Page 134
Prisoners spat as Gamache walked past. They tried to piss on him. But Gamache walked through it all, laser-focused on finding, or not finding, John Fleming.
Halfway through, Jean-Guy arrived.
“What’re you doing here?” Gamache asked, though Jean-Guy detected a note of relief.
“What? You’d be lost without me.”
Around them the air was putrid with threats and sweat and the smell of piss. And worse.
Beauvoir took it all in, then said, “Feels like dinner with Ruth.”
Gamache smiled and held Jean-Guy’s arm, in gratitude for that small respite. Then he said, “Go to the warden’s office. Tell him you need the file on Fleming, but don’t open it. I’ll join you when I’ve finished.”
But instead of moving, Beauvoir just stood there. “Non. I’m staying with you.”
“Inspector Beauvoir—”
“Non. You can fire me, but I’m not leaving. Not this time.”
Jean-Guy Beauvoir, lashed to the mast, would sink or swim with this man. Their fates were bound together, as the winds howled, and the storm descended, and they traveled deeper into Hell.
They looked into each of the cells. Into the faces of any number of lunatics. But not the one they were searching for.
John Fleming was no longer there.
Outside the warden’s office, Gamache turned to the head guard. “How long have you been at the SHU?”
“Two and a half years.”
“That long.” Gamache sighed.
“Do you think Fleming’s been gone since then?” asked Beauvoir.
Gamache nodded. “What happened to the former head guard?”
“He retired.”
“I’m guessing suddenly.”
“Yes.”
“And he moved away?”
“To Florida.”
“Can you get us his address?” asked Beauvoir.
It was clear that the head guard was about to object, to say he’d need the warden’s approval. Then he changed his mind. He’d watched these men be verbally abused. Spat on, almost pissed and shit on. And they kept going.
If they could do that, he could do this. Besides, he was beginning to believe them.
He knew John Fleming. At least, he knew his crimes. He’d familiarized himself with the details of each prisoner when he got the job. And no prisoner was more famous than Fleming.
Like everyone else, the head guard knew the broad strokes of his crimes.
Over the course of seven years, John Fleming had kidnapped and murdered seven people, men and women, young and old. One a year. His victims were completely random, from a clerk at the Hudson’s Bay Company, to a bridge builder, to a fisherman, and more. Each in a different decade of their life.
That he knew. That everyone knew.
