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


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    CHAPTER 1


    Running, running, stumbling, running.


    Arm up against the wiry branches whipping his face. He didn¡¯t see the root. He fell, hands splayed into the moss and mud. His assault rifle dropped and bounced and rolled from sight. Eyes wide, frantic now, Laurent Lepage scanned the forest floor and swept his hands through the dead and decaying leaves.


    He could hear the footsteps behind him. Boots on the ground. Pounding. He could almost feel the earth heaving as they got closer, closer, while he, on all fours, plowed the leaves aside.


    ¡°Come on, come on,¡± he pleaded.


    And then his bloodied and filthy hands clasped the barrel of the assault rifle and he was up and running. Bent over. Gasping for breath.


    It felt as though he¡¯d been on the run for weeks, months. A lifetime. And even as he sprinted through the forest, dodging the tree trunks, he knew the running would end soon.


    But for now he ran, so great was his will to survive. So great was his need to hide what he¡¯d found. If he couldn¡¯t get it back to safety, at least, maybe, he could make sure those in pursuit wouldn¡¯t find it.


    He could hide it. Here, in this forest. And then the lion would sleep tonight. Finally.


    Bang. Bangbangbang. The trees around him exploded, ripped apart by bullets.


    He dove and rolled and came up behind a stump, his shoulder to the rotting wood. No protection at all.


    His thoughts in these final moments did not go to his parents at home in the little Qu¨¦bec village. They didn¡¯t go to his puppy, no longer a puppy but a grown dog. He didn¡¯t think of his friends, or the games on the village green in summer, or tobogganing, giddy, down the hill while the mad old poet shook her fist at them in winter. He didn¡¯t think of the hot chocolate at the end of the day in front of the fire in the bistro.


    He thought only of killing those in his sights. And buying time. So that maybe, maybe, he could hide the cassette.


    And then maybe, maybe those in the village would be safe. And those in other villages would be safe. There was some comfort in knowing there would be purpose to this. His sacrifice would be for the greater good and for those he loved and the place he loved.


    He raised his weapon, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.


    ¡°Bang,¡± he said, feeling the assault rifle thrust into his shoulder. ¡°Bangbangbangbangbang.¡±


    The front line of his pursuers fell.


    He leapt and rolled behind a sturdy tree, pressing so hard against it that the rough bark made a bruise on his back and he wondered if the tree might topple over. He hugged his rifle to his chest. His pulse pounding. He could feel his own heart in his ears. It threatened to drown out all other sounds.


    Like swiftly approaching feet.


    Laurent tried to steady himself. His breathing. His trembling.


    He¡¯d been through this before, he reminded himself. And he¡¯d always escaped. Always. He¡¯d escape today. He¡¯d get back home. And there he¡¯d have a hot drink and a pastry. And a bath.


    And he¡¯d soak away all the terrible things he¡¯d done, and was about to do.


    His hand dropped to the pocket of his torn and muddy jacket. His fingers, knuckles scraped to the bone and bleeding, felt inside. And there it was. The cassette. Safe.


    Or, at least, as safe as he was.


    His senses, honed and heightened, instinctively took in the musky scent of the forest floor, took in the shafts of sunlight. He took in the frantic scramble of chipmunks in the branches above him.


    What he no longer heard were footsteps.


    Had he killed or wounded them all? Would he get home after all?


    But then he heard it. The telltale snap of a twig. Close.


    They¡¯d stopped running and were now creeping up on his position. Surrounding him.


    Laurent tried to count the feet, tried to estimate the number by the noise. But he couldn¡¯t. And he knew then it didn¡¯t matter anyway. There would be no escape this time.


    And now he tasted something foreign. Something sour.


    He had terror in his mouth.


    He took a deep breath. In the moments he had left, Laurent Lepage looked at his filthy fingers clasped around the assault rifle. And he saw them, pink and clean, holding burgers and poutine and corn on the cob and sweet, silly pets de soeurs at the county fair.


    And holding the puppy. Harvest. Named for his father¡¯s favorite album.


    And now, at the last, as he hugged the rifle, Laurent began to hum. A tune his father sang to him every night at bedtime.


    ¡°Old man look at my life,¡± he sang under his breath. ¡°Twenty-four and there¡¯s so much more.¡±


    Dropping the rifle, he brought out the cassette. He¡¯d run out of time. He¡¯d failed. And now he had to hide the cassette. Falling to his knees, he found a tangle of thick vines, old and woody. No longer caring about the noise approaching, approaching, Laurent Lepage parted the vines. They were thicker, heavier than he¡¯d realized and he felt a spike of panic.

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    Had he left it too late?


    He ripped and tore and clawed until a small opening appeared. Thrusting his hand in, he dropped the cassette.


    It might never be found by those who needed it. But neither, he knew, would it be found by those about to kill for it.


    ¡°But I¡¯m all alone at last,¡± he whispered. ¡°Rolling home to you.¡±


    Some glint inside the bramble caught his eye.


    Something was in there. Something that hadn¡¯t grown, but had been placed there. Other hands had been here before him.


    Laurent Lepage, his pursuers forgotten, knelt closer and bringing both hands up, he grasped the vines and yanked them apart. The creepers clung to each other, bound together. Years, decades, eons worth of growth. And concealment.


    Laurent ripped, and ripped, and tore. Until a shaft of sunlight penetrated the overgrowth, the undergrowth, and he saw what was in there. What had been hiding in there longer than Laurent had been alive.


    His eyes widened.


    ¡°Wow.¡±


    CHAPTER 2


    ¡°So?¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste put her glass of apple cider on the worn wooden table and stared at the man across from her.


    ¡°You know I¡¯m not going to answer that,¡± said Armand Gamache, picking up his beer and smiling at her.


    ¡°Well, now that you¡¯re no longer my boss I can tell you what I really think.¡±


    Gamache laughed. His wife, Reine-Marie, leaned toward Lacoste and whispered, ¡°What do you really think, Isabelle?¡±


    ¡°I think your husband, Madame Gamache, would make a great Superintendent at the S?ret¨¦.¡±


    Reine-Marie leaned back in her armchair. Through the mullioned windows of the bistro she saw a ragtag mix of kids and adults, including her daughter Annie and Annie¡¯s husband, Jean-Guy, playing soccer. It was mid-September. Summer was gone and autumn was on the doorstep. Leaves were just turning. Brilliant reds and yellows and amber maples dotted the gardens and forest. Some leaves had already fallen onto the grass of the village green. It was a perfect time of year, when late summer flowers were still blooming and the leaves were turning, and the grass was still green, but the nights were chilly and sweaters were out and fires were beginning to be lit. So that the hearths at night resembled the forests in the day, all giddy and bright and cheerful.


    Soon everyone would head back to the city after the weekend, but for her and Armand there was no need to return. They were already there.


    Reine-Marie nodded to Monsieur B¨¦liveau, the grocer, who¡¯d just taken a seat at a nearby table, then turned her attention back to the woman who had joined them for the weekend. Isabelle Lacoste. Chief Inspector Lacoste, acting head of homicide for the S?ret¨¦ du Qu¨¦bec. The job Reine-Marie¡¯s husband had held for more than twenty years.


    Reine-Marie always thought of her as ¡°young Isabelle.¡± Not, she hoped, in a patronizing, or matronizing, way, but because she¡¯d been so young when Armand had found and recruited and trained her.


    But now there were lines in Isabelle¡¯s face, and gray just starting in her hair. It seemed to happen overnight. They¡¯d met her fianc¨¦, and been at her wedding, and attended the baptism of her two babies. She¡¯d been young Agent Lacoste for so long, and now, suddenly it seemed, she was Chief Inspector Lacoste.


    And Armand was retired. Early retirement, certainly, but retirement.


    Reine-Marie glanced out the window again. They were in their amber years.


    Or perhaps not.


    Reine-Marie shifted her attention to Armand, sitting back in his wing chair in the bistro, sipping his microbrewery beer. Relaxed, comfortable, amused. His six-foot frame had filled out. He wasn¡¯t heavy, but he was solid. The pillar in the storm.


    But there was no storm, Reine-Marie reminded herself. They could, finally, stop being pillars and just be people. Armand and Reine-Marie. Two more villagers. That was all. That was enough.


    For her.


    And for him?


    Armand¡¯s hair was grayer than ever, and curling just around his ears and at his collar. It was longer, slightly, than when he was at the S?ret¨¦. More from not noticing than not caring.


    Here in Three Pines they noticed the migration of the geese, and the prickly chestnuts ripening on the trees, and the bobbing black-eyed Susans in bloom. They noticed the barrel of apples outside Monsieur B¨¦liveau¡¯s general store, free for the taking. They noticed the fresh harvest at the farmers market and the new arrivals at Myrna¡¯s New and Used Bookstore. They noticed Olivier¡¯s daily specials at the bistro.


    Reine-Marie noticed that Armand was happy. And healthy.


    And Armand noticed that Reine-Marie was happy and healthy too, here, in the little village in the valley. Three Pines couldn¡¯t hide them from the woes of the world, but it could help heal the wounds.

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    The scar at Armand¡¯s temple plowed across the other lines on his forehead. Some of the furrows were created by stress and worry and sadness. But most, like the ones showing now, were deep with amusement.


    ¡°I thought you were going to tell me what you really thought of him as a person,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°All those flaws you witnessed after years of working together.¡± Reine-Marie leaned closer, in conspiracy. ¡°Come on, Isabelle, tell me.¡±


    Out on the green, Lacoste¡¯s two children were fighting with Jean-Guy Beauvoir for the ball. The grown man appeared to be sincerely, and increasingly desperately, trying to control the play. Lacoste smiled. Even against kids, Inspector Beauvoir did not like to lose.


    ¡°You mean all the cruelty?¡± she asked, bringing her attention back inside the comfortable room. ¡°The incompetence? We had to keep waking him up to tell him our solution to a case so he could take the credit.¡±


    ¡°Is that true, Armand?¡± Reine-Marie asked.


    ¡°Pardon? I was snoozing.¡±


    Lacoste laughed. ¡°And now I get your office, and the sofa.¡± She turned serious. ¡°I know the Superintendent¡¯s job has been offered to you, patron. Chief Superintendent Brunel told me in confidence.¡±


    ¡°Some confidence,¡± said Gamache. But he didn¡¯t look put out.


    Chief Superintendent Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel, appointed head of the S?ret¨¦ after the scandals and shake-up, had visited Three Pines a week earlier. It was, supposedly, a social visit. As they¡¯d relaxed on the front porch one morning over coffee, she¡¯d offered him the job.


    ¡°Superintendent, Armand. You¡¯d head up the division that oversees Homicide and Serious Crimes and the annual Christmas party.¡±


    He raised his brow.


    ¡°We¡¯re restructuring,¡± she explained. ¡°Gave the St-Jean-Baptiste Day picnic to Organized Crime.¡±


    He smiled and so did she, before her eyes turned sharp again and she studied him.


    ¡°What would it take to get you back?¡±


    It would be disingenuous for him to say he hadn¡¯t seen this coming. He¡¯d been expecting just such an overture since the leadership of the S?ret¨¦ had fallen into complete disarray, and the breadth and depth of the corruption he¡¯d uncovered became clear.


    They needed leadership and direction and they needed it fast.


    ¡°Let me think about it, Th¨¦r¨¨se,¡± he¡¯d said.


    ¡°I¡¯d like an answer soon.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    After Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel kissed Reine-Marie good-bye, she took Armand¡¯s arm and the two old friends and colleagues walked to her car.


    ¡°The rot in the S?ret¨¦ has been removed,¡± she said, lowering her voice. ¡°But now the force needs to be rebuilt. Properly this time. We both know rot can reappear. Don¡¯t you want to be part of making sure the S?ret¨¦ is strong and healthy and on the right path?¡±


    She examined her friend. He¡¯d recovered from the physical attacks, that was obvious. He exuded strength and well-being and a kind of calmly contained energy. But the physical wounds, as grave as they¡¯d been, hadn¡¯t been the reason Armand Gamache had retired. He had finally staggered under the emotional burden. He¡¯d had enough of corruption, of betrayal, of the back-stabbing and undermining and venal atmosphere. He¡¯d had enough of death. Chief Inspector Gamache had exorcised the rot in the S?ret¨¦, but the memories remained, embedded.


    Would they disappear with time? Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel wondered. Would they disappear with distance? Would this pretty village wash them away, like a baptism?


    Maybe.


    ¡°The worst is done, Armand,¡± she said, once they reached her car. ¡°And now it¡¯s time for the best, the fun part. Rebuilding. Don¡¯t you want to be part of that? Or is this,¡± she looked around the village green, ¡°enough?¡±


    She saw the old homes circling the green. She saw the bistro and bookstore and bakery and general store. She saw, Gamache knew, a pretty, but dull, backwater. While he saw a shore. A place where the shipwrecked could finally rest.


    Armand had told Reine-Marie about the job offer, of course, and they¡¯d discussed it.


    ¡°Do you want to do it, Armand?¡± she¡¯d asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.


    But he knew her too well for that.


    ¡°It¡¯s too soon, I think. For both of us. But Th¨¦r¨¨se has raised an interesting question. What next?¡±


    Next? Reine-Marie had thought when he¡¯d said it a week ago. And she thought it again now, in the bistro, with the murmur of conversation, like a stream, flowing by her, around her. That one bedraggled word had washed up on her banks and set down roots, tendrils. A bindweed of a word.

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    Next.


    When Armand had retired and they¡¯d moved from Montr¨¦al to Three Pines, it had never occurred to her there¡¯d be a next. She was still surprised and elated that there was a now.


    But now had bled into next.


    Armand wasn¡¯t yet sixty, and she herself had given up a hugely successful career at the Biblioth¨¨que nationale.


    Next.


    She was, truth be told, still savoring here and still savoring now. But next was on the horizon, slouching toward them.


    ¡°Hello, you still here?¡±


    Gabri, large and voluble, walked across the bistro he owned with his partner, Olivier. He hugged Isabelle Lacoste.


    ¡°I thought you¡¯d be gone by now,¡± said Myrna, arriving with him and taking the slender woman in her ample arms.


    ¡°Soon. I was just at your bookstore,¡± Isabelle said to Myrna. ¡°You weren¡¯t there so I left the money by the cash register.¡±


    ¡°You found a book?¡± asked Myrna. ¡°Which one?¡±


    They discussed books while Gabri got them a couple of beers and chatted with customers before returning to the table. In his late thirties, Gabri¡¯s dark hair was just beginning to gray, and his face was showing crinkles when he laughed, which was often.


    ¡°How was rehearsal?¡± Reine-Marie asked Gabri and Myrna. ¡°Is the play going well?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to ask Antoinette,¡± said Gabri, indicating with his beer a middle-aged woman at another table.


    ¡°Who is she?¡± asked Isabelle.


    She looked to Lacoste like her daughter. Only her daughter was seven and this woman must¡¯ve been forty-five. The woman wore clothes more suited to an infant. A bow was in her spiky purple hair. She wore a flowered skirt, short and tight around her ample bottom, and a tank top, tight around her ample top, under a bright pink sweater. If a candy store vomited, Antoinette would be the result.


    ¡°That¡¯s Antoinette Lemaitre and her partner, Brian Fitzpatrick,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°She¡¯s the artistic director of the Knowlton Playhouse. They¡¯re coming over for dinner tonight.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be there too,¡± said Gabri. ¡°We¡¯re trying to get Armand and Reine-Marie to join us.¡±


    ¡°Join?¡± said Isabelle. ¡°Us?¡±


    ¡°The Estrie Players,¡± said Myrna. ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to convince Clara to join too. Not to act, necessarily, but maybe to paint sets. Anything to get her out of that studio. She just stares at that half-finished portrait of Peter all day long. I don¡¯t think she¡¯s lifted her brush in weeks.¡±


    ¡°That painting gives me the creeps,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it a bit overkill, though?¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°Getting one of the top painters in Canada to do sets for an amateur production?¡±


    ¡°Picasso painted sets,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°For the Ballets Russes,¡± Reine-Marie pointed out.


    ¡°I bet if he lived here he¡¯d do our sets,¡± said Gabri. ¡°If anyone could convince him, she could.¡±


    He gestured toward Antoinette and Brian, who were approaching the table.


    ¡°How was rehearsal?¡± Reine-Marie asked, after introducing them to Isabelle Lacoste.


    ¡°It would be better if this one¡±¡ªAntoinette jerked her head toward Gabri¡ª¡°listened to my direction.¡±


    ¡°I need to be free to make my own creative choices.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re playing him gay,¡± said Antoinette.


    ¡°I am gay,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°But the character is not. He¡¯s just coming out of a ruined marriage.¡±


    ¡°Oui. Coming out. Because he¡¯s¡­?¡± said Gabri, leaning toward her.


    ¡°Gay?¡± asked Brian.


    Antoinette laughed. It was full and hearty and unrestrained and Isabelle liked her.


    ¡°Okay, play him any way you like,¡± Antoinette said. ¡°It doesn¡¯t really matter. The play¡¯s going to be a hit. Even you can¡¯t mess it up.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s on the poster,¡± Brian confided. ¡°Even Gabri Can¡¯t Mess This Up.¡±


    He put his hands up in front of him to indicate a huge banner.


    Reine-Marie laughed and knew it might actually be true, and a good selling point.


    ¡°What part do you play?¡± Isabelle asked Myrna.


    ¡°The owner of the boardinghouse. I was going to play it as a gay man, but since Gabri already claimed that territory I decided to go in a different direction.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s playing her as a large black woman,¡± said Gabri. ¡°Inspired.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, darling,¡± said Myrna, and the two air-kissed.

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    ¡°You should¡¯ve seen their production of The Glass Menagerie,¡± said Armand. His eyes widened as though to say it was exactly what Isabelle imagined it would be.


    ¡°By the way, did you talk to Clara?¡± Antoinette asked Myrna. ¡°Will she do it?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± said Myrna. ¡°She needs more time.¡±


    ¡°She needs distraction,¡± said Gabri.


    Isabelle looked at the script in Antoinette¡¯s hand.


    ¡°She Sat Down and Wept,¡± she read. ¡°A comedy?¡±


    Antoinette laughed, handing her the script. ¡°It¡¯s not as dire as it sounds.¡±


    ¡°Actually, it¡¯s wonderful,¡± said Myrna. ¡°And very funny.¡±


    ¡°Some might even say gay,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°Well, time to go.¡± Isabelle got up. ¡°I see the soccer game is over.¡±


    On the village green the children and adults had stopped playing, and were all looking toward the stone bridge across the Rivi¨¨re Bella Bella where a kid was shouting and running into the village.


    ¡°Oh no,¡± said Gabri as they watched through the bistro window. ¡°Not again.¡±


    The boy paused at the edge of the green and gestured wildly with a stick. When no one reacted he looked around and his gaze stopped at the bistro.


    ¡°Hide,¡± said Myrna. ¡°Duck.¡±


    ¡°God, don¡¯t tell me Ruth¡¯s coming too,¡± said Gabri, looking around frantically.


    But it was too late. The boy was through the door, scanning the crowd. And his bright eyes came to a halt. On Gamache.


    ¡°You¡¯re here, patron,¡± the boy said, running over to their table. ¡°You have to come quick.¡±


    Grabbing Gamache¡¯s hand, he tried to pull the large man out of his chair.


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± said Armand. ¡°Settle down. What is it?¡±


    The boy was bedraggled, like something the woods had coughed up. There were moss and leaves and twigs in his hair, his clothes were torn and he clutched a stick the size of a cane in his scratched and filthy hands.


    ¡°You won¡¯t believe what I found in the woods. Come on. Hurry.¡±


    ¡°What is it this time?¡± Gabri asked. ¡°A unicorn? A spaceship?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the boy said, looking annoyed. Then he turned back to Gamache. ¡°It was huge. Humongous.¡±


    ¡°What was?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t encourage him, Armand,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°It was a gun,¡± said the boy, and saw a flicker of interest in Gamache. ¡°A giant gun, Chief. This big.¡± He waved his arms and the stick hit the table next to them, sweeping glasses to the floor.


