“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.”