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“It’s in what used to be called Ravenscrag, this old stone mansion on the top of Mont Royal, built by one of the robber barons. They say it’s haunted and I can believe it. If it wasn’t before Cameron, it was after. Terrible place. Probably still is. Terrifying. Caretakers were afraid to go into the basement. I wouldn’t stay there at night.”

He lowered his head as the shrieks of the animals mixed with the screams of the people, until they were indistinguishable. They’d chased him down the hallways and out the door. They’d chased him into the gathering darkness. They’d chased him all over the world. And finally, they’d chased him deep into the woods.

Beauvoir could feel the hairs on his forearms rising and glanced at Gamache, who looked perfectly calm. As though suspects told them ghost stories every day.

“But I kept the job, because it paid well and I was learning a lot. I was a resident and Dr. Cameron was a god. The God. The eminent head of psychiatry. Doing important work, vital work. They were beginning to understand how the mind worked. Not the brain, but the mind. It was exciting.”

Jean-Guy’s lips pressed together in an effort not to say something, and he noticed that, beside him, Armand’s hand was moving, very slightly. His fingers were caressing the leather chair. And then Gamache slowly closed his right hand into a fist.

And Jean-Guy knew why. It was to stop the trembling that had plagued Gamache from that moment in the factory. From the moment his whole body had been lifted off the ground, as though levitating, propelled by the bullets.

And then slammed back down.

Gamache had had the scar at his temple from that day forward. And a slight limp and a tremble in his right hand, whenever he was stressed or fatigued. Far from being a mark of weakness, Jean-Guy Beauvoir understood it was, in fact, a sign of strength.

“It was a terrible job,” Vincent Gilbert was saying. “But it didn’t take long before I discovered something far worse. What was happening on the other side of the wall. In the next room, and the room beside that. And so on and so on.”

“Ad nauseum,” said Gamache.

Gilbert gave a curt nod. “We’d heard rumors, of course, of the CIA involvement. But we’d thought that was a myth. And if we believed it, it just added to Cameron’s luster. It seemed romantic. That he was helping the Free World in its fight against Communism. Against the Red Tide. It seems laughable now, but it was real back then. You have to remember, this was right around the Cuban missile crisis. The world was on the brink of nuclear war. Anything that could be done to prevent that was considered fair.”

He looked from one to the other of them, to judge their reactions. But all he got were stares.

Gilbert took a deep breath. “That’s what I told myself, anyway, when I realized what Cameron and the others were doing to those men and women.”

He sat back and folded his hands together on his lap, interlocking the fingers. Then he brought them to his face so that his chin rested on the top of his clasped hands. Like a child at prayer.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

“Most of Cameron’s experiments had to do with brainwashing and sleep deprivation,” said Gilbert. “He’d keep them awake for days at a time. Part of my job was making sure they got food and water.”

“Them? They?” asked Gamache, his voice terrifying in its calm. “The animals or the people?”

“Both,” Gilbert said, quietly. “The people begged me to let them sleep. To untie them. To let them go home. But I didn’t.”

If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

“Not because I thought what Cameron was doing was right. I knew it wasn’t. But because I was afraid if I said or did anything I’d be kicked out of medical school. He was that powerful.” He stared at Gamache for a moment before saying, “And I was that weak.”

Vincent Gilbert screwed his eyes so tightly shut they all but disappeared into his face.

“I spent the rest of my life trying to make amends,” he said, his eyes still shut. “I was still an asshole.” He opened his eyes and smiled. “That, I’m afraid, is hardwired. But I’m hoping I’m also . . .”

Gamache now let his feelings, his thoughts, be known. In the sickened expression on his face as he greeted this sally by Vincent Gilbert. Who seemed to be inviting them, him, to agree that besides being an ass he’d also, magically, become saintly. His soul cleansed of an early misdemeanor.

Armand Gamache was having none of that. Though he remained mute.

And now Jean-Guy Beauvoir saw what he was doing. He was giving Vincent Gilbert rope. To either escape his prison or hang himself.

Gilbert, by his last statement, appeared to be fashioning a noose.

“I did try, Armand,” said Gilbert, softly. Pleading for forgiveness that was not Armand’s to give.

“Did you know Mrs. Horton?” Gamache asked, his eyes not wavering from Gilbert’s face.

There was a pause. Then Gilbert shook his head. “I can’t remember. Maybe if I saw a photograph . . .”

“Why the monkey?”