The Nature Of The Beast Part 6

Both of them could see that building, a terrible monolith rising out of the ground.

"You continued counseling prisoners at the other penitentiaries," he said. "Murderers, rapists. But you stopped eventually and came here. Why?"

"Because it was too much. It wasn't their failure, it was mine. They were too damaged. I couldn't help them."

"Maybe some can't be repaired because they were never damaged," he suggested.

Through the window he could see splashes of astonishing color in the forest that covered the mountains. The maple and oak and apple trees turning. Preparing. That was where the fall began. High up. And then it descended, until it reached them in the valley. The fall was, of course, inevitable. He could see it coming.

"Coffee?" he said, hauling himself out of the chair and stepping over Henri.

"Please."

As he poured he spoke. "John Fleming was arrested and tried eighteen years ago."

"Crimes like those don't fade, do they?" said Myrna, taking the mug and finishing his thought. "Do you know him?"

"I followed the case," said Gamache, retaking his seat. "He committed his crimes in New Brunswick, but he was tried here because it was felt he couldn't get a fair trial there."

"I remember. Is he still here?"

Gamache nodded. "At the Special Handling Unit."

"That's why you asked me about the SHU?"

Gamache nodded.

"Is he getting help?" Myrna asked.

"He's beyond help."

"Believe me, I'm not saying he'd ever be a model citizen," said Myrna. "I'm not saying I'd ever trust him with a child of mine-"

It was subtle, but Myrna, who knew every line of Armand's face, was sure she saw a movement. A flinch.

"-but he's a human being and he must be in torment, to have done those things. It's possible, with time and therapy, he can be helped. Not released. But helped to release some of his demons."

"John Fleming will never get better," Gamache said, his voice low. "And believe me, we don't want his demons released."

She was about to argue with him, but stopped. If anyone believed in second chances, it was the man who sat before her. She'd been his friend and his unofficial therapist. She'd heard his deepest secrets, and she'd heard his most profound beliefs, and his greatest fears. But now she wondered if she'd really heard them all. And she wondered what demons might be nesting deep inside this man, who specialized in murder.

"What do you know, Armand, that we don't?"

"I can't say."

"I also followed the court case-" She stopped, and regarded him.

Then it dawned on her. What he was really saying by not saying anything.

"We didn't hear everything, did we, Armand? There was another trial, a private one, for Fleming."

A trial within a trial.

Myrna knew, from her a.s.sociation with the law, that the system allowed for such things, but she'd never ever heard of one actually being held.

There would be the public trial for public consumption, but behind closed and locked and bolted doors, there would be another. Where evidence, deemed too horrific for the community, would be revealed.

How bad, Myrna wondered, would something have to be to go against the fundamental beliefs of their society? How horrific would that truth have to be, to hide it from the public? Only the accused, the judge, the prosecutor, the defense attorney, a guard, a court reporter would be present. And one other.

One person, not a.s.sociated with the case, would be chosen to represent all Canadians. They would absorb the horror. They would hear and see things that could never be forgotten. And then, when the trial was over, they would carry it to their grave, so that the rest of the population didn't have to. One person sacrificed for the greater good.

"You more than read his file, didn't you?" said Myrna. "There was a closed-door trial, wasn't there?"

Armand stared at her, his lips compressed slightly.

Gamache and Henri left the bookstore and walked around the village green, feeling the fresh, cool autumn air on their faces. Breathing in the scent of overripe apples and fresh-cut gra.s.s, their feet shuffling through newly fallen leaves.

He didn't tell Myrna, of course. He couldn't. It was confidential. And even if he was allowed to tell Myrna what he knew about the crimes committed by John Fleming, he wouldn't do it.

He wished he himself didn't know.

Each day, when the door had been unlocked and he'd been allowed out, Armand had returned to his office at Srete headquarters in Montreal and stared out the window at the people below. Waiting for lights to change. Going for drinks, or to the dentist. Thinking about groceries, and bills, and the boss.

They didn't know. They read the newspapers and saw the television reports on the trial and thought Fleming a monster. But they didn't know the half of it.

Armand Gamache was eternally grateful to the judge who'd had the courage to enact that most extreme of clauses. And he wondered if the courtroom had been scrubbed down when it was over. Disinfected. Burned to the ground.

Or had they simply closed the doors and gone back to their lives and, in the nighttime, in the darkness, had they prayed to a G.o.d they hoped was powerful, to forget? Prayed for dreamless sleep. Prayed to turn back the clocks to a time when they did not know.

Knowledge wasn't always power. Sometimes it was crippling.

Myrna had suggested therapy could, over time, rid Fleming of his demons. But Armand Gamache knew that wasn't true. Because John Fleming was the demon.

