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

The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) Page 74

A guitar was propped on a stand next to the chair.

Beauvoir walked over to the stereo and looked at the LPs and cassettes.

He pulled out a vinyl album and recognized the smiling man on the cover. With a full head of red hair, a bushy red beard, wearing a plaid lumberjack shirt and jeans with peace signs sewn in. He had everything but a joint.

He also recognized the background, with three tall pine trees.

The album was called Asylum.

“You?” asked Beauvoir, unnecessarily.

Al nodded. Evie took her husband’s hand.

“You’re American, is that right?” asked Lacoste. “A draft dodger?”

Al nodded. “There were lots of us.”

“I know,” said Lacoste. “It wasn’t an accusation. Why did you come here?”

“To get out of the war,” said Al.

“No, I mean, why here specifically?”

“I walked across the border from Vermont. I was tired. It was dark. I saw the lights of the village. So I stopped. Stayed.”

His speech was almost infantile, in spare declarative sentences.

“When was this?” asked Lacoste.

“Nineteen seventy.”

“More than forty years ago,” said Beauvoir.

“Do you know anything about that gun in the woods?” Lacoste asked.

“No. I hate guns.”

“Did Laurent say anything more after he found the gun? Did he talk to anyone else about it?” asked Beauvoir.

Both Al and Evie shook their heads.

“No?” asked Beauvoir. “Or you don’t know?”

“If he spoke to someone else he didn’t tell us,” said Evie. “But he must’ve, right? Was he killed because of the gun?”

“We think so,” said Lacoste. “Can you think of anything Laurent said, anything at all, that could help?”

“He came home, we had supper. Laurent read and Al and I did the vegetable baskets, then we went to bed. It was a normal night.”

“And next morning?” asked Lacoste.

“Breakfast, then he was out the door and on his bike as always.” Evie shut her eyes and both Lacoste and Beauvoir knew what she was seeing. The back of her little boy as he ran out into the sunshine. Never to return.

“We looked in his room but didn’t find anything,” said Beauvoir. “Has anything changed in there? Is there anything new?”

“Like what?” Evie asked.

Like the firing mechanism to a weapon of mass destruction, thought Beauvoir. Or plans for Armageddon.

“Just anything,” he said. “Did he bring anything home recently?”

“Not that I noticed.”

Isabelle Lacoste reached into her pocket, brought out an evidence bag, and placed it on the table between them. And waited for a reaction.

Al picked it up and his brows came together. “Where did you find this?”

“Is it yours?”

“I think so.”

Evie took the cassette out of his hand and read the label.

“Pete Seeger. It’s ours.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Beauvoir.

“Who else would have this?” she asked, holding it up. “Besides, the label’s torn where it got stuck in the cassette player in the truck.”

“One of Laurent’s favorites?” asked Lacoste.

Evie smiled slightly. “No. He hated it. It took a couple of months for Al to pry it out of the machine, so it was all we played when we were driving.”

“He liked it at first,” said Al.

“Yes, but even I grew to hate it. Where did you find it?” Evie asked.

“On the ground by the gun,” said Lacoste. “Did you notice it missing?”

Both Al and Evie shook their heads.

“Why would Laurent take it there?” Evie asked.

“Well, either he did or his killer did,” said Beauvoir.

It took a moment for the implication to penetrate, but when it did Al Lepage stood and faced Beauvoir.

“Are you accusing us? Me?”

“I’m stating what must be obvious,” said Beauvoir, also getting to his feet. “Why would Laurent have a cassette with music he hated?”

“To hide it?” asked Evie, standing beside her husband. Holding his hand not for comfort but to stop him from doing something they’d all regret.

Here was a man who might hate violence, Beauvoir knew, but who was capable of it.

“We’ve heard the rumors,” said Al. “They think I killed my own child. Some are even saying Laurent wasn’t mine. That Evie…” He was overcome and couldn’t go on. The massive man stood within six inches of Beauvoir, staring at him. Not angry anymore, but desperate. If Al Lepage was a mountain, they were witnessing a landslide.