    ¡°Okay,¡± said Gabri, getting up. ¡°That¡¯s enough. Give me that.¡±


    ¡°No, you can¡¯t have it,¡± said the boy, protecting the stick.


    ¡°Either you give it to me, or you leave. I¡¯m sorry, but you don¡¯t see anyone else in here with tree branches.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a tree branch,¡± said the boy. ¡°It¡¯s a gun that can change into a sword.¡±


    He made to brandish it but Olivier had come over and caught it with his hand. With his other he held out a broom and a pan.


    ¡°Clean it up,¡± said Olivier, not unkindly, but firmly.


    ¡°Fine. Here.¡± The boy handed Gamache the stick. ¡°If anything bad happens to me, you¡¯ll know what to do.¡± He looked at Gamache with deadly earnest. ¡°I¡¯m trusting you.¡±


    ¡°Understood,¡± said Gamache gravely.


    The boy began to sweep while Armand leaned the stick against his chair, noticing that it was notched and etched and that the boy¡¯s name was carved into it.


    ¡°What did he want this time?¡± Jean-Guy asked, as he and Annie joined them and watched the annoyed sweeping. ¡°To warn you about an alien invasion?¡±


    ¡°That was last week.¡±


    ¡°Oui. I forgot. Are the Iroquois on the warpath?¡±


    ¡°Done that,¡± said Armand. ¡°Peace has been restored. We gave them back the land.¡±


    He looked over at the boy, who¡¯d stopped sweeping and was now riding the broom like a steed, using the pan as a shield.


    ¡°He¡¯s kind of sweet,¡± said Annie.


    ¡°Sweet? Godzilla is sweet. He¡¯s a menace,¡± said Olivier, after getting the boy off the steed and refocusing him on the broken glass.


    ¡°We thought he was fun at first too. A real little character, until he came running in here telling us his house was burning down,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t?¡± asked Annie.

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    ¡°What do you think?¡± said Olivier. ¡°We got the whole volunteer fire department rushing over there, only to find Al and Evie working in their garden.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve tried talking to them about him,¡± said Gabri. ¡°But Al just laughed and said he couldn¡¯t get Laurent to stop, even if he wanted to. It¡¯s in his nature.¡±


    ¡°Probably true,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°Yeah, well, earthquakes and tornados are part of nature too,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°So you really don¡¯t think Clara can be convinced to help us with the sets,¡± said Brian. ¡°We¡¯re just a few weeks from opening night and we can use the help. It really is a great play, even if no one knows who wrote it.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± said Isabelle Lacoste, looking down at the cover sheet of the script and noticing for the first time that there was no name below the title.


    ¡°No one knows?¡± she asked. ¡°Not even you?¡±


    ¡°Well, we know,¡± said Antoinette. ¡°We¡¯re just not saying.¡±


    ¡°Believe me,¡± said Gabri. ¡°We¡¯ve asked. I think it was David Beckham.¡±


    ¡°But he¡¯s¡ª¡± Jean-Guy started to say before Myrna cut him off.


    ¡°Don¡¯t bother. Last week he decided Mark Wahlberg wrote it. Leave him his fantasies. And mine. David Beckham.¡± Her voice became dreamy. ¡°He¡¯d have to come to opening night. Alone. He and Victoria would¡¯ve had a fight.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯d stay in our B and B,¡± said Gabri. ¡°He¡¯d smell like leather and Old Spice.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯d need a book to read, at bedtime,¡± said Myrna. ¡°I¡¯d bring some over¡ª¡±


    ¡°Okay, enough,¡± said Jean-Guy.


    ¡°I want to hear more,¡± said Reine-Marie, and Armand looked at her with amusement.


    ¡°You¡¯ll never guess who wrote the play,¡± said Brian, laughing and tapping the place where the name had been whited out. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t know him. A fellow named John Fleming.¡±


    ¡°Brian,¡± snapped Antoinette.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°We agreed not to tell anyone.¡±


    ¡°No one¡¯s ever heard of him,¡± said Brian.


    ¡°But that¡¯s the point,¡± Antoinette huffed. ¡°Acht.¡± She waved in his direction. ¡°You¡¯re a surveyor, what would you know about marketing. I wanted to build up mystery, suspense. Get people wondering. Maybe it was written by Michel Tremblay, or a lost classic by Tennessee Williams.¡±


    ¡°Or George Clooney,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°Oooh, George Clooney,¡± said Myrna, and her eyes again became unfocused.


    ¡°John Fleming?¡± said Gamache. ¡°Do you mind?¡± He reached out and picked the play up from the table and stared at the title. She Sat Down and Wept.


    ¡°We got in touch with the copyright people to see who we had to pay for permission, but they had no record of it or of any playwright by that name,¡± said Brian, as though he had to explain to the cops.


    The script in Armand¡¯s hand was dog-eared, stained with coffee, and covered in notes.


    ¡°It¡¯s old,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    The typeface was ragged, not the clean look of a computer, but rather the chunky print of a typewriter.


    Armand nodded.


    ¡°What is it?¡± she asked quietly.


    ¡°Nothing.¡± He smiled but no laugh lines radiated from the corners of his eyes.


    ¡°I¡¯m in the play too,¡± said Brian, holding up his copy of the script.


    ¡°My gay roommate,¡± Gabri explained to them.


    ¡°He¡¯s not gay, and neither are you,¡± snapped Antoinette in exasperation.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell Olivier,¡± said Myrna. ¡°He¡¯ll be a little disappointed.¡±


    ¡°And very surprised,¡± said Gabri.


    Decaying leaves still sticking to his torn jacket and jeans, the boy swept up the last of the broken glass and trudged back to the table.


    ¡°Just so you know,¡± he said, handing the broom and pan to Olivier. ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure there¡¯re some diamonds in there.¡±


    ¡°Merci,¡± said Olivier.


    ¡°Come on,¡± said Armand, getting up and giving the stick back to the boy. ¡°It¡¯s getting late. Grab your bike. I¡¯ll put it in my car and give you a lift home.¡±


    ¡°The gun was really, really big, patron,¡± said the boy, following Monsieur Gamache out of the bistro. ¡°As big as this building. And there was a monster on it. With wings.¡±


    ¡°Of course there was,¡± they heard Armand say. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure it doesn¡¯t hurt you.¡±

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    ¡°And I¡¯ll protect you,¡± said the boy, swishing the stick so violently it struck Armand in the knee.


    ¡°I hope you have another husband waiting in the wings,¡± said Antoinette. ¡°I¡¯m not sure this one will survive the walk to the car.¡±


    They watched Armand put the bicycle in the back of the Volvo, then he put the stick in the backseat, but the boy took it out and stood firm. He was going nowhere without it in his hands. It was, after all, a dangerous world.


    Armand admitted defeat and relented, though they could see him giving the boy ground rules.


    ¡°I¡¯d go on match.com right now, if I were you,¡± said Myrna to Reine-Marie.


    *   *   *


    After a few kilometers the boy turned to Gamache.


    ¡°What¡¯re you humming?¡±


    ¡°Was I humming?¡± said Armand, surprised.


    ¡°Oui.¡± And the boy perfectly reproduced the tune.


    ¡°It¡¯s called ¡®By the Waters of Babylon,¡¯¡± said Armand. ¡°A hymn.¡±


    John Fleming. John Fleming. He associated the hymn with him, though Gamache could never figure out why.


    It couldn¡¯t be the same man, he thought. It¡¯s a common name. He was seeing ghosts where none existed.


    ¡°We don¡¯t go to church,¡± said the boy.


    ¡°Neither do we,¡± said Armand. ¡°Not often anyway. Though sometimes I sit in the little one in Three Pines, when no one else¡¯s there.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s peaceful.¡±


    The boy nodded. ¡°Sometimes I sit in the woods because it¡¯s peaceful. But then the aliens arrive.¡±


    The boy began humming again, in a high, thin voice, a tune Gamache recognized from long, long ago.


    ¡°How do you know that song?¡± Gamache asked. ¡°It¡¯s way before your time.¡±


    ¡°My dad sings it to me every night at bedtime. It¡¯s by Neil Young. Dad says he¡¯s a genius.¡±


    Gamache nodded. ¡°I agree with your father.¡±


    The boy clutched the stick.


    ¡°I hope the safety¡¯s on,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°It is.¡± He turned to Armand. ¡°The gun¡¯s real, patron.¡±


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Gamache.


    But he wasn¡¯t listening. He was watching the road, and thinking of the tune stuck in his head.


    By the waters, the waters of Babylon,


    We sat down and wept.


    But the play wasn¡¯t called that. It was called She Sat Down and Wept.


    The play could not possibly be by that John Fleming. He didn¡¯t write plays. And even if he did, no director in his right mind would produce it. It must be another man with the same name.


    Beside him, the boy looked out the window at the early fall landscape and clutched the stick just below where his father had etched his name into the hilt.


    Laurent. Laurent Lepage.


    CHAPTER 3


    Their dinner guests had already arrived and were sipping drinks and eating apple and avocado salsa with corn chips by the time Armand returned.


    ¡°Got Laurent home all right, I see,¡± said Reine-Marie, greeting him at the door. ¡°No alien invasions?¡±


    ¡°We nipped it in the bud.¡±


    ¡°Not quite,¡± said Gabri, standing at the door to their study. ¡°One got through Earth¡¯s defenses.¡±


    Armand and Reine-Marie looked into the small room off the living room where an elderly, angular woman with ladders up her stockings and patches on her sweater sat in an armchair reading.


    ¡°It¡¯s the mother shit,¡± said Gabri.


    A strong smell of gin met them. A duck sat on the old woman¡¯s lap and Henri, the Gamaches¡¯ German shepherd, was curled at her feet. Gazing up adoringly at the duck.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about greeting me at the door,¡± Armand said to Henri. ¡°It¡¯s fine. Really.¡±


    He looked at the dog and shook his head. Love took all forms. This was, though, a step up from Henri¡¯s previous crush, which was the arm of the sofa.


    ¡°The first hint of infestation was the smell of gin,¡± said Gabri. ¡°Her race seems to run on it.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s for dinner?¡± their neighbor Ruth Zardo demanded, struggling out of the armchair.


    ¡°How long have you been there?¡± Reine-Marie asked.


    ¡°What day is it?¡±


    ¡°I thought you were out clubbing baby seals,¡± said Gabri, taking Ruth¡¯s arm.


    ¡°That¡¯s next week. Don¡¯t you read my Facebook updates?¡±


    ¡°Hag.¡±


    ¡°Fag.¡±


    Ruth limped into the living room. Rosa the duck goose-stepped behind her, followed by Henri.

 Page 8

    ¡°I was once head of homicide for the S?ret¨¦ du Qu¨¦bec,¡± said Gamache wistfully as they watched the parade.


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe it,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    ¡°Bonjour, Ruth,¡± said Antoinette.


    Ruth, who hadn¡¯t noticed there was anyone else in the room, looked at Antoinette and Brian, then over to Myrna.


    ¡°What¡¯re they doing here?¡±


    ¡°We were invited, unlike you, you demented old drunk,¡± said Myrna. ¡°How can you be a poet and never notice anything and anyone around you?¡±


    ¡°Have we met?¡± Ruth asked, then turned to Reine-Marie.


    ¡°Where¡¯s numbnuts?¡± she asked.


    ¡°He and Annie left for the city, along with Isabelle and the kids,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    She knew she should have chastised Ruth for calling their son-in-law numbnuts, but the truth was, the old poet had called Jean-Guy that for so long the Gamaches barely noticed anymore. Even Jean-Guy answered to numbnuts. But only from Ruth.


    ¡°I saw the Lepage boy come flying out of the woods again,¡± said Ruth. ¡°What was it this time? Zombies?¡±


    ¡°Actually, I believe he disturbed a nest of poets,¡± said Armand, taking the bottle of red wine around and refilling glasses, before helping himself to some of the salsa with honey-lime dressing. ¡°Terrified him.¡±


    ¡°Poetry scares most people,¡± said Ruth. ¡°I know mine does.¡±


    ¡°You scare them, Ruth, not your poems.¡±


    ¡°Oh, right. Even better. So what did the kid claim to see?¡±


    ¡°A giant gun with a monster on it.¡±


    Ruth nodded, impressed.


    ¡°Imagination isn¡¯t such a bad thing,¡± she said. ¡°He reminds me of myself when I was that age and look how I turned out.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not imagination,¡± said Gabri. ¡°It¡¯s outright lying. I¡¯m not sure the kid knows the difference anymore himself.¡± He turned to Myrna. ¡°What do you think? You¡¯re the shrink.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a shrink,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°You¡¯re not kidding,¡± said Ruth with a snort.


    ¡°I¡¯m a psychologist,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°You¡¯re a librarian,¡± said Ruth.


    ¡°For the last time, it¡¯s not a library,¡± said Myrna. ¡°It¡¯s a bookstore. Stop just taking the books. Oh, never mind.¡± She waved at Ruth, who was smiling into her glass, and turned back to Gabri. ¡°What were we talking about?¡±


    ¡°Laurent. Is he crazy? Though I realize the bar for sanity is pretty low here.¡± He watched as Ruth and Rosa muttered to each other.


    ¡°Hard to say, really. In my practice I saw a lot of people whose grip on reality had slipped. But they were adults. The line between real and imagined is blurred for kids, but it gets clearer as we grow up.¡±


    ¡°For better or worse,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    ¡°Well, I saw the worse,¡± said Myrna. ¡°My clients¡¯ delusions were often paranoid. They heard voices, they saw horrible things. Did horrible things. Laurent seems a happy kid. Well adjusted even.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t be both happy and well adjusted,¡± said Ruth, laughing at the very thought.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think he¡¯s well adjusted,¡± said Antoinette. ¡°Look, I¡¯m all for imagination. The theater¡¯s fueled by it. Depends on it. But I agree with Gabri. This is something else. Shouldn¡¯t he be growing out of it by now? What¡¯s the name for it when someone doesn¡¯t understand, or care about, consequences?¡±


    ¡°Ruth Zardo?¡± said Brian.


    There was surprised silence, followed by laughter. Including Ruth¡¯s.


    Brian Fitzpatrick didn¡¯t say a great deal, but when he did it was often worth the wait.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think Laurent¡¯s psychotic, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking,¡± said Myrna. ¡°No more than any kid. For some, their imagination¡¯s so strong it overpowers reality. But, like I say, they grow out of it.¡± She looked at Ruth, stroking and singing to her duck. ¡°Or at least, most do.¡±


    ¡°He once told us a classmate had been kidnapped,¡± said Brian. ¡°Remember that?¡±


    ¡°He did?¡± Armand asked.


    ¡°Yes. Took about a minute to realize it wasn¡¯t true, but what a long minute. The girl¡¯s parents were in the bistro when he came running in with that news. I don¡¯t think they¡¯ll ever recover, or forgive him. He¡¯s not the most popular kid in the area.¡±


    ¡°Why does he say things if they aren¡¯t true?¡± asked Reine-Marie.

 Page 9

    ¡°Your children must¡¯ve made things up,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°Well, yes, but not anything so dramatic¡ª¡±


    ¡°And so vivid,¡± said Antoinette. ¡°He really sells it.¡±


    ¡°He probably just wants attention,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°Oh God, don¡¯t you hate people like that,¡± said Gabri.


    He put a carrot on his nose and tried to balance it there.


    ¡°There¡¯s a seal just asking to be clubbed,¡± said Myrna.


    Ruth guffawed then looked at her. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be in the kitchen?¡±


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be cutting the eyes out of a sheet?¡± asked Myrna.


    ¡°Look, I like the kid,¡± said Ruth, ¡°but let¡¯s face it. He was doomed from the moment of conception.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± asked Reine-Marie.


    ¡°Well, look at his parents.¡±


    ¡°Al and Evelyn?¡± asked Armand. ¡°I like them. That reminds me.¡± He walked to the door and picked up a canvas tote bag. ¡°Al gave me this.¡±


    ¡°Oh, God,¡± said Antoinette. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me it¡¯s¡ª¡±


    ¡°Apples.¡± Armand held up the bag.


    Gamache smiled. When he¡¯d dropped off Laurent, his father Al had been on the porch, sorting beets for their organic produce baskets.


    There was no mistaking Al Lepage. If a mountain came alive, it would look like Laurent¡¯s father. Solid, craggy. He wore his long gray hair in a ponytail that might not have been undone since the seventies.


    His beard was also gray and bushy and covered most of his chest, so that the plaid flannel shirt underneath was barely visible. Sometimes the beard was loose, sometimes it was braided and sometimes, like that afternoon, it was in its own ponytail so that Al¡¯s head looked like something about to be tie-dyed.


    Or, as Ruth once described him, a horse with two asses.


    ¡°Hi, cop,¡± Al had said when Armand parked and Laurent had jumped out of the car.


    ¡°Hello, hippie,¡± said Armand, going around to the back of the car.


    ¡°What¡¯s he done now, Armand?¡± Al asked as they yanked the bike out of the station wagon.


    ¡°Nothing. He was just slightly disruptive in the bistro.¡±


    ¡°Zombies? Vampires? Monsters?¡± suggested Laurent¡¯s father.


    ¡°Monster,¡± said Armand, closing the hatchback. ¡°Only one.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re slipping,¡± Al said to his son.


    ¡°It was on a huge gun, Dad. Bigger than the house.¡±


    ¡°You need to clean up for dinner, you¡¯re a mess. Quick now before your mother sees you.¡±


    ¡°Too late,¡± said a woman¡¯s voice from the house.


    Armand looked over and saw Evelyn standing on the porch, hands on her wide hips, shaking her head. She was much younger than Al. At least twenty years, which put her in her mid-forties. She too wore a plaid flannel shirt, and a full skirt that fell to her ankles. Her hair was also pulled back, though some wisps had broken free and were falling across her scrubbed face.


    ¡°What was it this time?¡± she asked Laurent with a mixture of amusement and weary tolerance.


    ¡°I found a gun in the woods.¡±


    ¡°You did?¡±


    Evelyn looked alarmed and Gamache was once again amazed that this woman still believed her son. Was that love, he wondered, or the same form of delusion Laurent suffered from? A potent combination of wishful thinking and madness.


    ¡°It was just the other side of the bridge. In the woods.¡± Laurent pointed with his stick and almost hit Gamache in the face.


    ¡°Where is it now?¡± she asked. ¡°Al, should we go and see?¡±


    ¡°Wait for it, Evie,¡± her husband said in his deep, patient voice.


    ¡°It¡¯s huge, Mom. Bigger than the house. And there¡¯s a monster on it. With wings.¡±


    ¡°Ahhh,¡± said Evelyn. ¡°Thanks for bringing him back, Armand. Are you sure you don¡¯t want to keep him for a while?¡±


    ¡°Mom.¡±


    ¡°Go inside and wash up. We¡¯re having squirrel for dinner.¡±


    ¡°Again?¡±


    Gamache smiled. He was never sure if what they claimed to eat was the truth. He actually thought they were vegetarians. He did know they were as self-sufficient as possible, selling their organic produce in panniers to subscribers. He and Reine-Marie among them.


    In the winter they made ends meet by teaching courses on how to live a sustainable lifestyle. It was one of the great miracles that these two should find each other. Like Henri and Rosa. And then that Al and Evie should, later in life, have a child. One miracle begetting another. A wild child.

 Page 10

    ¡°Why¡¯s it always guns?¡± Al asked.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re the one who gave him that stick for his birthday,¡± said Evie. ¡°Now all he does is dive behind furniture shooting at monsters. I can¡¯t tell you how often I¡¯ve been mowed down,¡± she confided in Armand.


    ¡°It¡¯s meant to be a magic wand,¡± said Al. ¡°At most a sword. Not a gun. I¡¯d never give him a gun. I hate them.¡±


    ¡°You gave him a stick and an imagination,¡± said Evie. ¡°What did you think a nine-year-old boy was going to do with it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a wand,¡± said Al to Gamache.


