling.”
Rosenblatt had studied him closely. “We’re on the same side, Armand. You must believe me.”
“Do you swear it?” Gamache had asked. “On your grandson’s life?”
Professor Rosenblatt had smiled and Gamache heard a small grunt of acknowledgment. “I do.”
But then all amusement disappeared. “You need to know,” said Rosenblatt, “the clock hasn’t stopped. It has simply been reset.”
Armand Gamache had watched him walk away, believing he was looking at the taproot. From which Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme and John Fleming had sprung.
Jean-Guy and Armand strolled in silence around the village green, through the cold, crisp fresh autumn evening.
“Professor Rosenblatt might not have been in any danger when he stepped in front of the gun, but you were, patron.” Beauvoir stopped and turned to face his father-in-law. “Thank you.”
“Not everyone would have burned those plans, mon vieux. It was one of the most magnificent things I’ve ever seen. And I’m a man who’s seen the Manneken Pis.”
A laugh escaped Beauvoir, and then a smaller, deeper sound before he muffled it.
“You’re a brave man in a brave country, Jean-Guy. A man so remarkable needs to pass that courage on to his children.”
They walked in silence, by choice for Gamache, by necessity for Jean-Guy, who couldn’t yet speak.
“Merci,” he finally said. Then fell silent again.
As they passed the B and B, Armand saw a shadow in a window. An elderly man, preparing for bed. Where he would dream, perhaps, of children and grandchildren and friends. A warm hearth, a good book, quiet conversation. A life that might have been.
* * *
The next morning a dark police van drove up to the Canadian side of the U.S. border crossing at Richford.
A man and a woman in the uniform of the Judge Advocate General’s office in the States stood just on the other side of the barrier, military police at their side.
Waiting.
The van stopped twenty meters short, its engine running. The army officers looked at each other and shifted from foot to foot. Antsy.
The van door slid open and a large, burly man with wild gray hair stepped out. Then he turned and reached out his hand to help an elderly woman from the vehicle. And, after her, a tall elderly man.
They walked on either side of Al Lepage. Their pace measured, their faces solemn. Returning the man. Finishing the deed.
The bar lifted, but just before he crossed, Ruth stopped him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I sent John Fleming to you.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t know. He terrified me and I wanted to get rid of him. I gave him you to save myself.”
Al Lepage considered Ruth Zardo.
“I could have sent him away too. That’s the difference between us. You saw evil and wanted nothing to do with it. But I invited him in.”
Al looked at the officers waiting for him. Then turned to the man and woman who had saved him once. He shook Monsieur Béliveau’s hand, then looked at Ruth.
“May I?” he asked, and when she nodded, he kissed her on one cheek. “I have no right to ask this, but please look after Evelyn. She knew none of this.”
Then he stepped across the border and became Frederick Lawson once again.
* * *
Before taking Al Lepage across the border that morning, Ruth had something she needed to do.
She picked up Rosa and walked over to Clara’s cottage. Letting herself in, she found Clara where she knew she’d be. Ruth sat on the sprung and lumpy sofa that smelled of banana peels and apple cores and watched Clara at the easel, staring at Peter’s portrait.
“Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair?” said Ruth.
“The line from your poem,” said Clara, turning on the stool to look at Ruth.
“I was asking you, Clara. Who hurt you once?” Ruth gestured to the easel. “What’re you waiting for?”
“Waiting?” asked Clara. “Nothing.”
“Then why’re you stuck?
“I just want to paint,” said Clara. “I don’t want to be saved, I don’t want to be forgiven. I don’t even want milk. I just want to paint.”
Ruth struggled out of the sofa. “I did.”
“You did what?” asked Clara.
“The answer to that question. All those years when I couldn’t write, I blamed John Fleming. But I was wrong.”
Clara watched Ruth and Rosa waddle away. She had no idea what the crazy old woman was talking about. But sitting in front of the canvas, it slowly sank in.
Who could do such damage? Who knew where the weaknesses, the fault lines lay? Who could cause all that internal bleeding?
Clara turned back to the portrait of Peter.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking into his faded face. “Forgive me.”
She placed it carefully against a wall, and put up a fresh canvas.
She knew now why she was blocked. She was trying to do the wrong painting. Trying to make amends by turning painting into penance.
Clara picked up her brush and contemplated the empty canvas. She would do a portrait of the person who had hurt her once, beyond repair.
With one bold stroke after another she painted. Capturing the rage, the sorrow, the doubt, the fear, the guilt, the joy, the love, and finally, the forgiveness.
It would be her most intimate, most difficult painting yet.
