The Nature of the Beast

His finger landed on the third man, whose face was turned away from the camera, and down.

“Oui?” said Lacoste, leaning in for a better look.

Beauvoir also studied it. He’d wondered about that third man and had harbored a suspicion that it was Professor Rosenblatt. But he couldn’t make the contours of the face, the forehead, the chin fit. Even allowing for thirty years of food, and drink, and worry, it was not Michael Rosenblatt.

“Who is he, patron?” asked Beauvoir.

Isabelle Lacoste looked up from the picture and met Gamache’s eyes.

“My God, it’s John Fleming,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Please,” said Beauvoir, with a dismissive snort. But Gamache hadn’t laughed. Didn’t correct Lacoste.

Jean-Guy looked more closely and remembered the coverage of the trial, years earlier. John Fleming had been both completely unremarkable and completely unforgettable.

And there he was again. Now that he knew, it seemed so obvious. And yet—

“How could that be?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Gamache, putting the photograph back in his breast pocket. “But I do know he’s the one who commissioned Al Lepage to create the Whore of Babylon.”

They looked over at the couple waiting quietly at the table.

“Why don’t you sit in, patron, while we interview him,” said Lacoste.

Armand took a seat across from Al Lepage. He looked at the deep blue eyes, the powerful shoulders, the scored and weather-beaten face. Lepage’s bushy gray beard still had a hint of the bright orange it had once been. It was loose today, not bound by a hair band. It gave him an untamed, wild appearance. His long hair was also loose and tangled so that he appeared to be some sort of missing link. Close, but not quite human.

Except for the eyes. Sharp and intelligent.

Al Lepage looked almost relieved. A beast of burden fallen to its knees, still carrying the load, but going no further. The end of the road.

And then Lacoste had asked him outright if he’d killed his son to keep his secret. He’d created the Whore of Babylon, and now it was marching to his own personal Armageddon. If discovered, it would lead straight to Al Lepage, who led to Frederick Lawson, which led to a village in Vietnam and a massacre.

For an instant Al Lepage looked terrified. But then the expression retreated behind the beard and Gamache wondered if that was its purpose. It was a big, bushy mask behind which Frederick Lawson, the mass murderer, hid.

“What? What?” Lepage asked, looking from one to the other, apparently bewildered. “Hurt Laurent? I could never—”

“Now, we know that’s not true, don’t we?” said Beauvoir, glaring at the man.

Lepage’s breath came in short gasps as he looked from Beauvoir to Lacoste and finally to Gamache.

“Look, I admit I did the drawing. They offered me a lot of money, how could I refuse?”

He stared as though expecting them to understand.

“But I knew nothing about a gun. I hate—”

He stopped himself and looked at them again.

“You hate guns, you were about to say?” said Beauvoir. He shoved his device across the table and Lepage’s large hand instinctively stopped it from sliding off. He looked down at the glowing image.

“Is that your etching?” asked Lacoste.

Lepage nodded.

“As you see,” said Lacoste. “It’s on the gun. The great big gun, where Laurent was killed.”

“I don’t understand,” said Al. “I admit I did the drawing. They were very clear what they wanted, but they didn’t say what it was for and I didn’t ask.”

“And you didn’t notice the huge missile launcher you were using as a canvas?” demanded Beauvoir. “How much acid were you dropping? Look, I know you think you can get out of this, but you can’t. Stop wasting our time, stop making it worse for everyone.” Beauvoir glanced over at Evelyn, who was staring at her husband, dumbfounded. “Start at the beginning. Tell us about the gun and the etching.”

The shaggy head dropped and lifted a couple of times in what might have been assent or despair.

“It was a long time ago,” Lepage finally said. “Two men came to the boardinghouse and asked if I could do a commission. I thought they meant write a song. I agreed. But then they explained it was a drawing, and told me how much they’d pay. They gave me some special paper. One of the men said he’d be back in a few weeks. When he returned he seemed to like it. I bought the farm with the money and never saw him again.”