    Armand smiled. If he¡¯d given his son, Daniel, a stick for his ninth birthday there¡¯d still be tears twenty years later. What kid not only accepts the stick, but cherishes it?


    ¡°Say hi to Reine-Marie,¡± said Evie. ¡°The next pannier¡¯s almost ready, we¡¯re just finishing the harvest. In the meantime, take this.¡±


    She handed him the sack of McIntosh apples.


    ¡°Merci,¡± he¡¯d said, trying to sound sincere, and surprised.


    Evie went inside and Al followed her, turning to Gamache at the door. ¡°Thank you for bringing him home.¡±


    ¡°Always. He¡¯s a great kid.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s crazy, but we love him.¡± Al shook his head. ¡°A gun.¡±


    A monster, thought Armand as he got in the car and drove home.


    But the monster he was thinking of wasn¡¯t from Laurent¡¯s imagination. This one was very real. And had a name and a pulse, though not, Gamache suspected, a heartbeat.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you like Laurent¡¯s parents, Ruth?¡± Reine-Marie asked, putting the chicken stew with fresh herb dumplings on the table.


    They¡¯d moved into the large country kitchen and taken seats at the pine table. Antoinette cut the bread while Gabri tossed the salad.


    ¡°It¡¯s not her, it¡¯s him,¡± said Ruth, putting her glass on the table and looking at them. ¡°He¡¯s a coward.¡±


    ¡°Al Lepage?¡± asked Brian. ¡°I¡¯d heard he was a draft dodger, but that doesn¡¯t make him a coward, does it?¡±


    Both Ruth and Rosa glared at him but said nothing.


    ¡°They were kids themselves at the time, drafted into a war they didn¡¯t want to fight,¡± said Armand. ¡°They gave up home and family and friends to come here. Not exactly the easy option. They took a stand. I don¡¯t think they were cowards at all. I like Al.¡±


    ¡°They took a stand by running away?¡± said Ruth. ¡°Some other kid had to go in his place. Do you think he thinks of that?¡±


    ¡°This whole village was settled by people fleeing a war they didn¡¯t believe in,¡± Myrna pointed out. ¡°The three pines is an old code for sanctuary.¡±


    ¡°More like asylum,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°I know the history of the village,¡± said Ruth.


    ¡°Let¡¯s change the subject,¡± said Brian. He turned to Reine-Marie. ¡°Are you going to join the Estrie Players?¡±


    ¡°Join?¡± asked Armand, looking at his wife.


    ¡°I was thinking it might be fun.¡±


    ¡°It is fun,¡± said Gabri. ¡°Drop by the rehearsal tomorrow night and see. I¡¯ll leave my script for you to read.¡±


    ¡°Great, I¡¯ll come by. What time?¡± said Reine-Marie.


    ¡°Seven,¡± said Brian. ¡°Wear something you don¡¯t mind throwing out. We¡¯ll be painting. How about you, Ruth?¡±


    ¡°Yes, you¡¯d be good at it,¡± said Gabri. ¡°You¡¯ve been pretending to be human for years.¡±


    ¡°Though not very convincingly,¡± said Myrna. ¡°I never believed it.¡±


    But Ruth had fallen into a stupor, deep in thought.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go into the living room,¡± said Reine-Marie, once dinner was finished. ¡°Leave the dishes. Henri will lick them clean later.¡±


    The guests looked at each other as they left the table, and saw Reine-Marie smiling. In the living room Armand tossed another log onto the fire, putting his hands, palms out, toward the flame.


    ¡°Are you cold?¡± Reine-Marie asked. ¡°Getting sick?¡±


    She put her hand on his forehead.


    ¡°No, I just feel a chill,¡± he explained.


    Antoinette came by and nodded toward the fire. ¡°They¡¯re nice in September, aren¡¯t they? Cheerful. In June they¡¯re just depressing.¡±


    Reine-Marie laughed and walked over to join Ruth. Antoinette turned away but Armand called her back.


    ¡°The play,¡± he said quietly.

 Page 11

    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Brian said it was by John Fleming.¡±


    She grew still, her clear eyes studying him. ¡°He shouldn¡¯t have said that.¡±


    ¡°But he did. Why do you want to keep it a secret?¡±


    ¡°Like I said, marketing. It¡¯s a new play, we need to do everything we can to pique interest.¡±


    ¡°A secret playwright is hardly going to get camera crews out.¡±


    ¡°Not at first, maybe. But the play¡¯s not your run-of-the-mill work by an unknown, Armand. It¡¯s brilliant. I¡¯ve done professional and amateur theatrics for years and this is among the best.¡±


    ¡°For an amateur,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°For anyone. Wait until you see it. I¡¯d put it beside Miller and Stoppard and Tremblay. It¡¯s Our Town meets The Crucible.¡±


    Gamache was used to hyperbole, especially from people in the theater, so this didn¡¯t surprise him.


    ¡°I¡¯m not questioning the quality of the work,¡± he said, lowering his voice so that it was barely audible above the crackle of the fire as it caught the dry wood. ¡°I¡¯m wondering about the playwright.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell you anything about him.¡±


    ¡°Have you met him?¡± Gamache asked.


    Antoinette hesitated. ¡°No. Brian found the script among my uncle¡¯s papers after he died.¡±


    ¡°Why did you white out the playwright¡¯s name?¡±


    ¡°I told you. I wanted to create a buzz. Once the play opens everyone¡¯s going to want to know who wrote it.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯ll you tell them?¡±


    Now Antoinette looked decidedly tense.


    ¡°Who wrote She Sat Down and Wept?¡± Gamache asked, his voice low.


    ¡°Like Brian said, it¡¯s by some fellow named John Fleming.¡±


    ¡°I know a John Fleming,¡± he said. ¡°And so do you. And so does everyone.¡± He stared at her. ¡°Is it that John Fleming?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she said after a pause.


    He continued to stare until she flushed. ¡°You know.¡±


    ¡°Know what?¡± asked Gabri, offering them coffees. Too late, he picked up on the tension between the two.


    ¡°Please tell me it¡¯s not the same man,¡± said Gamache, searching Antoinette¡¯s face. And then his went slack before he whispered, ¡°My God, it is, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°What is?¡± asked Gabri, wishing he could back away but knowing it was too late.


    ¡°Will you tell him?¡± Armand asked. ¡°Or shall I?¡±


    ¡°Tell him what?¡± asked Myrna, joining them.


    Armand walked over to the table by the door where Gabri had left his script.


    ¡°Tell them who wrote this,¡± he said, holding it out to Antoinette. ¡°Tell them the real reason you didn¡¯t want anyone to know.¡±


    Hearing the tone of his voice, Reine-Marie looked over. Armand was dangerously close to being rude to one of their guests, something he¡¯d rarely been in all the years she¡¯d known him. He hadn¡¯t liked all their guests, certainly hadn¡¯t agreed with all of them, but he¡¯d always been courteous.


    But now he toed the line. And then he crossed it, thrusting the play at Antoinette.


    ¡°Tell them,¡± he said.


    She took it, then turned to the other dinner guests. ¡°It was John Fleming.¡±


    ¡°We already know that,¡± said Myrna. ¡°Brian told us this afternoon in the bistro, remember?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what¡¯s going to get people excited?¡± asked Gabri. ¡°Your brilliant marketing plan? He¡¯s hardly a household name.¡±


    ¡°But he is,¡± said Armand. ¡°Everyone in Canada knows him. In North America. He¡¯s famous. Infamous.¡±


    They looked perplexed, genuinely baffled by Armand¡¯s behavior and insistence. But then Myrna sank down. Had the sofa not been there, she might have gone all the way to the floor. Brian took the cup and saucer from her just before it spilled.


    ¡°That John Fleming?¡± Myrna whispered.


    Gabri, far from buckling, looked as though he¡¯d been turned to granite as he stared at Antoinette. A Medusa in their midst.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t,¡± he said. ¡°Tell me you didn¡¯t.¡±


    *   *   *


    Once home, Ruth turned the key in the lock and leaned against the door, her heart pounding, her breathing rapid and shallow. She held Rosa to her chest and pressed against the thin wood of the door. All that stood between her and Rosa and an alien world that had produced a John Fleming.


    Then she drew the curtains and pulled from her string bag the script she¡¯d stolen.

 Page 12

    Making herself a cup of tea, Ruth opened the play and started to read.


    *   *   *


    The party broke up and Armand went into the kitchen. Reine-Marie could hear the tap water and the clinking of dishes and cutlery.


    Then the clinking stopped and she heard only the steady stream of water. Going into the kitchen, she stopped at the door. Armand was leaning over the sink, his large hands clutching the counter, as though he was about to be sick.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Are you still going to rehearsal tomorrow?¡± Gabri asked, as he and Myrna walked home.


    ¡°I guess. I don¡¯t know. I ¡­ I¡­¡±


    ¡°I know, me too.¡±


    Gabri kissed her good night on both cheeks, then went into the bistro to help Olivier with the last of the evening service. Myrna climbed the stairs to her loft apartment above the bookstore and got into her pajamas, then realized she was both tired and wide awake. Looking out the window, she saw a light at Clara¡¯s home.


    It was eleven o¡¯clock.


    Putting a shawl around her shoulders, and slipping on rubber boots, she clumped around the edge of the village green and knocked on the door. Then she let herself in.


    ¡°Clara?¡±


    ¡°In here.¡±


    Myrna found her in her studio, sitting in front of the unfinished canvas. Peter Morrow stared back, ghostly. Half-finished. A demi-man in an unfinished life.


    Clara was wearing sweats and held a paintbrush in her mouth, like a female FDR. Her hair stuck out at odd angles from running her hands through it.


    ¡°Pizza for dinner?¡± asked Myrna, picking a mushroom out of Clara¡¯s hair.


    ¡°Yes. Reine-Marie invited me over but I wasn¡¯t really in the mood.¡±


    Myrna looked at the easel and knew why. Clara had been obsessing over the portrait again. And Peter, now gone, was still managing to undermine his wife¡¯s art.


    ¡°Do you want to talk?¡± Myrna asked, drawing up a stool.


    Clara put down the brush and ran her hands through her graying hair so vigorously that bits of pepperoni and crumbs fell out.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing anymore,¡± said Clara, waving at the portrait. ¡°It¡¯s as though I¡¯ve never painted in my life. Oh, God, suppose I can¡¯t?¡±


    She looked at Myrna in a panic.


    ¡°You will,¡± Myrna assured her. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re just doing the wrong portrait. Maybe it¡¯s too soon to paint Peter.¡±


    Peter seemed to be watching them. A slight smile on his handsome face. Myrna wondered if Clara knew how very well she¡¯d already captured the man. Myrna had cared for Peter very much, but she also knew he could be a real piece of work. This piece, in fact. And Myrna also wondered if Clara had been adding to the portrait, or taking away. Had she been making him less and less substantial?


    She turned away and listened as Clara talked about what had happened. To Peter. It was a story Myrna knew well. She¡¯d been there.


    But still she listened, and she¡¯d listen again. And again.


    And with every telling Clara was letting go of a bit of the unbearable pain. The guilt she felt. The sorrow. It was as though Clara was pulling herself out of the ocean, dripping in grief, but no longer drowning.


    Clara blew her nose and wiped her eyes.


    ¡°Did you have fun at the Gamaches¡¯?¡± she asked. ¡°What time is it anyway? Why¡¯re you in pajamas?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s half past eleven,¡± said Myrna. ¡°Can we go into the kitchen?¡±


    Away from the goddamned painting, thought Myrna.


    ¡°Tea?¡± Clara asked.


    ¡°Beer?¡± Myrna countered, and pulled a couple out of the fridge.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Clara asked.


    ¡°You know I joined the Estrie Players,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to ask me again to go and paint sets,¡± said Clara. When Myrna didn¡¯t answer, Clara put her beer down and reached out for her friend¡¯s hand.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°The play we¡¯re doing. She Sat Down and Wept¡ª¡±


    ¡°The musical?¡±


    But Myrna didn¡¯t smile. ¡°Antoinette took the playwright¡¯s name off the script. She wanted to keep it a secret.¡±


    Clara nodded. ¡°You and Gabri were all excited, thinking it must be by Michel Tremblay or Leonard Cohen maybe.¡±


    ¡°Gabri was hoping it was by Wayne Gretzky.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a hockey player,¡± said Clara.


    ¡°Well, you know Gabri,¡± said Myrna. ¡°Anyway, Antoinette said she did it to attract attention, interest. To get people talking.¡±

 Page 13

    ¡°Why did she really do it?¡± asked Clara, seeing where this was going.


    ¡°Turns out the playwright is famous,¡± said Myrna. ¡°But not in the way you¡¯d hope. It¡¯s John Fleming.¡±


    Clara shook her head. The name meant nothing. And yet, there was a small niggling, more a gnawing really.


    Myrna waited.


    Clara looked off, trying to place the name. The man. John Fleming.


    ¡°Is it someone we¡¯ve met?¡± she asked, and Myrna shook her head. ¡°But we know him?¡±


    Myrna nodded.


    And then Clara had it. Headlines. Television images of jostling photographers, trying to get a picture of the little man in the neat suit, being led into court.


    How different real monsters were from the film kind.


    John Fleming was famous indeed.


    *   *   *


    Ruth closed the last page of the script and laid a blue-veined hand on the stack of paper.


    Then, making up her mind, she lit the logs in the hearth and held the script over it until her thin skin sizzled. But she couldn¡¯t do it.


    ¡°Stay here,¡± she commanded Rosa, who watched from her flannel nest.


    Finding a small shovel, Ruth went outside, and sinking to her knees she hacked at the earth. Cutting away at the grass. Digging deeper, fighting the ground for every inch, as though it knew her intention and was resisting. But Ruth didn¡¯t give up. If she could have dug down to the bedrock, she would have. Finally she was deep enough for her purpose.


    Picking up the script, Ruth placed it in the hole. Then she covered it up, shoving the dirt in with her hands. Sitting back on her heels, kneeling under the night sky, she wondered if she should say something. A thin prayer. A curse?


    ¡°And now it is now,¡± she whispered, quoting her own poem over the fresh-turned earth.


    And the dark thing is here,


    and after all it is nothing new;


    it is only a memory, after all:


    She got to her feet and stared down and thought about what she¡¯d done. And what he¡¯d done.


    A memory of a fear.


    Perhaps she should say something to Armand. But maybe it would be all right. Maybe it would stay buried.


    Ruth went inside, locking the door behind her.


    CHAPTER 4


    ¡°I¡¯m thinking of quitting the play,¡± said Gabri.


    The breakfast rush at the bistro was over and his guests at the B and B had left after the weekend. Now he sat in a comfortable armchair in the bay window of Myrna¡¯s New and Used Bookstore. Myrna sat across from him in her own chair, unmistakable because it had taken on, over the years, her ample form. Beside her, on the floor, was a stack of books to be priced and put on shelves.


    From the outside they might have looked like mannequins in a window display, except for their grim expressions.


    ¡°I¡¯ve decided to quit,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°Are we doing the right thing?¡± Gabri asked. ¡°It¡¯s so close to opening night, and if we pull out I don¡¯t know what Antoinette will do.¡±


    ¡°What she should have done all along,¡± came Clara¡¯s voice from the body of the store. She¡¯d been browsing the ¡°New Arrivals¡± shelf. Though ¡°new¡± was a relative term. ¡°She¡¯ll pull the play.¡±


    ¡°That was banned, you know,¡± Myrna said to Clara when she saw what book Clara was holding. Fahrenheit 451.


    ¡°Was it also burned?¡± asked Clara, joining them. ¡°Maybe that¡¯s what hellfire¡¯s made of. Burning books. I wonder if they¡¯d appreciate the irony.¡±


    ¡°I doubt it,¡± said Myrna. ¡°But are we doing the same thing?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not burning the play,¡± said Gabri. ¡°We¡¯re just refusing to support it. Conscientious objectors.¡±


    ¡°Look, if we¡¯re going to do this, we have to face the truth of what we¡¯re doing and why,¡± said Myrna. ¡°We¡¯re demanding that a play not be produced not because it contains anything vile, but because we don¡¯t like the man who wrote it.¡±


    ¡°You make it sound like a personality conflict,¡± said Gabri. ¡°It¡¯s not that we don¡¯t like John Fleming, it¡¯s because of what he did.¡±


    ¡°Knock, knock,¡± came a familiar voice at the door to the bookstore.


    They looked up to see Reine-Marie, Armand and Henri.


    ¡°We were out for a walk and saw you in the window,¡± said Armand.


    ¡°Are we interrupting?¡± Reine-Marie asked, looking at their faces.


    ¡°No,¡± said Clara. ¡°You can guess what we¡¯re talking about.¡±


    Reine-Marie nodded. ¡°The same thing we were talking about. The play.¡±

 Page 14

    ¡°The goddamned play,¡± said Myrna. ¡°I¡¯m going to quit and Antoinette¡¯s going to have a fit. I feel like such a shit.¡±


    ¡°Did you realize that all rhymed?¡± asked Gabri. ¡°Quit, fit, shit. Like a Shakespearean sonnet.¡±


    ¡°You feel you¡¯re letting down a friend,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    ¡°Partly, but I run a bookstore,¡± said Myrna, looking at the row upon row of books, lining the walls and creating corridors in the open space. ¡°So many of them were banned and burned. That one,¡± she pointed to the Fahrenheit 451 Clara still had in her hands. ¡°To Kill a Mockingbird. The Adventures of Huck Finn. Even The Diary of Anne Frank. All banned by people who believed they were in the right. Could we be wrong?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not banning it,¡± said Clara. ¡°He¡¯s allowed to write and you¡¯re allowed to pull your support.¡±


    ¡°But it comes to the same thing. If Gabri and I pull out and tell the others, it¡¯ll ruin the production. And you know what? I want it to. Once she knew who¡¯d written the play, Antoinette should never have produced it. Right, Armand?¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    If they were expecting a hesitation, some anguish over the answer, they were disappointed. His answer was quick and unequivocal.


    Armand Gamache was in absolutely no doubt. This was a play that should never have seen the light of day. Just as its author should never again see the light of day.


    ¡°But other killers have written books, plays even,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°John Fleming is different,¡± said Clara. ¡°We all know it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re an artist,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°Do you think a work should be judged by its creator? Or should it stand on its own?¡±


    Clara gave a huge sigh. ¡°I know the right answer to that. And I know how I feel. Would I want a painting by Jeffrey Dahmer, or to serve a meal from the Stalin family cookbook? No.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the issue,¡± said Gabri. ¡°It¡¯s about options, letting people make their own choices. Maybe Antoinette should produce it, and let people decide if they¡¯ll go or not.¡±


    ¡°Are you having second thoughts about quitting?¡± asked Myrna.


    ¡°Hell no,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m not going anywhere near that play again. The play was written by a shit and there¡¯s shit all over it. Fair or not, that¡¯s just the way it is.¡±


    ¡°Look at Wagner,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°He¡¯s so associated with the Nazis and the Holocaust that his music, however brilliant, is spoiled for many.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t help that Wagner was also a raging anti-Semite,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°But is that a reason not to perform music that is sublime?¡± asked Reine-Marie.


    ¡°Reason has very little to do with this,¡± said Myrna. ¡°I¡¯m the first to admit I¡¯d lose every debate over whether Fleming¡¯s play should be banned. Intellectually I know he has a right to write it, and any company has a right to produce it. I just don¡¯t want to be a part of it. I can¡¯t defend my feelings, they just are.¡±


    ¡°I go back to the question,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°Should the creation be judged by its creator? Does it matter?¡±


    ¡°It matters,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Sometimes censorship is justified.¡±


    They looked at him, surprised by his certainty. Even Reine-Marie was taken aback.