It would be a self-portrait.
* * *
Evelyn Lepage sat in her kitchen contemplating the gas oven. Trying to get up the strength to turn it on. But all the bones of her body had finally dissolved. And she couldn’t move. Not to save her life, and not to take it.
Out the window she saw a car pull up. Two elderly people got out.
“We’ve come to take you home, Evie,” came the elderly woman’s thin voice from the other side of the door. It was almost unrecognizable for its gentleness. “If you don’t mind living with a broken-down old poet and her duck.”
* * *
Jean-Guy held the phone to his ear and looked out the window of the Gamaches’ study, to the quiet village. Then he turned from the window to the papers, neatly stacked, on his father-in-law’s desk.
All the offers. The answer to “What next?” was in there.
And then the phone was answered.
“Oui, allô?” came Annie’s cheerful voice.
* * *
“Armand,” said Reine-Marie, as they finished the breakfast dishes. “Are you ever going to tell me what John Fleming did?”
Armand put the dish down and dried his hands on the towel.
“What John Fleming did is in the past. It’s over, gone.”
She studied him closely. “Is it?”
“Oui. But if, after this phone call, you still want to know about Fleming, I’ll tell you.”
Reine-Marie turned around and saw Jean-Guy in the doorway holding out the phone. She took it, perplexed. And listened.
As the two men watched, the lines of her face re-formed, and her eyes filled with wonder. And all thought of John Fleming, of the Supergun, of the Whore of Babylon vanished, overwhelmed by a far greater force.
Reine-Marie looked at Jean-Guy, who was overcome with emotion. Then she turned to Armand, who was smiling, his eyes glistening. Then Reine-Marie sat down at the old pine table, and wept.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Gerald Bull was a real man, a scientist, Canadian, an arms designer. I first came across his remarkable story in the mid-1990s when I worked as the host of a current affairs radio program for the CBC. My producer at the time, Allan Johnson, mentioned this man who’d built a massive gun called Baby Babylon right on the border with the United States, in Québec’s Eastern Townships. It was, he said, the largest effin (Allan is a great journalist with a vast vocabulary) missile launcher in the world. And it was pointed into the United States.
It was believed that Gerald Bull was building this missile launcher, called Project Babylon, for Saddam Hussein, as the Iraqi dictator edged toward a regional war.
According to reports, Baby Babylon was built but did not work. It was a failure. But Gerald Bull was not put off, and there were rumors in the arms community that Project Babylon was actually two missile launchers, not one. There was a brother to Baby Babylon, called Big Babylon. This was a missile launcher so massive it would make the first one look puny. And all the problems of Baby Babylon had been solved.
Big Babylon would work. It would fire a missile into low Earth orbit. The West was not happy. A weapon of that sort could not fall into the hands of an unstable dictator.
In early 1990, Gerald Bull was murdered in Brussels. Five bullets to the head—though, true to his life, even the manner of his death is mysterious. His killers were never found, though they were rumored to be Mossad, the Israeli enforcers.
Dr. Bull’s life, his work, his death, was a sort of open secret at the time, though not well known outside a certain circle. With time, more and more information has come out.
Where we live, in Québec’s Eastern Townships, many people remember the man, and many worked on the huge missile launcher. Indeed, my assistant Lise’s husband, Del, drove us to the site of Baby Babylon, still fenced and chained.
Such was the power of the man that people hereabouts are not anxious to talk about him or his gun even now.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LOUISE PENNY is the #1 New York Times and Globe and Mail bestselling author of ten previous Chief Inspector Armand Gamache novels. She has won numerous awards, including a CWA Dagger and the Agatha Award (five times), and was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. She lives in a small village south of Montréal.
Visit her on Facebook or at www.louisepenny.com or sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY LOUISE PENNY
The Long Way Home
How the Light Gets In
The Beautiful Mystery
A Trick of the Light
Bury Your Dead
The Brutal Telling
A Rule Against Murder
The Cruelest Month
A Fatal Grace
Still Life
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Louise Penny
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE NATURE OF THE BEAST. Copyright © 2015 by Three Pines Creations, Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Excerpts from “A Sad Child” and “Waiting” from Morning in the Burned House: New Poems by Margaret Atwood. Copyright © 1995. Published by McClelland & Stewart in Canada, and Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company in the United States. Used with permission of the author and her publishers (in their respective territories) and the author’s agent, Curtis Brown Group Ltd., London, acting on behalf of Margaret Atwood. All rights reserved.
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph by Ian Christopher Piggott
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-02208-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-02209-7 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781250022097
First Edition: September 2015
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