Page 135

What wasn’t said was what this madman had done with the bodies.

On arriving at the SHU, the head guard had read the file. Seen the photos. And then spent every hour of every day wishing he had not.

His job now was to make sure these men stayed behind these iron doors. And none more than Fleming.

It became clear to him that this was not just a job, it was a sacred duty. The Special Handling Unit was filled with murderers, mass murderers, child murderers. Serial killers.

The deranged, the criminally insane, lived out their lives within those walls, waiting for their own deaths. No family, no friends ever came. Not even the Grim Reaper wanted to visit. Many of the inmates lived to a ripe old age. Some were over one hundred years old. Unable to live. Unable to die.

Of all these criminals, John Fleming was the worst. The head guard knew that. And now, standing outside the warden’s office, staring into the deep brown eyes of the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, he’d begun to suspect that the worst had happened.

“I’ll get it for you,” he said.

“Merci.”

With that, the Sûreté officers walked into the warden’s office.

The warden was furious. He’d been dragged out of bed, forced back to the office, and was now being accused of allowing the most dangerous prisoner in the SHU to escape.

Gamache put on his reading glasses and scanned the file, though he knew what he’d find. Lies. A deliberate counterfeit.

Sure enough, the file showed a photo and description of the man Gamache had just met. It was close, the resemblance almost uncanny. But it was not John Fleming.

The litany of Fleming’s crimes was there, along with psychiatrist reports. There was an all-too-brief description of Fleming’s background, including his education.

It said the same thing as Gamache’s private records. John Fleming was a mathematician. Not an engineer.

Gamache snapped the file shut, then handed it to Beauvoir, but not before removing the photographs of what Fleming had done and putting them into his pocket. Leaning forward, he spoke with blistering courtesy to the warden.

“The man introduced to me just now as John Fleming is not John Fleming. I know it, and you know it, sir. And you know that, despite what the record says, I can prove it.”

Though Gamache also knew that could be problematic. If as much trouble had been taken over this escape as it seemed, the DNA and prints of the false Fleming would now be in the official file.

John Fleming would have dissolved and re-formed into someone else.

But the real file, along with evidence of other crimes he might have committed, were intact. The real John Fleming was in the locked room in Gamache’s basement.

But he’d have to prove that his files were legitimate, and the now official records were fakes. That would take more time than they had.

“There’s nothing to prove,” said the warden. “Listen closely, Chief Inspector. I’ll say this once. You’re a breath away from a lawsuit that will ruin you. It’s one thing to come in here with both boots and insist a prisoner has escaped, when there’s no proof. In fact, there’s a whole lotta proof that he’s safely locked up.” He gestured toward the file now in Beauvoir’s hands. “But you refuse to believe the evidence of your own eyes.” He stared into Gamache’s steady gaze and seemed to get stuck there for a moment, before plowing on. “It’s a whole other thing to accuse me, accuse him”—the warden pointed to the head guard—“in front of witnesses, of a cover-up. That’s actionable. Let me just be clear. Are you actually saying we’ve knowingly allowed a criminally insane prisoner to escape?”

“Non.”

“No?” The warden looked confused.

“Not him—” Gamache tilted his face toward the head guard. “Only you.”

The warden colored. But Gamache went on, his voice deep and calm. It was a calm Beauvoir knew well. Had first heard on the shores of that pewter lake, a lifetime ago. When he’d first met Gamache. When he’d first learned that what met the eye and what was the real story could be two very different things.

“Now, let me be clear,” said the Chief Inspector. “The lede here isn’t what this means for me, or you. It’s that a lunatic has been allowed out in the community. That’s what matters. Finding him is what matters. Whose life is ruined, yours or mine, can be sorted later. You need to tell us everything you know. Now!”

The last word was snapped out with such force the head guard jumped.

Jean-Guy could see the tremble in Gamache’s right hand. It was getting more and more pronounced. He was barely containing his rage.

“Get him out of my office,” the warden ordered, but the guard didn’t move.

Gamache had had enough. He stood up so quickly his chair squealed against the linoleum floor.