    ¡°But, Armand, you¡¯ve always championed free speech, even when it¡¯s used against you.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯re exceptions in a free society,¡± said Armand. ¡°There are always exceptions.¡± And John Fleming, he knew, was exceptional.


    ¡°Is the play about the murders?¡± Clara asked.


    ¡°No,¡± admitted Gabri. ¡°It¡¯s actually quite funny. It¡¯s about a guy who keeps winning the lottery and squandering the chances he¡¯s been given. He keeps ending up at the same rooming house, with the same people.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hilarious in places,¡± Myrna agreed. ¡°But then you find yourself incredibly moved. I don¡¯t know how he did it.¡±


    ¡°So it has nothing to do with Fleming and his crimes?¡± asked Reine-Marie. ¡°Nothing to do with him as a man?¡±


    ¡°It has everything to do with him,¡± said Armand, his voice clipped, strained. They looked at him. Never had they heard him come even close to being upset with his wife. ¡°If John Fleming created it, it¡¯s grotesque. It can¡¯t help but be. Maybe not obviously so, but he¡¯s in every word, every action of the characters. The creator and the created are one.¡± He laced his fingers together. ¡°This is how he escapes. Through the written word, and the decency of others. This is how John Fleming gets into your head. And you don¡¯t want him there. Believe me.¡±

 Page 15

    For a moment he looked like a man possessed. And then it passed, and faded, until Armand Gamache looked simply haunted. Silence settled over the bookstore, except for the jingle of Henri¡¯s collar as he stepped beside Armand, and leaned against his leg.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± said Armand, rubbing his forehead and giving them a feeble smile. ¡°Forgive me.¡± He took Reine-Marie¡¯s hand and squeezed it.


    ¡°I understand,¡± she said, though she knew she didn¡¯t really. The Fleming case was the only one Armand never talked to her about, though she¡¯d followed it in the media.


    ¡°The sooner we tell Antoinette we¡¯re out, the better,¡± said Gabri. ¡°I have some cleaning up to do at the bistro. Why don¡¯t I come by in about an hour and pick you up, Myrna? We can drive over together.¡±


    Myrna agreed. Gabri left, followed by Clara, waving good-bye with her book.


    ¡°I¡¯m heading over to the general store,¡± said Reine-Marie, leaving Armand and Henri in the bookstore.


    Myrna settled into her chair and looked at Armand, who¡¯d taken the armchair vacated by Gabri.


    ¡°Do you want to talk some more about the play?¡± she asked.


    ¡°God no,¡± he said.


    She was about to ask why he was there, but stopped herself. Instead she asked, ¡°What do you know that we don¡¯t?¡±


    It was a while before he answered.


    ¡°You have experience with the criminally insane,¡± he said, kneading Henri¡¯s enormous ears and looking at the groaning shepherd as he spoke. But then he looked up and Myrna saw sorrow in Armand¡¯s deep brown eyes. Genuine pain.


    He held on to the dog as though to a life raft after the ship had sunk.


    Myrna nodded. ¡°I had my own private practice but I also worked part-time at the penitentiary, as you know.¡±


    ¡°Did you ever work at the Special Handling Unit?¡± he asked.


    ¡°The SHU? For the worst offenders?¡± asked Myrna. ¡°I was asked to take on some cases there. I went there once, but didn¡¯t get out of my car.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    She opened her mouth, then shut it again, gathering her thoughts. Trying to find words to express what was not, in fact, a thought at all.


    ¡°You know the term ¡®godforsaken¡¯?¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°That¡¯s why. I sat in the parking lot of the SHU, staring at those walls.¡± She shook her head. ¡°I couldn¡¯t go inside that godforsaken place.¡±


    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¡ª¡±


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


    ¡°¡ªbut 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.¡±

 Page 16

    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¡ª¡± 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 association 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 associated 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 grass, 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 S?ret¨¦ headquarters in Montr¨¦al 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 God 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¡ª¡±


    ¡°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.

 Page 17

    ¡°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, titans 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 fa?ade, 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 crap now, with Brian in the lead¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hey,¡± said Brian.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, you¡¯ll be fine, but you don¡¯t have much time to rehearse, and when you came in late for rehearsal today I thought you¡¯d also¡ª¡±


    ¡°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. Overpasses really. He was a quiet, gentle man.¡±

 Page 18

    ¡°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.¡±


    She turned her back on him and so did Brian, but not before giving Armand a slightly apologetic grimace.


    As he drove down the dirt road toward Three Pines, feeling the familiar and almost comforting washboard bumps, Armand Gamache came to a realization. One he¡¯d probably known since he¡¯d discovered who¡¯d written She Sat Down and Wept.


    He would have to read the play.


    *   *   *


    Armand walked up the path and onto the rickety front stoop. And then he knocked.


    ¡°What do you want?¡± Ruth demanded through the closed door.


    ¡°To read the play.¡±


    ¡°What play?¡±


    ¡°For God¡¯s sake, Ruth, just open the door.¡±


    Something in his tone, perhaps the weariness, must have gotten through to her. A bolt slid back and the door opened a crack.


    ¡°Since when have you locked your door?¡± he asked, squeezing in.


    She shut it so quickly behind him the corner of his jacket caught in the doorjamb and he had to yank it free.


    ¡°Since when have you cared?¡± she asked. ¡°What makes you think I have the play?¡±


    ¡°I saw you take it when you left last night.¡±


    ¡°Why do you want to read it?¡±


    ¡°I might ask you the same thing.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s none of your business,¡± she snapped.


    ¡°And I might say the same thing.¡±


    He saw the briefest flicker of a smile. ¡°All right, Clouseau. If you can find it, you can have the goddamned play.¡±


    He shook his head and sighed. ¡°Just give it to me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not here.¡±


    ¡°Then where is it?¡±


    Ruth and Rosa limped to the kitchen door and pointed to her back garden. The flower beds held late-blooming roses and creamy, pink-tinged hydrangeas, and trellises on which grew bindweed.


    ¡°Blows over from your garden,¡± she complained. ¡°It¡¯s a weed, you know.¡±


    ¡°Invasive, rude, demanding. Soaks up all the nutrients.¡± He looked down at the old poet. ¡°Yes, we know. But we like it anyway.¡±


    And again the smile flickered, but didn¡¯t catch. Her eyes had dropped to a large planter in the middle of the lawn.


    Gamache followed her gaze, then he stepped off the porch and walked over to the planter. It was empty. Without a word, he dragged it a few paces away, then looked down at the square of fresh-turned earth. Rich and dark.


    ¡°Here.¡± Ruth handed him the spade.


    Sinking to his knees, he dug.


    Ruth and Rosa watched from their back porch.


    It was a deeper hole than Gamache had expected. He turned to look at Ruth, thin and frail. And yet, she¡¯d dug, and dug. Deep. As deep as she could. He put the shovelful of dirt on the pile behind him, and jabbed it back in.


    Eventually it hit something. Brushing away the dirt, he leaned in and saw the dark printing on the bone-white page.


    She Sat Down and Wept.


    He stared and from the ground came the audio recording played at the trial. Screams for help. Begging. Pleading with him to stop.


    ¡°Armand?¡±


    Reine-Marie¡¯s voice cut through the sounds, but even before he turned he knew something had happened. Something was wrong.


    Holding the filthy script in one hand and the spade in the other, he stood up and saw Reine-Marie outlined in the light of Ruth¡¯s back door.


    ¡°What is it?¡± he asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s Laurent. He didn¡¯t come home for dinner tonight. Evie just called to ask if he was with us.¡±


    Gamache felt the weight of the play in his hand, drawn back to the ground. Dirt to dirt.


    Laurent didn¡¯t come home.


    He dropped the play.


    CHAPTER 6


    After a night of searching, his mother and father found Laurent early the next morning. In a gully. Where he¡¯d been thrown, his bicycle nearby. The polished handlebars had caught the morning sun and the glint guided his parents to him.


    The other searchers, from villages all over the Townships, were alerted by the wail.


    Armand, Reine-Marie, and Henri stopped their search. Stopped calling Laurent¡¯s name. Stopped struggling through the thick brush on the side of the roads. Stopped urging Henri even deeper, ever deeper, through the brambles and burrs.


    Reine-Marie turned to Armand, stricken, as though a fist had formed out of the cries. She walked into Armand¡¯s arms and held on to him, burying her face in his body. His clothing, his shoulder, his arms almost muffled her sobs.

 Page 19

    She smelled his scent of sandalwood, mixed with a hint of rosewater. And for the first time, it didn¡¯t comfort her. So overwhelming was the sorrow. So shattering was the wail.


    Henri, covered in burrs and upset by the sounds, paced the dirt road, whining and looking up at them.


    Reine-Marie pulled back and wiped her face with a handkerchief. Then, on seeing the gleam in Armand¡¯s eyes, she grabbed him again. This time holding him, as he¡¯d held her.


    ¡°I need to¡ª¡± he said.


    ¡°Go,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m right behind you.¡±


    She took Henri¡¯s leash and started to run. Armand was already halfway to the corner. Sprinting, following the grief.


    And then the wailing stopped.


    *   *   *


    As Armand rounded the corner, he saw Al Lepage at the bottom of the hill standing in the middle of the dirt road, staring into space.


    Armand ran down the steep hill, skidding a little on the loose gravel. In the distance he saw Gabri and Olivier arriving from the opposite direction. Converging on the man.


    From the underbrush he heard moaning and rhythmic rustling.


    ¡°Al?¡± Armand said, slowing down to stop a few paces from the large, immobile man.


    Lepage gestured behind him but kept his face turned away.


    Even before he looked, Gamache knew what he¡¯d see.


    Behind him he heard Reine-Marie¡¯s footsteps slow to a stop. And then he heard her moan. As one mother looked at another¡¯s nightmare. At every mother¡¯s nightmare.


    And Armand looked at Al. Every father¡¯s nightmare.


    In a swift, practiced glance, Armand took in the position of the bike, the ruts in the road, the broken bushes and bent grass. The placement of rocks. The stark detail imprinted itself forever in his mind.


    Then Armand slid down the ditch, through the long grass and bushes that had hidden Laurent and his bike. Behind him he could hear Olivier and Gabri speaking to Al. Offering comfort.


    But Laurent¡¯s father was beyond comfort. Beyond hearing or seeing. He was senseless in a senseless world.


    Evie was clinging to Laurent, her body enfolding his. Rocking him. Her mousy brown hair had escaped the elastic and fell in strands in front of her face, forming a veil. Hiding her face. Hiding his.


    ¡°Evie?¡± Armand whispered, kneeling beside her. ¡°Evelyn?¡±


    He gently, slowly, pulled back the curtain.


    Gamache had been at the scene of enough accidents to know when someone was beyond help. But still he reached out and felt the boy¡¯s cold neck.


    Evie¡¯s keening turned into a hum, and for a moment he thought it was Laurent. It was the same tune the boy had hummed two days earlier when Armand had driven him home.


    Old man look at my life, twenty-four and there¡¯s so much more.


    From behind them, up the embankment and on the road, came a gasp so loud it drowned out the humming.


    One gasp, then a heave. And another heave. As Al Lepage fought for breath through a throat clogged with grief.


    Under the wretched sounds, Armand heard Olivier calling for an ambulance. Others had arrived, forming a semicircle around Al. Unsure what to do with such overwhelming grief.


    And then Al dropped to his knees and slowly lowered his forehead to the dirt. He brought his thick arms up over his gray head and locked his hands together until he looked like a stone, a boulder in the road.


    Armand turned back to Evie. The rocking had stopped. She too had petrified. She looked like one of the bodies excavated from the ruins of Pompeii, trapped forever in the moment of horror.


    There was nothing Armand could do for either of them. So he did something for himself. He reached out and took Laurent¡¯s hand, holding it in both of his, unconsciously trying to warm it. He stayed with them until the ambulance came. It arrived with haste and a siren. And drove off slowly. Silently.


    A little while later Reine-Marie and Armand drew the curtains of their home, to keep out the sunshine. They unplugged the phone. They carefully took the burrs off a patient Henri. Then in the dark and quiet of their living room they sat down and wept.


    *   *   *


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, patron,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°I know how much you cared for him.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to come down,¡± said Gamache, turning from the front door to walk back into their home. ¡°We could¡¯ve spoken on the phone.¡±


    ¡°I wanted to bring you this personally, rather than email it.¡±


    Gamache looked at what Jean-Guy held in his hand.


    ¡°Merci.¡±


    Jean-Guy placed the manila file on the coffee table in front of the sofa.


    ¡°According to the local S?ret¨¦, it was an accident. Laurent was riding his bike home, down the hill, and he hit a rut. You know what that road¡¯s like. They figure he was going at a good clip and the impact must¡¯ve thrown him over his handlebars and into the ditch. I¡¯m not sure if you saw the rocks nearby.¡±

 Page 20

    Gamache nodded and rubbed his large hand over his face, trying to wipe away the weariness. He and Reine-Marie had caught a few hours¡¯ sleep then gotten up to the sound of rain pelting against the windowpanes.


    It was now late afternoon and Jean-Guy had driven down from Montr¨¦al with the preliminary report on Laurent¡¯s death.


    ¡°I did see them. This¡¯s fast work,¡± said Gamache, putting on his reading glasses and opening the file.


    ¡°Preliminary,¡± Jean-Guy said, joining him on the sofa.


    It was pouring outside now. A chilly rain that got into the bones. A fire was lit in the hearth and embers popped and burst from the logs. But the men, heads together, were oblivious to the cheerfulness nearby.


    ¡°If you look here.¡± Beauvoir leaned in and pointed to a line in the police report. ¡°The coroner says he was gone as soon as he hit the ground. He didn¡¯t¡­¡±


    He didn¡¯t lie there, in pain. As it got darker. And colder.


    Laurent, all of nine years of age, didn¡¯t die frightened, wondering where they were.


    Jean-Guy saw Gamache give one curt nod, his lips tightening. There wasn¡¯t much comfort to be found in what had happened. He¡¯d take what he could get. As would Evie and Al, eventually. The only thing worse than losing a child was thinking that child had suffered.


    ¡°His injuries are consistent with what the police found,¡± said Jean-Guy. He sat back on the sofa and looked at his father-in-law. ¡°Why do you think it might be more than that?¡±


    Gamache continued to read, then he looked up and over his half-moon glasses.


    ¡°Why do you think I do?¡±


    Jean-Guy gave a thin smile and nodded toward the report. ¡°Your face as you read the report. You¡¯re scanning for evidence. I spent twenty years across from you, patron. I know that look. Why do you think I wanted to be here when you read it?¡± He tapped the report. ¡°I cared for him too, you know. Funny little guy.¡±


    He saw Gamache smile, and nod.


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Gamache admitted. ¡°I thought something was wrong from the moment we found him. All sorts of small things. And one big thing. Kids fall off bikes all the time. I can¡¯t tell you how often Annie landed headfirst. Only repeated blows to the head could explain her attraction to you.¡±


    ¡°Merci.¡±


    ¡°But surprisingly few die. Laurent also wore a helmet most of the time. Why not yesterday? He had it with him. It was tied to the handlebars of his bike.¡±


    ¡°Laurent probably wore the helmet when he left home and when he arrived where he was going. But he took it off in between, when no one was looking. Like most kids. I used to take off my tuque in the middle of winter, as soon as my mother couldn¡¯t see me. I¡¯d rather freeze my head than look stupid. Don¡¯t say it,¡± Jean-Guy warned, seeing the obvious comment coming.


    Gamache shook his head. ¡°It just wasn¡¯t right, Jean-Guy. There was something off. The trajectory, the distance he traveled. The distance his bike traveled¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªis all explained here.¡±


    ¡°In a report slapped together quickly. And then there was the position of the bike, and Laurent¡¯s body.¡±


    Jean-Guy picked up the photographs from the police report and studied them, then handed them to Armand, who placed the pictures back in the file.


    He saw that face, that body, all day long. It was burned into his memory. No need to look at it again.


    ¡°They look like they were thrown there,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Oui. When he hit that rut,¡± said Jean-Guy, trying to be patient.


    ¡°I¡¯ve investigated enough accidents, Jean-Guy, to know that this does not look like one.¡±


    ¡°But it does, patron, to everyone but you.¡±


    It was said gently, but firmly. Gamache took off his glasses and looked at Beauvoir.


    ¡°Do you think I want it to be more than an accident?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No. But I think sometimes our imaginations can run away with us. A combination of grief and exhaustion and guilt.¡±


    ¡°Guilt?¡±


    ¡°Okay, maybe not guilt, but I think you felt a responsibility toward the boy. You liked him and he looked up to you. And then this happens.¡±


    Beauvoir gestured toward the photographs. ¡°I understand, patron. You want to do something and can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°So I make it murder?¡±


    ¡°So you question,¡± said Jean-Guy, trying now to diffuse an unexpectedly tense situation. ¡°That¡¯s all. But the findings are pretty clear.¡±


    ¡°This is too preliminary.¡± Gamache closed the file and pushed it away. ¡°They¡¯ve jumped to an obvious conclusion because it¡¯s easy. They need to investigate further.¡±

 Page 21

    ¡°Why?¡± asked Jean-Guy.


    ¡°Because I need to be sure. They need to be sure.¡±


    ¡°No, I mean, let¡¯s assume for a moment this wasn¡¯t an accident. He was a kid. He wasn¡¯t violated. He wasn¡¯t tortured. Thank God. Why would someone kill him?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    Gamache did not look at the pile of dirty pages on the table by the back door where they¡¯d sat since he¡¯d dug them up. But he felt them there. Felt John Fleming squatting there, listening, watching.


    ¡°Sometimes there¡¯s a clear motive, sometimes it¡¯s just bad luck,¡± he said. ¡°The murderer has a plan of his own and the victim is chosen at random.¡±


    ¡°You think a serial killer murdered Laurent?¡± asked Jean-Guy, incredulous now. ¡°A regular murderer isn¡¯t enough?¡±


    ¡°Enough?¡± Gamache glared at the younger man. ¡°What do you mean by that?¡±


    His voice, explosive at first, had dropped to a dangerous whisper, and then he recovered himself.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Jean-Guy. I know you¡¯re trying to help. I¡¯m not making this up. I have no idea why anyone would murder Laurent. All I¡¯m saying is that I¡¯m not sure it was simply an accident. It might have been a hit-and-run. But there¡¯s something off.¡±


    Gamache reopened the dossier. At the list of items found in Laurent¡¯s pocket. A small stone with a line of pyrite through it. Fool¡¯s gold. A chocolate bar. Broken. There were pine cone shards and dirt and a dog biscuit.


    Then Gamache looked at the report on the boy¡¯s hands. They were scratched, dirty. The coroner found pine resin and bits of plant matter under his nails. No flesh. No blood.


    No fight. If Laurent was murdered, he didn¡¯t have a chance to defend himself. Gamache was relieved by this at least. It spoke of a boy doing boy things in the last hours, minutes, of his life. Not fighting for that life, but apparently enjoying it. Right up until the end.


    Gamache raised his brown eyes to Jean-Guy.


    ¡°Would you look into it?¡±


    ¡°Of course, patron. I¡¯ll come back down for the funeral and try to have some definite answers by then.¡±


    Beauvoir thought about where to start. But there wasn¡¯t much to think about. When a child dies, where do you look first?


    ¡°You said his father wouldn¡¯t look at the boy, at his body. Is it possible¡­?¡±


    Gamache considered for a moment. Remembering the weathered, beaten face of Al Lepage. His back turned to his dead son and wailing wife. ¡°It¡¯s possible.¡±


    ¡°But?¡±


    ¡°If he killed Laurent in a fit of rage he might try to hide it, but it would be simpler, I think. He¡¯d bury the boy somewhere. Or take the body into the woods and leave it there. Let nature do the rest. If it was murder, then someone put some thought and effort into making it look like an accident.¡±


    ¡°People do, of course,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°The best way to get away with murder is to make sure no one knows it¡¯s murder.¡±


    They¡¯d wandered into the kitchen and were pouring coffees. They sat at the pine table, hands cupped around the mugs.


