The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11)

The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) Page 41

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They walked through the woods, following bright yellow ribbons tied to the trees. Like crumbs leading to Grandma’s great big gun.

Professor Rosenblatt was not used to forests. Or fields. Or lakes. Or nature of any kind. They’d walked for a few minutes and he was already tired. He skidded off another moss-covered rock and hugged a tree trunk to stop himself from falling.

“All right?” Gamache asked, reaching out to steady the older man and to pick up his briefcase, again. He’d offered to carry it but the professor had politely, but firmly, declined and took it back, again.

And so their progress through the forest became a sort of minuet, with Professor Rosenblatt lunging from tree to tree, like a drunk groping his way across a dance floor.

Lacoste and Beauvoir were now a distance ahead, almost swallowed up by the trees.

“This is not my natural habitat,” said the professor, unnecessarily. “I prefer four walls, a computer and a plate of madeleines.”

Gamache smiled. “Chocolatines for me.”

“Oui. They’d do, in an emergency. I don’t suppose…”

“Sadly, no,” said Gamache with a smile.

Far up ahead Rosenblatt could hear, between his raspy gasping breaths, the two officers talking. Words familiar from television shows drifted back to him.

DNA. Forensics. Blood work.

He wondered how the boy had died, though at that moment he was concentrating on not dying himself, as he huffed and wheezed and stumbled through the forest.

And then, in the gloom, Rosenblatt saw something that made his heart leap. One of the trees moved. He stopped and removed his glasses, wiping sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand.

Being a scientist, Professor Rosenblatt knew it could not possibly be a tree, walking. But he also knew that this forest contained other unbelievable things.

And then his vision adjusted, and he saw that it wasn’t, of course, a tree at all, but another Sûreté officer, dressed in his moss-green uniform. And off to the side was another one.

And coming around that hill, still another.

And then his eyes adjusted some more, and focused on what it was they circled. And guarded.

He thought he was prepared, but as he stared at the towering jumble of vines in front of them all rational thought escaped and left him light-headed.

“Ready?” Isabelle Lacoste asked.

One by one they went inside. First Inspector Beauvoir, then Chief Inspector Lacoste. Then it was Professor Rosenblatt’s turn.

He hesitated and realized with some surprise that he was afraid. Afraid of what he’d find. Afraid it wasn’t what he thought it was. Afraid it was.

Gamache held back the thick vines at the opening so that the professor could squeeze through on his hands and knees, pushing his briefcase ahead of him.

The Sûreté officers had turned on their flashlights but they didn’t provide much light. And then there was a thump and huge floodlights were turned on.

Michael Rosenblatt brought his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the glare. And then his gaze traveled up. And up. And up.

And his mouth went slack. He held his breath and then released it in a long, long exhale, at the tail end of which were two words, barely audible.

“He didn’t.”

And then Professor Rosenblatt dropped his briefcase.

CHAPTER 12

“My God,” Rosenblatt whispered.

But he didn’t seem to Gamache, who stood beside the elderly professor, like a man who’d seen his God. Just the opposite.

“Can I go closer? Am I allowed to touch it?”

“Yes. But be careful,” said Lacoste.

He handed his briefcase, no longer all that important, to Gamache and approached the gun. Slowly, carefully. His hands out in front of him, as though worried he might scare it off.

“The main thing we need to know from you, Professor,” said Lacoste, as they followed him, “is whether it can be fired. We’d need to disable it.”

“Yes,” said Rosenblatt, in a dream state.

He walked up to the etching, and stopped. Considering the monster. Then he laid his palms flat on it. Feeling the cold metal. Almost expecting to feel a pulse.

He leaned into it, and Gamache thought he heard a whisper, but couldn’t make out the words.

Then Professor Rosenblatt stepped back. And back again. And another step. Craning his neck, dropping his head back until it could go no further. His mouth open, his eyes wide, he tried to take in the magnitude of what he was seeing. Not simply the size of the weapon, but the very fact of it.