Page 132

But he could not see anything.

The day was fresh, new. Unsullied. And then he spoiled it by thinking of John Fleming. Was this his? Had he worn the ring while he …

The records said Fleming’s degree was in mathematics, not engineering. But he might have falsified them. Lots of people did.

They’d visited the man once in the SHU, to get information only Fleming had.

Beauvoir had heard of Fleming, of course. Everyone had. The case was infamous. But since he didn’t believe in malevolence, Jean-Guy was not at all worried about meeting the man. Just curious. And all the more curious because of Gamache’s obvious unease.

Dew gleamed on the grass and leaves and flowers as Jean-Guy sat on the bench and thought about that visit. The one and only time he’d come face-to-face with the serial killer.

Gamache had warned him not to use their names. Not to answer any questions Fleming might ask, no matter how innocuous. Give the man absolutely no information, Gamache had warned him. No way into their lives. Just listen.

“And for God’s sake, do not make eye contact.”

Beauvoir had thought it was an almost ludicrous overreaction. Especially when a thin little man was led into the interview room, in chains. He looked, Beauvoir thought, like a bone china figurine. Small. Fragile. Delicate even.

Until Fleming met his eyes. And held them.

Up until that moment, Jean-Guy Beauvoir had thought in terms of good and bad. Guilty or not guilty. Was there enough evidence to arrest and convict or not? He believed in rational thought. Not in spirits or ghosts and certainly not in anything as cartoonish as evil.

But in that moment, in those eyes, a world opened. A world where the evidence was unseen and overwhelming. Incontrovertible and invisible. More real than the shiny metal table his sweaty hands rested on.

Beauvoir had no doubt that sitting across from him was the exception that proved the rule. The horror without hope of redemption.

“Go,” Armand Gamache had whispered. Urgently. “Get away. Stand by the door.”

And Jean-Guy had. He’d left the table and left Gamache. He stood with his back pressed to the wall, the hairs on his forearms raised. He could no longer see John Fleming’s face. Just the back of his head. The thinning wispy gray hair. The hunched shoulders.

But he could see Gamache. Staring at the man. Holding John Fleming’s eyes until Beauvoir was safe. Only then did Gamache blink. And breathe.

Gamache struggled to give nothing away even as he knew there was no hope of that.

Beauvoir had watched, helpless, as Fleming got into Gamache’s head and made a home there. But, recognizing that and knowing it was too late, Gamache did the only thing open to him. He closed that part of his mind. Trapping John Fleming there. The madman could not escape. But it also meant Gamache was trapped with him. Forever.

But Fleming also had a plan. Once inside, he’d make his way, over time, to Armand’s heart. Which he would then attack.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir had watched the rest of the interview from the sidelines as Gamache had faced the horror, had jousted and parried, deflected and blocked. As he walked into that dark cavern. Alone. And emerged with the information they needed. But at a terrible cost.

Jean-Guy had never forgotten those elongated minutes. Distorted by terror. And ripe with shame. He’d seen the epic battle, fought to a draw.

And now Gamache was returning, alone.

And now it is now, and the dark thing is here.

Beauvoir knew the idea of confronting Fleming again terrified Gamache. And yet, he was on his way to do just that. Jean-Guy sat on the bench, listening to the early-morning birdsong, and worried that Armand was about to roll away the wrong boulder. Walk into the wrong cave. His only protection was the belief that goodness was at least as powerful as evil. It was a muddled belief, a dangerous one, Jean-Guy feared.

But now, as the sun rose higher and the scent of lilac filled the air, Jean-Guy looked around at the peaceful village and began to see that maybe the belief in goodness wasn’t a blind spot. It was a bright spot.

He put his mug on the bench, got up, and walked to his car.

On his way to his destination, he stopped at a jeweler. With the help of her high-powered lens, the woman made out the numbers.

“Almost worn away,” she said, expertly dropping the eyepiece into her hand. She gave him the line of numbers.

Before getting back into the car, he sent what he’d found to both Nathalie Provost and Gamache. Then Jean-Guy Beauvoir headed to where he should have been all along. The SHU. To take his place beside the Chief.

Armand sat at the metal table. It reminded him of the autopsy tables he’d stood beside so often.