    Beauvoir missed this. The hours and hours with Chief Inspector Gamache. Poring over evidence, talking with suspects. Talking about suspects. Comparing notes. Sitting across from each other in diners and cars and crappy hotel rooms. Picking apart a case.


    And now, sitting at the kitchen table in Three Pines, Inspector Beauvoir wondered if he was humoring the Chief by agreeing to investigate a case that almost certainly only existed in Gamache¡¯s imagination. Or maybe he was humoring himself.


    ¡°If it was murder, why not just bury him in the forest?¡± asked Jean-Guy. ¡°It would be almost impossible to find him. And as you said, the wolves and bears¡­¡±


    Gamache nodded.


    He looked across at Jean-Guy, the younger man¡¯s brows furrowed, thinking. Following a line of reason. How often, Gamache wondered, in small fishing villages, in farmers¡¯ fields, in snowed-in cabins in the wilderness, had the two of them struggled through the intricacies of a case? Trying to find a murderer, who was desperately trying to hide?


    He missed this.


    Was that why he was doing it? Had he turned a little boy¡¯s tragic death into murder, for his own selfish reasons? Had he bullied Jean-Guy into seeing what didn¡¯t exist? Because he was bored? Because he missed being the great Chief Inspector Gamache?


    Because he missed the applause?


    Still, Jean-Guy had asked a good question. If someone had in fact murdered Laurent, why not just hide the body in the deep, dark forest? Why go through the ¡°accident¡± charade?

 Page 22

    There was only one answer to that.


    ¡°Because he wanted Laurent to be found,¡± said Jean-Guy, before Gamache could say it. ¡°If Laurent remained missing we¡¯d keep looking for him. We¡¯d turn the area upside-down.¡±


    ¡°And we might find something the murderer didn¡¯t want us to find,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°But what?¡± Jean-Guy asked.


    ¡°What?¡± Gamache repeated.


    An hour later Reine-Marie returned from visiting Clara to find the two of them in the kitchen, staring into space.


    She knew what that meant.


    *   *   *


    Laurent Lepage¡¯s funeral was held two days later.


    The rain had stopped, the skies had cleared and the day shone bright and unexpectedly warm for September.


    The minister, who did not appear to know the Lepages, did his best. He spoke of Laurent¡¯s kindness, his gentleness, his innocence.


    ¡°Who exactly are we burying?¡± Gabri whispered, as they got down once again to pray.


    Laurent¡¯s father was invited to the front by the minister. Al walked up, dressed in an ill-fitting black suit, his hair pulled back tightly, his beard combed. He held a guitar and sat on a chair set out for him.


    The guitar rested on his lap, ready. But Al just sat there, staring at the mourners. Unable to move. And then, helped by Evie, he returned to his seat in the front pew.


    The interment, in the cemetery above Three Pines, was private. Just Evelyn and Alan Lepage, the minister and the people from the funeral home.


    In the church basement, Laurent¡¯s teachers, classmates, neighborhood children picked at food brought by the villagers.


    ¡°Can I speak with you, patron?¡± asked Jean-Guy.


    ¡°What is it?¡± asked Armand when he and Jean-Guy had stepped a few paces from the group.


    ¡°We¡¯ve gone over it and over it. There¡¯s no evidence it was anything other than an accident.¡±


    Beauvoir studied the large man in front of him, trying to read his face. Was there relief there? Yes. But there was also something else.


    ¡°You¡¯re still troubled,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°I can show you our findings.¡±


    ¡°No need,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Merci. I appreciate it.¡±


    ¡°But do you believe it?¡±


    Gamache nodded slowly. ¡°I do.¡± Then he did something Beauvoir did not expect. He smiled. ¡°Seems Laurent wasn¡¯t the only one with a vivid imagination. Seeing things that aren¡¯t there.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to report an alien invasion now, are you?¡±


    ¡°Well, now that you mention it¡­¡±


    Gamache tilted his head toward the buffet and Beauvoir smiled.


    Ruth was pouring something from a flask into her waxed cup of punch.


    ¡°Merci, Jean-Guy. I appreciate what you¡¯ve done.¡±


    ¡°Thank Lacoste. She approved it and even put a team on it. The boy died in an accident, patron. He fell off his bike.¡±


    Once again Gamache nodded. They walked back to the others, passing Antoinette and Brian on the way.


    Brian said hello, but Antoinette turned away.


    ¡°Still mad, I see,¡± said Jean-Guy.


    ¡°And it¡¯s only getting worse.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯re you two talking about?¡± asked Reine-Marie, as Armand and Jean-Guy rejoined her.


    ¡°Antoinette,¡± said Jean-Guy.


    ¡°She looked at me with loathing,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°Me too,¡± said Gabri, walking over with a plate filled with apple pie while Olivier¡¯s was stacked with quinoa, cilantro, and apple salad.


    ¡°Play not going well?¡± asked Jean-Guy.


    ¡°Once they found out who wrote it, most of the other actors also quit,¡± said Gabri. ¡°I think Antoinette was genuinely surprised.¡±


    Myrna was looking at Antoinette and shaking her head. ¡°She really doesn¡¯t seem to understand why anyone would be upset.¡±


    ¡°So the play¡¯s canceled?¡± asked Jean-Guy.


    ¡°No,¡± said Clara. ¡°That¡¯s the weird thing. She refuses to cancel it. I think Brian is now playing all the parts. She just can¡¯t accept reality.¡±


    ¡°Seems to be going around,¡± said Armand.


    ¡°You mean Laurent?¡± asked Olivier. ¡°Now there was someone whose understanding of reality was fluid.¡±


    ¡°Remember when he claimed there was a dinosaur in the pond?¡± said Gabri, laughing.


    ¡°He almost had you convinced,¡± said Olivier.


    ¡°Or the time he saw the three pines walking around?¡± asked Myrna.


    ¡°They walk all the time,¡± said Ruth, shoving in between Gabri and Olivier.

 Page 23

    ¡°Fueled by gin,¡± said Clara. ¡°Funny how that works.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of which, there¡¯s no gin. Someone must¡¯ve drunk it all. Get some more,¡± she said to Myrna.


    ¡°Get your own¡ª¡±


    ¡°Church,¡± Clara interrupted Myrna.


    ¡°We¡¯re at a child¡¯s funeral,¡± Olivier said to Ruth. ¡°There is no alcohol.¡±


    ¡°If there ever was an occasion to drink, this is it,¡± said Ruth.


    She was holding Rosa in much the same way Evelyn Lepage had held Laurent. To her chest. Protectively.


    ¡°He was a strange little kid,¡± said Ruth. ¡°I liked him.¡±


    And there was Laurent Lepage¡¯s real eulogy. Stories of his stories. Of the funny little kid with the stick, causing havoc. Creating chaos and monsters and aliens and guns and bombs and walking trees.


    That was the boy they were burying.


    ¡°How many times did we look out at the village green and see Laurent hiding behind the bench, firing his ¡®rifle¡¯ at invaders,¡± asked Clara as they left the church and wandered down the dirt road into the village.


    ¡°Lobbing pine cones like they were grenades,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°Bambambam.¡± Olivier held an imaginary machine gun and made the sounds they¡¯d heard as Laurent engaged the enemy.


    Clara tossed an imaginary grenade. ¡°Brrrrccch.¡± As it exploded.


    ¡°He was always prepared to defend the village,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    ¡°He was,¡± said Olivier.


    Gamache remembered the pine cone seeds found in Laurent¡¯s pocket. He¡¯d been on a mission to save the world. Armed to the teeth. When he died.


    ¡°I actually thought his death was no accident,¡± Armand confided to Myrna as the others walked ahead, across the village green. ¡°I thought it might be murder.¡±


    Myrna stopped and looked at him.


    ¡°Really? Why?¡±


    They sat on the bench in the afternoon sun.


    ¡°I¡¯m wondering the same thing. Is it possible I¡¯ve been around murder so long I see it when it doesn¡¯t exist?¡±


    ¡°Creating monsters,¡± said Myrna. ¡°Like Laurent.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Jean-Guy thinks part of me wanted it to be murder. To amuse myself.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure he didn¡¯t put it that way.¡±


    ¡°No. It¡¯s how I¡¯m putting it.¡±


    ¡°And how are you answering that question?¡±


    ¡°I suppose there might be some truth in it. Not that I¡¯m bored, and certainly not that homicide amuses me. It revolts me. But¡­¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel was down last week and offered me the job of Superintendent overseeing the Serious Crimes and Homicide divisions.¡±


    Myrna raised her brows. ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°The truth is, I¡¯ve never felt so at peace, so at home as I do here. I don¡¯t feel any need to go back. But I feel as though I should.¡±


    Myrna laughed. ¡°I know what you mean. When I quit my job as a psychologist, I felt guilty. This isn¡¯t our parents¡¯ generation, Armand. Now people have many chapters to their lives. When I stopped being a therapist I asked myself one question. What do I really want to do? Not for my friends, not for my family. Not for perfect strangers. But for me. Finally. It was my turn, my time. And this is yours, Armand. Yours and Reine-Marie¡¯s. What do you really want?¡±


    He heard the thump of pine cones falling and stopped himself from turning to look for the funny little kid who¡¯d thrown the ¡°grenades.¡± Kaaa-pruuuchh.


    Then another one fell. And another. It was as though the three huge pines were tapping the earth. Asking it to admit Laurent. The magical kid who¡¯d made them walk.


    Armand closed his eyes and smelled fresh-cut grass and felt the sun on his upturned face.


    What do I want? Gamache asked himself.


    He heard, on the breeze, the first thin notes. From Neil Young¡¯s Harvest. Armand looked up to the small cemetery on the crest of the hill. Outlined against the clear blue afternoon sky was a large man with a guitar in his arms.


    And down the hill the words drifted ¡­ and there¡¯s so much more.


    CHAPTER 7


    ¡°There you are,¡± said Olivier, as he and Gabri sat down at the Gamaches¡¯ table in the bistro. ¡°We¡¯ve been looking for you.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t have been looking hard,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°Where else would we be?¡±


    ¡°Home?¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t our home?¡± Gamache whispered to Reine-Marie.


    ¡°Yes it is, mon beau,¡± she patted her husband¡¯s leg reassuringly.

 Page 24

    They were still in their clothes from the funeral, Reine-Marie in a navy blue dress and Armand in a dark gray suit, white shirt and tie. Tailored and classic.


    They were not yet ready to remove the clothes, as though to do that was to remove their grief and leave Laurent behind.


    Olivier and Gabri must have felt the same way. They too were still in their dark suits and ties.


    Olivier waved to one of his servers and a couple of beers and a bowl of mixed nuts appeared.


    Gabri and Olivier sipped their beers and stared at each other, goading each other on.


    ¡°Was there a reason you were looking for us?¡± Armand finally asked.


    ¡°You go,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°No, you go,¡± said Olivier.


    ¡°It was your idea,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°Please, one of you tell us,¡± said Armand, looking from one to the other. He was not really in the mood for twenty questions.


    ¡°It¡¯s a small thing,¡± said Olivier.


    ¡°Hardly worth mentioning,¡± said Gabri. ¡°We were just wondering.¡±


    Gamache opened his eyes wide, inviting something more precise.


    ¡°It¡¯s the stick,¡± said Olivier at last.


    ¡°Laurent¡¯s stick,¡± said Gabri.


    They stared at Gamache, but when he stared back blankly, Olivier took the plunge.


    ¡°At the reception when we were talking about Laurent we all remembered him with that stick of his.¡±


    ¡°His rifle,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    ¡°His rifle, his sword, his wand,¡± said Olivier. ¡°How many times did we see him roaring down the hill on his bike into Three Pines holding that stick out in front of him like a knight in battle?¡±


    ¡°He was a menace,¡± said Gabri with a smile, remembering the fearless, fearsome boy tilting at God knew what, determined to save the village and the villagers.


    The Gamaches stared at Olivier and Gabri, expecting more.


    ¡°He never went anywhere without it,¡± said Gabri. ¡°We just thought maybe Al and Evie would want it back.¡±


    ¡°Oh, right,¡± said Armand. ¡°That¡¯s probably true.¡±


    He wished he¡¯d thought of that but was glad the guys had.


    ¡°The police must¡¯ve picked it up,¡± said Olivier. ¡°Do you know when they¡¯ll release it? Can we get it back now?¡±


    Armand opened his mouth to say that he imagined all of Laurent¡¯s possessions would have been returned already. But then he stopped himself. And thought, searching his memory of the S?ret¨¦ report. It said nothing about a stick, but then even had the investigators seen it on the ground they probably wouldn¡¯t have picked it up. It would look like any other tree limb.


    But he also searched his own memory of the scene.


    The hill, the gravel, the long grass, the bike with the helmet still tied to the handlebars. He scanned his memory but there was no stick. No limb. Just a gully and grass and a keening mother and cold child.


    He got up. ¡°The police didn¡¯t find it. We need to go back there and look. Why don¡¯t we all change and meet back here?¡±


    Twenty minutes later they got out of the Gamaches¡¯ car wearing slacks, sweaters, jackets and rubber boots. The four of them slid down the small embankment and started looking.


    But Laurent¡¯s stick wasn¡¯t there.


    Not in the gully. Not on the verge of the dirt road. It wasn¡¯t in the tall grass, or the circle of flattened grass, or along the edge of the forest.


    Armand walked up to the top of the hill and stood there, imagining Laurent hurtling down it on his bike. He retraced Laurent¡¯s final moments.


    Down, down, down. Laurent would have gained speed, his legs pumping, the stick almost certainly out in front. A lance in a heroic charge.


    And then something happened. He¡¯d hit a rut or a hole or a heave. What old townshippers called a cahoo.


    Armand stood at a likely spot, a pothole. Had Laurent been frightened as he took flight? Gamache suspected not. The boy had probably been giddy with excitement. Maybe even shouting, ¡°Caaaaah-hoooo.¡±


    He was airborne. And then he wasn¡¯t.


    Blunt force trauma, it was called in the report. What the autopsy couldn¡¯t show was the ongoing trauma to everyone who loved the child.


    Armand stood on the pothole and lifted his body up on tiptoes, stretching his arms out in front of him. Mimicking taking off. He imagined sailing through the air. Up, up, and then down. Into the gully.


    And where would the stick have landed? Perhaps quite a distance from Laurent, released from the little hand like a javelin slicing through the air.


    Reine-Marie, Olivier and Gabri followed his actions and searched in the likeliest places. And then the least likely places.

 Page 25

    ¡°Nothing so far,¡± Reine-Marie said, then looking around she noticed her husband wasn¡¯t with her. He was standing at the spot where Laurent had landed, looking at the ground. Then he turned and looked back up the hill.


    ¡°Find anything?¡± asked Olivier.


    ¡°No,¡± said Gabri, getting closer to the woods. ¡°Just grass and mud.¡± He lifted his boots and there was a sucking sound as the ground reluctantly released him.


    Armand had returned to the road and walked in the opposite direction of the hill. Reine-Marie, along with Gabri and Olivier, joined him.


    ¡°No stick?¡± Gamache asked.


    They shook their heads.


    ¡°Maybe Al and Evie picked it up,¡± said Olivier.


    But they doubted it. It was all Laurent¡¯s parents could do to pick themselves up.


    ¡°Maybe he lost it,¡± said Gabri.


    But they knew the only way Laurent would lose it was if he lost his hand. It was more than just a stick to Laurent.


    *   *   *


    Al Lepage came out of the barn when he heard their car drive up. He was back in his work clothes and was wiping his large hands.


    ¡°Armand.¡±


    ¡°Al.¡± The men shook hands and Reine-Marie gave him a quick embrace.


    ¡°Is Evie at home? I have a casserole.¡±


    Al pointed to the house, and when Reine-Marie left he turned to Gamache.


    ¡°Is this a social call?¡±


    ¡°No, not really.¡±


    They¡¯d dropped Gabri and Olivier back in Three Pines and then driven to the farm. And now Armand contemplated the older man in front of him. Al Lepage looked like a paper bag that had been crumpled up before being thrown away. But for the first time, Armand really studied his face and noted not the beard or the leathered skin, but the blue, blue eyes, shaped like almonds. Laurent¡¯s eyes. And his nose. Thin and slightly too long for the face. Laurent¡¯s nose.


    ¡°I have a question for you.¡±


    Al indicated a trough. The two men sat side by side.


    ¡°Do you have Laurent¡¯s stick?¡±


    Al looked at him as though he¡¯d lost his mind. ¡°His stick?¡±


    ¡°He always had it with him but we couldn¡¯t find it. We just wondered if you might have it.¡±


    It seemed an eternity before Al answered. Armand quietly prayed that he¡¯d say, Yes, yes I do. And then Armand and Reine-Marie could go home, and start the long process of remembering the boy alive and letting go of the boy dead.


    ¡°No.¡±


    The large man didn¡¯t meet Armand¡¯s eyes, couldn¡¯t. He stared straight ahead, his almond eyes hard with the effort of not going soft. But his lips trembled and his chin dimpled.


    ¡°It would be nice to have it back,¡± he managed to say.


    ¡°We¡¯ll try to get it for you.¡±


    ¡°I made it for his birthday.¡±


    ¡°Oui.¡±


    ¡°Worked on it every night after he went to bed. He wanted an iPhone.¡±


    ¡°No he didn¡¯t,¡± said Armand.


    ¡°He¡¯s nine.¡±


    Gamache nodded.


    ¡°Nine,¡± whispered Al Lepage.


    And both men stared off, in opposite directions. Laurent¡¯s father viewing a world where nine-year-old boys died in accidents. Gamache seeing a world where even worse things happened.


    ¡°It must be there,¡± Al said at last. ¡°Where we found him. Or the cops picked it up.¡±


    ¡°No. We looked. And the police didn¡¯t find it either. If it isn¡¯t here at home, and it isn¡¯t where Laurent was found, then we have to find it.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    Gamache didn¡¯t hesitate. He knew there was never a good time for this.


    ¡°It could mean that Laurent might¡¯ve been killed somewhere else, and put in that ditch.¡±


    Al¡¯s mouth formed the beginning of a word. Why, perhaps. Or, what. But it died there. And Gamache saw Laurent¡¯s father pack up his home, take all his possessions, and move. To that other world. Where nine-year-old boys were killed. A world where nine-year-old boys were murdered.


    Armand Gamache was the moving man, the ferryman, who took him there.


    And once across there was no going back.


    *   *   *


    ¡°A stick, patron?¡± Jean-Guy Beauvoir¡¯s voice had grown shrill on the phone.


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Gamache. He stood in his living room and looked out the window, past their front porch to the village green.


    He could see Clara and Myrna sitting on the bench chatting with Monsieur B¨¦liveau.


    ¡°You want me to go to Chief Inspector Lacoste and say we have to reopen the investigation into Laurent Lepage¡¯s death¡ªan investigation we only did as a personal favor to you¡ªbecause a stick is missing?¡±

 Page 26

    ¡°Oui.¡±


    Armand Gamache understood how Laurent must have felt when trying to convince people he¡¯d seen a monster. Gamache hadn¡¯t yet seen the monster, but he knew it was out there. He just had to convince others.


    ¡°I know how ridiculous it sounds, Jean-Guy.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you do, patron, or you¡¯d never have said it.¡±


    ¡°Please, just do it.¡±


    ¡°But what are we supposed to do? We¡¯ve already done a thorough investigation. It was an accident.¡±


    ¡°It was not,¡± said Gamache, his voice gruff. ¡°And it¡¯s not just the stick. We went to the site yesterday afternoon and searched, but something else struck me. How his body was lying. If you assume, as we have, that he was riding his bike down the hill and hit a bump, he¡¯d have flown headfirst, right?¡±


    ¡°Which he did. Hit his head. I¡¯m sorry, Chief, but where¡¯s this going?¡±


    ¡°He was pointed in the wrong direction, Jean-Guy. Your own photos confirm it.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Gamache could hear Jean-Guy scrambling, and tapping on his computer to bring up the file and the photos.