And now, from that prison cell, he'd managed to escape. He'd slid out between the bars. In the form of words.

John Fleming was out in the world again.

He'd come to play.

CHAPTER 5.

"What do you want?" Antoinette called into the darkness.

She stood on the brightly lit stage, her hand to her forehead, peering like a mariner looking for land.

"To talk to you," came Armand's voice from the theater.

"I think you've done enough, don't you?"

Brian came out of the wings carrying a prop lamp. "Who're you talking to?"

Armand climbed the steps onto the stage. "Me. Salut, Brian."

"Are you happy?" Antoinette demanded, walking over to him. "Myrna and Gabri have quit. Brian here has to take over Gabri's lead role-"

"I do?"

"A play's hard enough to put on without actors dropping out," she said.

"You're going on with the production then?" Gamache asked.

"Of course," she said. "Despite all your efforts. The other actors are going to be here in a few minutes. I'd like you to leave before you do more damage."

"Are you going to tell them who wrote the play?"

"Because if I don't you will? Is that why you're here? To make sure you well and truly destroy the production? Christ, you're a fascist after all."

"I don't want to debate with you," said Gamache.

"Of course not, because that would be more free speech," said Antoinette. For his part, Brian stood by the sofa, still holding the lamp. Like a failed Diogenes.

"Gabri and Myrna made up their own minds," said Gamache. "But I didn't try to dissuade them. I think doing the play is wrong."

"Yes, I got that. But we're doing it anyway. And you know why? Because while the man might be horrible, his play is extraordinary. If you have your way, no one will ever read it or see it performed. What a champion of the free society."

"A free society comes at a cost," he snapped, then reined himself in.

Antoinette smiled. "Hit a nerve, did I? What're you so afraid of, Armand? The man's in prison, has been for years. He'll never get out."

"I'm not afraid."

"You're terrified," said Antoinette. "If I was casting a man driven by fear, I'd beg you to do the role."

"I'd like to talk," said Gamache, ignoring what she just said. "Can we sit down?"

"Fine, but make it quick before the others arrive."

"Can I join you?" Brian asked, putting the lamp down. "Or is this private?"

"Yes," said Armand. "This involves you too."

He sat on a threadbare armchair, part of the stage set. The few times he'd actually been on a stage, it had surprised him how very shabby everything was. From a distance, from the audience, the actors could look like kings and queens, t.i.tans of business. But close up? The costumes were cheap, worn, often smelly. Their castles were falling apart.

The illusion shattered. That was the price of looking at things too closely.

As an investigator he'd spent his career examining things, examining people. Looking behind the facade, at what was really there. The worn and shabby and threadbare interiors.

But sometimes, sometimes, when he pulled back the illusion, what he found was something shiny, bright, far better than the stage set.

He looked at Antoinette. Middle-aged, clinging on perhaps a little too tightly to the illusion of youth. Her hair was dyed purple, her clothes could have been considered bohemian, had they not been so studied.

He genuinely liked Antoinette and admired her. Admired her even now, for standing up for what she believed in. And, after all, she didn't know the full truth about Fleming.

"I'm here because we're friends," he said. "I don't want this disagreement to come between us."

"You didn't even read the play, Armand," Antoinette said, the anger draining from her voice. "How can you condemn it?"

"Perhaps the life of the writer shouldn't matter," he said, his own voice soft now. "But it does to me. In this case."

"I'm not going to pull the play," she said. "It might be c.r.a.p now, with Brian in the lead-"

"Hey," said Brian.

"I'm sorry, you'll be fine, but you don't have much time to rehea.r.s.e, and when you came in late for rehearsal today I thought you'd also-"

"I'd never quit," said Brian, looking shocked and upset. "How could you even think such a thing?"

Gamache wondered if Antoinette knew how lucky she was to have such a loyal partner. He also wondered about Brian, who could be so morally blinded by love.

"Honestly, Armand," she said. "You're behaving as though our very survival is at stake. It's just a play."

"If it's just a play, then cancel it," he said, and they were back where they'd started.

She stared at him. He stared at her. And Brian just looked unhappy.

"How did you come to have the Fleming play?" Gamache asked.

"I told you, Brian found it among my uncle's papers," she said.

"What was your uncle's name?"

"Guillaume Couture."

"Was he a theater director? An actor?" Armand asked.

"Not at all. As far as I know he never went to the theater. He built bridges. Little ones. Overpa.s.ses really. He was a quiet, gentle man."

"Then why did he have the play? Did he know Fleming?"

"Of course not," she said. "He barely left Three Pines his whole life. He probably picked it up at a yard sale. We don't owe you an explanation. We've committed no crime, and you're no cop." She got up. "Now please leave. We have work to do."