    Then there was silence.


    ¡°Christ,¡± he finally said, exhaling the word like a sigh. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°If you go to the site you¡¯ll see immediately. Laurent could not have been heading down the hill when he fell.¡±


    ¡°And the other direction?¡±


    ¡°Is flat. He might¡¯ve hit his wheel against a rock or a pothole and fallen, but at worst he¡¯d have skinned a knee, maybe broken an arm. He could never have flown that far.¡±


    ¡°Jeez, you might be on to something. But now what?¡±


    ¡°If he was killed, the murderer made a huge mistake. He moved the body but left the stick. If we can find the stick, we might know where Laurent was killed.¡±


    ¡°And who did it,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°But even if all this is true, how in the world are you going to find a stick in the forest?¡±


    Gamache looked out the window and raised his eyes past the village green, past the old homes. To the woods. The forest. Hundreds of square miles radiated out from the village. With millions of sticks on the ground.


    But Laurent was nine years old, and nine-year-olds, even with bicycles, didn¡¯t travel hundreds of square miles. And they sure didn¡¯t go all that far into the forest.


    If he was murdered, it was close by.


    ¡°You were playing soccer on the village green when Laurent came running into the village a few days ago.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± said Jean-Guy.


    ¡°Which direction did he come from?¡±


    ¡°He came past the old train station,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°Over the bridge,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Yes, I remember him saying that. We¡¯ll start there.¡±


    ¡°Why there?¡±


    ¡°You asked me the other day why anyone would kill a nine-year-old boy,¡± said Armand. ¡°And there¡¯re only two things I can think of. It was either for no reason except the pleasure of the killer. A psychopath. Or there was a reason.¡±


    ¡°But again,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Look at Laurent,¡± said Armand. ¡°What did he do? He made up stories. All sorts of stories. All of which were in his imagination. Myrna thinks he wanted attention. The boy who cried wolf. But even he was finally telling the truth. Suppose Laurent was too.¡±


    ¡°About the alien invasion?¡±


    ¡°About the gun.¡±


    ¡°And the monster riding it?¡± asked Jean-Guy.


    Armand sighed. ¡°He was given to exaggeration,¡± he admitted. ¡°And that¡¯s where he lost us. Had Laurent stuck to just the gun story¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªthe gun that was bigger than any house?¡±


    ¡°¡ªthen we might¡¯ve believed him. As it was no one even listened. We just tuned him out. He begged me to go with him and I never even considered it,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Had I gone with him¡­¡±


    His voice trailed off. It was a realization that had been creeping up on him most of the day, but this was the first time he¡¯d voiced it.


    ¡°I¡¯m coming down,¡± said Jean-Guy.


    ¡°It¡¯s all right, I¡¯ve lined up some people to search,¡± said Armand. ¡°It could take a while. We might never find it.¡±


    ¡°Well, what can I do?¡±


    ¡°Ask the coroner to reexamine the medical evidence. Ask her if it¡¯s possible the injuries were inflicted by something other than an accident.¡±


    ¡°D¡¯accord. I¡¯ll also go over the photographs and other evidence.¡± Jean-Guy paused. ¡°You really think someone killed the kid? You know what that means?¡±

 Page 27

    Armand Gamache knew exactly what it meant.


    It took a certain kind of person to kill a child. Chief Inspector Gamache had tracked a few of them down in his long career. Fighting to find the murderer, but also fighting to keep his own repugnance, his own rage, at bay. Fighting to keep the thought of his own children out of an already complex and volatile mix.


    That was the problem. They were the most difficult murderers to find, not simply because if they were willing to kill a child, they were willing to do anything, but also because the emotions of the family, the witnesses, the friends, the public and the investigators were heightened. Volcanic. It could obscure the truth, warp perceptions.


    And that gave the murderer a huge advantage.


    It was also the kind of murder that could pull a community apart. Even he, looking out the window at the villagers going about their lives, was thinking only one thing.


    Was it one of them?


    *   *   *


    People from miles around volunteered to help scour the woods for the little boy¡¯s stick. Armand hadn¡¯t explained why they were looking, not the truth anyway. Instead he¡¯d told people it would mean a great deal to Al and Evie to have Laurent¡¯s prized possession.


    It would take two days of searching the forest before they found it. And what they found wasn¡¯t the stick. Not at first. The first thing they found was the monster.


    CHAPTER 8


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir had come down to Three Pines to help on the second day of the search.


    It was mind-numbing, back-breaking, frigid work in the dark, dank forest. But none of the villagers had dropped out. They took it in rotations, two hours at a time, and just about everyone had volunteered for a stint.


    ¡°The coroner agreed it was possible Laurent¡¯s injuries were caused by being hit, rather than hitting the ground,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°He was a little kid, even for a nine-year-old. It wouldn¡¯t take much. It¡¯s a terrible thing, to take the life of a child.¡±


    ¡°Yes it is.¡±


    ¡°I also looked again at the photos from the scene and stopped there on my way out. You could be right.¡±


    ¡°Merci,¡± said Gamache, picking up a stick, examining it and tossing it behind him.


    ¡°And since you begged for my help, it was the least I could do.¡±


    Armand smiled. ¡°I¡¯m lost without you.¡±


    Jean-Guy looked around. They could hear the shuffling of the other searchers, but couldn¡¯t see them.


    ¡°You might be lost with me.¡±


    Decades¡¯, centuries¡¯ worth of fallen leaves had dried and decayed on the forest floor, so that as they walked it gave off a musky, woody scent that was not unpleasant.


    The leaves overhead were changing, and with the bright sun on them it felt like they were walking under a massive stained-glass dome.


    ¡°Over here,¡± came a yell.


    Gamache and Beauvoir stopped and turned in the direction of the voice.


    ¡°I¡¯ve found something.¡±


    It was Monsieur B¨¦liveau, the grocer. He stood, tall and thin, in the middle of the woods, waving. Gamache and Beauvoir began to walk quickly, then broke into a jog.


    Others, hearing the shout, also began to head over.


    ¡°Stop,¡± shouted Gamache, picking up speed, running between the trees, trying to get ahead of the stampede. ¡°Arr¨ºtez. Right now. Stop.¡±


    And they did. Not all at once, but the authority in his voice eventually registered and everyone ground to a halt, scattered through the woods.


    ¡°Did you find Laurent¡¯s stick?¡± Beauvoir asked as he approached the grocer.


    ¡°Non,¡± said Monsieur B¨¦liveau. ¡°I found that.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± demanded Antoinette. She stood deeper in the woods, Brian by her side. She was unmistakable and unmissable in a bright pink woolly sweater that was covered in dried leaves and bark. She looked like an escapee from a Dr. Seuss book. On the lam from green eggs and ham.


    Monsieur B¨¦liveau was pointing at something but they couldn¡¯t see what.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Gamache asked quietly as he got closer.


    ¡°Can¡¯t you see it?¡± Monsieur B¨¦liveau whispered. He moved his hand in a circle, but all Gamache could see was a particularly thick section of forest.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± Gamache heard someone say behind him. He thought it might be Clara, but he didn¡¯t turn around. Instead Armand Gamache stopped. Then stepped back. And back again.


    And tilted his head up.


    ¡°Merde,¡± he heard Jean-Guy whisper.


    Then he peered at where Monsieur B¨¦liveau was pointing. It was a small tear in the vines. And beyond that it was black.

 Page 28

    ¡°Do you have your flashlight?¡± he asked Jean-Guy, holding out his hand.


    ¡°I do, but I¡¯m going first, patron.¡±


    Beauvoir put on gloves, knelt on the ground, turned on the light, and stuck his head through the hole. Jean-Guy looked, though Gamache would never say it to his face, a bit like Winnie-the-Pooh stuck in the honey jar.


    But when he came back out there was nothing childish about his expression.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. You need to see.¡±


    This time Beauvoir crawled all the way through the hole and disappeared. Armand followed, first telling everyone else to stay where they were. It did not seem a hard sell. As he squeezed through the opening, Gamache noticed bits of torn camouflage netting.


    And then he was through into a world where there was no sun. It was dark and silent. Not even the scampering of rodents. Nothing. Except the beam from Beauvoir¡¯s flashlight.


    He felt the younger man¡¯s strong grip on his arm, helping him to his feet.


    Neither spoke.


    Gamache stepped forward and felt a cobweb cling to his face. He brushed it aside and moved another cautious step forward.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± Jean-Guy asked.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    Both men whispered, not wishing to disturb whatever else might be in there. But Gamache¡¯s instincts told him there was nothing else. At least, nothing living.


    Jean-Guy moved the flashlight around quickly at first trying to assess their situation. Then the rapid, sweeping movements of the circle of light slowed.


    It fell here and there. And then it stopped and Beauvoir leapt back, pushing into Gamache and dropping the flashlight.


    ¡°What is that?¡± Armand asked.


    Jean-Guy stooped quickly to pick up the light. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    But he did know there was something else in there with them.


    Beauvoir tilted the beam up. Up. Straight up. And Armand felt his jaw go slack.


    ¡°Oh my God,¡± he whispered.


    What he saw was unbelievable. Inconceivable.


    The camouflage netting and old vines concealed a vast space. It was hollow. But not empty. Inside it was a gun. A massive artillery piece. Ten times, a hundred times bigger than anything Gamache had ever seen. Or heard of. Or thought possible.


    And stretching up from the base, apparently out of the ground, was a figure.


    A winged monster. Writhing.


    Gamache stepped forward, then stopped as his boot fell on something.


    ¡°Jean-Guy,¡± he said, and motioned to the ground.


    Beauvoir pointed the flashlight and there, in the circle of light, was a stick.


    *   *   *


    Word spread fast. Within minutes everyone in the village knew that something had been found.


    Al and Evie Lepage had been on every shift, searching the forest for their son¡¯s stick, only taking breaks when the damp and cold got into their bones and they couldn¡¯t take it anymore.


    They were in the bistro taking a rare break to warm up when Jean-Guy Beauvoir strode past on his way to the Gamache home. They followed him and were standing in the doorway when they heard his phone call to the local S?ret¨¦ detachment.


    And the next call. To his own office in Montr¨¦al. Telling them to send a forensics team.


    ¡°What did you find?¡± Evie asked from the doorway to the study.


    Al stood behind her, not allowing Beauvoir past until he told them.


    ¡°We found Laurent¡¯s stick,¡± said Jean-Guy. He spoke softly, gently, clearly. Confirming the worst fear. That there was a ghost in the attic, a monster under the bed, a vampire in the basement after all.


    Monsters existed. Their son had been murdered by one.


    *   *   *


    ¡°I want to see,¡± said Al.


    He and Evie had followed Beauvoir back into the forest and now confronted Gamache. Beauvoir had gone back through the hole, to start the preliminary investigation, leaving Armand outside to make sure no one else entered.


    Gabri and Olivier returned to the village, to guide the police through the woods.


    ¡°I can¡¯t let you in,¡± Armand said to Al and Evie. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Not yet.¡±


    Al Lepage, always large, had grown immense with anger. His chest was out, his broad shoulders back, even his beard seemed wilder than normal.


    If Armand had expected Evelyn to be the voice of reason, he¡¯d miscalculated. While smaller than her husband, her rage was no less immense.


    ¡°Get out of my way,¡± she snapped, barreling into him, trying to shoulder him aside. But Armand hooked his arm around her waist and held her in place, leaning over her, whispering into her long, loose hair.

 Page 29

    ¡°No, Evie, please. Please. Stop.¡±


    It was no use, he knew, trying to reason with her. Warning her she might destroy evidence. Telling her the forensics team needed to get there first.


    This was not about reason but raw instinct. Something primal. She needed to stand on the spot, not where her son had died, but where he¡¯d last lived.


    And Armand needed to stop her. Stop them.


    ¡°What else is in there, Armand?¡± Al demanded, taking his wife¡¯s hand. ¡°What aren¡¯t you telling us?¡±


    Gamache didn¡¯t answer.


    ¡°We heard Jean-Guy on the phone, calling for help,¡± said Al. ¡°He told them to bring strong flashlights and floodlights. And ladders.¡±


    Al Lepage lifted his eyes from Armand to the wall of woody vines, intertwined, creeping into and over and through each other, creating an almost impenetrable barrier. It also created a trompe l¡¯oeil, the illusion that it was simply thick brush. It looked, to anyone walking by, like more forest.


    But no one simply walked by here. They were half a kilometer into the woods behind Three Pines. Only an overgrown old path was visible from the Three Pines road, and even that disappeared after a hundred meters or so.


    ¡°What¡¯s in there?¡± Al repeated.


    Gamache looked at Laurent¡¯s parents, and at the other searchers, including Reine-Marie, all of whom had the same question.


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell you yet,¡± said Armand.


    He saw Reine-Marie¡¯s face grow anxious.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to tell us everything,¡± said Antoinette. ¡°Just tell us if we should be worried.¡±


    It was a reasonable question, but he didn¡¯t have the answer. Not yet.


    They heard footfalls on the dry leaves, and three men appeared between the trees. Gabri and two S?ret¨¦ officers.


    ¡°We¡¯ll take it from here,¡± said one of the young agents, dismissing Gabri. Then he turned to look at the villagers, who were obviously relieved to see them.


    ¡°Why are we here?¡± he asked. He looked around. ¡°Is this a joke?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± said Gamache. He stepped forward and put out his hand. ¡°My name is Armand¡ª¡±


    ¡°Did I ask your name? Non. I asked why my partner and I are standing in the middle of these woods.¡±


    The young man¡¯s olive-green uniform was stiff and fresh. Not from laundering, but from lack of wear.


    It might be, Gamache realized, his first day on the job. Almost certainly his first month. It was more than an hour since Beauvoir had called. They clearly had not hurried over.


    The agent looked annoyed and unimpressed as he rested his hand on the hilt of his gun and had his first taste of real authority.


    Gamache saw the name band on the upper left of his uniform.


    Favreau.


    It was familiar and then he remembered. It was the name on the report into Laurent¡¯s death. The one that concluded it had been an accident.


    ¡°We were told to come here to look into something strange.¡±


    He looked at Gamache.


    ¡°Would that be you, mon vieux?¡± he asked, and got a snort of amusement from his partner.


    ¡°Do you have any idea¡ª¡± Gabri began, but Armand waved him quiet.


    ¡°Any idea what?¡± asked the S?ret¨¦ agent.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s best if you all go back home,¡± said Armand to the other searchers. ¡°I take it Olivier¡¯s waiting for Chief Inspector Lacoste?¡±


    Gabri nodded. ¡°Oui. He¡¯ll show them in.¡±


    Gamache turned to Monsieur B¨¦liveau. ¡°Chief Inspector Lacoste might bring ladders, but I expect you have some too.¡±


    ¡°Ladders?¡± the grocer asked. ¡°Yes. My own personal one, but I can find more.¡±


    ¡°Ladders, Armand?¡± asked Reine-Marie, searching her husband¡¯s face then looking behind him.


    ¡°Oui. Oh, and Monsieur B¨¦liveau, can you make them big ladders?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± said the grocer. An unflappable man, he now seemed slightly flapped.


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± said Agent Favreau. ¡°What¡¯s all this about? No one leaves until we get an explanation.¡±


    Gamache stepped closer to him. The agent backed up and put his hand on his billy club.


    Gamache cocked his head to one side, taking in the movement. Then he turned away from the agents, toward the villagers who were watching with unease.


    ¡°Go on,¡± he said.


    ¡°Armand?¡± asked Reine-Marie.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be home soon.¡± He smiled reassuringly.


    And they left, glancing back now and then to the large man and two young men, squaring off in the old-growth forest. It was hard not to get the impression of lithe young wolves closing in on a stag. Having no idea just how very dangerous a stag could be.

 Page 30

    Laurent¡¯s parents hadn¡¯t budged and Gamache hadn¡¯t expected them to. They were now the exceptions.


    Gamache returned his attention to the young men.


    ¡°You see them?¡± When the agents didn¡¯t respond, he continued. ¡°That¡¯s Evelyn and Al Lepage. They lost their son, Laurent, a few days ago. I believe you wrote up the report.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Agent Favreau. ¡°An accident. Ran his bike off the road. What does that have to do with this?¡±


    ¡°His death was no accident.¡± Gamache lowered his voice so that the Lepages didn¡¯t hear, yet again, what they already knew. ¡°He was killed here, and his body taken to that ditch. The evidence is over there.¡±


    Gamache looked behind him.


    ¡°Where?¡± Agent Favreau demanded.


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to see. It¡¯s hidden under netting.¡±


    ¡°Show me,¡± said the agent, walking toward Gamache, who stepped in front of him.


    ¡°Please don¡¯t go any further,¡± he said, locking eyes with the young cop. ¡°You¡¯re in danger of destroying evidence.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re in danger of obstructing our investigation.¡±


    ¡°I asked you here to guard the scene until the homicide team arrives from Montr¨¦al,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°You asked us here?¡± the agent laughed. ¡°We¡¯re not guests at your party. Step aside.¡±


    ¡°I will not,¡± said Gamache. ¡°You¡¯re not trained for this. I was with the S?ret¨¦ too. Let the experts in homicide do their jobs and you do yours.¡±


    ¡°Step aside or I¡¯ll knock you aside.¡±


    He brought out his club.


    Gamache¡¯s eyes widened in shock. A look the agent mistook for fear. He grinned.


    ¡°Go on, old man. Give me a reason.¡± He glared at Gamache.


    ¡°My God, were you trained at the academy?¡± Gamache demanded.


    ¡°Don¡¯t use that tone with me or you¡¯ll see how the academy taught us to deal with people who harass an officer in the course of his duty.¡±


    ¡°Favreau,¡± Agent Brassard whispered, but his colleague refused to acknowledge him.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be my first arrest. One I suspect you¡¯ll resist.¡±


    Gamache was looking at him with such alarm that the man laughed.


    ¡°Pissing your pants, mon vieux? Now get out of our way.¡±


    The agent went to walk past Gamache.


    ¡°Stop,¡± said Gamache, stepping in his path. ¡°Step back.¡±


    And the agent, surprised by the note of authority, did.


    ¡°You¡¯re new to the job,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Am I right?¡±


    Brassard nodded but Favreau remained still.


    ¡°I know you want to make your mark, but your job is not to bully citizens. Nor is it to collect evidence, but to guard it. You¡¯re lucky. You¡¯ll get to see how a homicide is investigated in the real world. Most agents wait years before they get that chance.¡± He lowered his voice. ¡°But to Evelyn and Alan Lepage, this isn¡¯t a case. It¡¯s their son. Their child. Never forget that.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me my job,¡± said Favreau.


    ¡°Someone has to. Did you hear me say the boy was murdered? And your name is on the report stating it was an accident. You messed up. Your first case and you failed to investigate properly. You failed to notice the body was in the wrong position.¡±


    He stared into the young man¡¯s eyes. Eyes that now held more than a hint of aggression.


    ¡°You¡¯re young, new to the job. Mistakes happen. And when they do, you need to learn from them. You¡¯re going to go over to that boy¡¯s parents and you¡¯re going to admit your mistake and say you¡¯re sorry. Not because I¡¯m telling you to, but because it¡¯s the right thing to do.¡± His voice softened slightly and he looked at Agent Favreau with genuine concern. ¡°Surely someone in your life has taught you that.¡±


    Agent Brassard, who¡¯d been listening, made a move toward the Lepages, but Agent Favreau stopped him.


    ¡°We don¡¯t need some broken-down old cop telling us our jobs,¡± he said.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re here, officers,¡± said Beauvoir, coming out from the opening in the vines. He took out his ID and showed them. ¡°Inspector Beauvoir, with homicide. I see you¡¯ve met Monsieur Gamache.¡±


    ¡°We have, sir,¡± said Favreau. ¡°I was just explaining to him the chain of command. I understand he was once with the S?ret¨¦, so he should know better than to interfere.¡±


    Beauvoir raised his brows. ¡°He was interfering?¡± He turned to Gamache. ¡°And they had to explain things to you. I suspect the process of an investigation is much the same as when you were with the S?ret¨¦.¡±

 Page 31

    ¡°With a few fairly noticeable differences,¡± said Armand.


    ¡°Really? And yet it wasn¡¯t all that long ago you were the head of homicide.¡±


    Beauvoir turned to the agents and saw Brassard¡¯s eyes widen.


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Beauvoir, leaning close to them. ¡°Ohhhh shit.¡±


    Gamache and Beauvoir walked a few paces away from the two agents, putting their heads together to discuss what was found.


    ¡°You asshole, do you know who that is?¡± Agent Brassard hissed into Favreau¡¯s ear. ¡°That¡¯s Chief Inspector Gamache. The one who found all that corruption. Didn¡¯t you see him on the news, at the trials? At the inquiry?¡±


    He looked over at Gamache and Beauvoir, standing side by side, heads bowed. Inspector Beauvoir was talking and the former Chief Inspector was listening, nodding.


    ¡°The former head of homicide. Former,¡± Favreau stressed. ¡°Yes, I saw him on the news. But he quit the force. He¡¯s a burnt-out case, a pathetic old man who couldn¡¯t take the pressure and retired to this shithole.¡±


    A few paces away, Gamache heard the words, as did Beauvoir.


    ¡°Do you want me to¡­?¡± Jean-Guy asked, but Gamache smiled and shook his head.


    ¡°Ignore it. Did you find something?¡±


    Beauvoir glanced quickly over to the Lepages, who were watching them closely. ¡°It was shoved into the side of the opening. I left it there for forensics.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°I think you need to see.¡±


    Gamache followed Beauvoir back through the tear and saw what Jean-Guy had found. There, half buried under rotting leaves, was a cassette tape. Armand leaned in to read the words.


    ¡°Pete Seeger,¡± he said, straightening up. ¡°It¡¯s an old recording, obviously.¡± He found his glasses in his breast pocket and looked closer. ¡°But I don¡¯t think it¡¯s been here very long. There¡¯s some dirt, but no moss or mold.¡±


    ¡°My thinking too,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°How did it get here? And who in the world still listens to cassettes? And who¡¯s Pete Seeger?¡±


    Gamache sat back on his haunches and stared at the tape, illuminated by the flashlight. He was aware of the darkness all around, and keenly aware of what loomed behind them.


    ¡°He was a folk singer. American. Very influential in the civil rights and peace movements.¡±


    ¡°Ahhh,¡± said Jean-Guy.


    Ahhh, thought Gamache.


    From outside they heard familiar voices, and both men crawled out of the opening to find Chief Inspector Lacoste talking to the Lepages, offering her condolences. Behind her Olivier was just lowering a ladder to the ground, and the forensics team was organizing floodlights and ladders and unrolling thick cable for power.


    Isabelle Lacoste turned to Beauvoir and Gamache, who¡¯d magically appeared.


    ¡°Where did you two come from?¡± Lacoste asked.


    ¡°From there.¡± Beauvoir waved behind him.


    ¡°Where?¡±


    Lacoste peered, and then her eyes widened and her face went smooth with wonder.


    ¡°What is it?¡± she asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s camouflage netting, overgrown.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s it camouflaging?¡±


    ¡°I think you need to see,¡± said Beauvoir.


    Chief Inspector Lacoste turned to Gamache. ¡°Would you¡­?¡±


    She indicated the opening, but he shook his head and smiled slightly.


    ¡°Non, merci. Your case. I¡¯ll head back home, if it¡¯s all right with you.¡±


    ¡°Oui. Oh, and patron.¡± Gamache paused a few paces away. Lacoste walked back to him. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I was wrong about Laurent. I should have looked more closely.¡±


    ¡°I know you¡¯ll find out who did this to him. That¡¯s all that matters.¡±


    Gamache waited until she¡¯d disappeared inside, then walked over to the two young agents.


    ¡°I know you think this is beneath you,¡± he said. ¡°And that I¡¯m some feeble old man, but I¡¯m begging you. Stay alert. Keep your eyes open. This is no joke. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°Yessir,¡± said Agent Brassard.


    ¡°Agent Favreau?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not with the force anymore. You have no authority over me.¡±


    Gamache stared into the defiant eyes. ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    *   *   *


    Lacoste looked around, acclimating to the strange new environment. Inspector Beauvoir was directing the Scene of Crime and forensics teams, and once he¡¯d set them in motion he joined her.


    Together they walked over to the spot where agents were setting up a cordon of yellow police tape. Beauvoir¡¯s flighty beam played on the ground then came to rest on the stick. It was about ten feet from the entrance.

 Page 32

    ¡°He was killed here?¡± Lacoste asked.


    ¡°I think so,¡± said Beauvoir.


    He saw her nod, then her own beam swept the ground, making larger and larger arcs, working its way outward. But Inspector Beauvoir saved her time.


    The industrial lights they¡¯d brought were just hooked up and he turned one on now, directing it straight ahead.


    Isabelle Lacoste instinctively leaned away and even Beauvoir, who knew what was there, felt his heart stutter. Around them the well-choreographed activity of the Scene of Crime team stopped while the hardened agents stared.


    Mon Dieu, they heard whispered, the words disappearing into the deadened space.


    The gun was even more massive in this huge beam than it had appeared in the smaller light. Now they began to get the scale of the thing.


    Agents pointed flashlights at it, like weapons. More floodlights were turned on. Playing over it, but not altogether capturing the enormity of it.


    ¡°He was telling the truth,¡± said Lacoste beneath her breath. ¡°My God, Laurent wasn¡¯t lying after all.¡±


    Before them was a massive gun, a cannon, its long barrel stretching beyond the reach of their lights to disappear into the darkness.


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir lowered his light until it hit the base. And there they saw a monster etched onto the metal, twisting, writhing out of the ground. Its wings were extended. Its many serpent heads coiling, entwining like the vines that had hidden it for decades.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to need more light,¡± said Isabelle Lacoste. ¡°And longer ladders.¡±


    CHAPTER 9


    The Lepages had parked their truck on the road by the bistro and Gamache walked them back to it.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make sure you¡¯re told everything,¡± he said, leaning into the window as Al started it up.


    ¡°So far we haven¡¯t been told anything,¡± said Evie. ¡°Except that they found Laurent¡¯s stick inside that thing. What was it doing there?¡±


    ¡°We know what it was doing there, Evie,¡± said Al. ¡°Laurent was killed there, and moved, wasn¡¯t he?¡±


    Gamache nodded. ¡°Chief Inspector Lacoste and her team will know more in a few hours, but it looks that way.¡±


    ¡°But what was Laurent doing there?¡± asked Evie. ¡°Did he surprise someone? What¡¯s in there? Is that a meth lab or a grow op? Did he stumble into some drug operation? Why did they kill him, Armand?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°But you do know what¡¯s in there,¡± said Al. ¡°What Laurent found.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell you anything more right now,¡± said Armand.


    ¡°You can,¡± said Al. ¡°You just choose not to. You know you¡¯re making it worse by not telling us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± said Armand, stepping back as Al hit the gas.


    He watched the battered pickup drive around the village green, then up the road out of the village. Then he walked back home, deep in thought.


    He did know all those things. But he also knew something else.


    As he¡¯d leaned into the open window of the Lepages¡¯ truck he¡¯d seen, scattered on the console between the seats, a pile of cassette tapes.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Where¡¯s Ruth?¡± Myrna never thought she¡¯d hear herself asking that question.


    ¡°Don¡¯t know,¡± said Clara, looking around the crowded bistro. ¡°She¡¯s normally here by now.¡±


    It was five thirty, and every chair in the place was taken. They could barely hear themselves think for the hubbub.


    Clara saw Monsieur B¨¦liveau at the door connecting Sarah¡¯s boulangerie with the bistro. He was scanning the room.


    ¡°I¡¯ll ask him if he¡¯s seen her,¡± said Clara, getting up and weaving her way gracefully through the room.


    As she passed the tables, she caught snippets of conversation. The words were slightly different, the language changing depending on the grouping. But the sense was the same.


    ¡°Meurtre,¡± she heard in hushed tones. ¡°Murder.¡±


    And then, even lower, ¡°Mais qui?¡±


    ¡°But who?¡±


    And then the look, the furtive scan. Taking in friends, acquaintances, neighbors, strangers. Who would suspicion, like an ax, fall on?


    Clara had always found comfort in the bistro, never more so than after losing Peter. But while still soothing, the atmosphere was closing in on her. Words she¡¯d worked hard to exorcise from her mind appeared again. Fresh and new and powerful. ¡°Murder,¡± ¡°blame,¡± ¡°killing¡± crowded out the comfort.


    Laurent was dead, and there was a good chance one of them did it.

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    ¡°Have you seen Ruth?¡± Clara asked the grocer.


    ¡°Non, not yet. She isn¡¯t here?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I have some groceries for her. I¡¯ll take them over and check on her.¡±


    On her way back to the table Clara caught more bits of conversation.


    ¡°¡­ drugs. A cartel¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­ booze, left from Prohibition¡­¡±


    One table was listening as a passionate man told them about Area 51, and the irrefutable evidence that aliens had landed decades ago in New Mexico. And, according to him, Qu¨¦bec.


    ¡°Mark my words, it¡¯s an alien spacecraft in there,¡± he said. ¡°Wasn¡¯t the kid always warning us about an invasion?¡±


    Incredibly, the others at the table, whom Clara knew to be sensible and thoughtful people, were nodding. It seemed a more comforting explanation than that one of them had suddenly become alien, and killed a little boy.


    Clara sat down next to Myrna, grim-faced.


    ¡°Have you been listening to what people are saying?¡± Clara asked.


    ¡°Yes. It¡¯s getting ugly. That table is ordering more and more drinks and talking about going into the woods and forcing their way into that thing we found.¡±


    Myrna pushed her glass of red wine away. Nature, she knew, abhorred a vacuum, and these people, faced with an information vacuum, had filled it with their fears.


    The line between fact and fiction, between real and imagined, was blurring. The tether holding people to civil behavior was fraying. They could see it, and hear it, and feel it coming apart.


    Most of these people knew Laurent. Had children of their own. Were tired, and cold, and filled with fear and booze and not enough facts. These were good people, frightened people. Justifiably so.


    Olivier bent down and placed a bowl of mixed nuts on the table. He whispered to them, ¡°I¡¯m going to start cutting people off.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s a good idea,¡± said Myrna.


    Clara got up. ¡°I think Armand needs to come over. I think he¡¯s stayed away because he doesn¡¯t want to create a difficult situation, but it¡¯s beyond that now.¡±


    Voices were raised at a table in the corner, where Gabri was explaining that they could not have more drinks.


    Clara went to the bar and called the Gamache home.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Is it true what I¡¯m hearing, Cl¨¦ment?¡± Ruth asked, as the old grocer took a seat in her living room.


    ¡°What are you hearing?¡± he asked.


    ¡°That the child was murdered.¡±


    She said the word as though it had no emotional load, contained nothing more than any other word. But her thin hands trembled and she made small, powerful fists.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And that they found something in the woods, where Laurent was killed.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I showed them the way in,¡± he said. ¡°The path. No one else could see it, of course. It was overgrown.¡±


    Ruth nodded. She¡¯d thought the memories had also been obscured, hidden under so many other events. Poems written, books published, awards won. Dinners and discussions. New neighbors. New friends. Rosa.


    Years and years of rich and fertile topsoil.


    But now it was back, clawing its way to the surface. The dark thing.


    ¡°What¡¯s in there, Cl¨¦ment? What did they do?¡±


    *   *   *


    The moment Armand and Reine-Marie stepped into the bistro, the turmoil died out.


    A hush fell over the cheerful room, with its beamed ceiling and fieldstone fireplaces lit and welcoming, so at odds with the angry faces.


    ¡°Is there a problem?¡± Armand asked, his steady gaze going from familiar face to familiar face.


    ¡°Yes,¡± said a man standing at the back. ¡°We want to know what you found in the woods.¡±


    Gabri, Olivier and their servers took advantage of the distraction to clear away drinks from the tables and put out boards of bread and cheese.


    ¡°We have a right to know,¡± said another patron. ¡°This¡¯s our home. We have kids. We need to know.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± said Gamache. ¡°You do have a right to know. You need to know. You have children and grandchildren who need protecting. One child has already been killed, we need to make sure this doesn¡¯t happen again.¡±


    Anger dissipated as they realized he agreed with them.


    ¡°The problem is, you see,¡± said Armand, stepping further into the room, his voice calm and reasonable, ¡°it¡¯s possible one of you killed Laurent.¡±


    Beside him, Reine-Marie whispered, ¡°Armand?¡±

 Page 34

    But she saw his face in profile, determined. His eyes unwavering, as he looked out at the faces of his neighbors. He radiated certainty and calm.


    Her gaze shifted to the patrons of the bistro. They were sober now. Quiet. His words had slammed into them, knocking the booze, knocking the anger, knocking the stuffing out of them.


    A few sat down. Then more. Until they were all sitting.


    Gamache took a long, deep breath. ¡°I¡¯m not saying anything you haven¡¯t already figured out for yourselves. That you haven¡¯t already said to each other. You¡¯ve almost certainly looked around and wondered who did it. Which of you killed a nine-year-old boy.¡±


    And now they looked around again, lowering their eyes as they met a friend, a neighbor staring back at them.


    ¡°I know what¡¯s in those woods,¡± he said. ¡°And I could tell you, but I won¡¯t. Not because I want to hide it from you. I don¡¯t. But because it would compromise the hunt for the killer. Laurent¡¯s murderer is counting on your help. He¡¯s sitting, perhaps among us now, hoping you¡¯ll storm into the woods. He¡¯s praying you trample evidence and disrupt the investigation. A killer hides in chaos. You need to not give him that.¡±


    ¡°Then what should we do?¡± a woman asked.


    ¡°You should stay out of the woods. You should keep your children out of the woods. You should be absolutely open and honest when the investigators ask you questions. The more light thrown onto an investigation, the fewer places he can hide. Laurent was not killed by some serial killer, or some errant madman. There was purpose to this. You need to make sure you and your children don¡¯t get in his way, or in the investigators¡¯ way.¡±


    He let that sink in, making eye contact with many of the people there.


    ¡°Reine-Marie and I are proud to be your neighbors. And your friends. We could¡¯ve lived anywhere, but we chose here. Because of you.¡±


    He took her hand and together they walked further into the silent bistro.


    ¡°May we?¡± he asked Clara and Myrna.


    ¡°Please,¡± said Clara, indicating the empty seats.


    Slowly a murmur of conversation grew around them, the voices a moderate level as reason was restored. For now.


    Across from her, Clara saw Armand close his eyes briefly, and take a deep breath.


    ¡°Bet you thought you left all the talk of murder behind when Armand retired from the S?ret¨¦,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°Well, we did move to Three Pines,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°We had our doubts.¡±


    ¡°Patron,¡± said Olivier, bending down to speak into Gamache¡¯s ear. ¡°Isabelle called from the old railway station. She¡¯d like to speak to you.¡±


    ¡°Do you mind?¡± he asked Reine-Marie.


    As he left, he heard Clara ask his wife, ¡°So, did he tell you what they found?¡±


    *   *   *


    Ruth opened her worn and dog-eared notebook to the page she¡¯d been reading before Monsieur B¨¦liveau arrived.


    He¡¯d gone now, back to the bistro. She¡¯d promised to join him there later. To put on a show of normalcy, if such a thing existed for Ruth. For Three Pines. For anyone.


    She smoothed the page, thought for a moment, then read.


    Well, all children are sad


    but some get over it.


    Count your blessings. Better than that,


    buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.


    Ruth looked over at Rosa, snoring in her flannel nest. It sounded like merdemerdemerde. Ruth smiled.


    Take up dancing to forget.


    CHAPTER 10


    The S?ret¨¦ Incident Room had once again been set up in what had been the railway station, before it was abandoned and put to other use. The long, low brick building across the Rivi¨¨re Bella Bella from the village was the home of the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Brigade, of which Ruth Zardo was the chief, being familiar, everyone figured, with hellfire.


    And now it was being put to an even more dire use.


    The old railway station was alive with activity as technicians and agents set up the equipment necessary to investigate a modern murder. Desks, computers, printers, scanners. Telephone lines. Lots of those. Since the village was so deep in the valley, no high-speed Internet, or even satellite signal, reached it. They had to resort to dial-up.


    It was infuriating, frustrating, grindingly slow. But it was better than nothing.


    Armand Gamache had just arrived and was standing in the disarray. In his late fifties now, he¡¯d started at the S?ret¨¦ when there weren¡¯t even faxes, just teletype machines.


    Isabelle Lacoste watched him and remembered being with Gamache on one of her first murder investigations. They found themselves in a hunting camp, with a body and fingerprints, and no way to transmit the information.

 Page 35

    Chief Inspector Gamache had taken the old telephone receiver off its cradle, unscrewed the lower section, removed the voice disc, and hooked directly into the line.


    ¡°You hot-wired the phone?¡± she¡¯d asked.


    ¡°Kind of,¡± he¡¯d said. And then he¡¯d taught her how to do it.


    ¡°It must¡¯ve been tough back then,¡± she¡¯d said. ¡°When this was all you had.¡±


    ¡°It gave us more time to think,¡± he¡¯d explained.


    And then they¡¯d sat by the woodstove, and they¡¯d thought. And by the time the information had chugged its way back down the phone line, they¡¯d all but solved the case.


    And now she was the Chief Inspector. And she looked at all the technology being installed, in the absolute certainty it was crucial to solving the case.


    But she knew differently. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew differently.


    And the man who¡¯d just arrived knew differently.


    ¡°Thank you for coming, sir,¡± she said, walking with them through the boxes and wires.


    ¡°Anytime,¡± said Gamache. ¡°How can I help?¡±


    She indicated the conference table, set up at the far end of the old railway station.


    ¡°It¡¯s time for a think,¡± she said, and saw him smile.


    She hesitated by the chair at the head of the conference table. This was awkward. Every other time they¡¯d sat there, Chief Inspector Gamache had assumed that seat.


    This time, though, he walked right by it and sat to her left. Leaving Inspector Beauvoir to sit on her right-hand side.


    Armand Gamache knew his place. Had, in fact, chosen it.


    ¡°So, this is what we know,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°We have a massive gun hidden in the forest and a boy who was killed there and then his body moved. You knew Laurent better than we did,¡± Lacoste said to Gamache. ¡°What do you think happened?¡±


    ¡°Well, he obviously found the gun,¡± said Gamache. ¡°It looks like someone wanted to stop him from telling anyone about it.¡±


    ¡°But he¡¯d already told lots of people,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°All of us, for a start. Everyone in the bistro that afternoon heard him.¡±


    ¡°Maybe the murderer didn¡¯t realize that,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Maybe he wasn¡¯t in the bistro when Laurent came running in.¡±


    ¡°So you think after he left us, he told someone else?¡± asked Lacoste. ¡°Someone who killed him to keep him quiet.¡±


    Gamache nodded. ¡°It¡¯s also possible he went back there on his own and interrupted someone. Though the site seems abandoned.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll know more when forensics is done,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°But that was my impression too.¡±


    ¡°So where does that leave us?¡± asked Beauvoir.


    ¡°I think whoever killed Laurent didn¡¯t know him well,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Why do you say that?¡± asked Jean-Guy.


    ¡°Well, for one thing, he believed Laurent. He was a great boy but he was a fantasist. Everyone knew he made up stories, and this one was as far-fetched as all the rest. A giant gun in the woods, bigger than any house.¡±


    ¡°With a monster on it,¡± said Lacoste.


    The boy, like a specter, appeared. Skinny. Covered in mud and leaves and urgency. Eyes bright. His arms stretched as wide as he could make them. Reciting his tall tale. Too tall for any of them to climb.


    But someone had heard the story. And believed it.


    ¡°The killer must¡¯ve known Laurent was finally telling the truth,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°Exactement,¡± said Gamache, nodding.


    ¡°You think someone knew about the gun and kept it secret for years? Decades?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Might¡¯ve even been guarding it,¡± said Beauvoir, warming to the theory. ¡°And then Laurent finds it. Disaster. He had to silence the boy and the only way to do that was to kill him.¡±


    ¡°So who knew it was there?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Whoever put it there in the first place,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°You think whoever built that gun is still around?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± said Gamache, leaning forward in his chair.


    ¡°So who else did Laurent tell?¡± asked Lacoste. ¡°Where did he go after he left us?¡±


    ¡°Home,¡± said Beauvoir, looking at Gamache. ¡°You drove him home.¡±


    ¡°I did. May I?¡±


    Gamache indicated the evidence they¡¯d collected. It was bagged and sitting on the table.


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°It¡¯s been swabbed and fingerprinted.¡±


    Gamache picked up the cassette tape. The Very Best of Pete Seeger.

 Page 36

    Gamache read the song list. ¡°Where Have All the Flowers Gone?¡± ¡°Michael Row the Boat Ashore.¡± ¡°Wimoweh.¡± He smiled. That had been Annie¡¯s favorite song as a baby. He too was a Pete Seeger fan. Or had been until he¡¯d spent the first year of her life listening to ¡°the lion sleeps tonight.¡± All day and all night.


    He scanned the rest of the songs. All classic folk tunes, including ¡°Turn! Turn! Turn!¡± Gamache had forgotten Seeger had written that song, based on Ecclesiastes.


    ¡°To everything there is a season,¡± he said.


    ¡°Pardon?¡± said Lacoste. ¡°What did you say?¡±


    ¡°Al Lepage has cassette tapes in his pickup truck.¡±


    He handed her the cassette and wondered if, in driving Laurent home, he¡¯d delivered the boy into the hands of his murderer.


    *   *   *


    ¡°General Langelier? This is Chief Inspector Lacoste, with the S?ret¨¦ du Qu¨¦bec.¡±


    ¡°Good evening, Chief Inspector.¡±


    There was slight censure in his voice. Clearly a late call to the armed forces base was not to his liking. She could almost see him looking at his watch and thinking that the United States had better be invading, or this call was not warranted.


    It was past eight in the evening and she was alone in the Incident Room. They¡¯d had sandwiches and drinks brought over from the bistro, and worked through dinner.


    She¡¯d sent Jean-Guy off to organize their rooms at the B and B, and was just getting the paperwork done. How often had she left Chief Inspector Gamache alone in some far-flung incident room, in a shed, a barn, an abandoned factory? A single light burning late into the night.


    And now it was night. And it was her light.


    Sitting back in her chair, she¡¯d stared at the photos on her computer. Then she¡¯d looked up a number and made the call to Canadian Forces Base Valcartier.


    It was only by some bullying and veiled threats that she got through to the base commander at his home.


    ¡°How can I help you, Chief Inspector?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m investigating a homicide and need your help.¡±


    There was a pause before the clipped voice returned.


    ¡°Is there a link to the base here in Valcartier? Is one of my soldiers involved?¡±


    ¡°No, sir, not that we know of. It happened in the Eastern Townships, not far from the Vermont border.¡±


    ¡°Then why are you calling me? I¡¯m sure you know we¡¯re a long way from there.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir. Your base is just outside Quebec City, but we¡¯ve found something you might be interested in.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    She could hear his anxiety lower and his curiosity rise.


    ¡°A huge missile launcher. I¡¯ve done some research and I can¡¯t find anything even remotely like it.¡±


    ¡°A missile launcher? In the Townships?¡± General Langelier was clearly perplexed. ¡°We don¡¯t have an armed forces base there. Never have. What¡¯s it doing there?¡±


    She almost laughed, but didn¡¯t. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m calling you. We don¡¯t know. And this is no ordinary missile launcher. As I said, it¡¯s massive.¡±


    ¡°Well, yes, they are,¡± he said. ¡°Are you sure that¡¯s what it is? Maybe it¡¯s some farm tool, or logging equipment.¡±


    ¡°I can send you a few pictures of it.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯d like.¡± His interest was waning.


    He gave her his secure email and she knew when they¡¯d arrived by the whispered ¡°Merde¡± down the phone line.


    There was silence as he examined them.


    ¡°Is that a person standing next to it?¡± Langelier asked, when he¡¯d regained polite speech.


    ¡°Oui.¡±


    ¡°Tabernac,¡± he swore. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°I took the photograph myself this afternoon. It is a missile launcher, non? Not a milking machine?¡±


    ¡°Oui.¡± He sounded distracted, lost in thought. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to tell you, Chief Inspector. It¡¯s not like anything I¡¯ve seen before. Frankly, while it¡¯s huge, it looks like an antique, something that might¡¯ve been used in the Second World War.¡±


    ¡°Could it be from then? Maybe something put there for defense and abandoned?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t just leave weapons scattered about in the woods,¡± he said. ¡°And the defenses were out to sea, not pointing inland. Does it work?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know that either. That¡¯s why I¡¯m calling you. We need help assessing this.¡±


    ¡°Are there missiles with it?¡± he asked. ¡°Is the weapon armed?¡±

 Page 37

    ¡°We haven¡¯t found anything, but we¡¯re looking. So far it seems to be just the launcher itself. Do you have someone you can send?¡±


    There was a sigh down the line and she could almost imagine him scratching his head.


    ¡°Honestly, our current ballistics and heavy weaponry specialists all deal with modern weapons. ICBMs. Sophisticated systems. This looks like a dinosaur.¡±


    Lacoste looked at the photograph on her screen. He was right. It was the literal truth. It looked like they¡¯d unearthed some behemoth.


    But why was it hidden? And who in the world had built it? What was it for?


    And why was Laurent murdered to keep it secret?


    ¡°Let me think about it and I¡¯ll get back to you,¡± he said.


    ¡°This is, of course, confidential,¡± she said.


    ¡°I understand. I¡¯ll do what I can.¡±


    She thanked him and hung up. She hadn¡¯t told him about the other thing. The etching on the base.


    She steadied herself, wishing it wasn¡¯t quite so dark and quiet and solitary in the old railway station, then she put up another photo and looked at the winged monster. Even in a picture, even at a distance, it was striking. And what it struck was terror.


    She stared at it and wondered why she hadn¡¯t told the Commander of CFB Valcartier about the monster with the seven serpent heads. Perhaps because she remembered the boy running into the bistro. With the tale of the huge gun.


    As Gamache had said, had Laurent left it at that, they might, just might, have believed him. But then he took it that next, impossible, step too far. Into the unbelievable.


    Lacoste knew that General Langelier almost certainly did not fully appreciate the size of the weapon. No picture could capture it, even with the agent there for scale. She suspected he thought she was exaggerating. And she suspected the winged monster would not have helped her credibility.


    Isabelle Lacoste stared at the etching. It was, she had to admit, unbelievable.


    *   *   *


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir finished unpacking his satchel, hanging shirts and slacks in the closet of the B and B, folding garments in the pine dresser, and putting toiletries in the spacious en suite.


    He¡¯d made arrangements with Gabri for Lacoste and him to stay at the B and B for as long as necessary. Gabri had put him in the room he normally had with the large bed and crisp linens and warm duvet. The wide-plank pine floors and oriental throw rugs.


    He pulled the curtain back and saw the light in the window of the old train station.


    The Incident Room had been sorted out. The evidence sent to the lab in Montr¨¦al. The local S?ret¨¦ detachment had agreed to provide protection for the huge gun, though no one had been very taken with the quality of agent they¡¯d sent.


    ¡°Fresh out of the academy,¡± Isabelle Lacoste had remarked. ¡°They¡¯ll learn.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps.¡±


    ¡°We were like that once.¡±


    ¡°We were never like that,¡± Beauvoir had said. ¡°It¡¯s not hard to do the math, Isabelle. The S?ret¨¦ Academy has them for three years. That means these two, and everyone in their class, were recruited at the height of the corruption.¡±


    ¡°You think they¡¯re corrupt?¡±


    ¡°I think they were looking for different qualities in recruits at that time,¡± he¡¯d said.


    And now there¡¯s a whole class of them, he thought, opening the window and feeling the cool breeze. Several classes of them. Scattered throughout the S?ret¨¦. Scattered through the forest.


    That monstrosity was being guarded by, at best, incompetents and, at worst, agents chosen because they could be easily corrupted.


    He picked up the Bible he¡¯d found in the bookcase of his room, and flipping through it he found Ecclesiastes. He was curious about the lyrics of that Pete Seeger song.


    Out the window he saw lights on at the Gamache home and imagined them sitting by the fireplace, reading.


    To everything there is a season, he read.


    And across the village green, at Clara¡¯s place, there was a single light.


    A time to mourn, and a time to dance.


    He saw the three tall spires of the pines swaying slightly in the autumn breeze. He saw two dark figures leave the bistro.


    One was tall, stooped. The other had a cane and was cradling something to her chest.


    The two walked slowly across the village green, past the bench, past the pond, past the trees.


    As he watched, Jean-Guy saw Monsieur B¨¦liveau accompany Ruth up to her front door. But then the grocer did something almost unheard of. He went inside.


    It was getting late, but Beauvoir wasn¡¯t tired.

 Page 38

    A time to keep silence, and a time to speak.


    He called home and spoke to Annie. They discussed buying a home, someplace with a backyard, close to schools and a park. And then they just chatted about their day. He lay on the familiar bed in the B and B and knew she was lying on their bed, her feet up.


    He could hear sleep in her voice and, reluctantly, he wished her bonne nuit, and hung up.


    A time to be born, and a time to die.


    His hand lingered on the receiver, and he thought about Laurent. And the Lepages. And what it must be like to have a child and then lose that child.


    Putting on his dressing gown, he went downstairs and plugged his laptop into the phone lines.


    He was still there when the lights went out at the bistro. He was still there when Olivier and Gabri arrived back. He was still there when every other home in Three Pines went dark, and every other person was asleep.


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir was there, his face bathed in the light from his laptop, until he found what he was looking for. Only then did he lean back, stiff and weary, to stare at the name his search had run to ground.


    He placed a phone call, left a message, and then climbed the stairs and crawled under the eiderdown. And slept. Curled around the little stuffed lion he took with him whenever he knew he¡¯d be away from home.


    A time of war, and a time of peace.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Bed and Breakfast,¡± the singsong voice answered the phone.


    ¡°Bonjour. My name¡¯s Rosenblatt. Michael Rosenblatt.¡±


    ¡°Is it about a reservation?¡±


    ¡°No, you called me. Something about missiles.¡±


    Rosenblatt heard laughter down the line.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± said the man. ¡°You must have the wrong number. This is a bed and breakfast. No missiles here. Not even a missus.¡±


    That much Michael Rosenblatt had figured out.


    ¡°D¨¦sol¨¦,¡± he said. ¡°I must¡¯ve taken the number down wrong.¡±


    He hung up and checked the number, shook his head and went back to preparing his breakfast. The call that morning from his former department at McGill University had been garbled. Something about a message left at the department the night before, and old missiles.


    When the phone rang half an hour later, he picked it up and heard an unfamiliar voice.


    ¡°Is this Professor Rosenblatt?¡± the man asked in English with a Qu¨¦b¨¦cois accent.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°My name¡¯s Jean-Guy Beauvoir. I¡¯m an inspector with the S?ret¨¦ du Qu¨¦bec. McGill University gave me your home number. I hope you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°The S?ret¨¦?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Beauvoir decided not to tell him he was with homicide. The professor already sounded rattled. And elderly. He didn¡¯t want another death on his hands.


    ¡°Are you the one who left the message at McGill?¡± Rosenblatt asked. ¡°I tried to call you back but the man who answered said it was a bed and breakfast.¡±


    Beauvoir apologized.


    He sounds nice, Rosenblatt thought. Disarming.


    But the professor emeritus knew what that meant. The most dangerous people he knew were disarming. He immediately put up his defenses.


    ¡°My cell phone won¡¯t work where I am,¡± Inspector Beauvoir said. ¡°So I had to leave the main number. I¡¯m at a B and B, investigating a crime. We¡¯ve come across something in the woods. Something we can¡¯t explain.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Rosenblatt felt his curiosity swarming over his defenses. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°It seems to be a big gun.¡±


    His curiosity skidded to a halt.


    ¡°I don¡¯t deal with guns,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°My field is, was, physics.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I know. I read your paper on climate change and trajectory.¡±


    The professor leaned forward at his kitchen table.


    ¡°Really.¡±


    Beauvoir chose not to tell him that ¡°stared at¡± might have been a better description than ¡°read.¡± Still, his Internet search the night before had yielded Rosenblatt¡¯s name, and this article, and Beauvoir had understood enough to know that this was a man who specialized in great big guns.


    And he had one.


    ¡°I doubt I can help you,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt. ¡°That paper was written twenty years ago. I¡¯m retired. If it¡¯s a gun you¡¯ve found, you might want to get in touch with a gun club.¡±


    He heard soft laughter down the line.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I haven¡¯t described it well,¡± Beauvoir said. ¡°I don¡¯t have the vocabulary, especially in English. Or in French, for that matter. I¡¯m not talking about a shotgun or a handgun. This seems like a sort of missile launcher, but of a design I¡¯ve never seen before. It¡¯s in the middle of the forest, in the Eastern Townships.¡±

 Page 39

    Professor Rosenblatt leaned back, as though shoved. ¡°In the Townships?¡±


    ¡°Oui. It was hidden under camouflage netting and overgrown. It seems to be old,¡± Beauvoir went on. ¡°Probably been there for decades. Professor?¡±


    The silence down the line made Jean-Guy Beauvoir wonder if it had gone dead. Or Rosenblatt had.


    ¡°I¡¯m still here. Go on.¡±


    Beauvoir took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. ¡°It¡¯s huge. Bigger than any weapon I¡¯ve ever seen. Ten times, a hundred times bigger. We needed ladders to get onto it, and even they aren¡¯t long enough.¡±


    And again, the line appeared to go dead.


    ¡°Professor?¡±


    Beauvoir did not expect an answer. What he did expect to hear was a dial tone.


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°Is there anything on it at all that might identify it?¡±


    ¡°Not a serial number or a name,¡± Beauvoir said. ¡°Though it¡¯s possible we missed something. It¡¯ll take a while to go over every inch.¡±


    Rosenblatt made a humming sound, like his brain was whirring.


    ¡°There is one thing,¡± Jean-Guy said.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not exactly an identifying mark, but it is unusual. It¡¯s a design.¡±


    Michael Rosenblatt stood up at his kitchen table, spilling his coffee over that morning¡¯s Montr¨¦al Gazette.


    ¡°An etching?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Beauvoir, standing up slowly at his desk in the Incident Room.


    ¡°At the base?¡±


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Beauvoir, caution creeping into his voice.


    ¡°Is it a beast?¡± Rosenblatt asked, finding it difficult to breathe.


    ¡°A beast?¡±


    ¡°Un monstre.¡± His French wasn¡¯t very good, but it was good enough for that.


    ¡°Oui. A monster.¡±


    ¡°With seven heads.¡±


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Inspector Beauvoir. He sat back down at his desk in the Incident Room.


    Professor Rosenblatt sat back down at his kitchen table.


    ¡°How did you know?¡± Beauvoir asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s a myth,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°At least, that¡¯s what we thought.¡±


    ¡°We need your help,¡± said Inspector Beauvoir.


    ¡°Yes, you do.¡±


    CHAPTER 11


    ¡°Hello?¡±


    Michael Rosenblatt opened the wooden door and stuck his head in, without great optimism.


    This must be a mistake, he thought.


    The place looked abandoned, like most of the old train stations in Qu¨¦bec. But the guy at the bistro had pointed him in this direction.


    ¡°Bonjour?¡± he called, louder this time.


    As his eyes adjusted, he saw the outline of something large and it stopped him from going further into the gloomy building.


    He peered at it. His eyes must¡¯ve been playing tricks on him because it appeared to be a fire truck. Parked in the middle of an old train station. Which he¡¯d been told was the S?ret¨¦ office. Nothing was making sense.


    He turned around, unsure what to do next.


    ¡°That was fast,¡± said a man¡¯s voice.


    From behind the fire truck came a man with his arm extended.


    ¡°Professor Rosenblatt? I¡¯m Jean-Guy Beauvoir,¡± he said. ¡°We spoke on the phone.¡±


    ¡°How do you do?¡± said Rosenblatt, taking the strong hand.


    Before him was a S?ret¨¦ officer in his late thirties. Attractive and well groomed. Slender but not thin, he gave the impression of immense suppressed energy. A slingshot about to be released.


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir saw a short elderly man in a tweed jacket and bow tie. His white hair was wispy on top and his midsection was comfortably rounded.


    With one soft hand, Professor Rosenblatt pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. With the other he clutched a battered leather satchel.


    But the eyes were bright. Sharp. Assessing. Despite his appearance, there was nothing muddled, nothing befuddled about this man.


    ¡°Thank you for coming. I didn¡¯t expect you so quickly,¡± Beauvoir said, and turned to walk back into the old railway station.


    ¡°I don¡¯t live all that far from here.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I retired down here, though I have to say this village comes as a bit of a surprise. I¡¯ve never heard of it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s difficult to find,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°Hope you didn¡¯t have trouble.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I have no sense of direction,¡± said Rosenblatt, following Beauvoir. ¡°It¡¯s a source of some embarrassment. I suspect it undermines my credibility as a specialist in guided missiles.¡±

 Page 40

    He described how he¡¯d wandered the back roads, pulling over now and then to consult maps and his GPS. But no village called Three Pines seemed to exist. He grew more and more anxious, turning, turning, turning at random, trying this road, that dead end.


    ¡°Three Pines,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°Even the name sounds slightly ridiculous in an area thick with pines.¡±


    But then, just as he was about to give up, he crested a hill, along a rutted dirt road, and put on the brakes.


    There appeared below him, like an apparition, a small village. And in the very center were three tall pine trees. Waving.


    He looked at his GPS. It showed him in the middle of nowhere. Literally. No where. No roads. No community. Not even a forest. Just blank. As though he¡¯d driven off the face of the earth.


    Professor Rosenblatt got out of his car. He needed to gather his thoughts, his wits, before meeting that disarming S?ret¨¦ officer. He walked over to a bench on the brow of the hill and was about to sit down when he noticed two phrases, one above the other, carved into the wood on the back.


    A Brave Man in a Brave Country


    Surprised by Joy


    Professor Rosenblatt turned and looked at the village and noticed the people in their gardens, on their porches, walking their dogs. Stopping to chat with each other. It seemed both languid and purposeful.


    He wondered who they were, that they should choose to live in the middle of nowhere. And that those phrases should mean so much to them that they were carved at the entrance to the village.


    Now Michael Rosenblatt followed the S?ret¨¦ officer into the main body of the old train station, where men and women were on phones, at computers, conferring over documents. Chalkboards and corkboards were filling up with photographs and schematics. A huge map of the immediate area had been pinned to a wall.


    Inspector Beauvoir walked over to a young woman at a desk.


    ¡°Chief Inspector Lacoste, this is the man I was telling you about. Professor Rosenblatt is a physicist. He specializes in ballistics and high altitude.¡±


    ¡°Professor Rosenblatt,¡± said Lacoste, getting up to greet the older man. ¡°High altitude? An astrophysicist?¡±


    ¡°Well, not quite that high,¡± said Rosenblatt, shaking her hand. ¡°Just a plain garden-variety physicist. And I¡¯m afraid your colleague should have used the past tense. I¡¯m an old academic.¡±


    ¡°Well, we have an old gun,¡± said Lacoste with a smile. But he could feel her assessing him. Wondering if he¡¯d gone gaga yet. ¡°Inspector, would you call the Chief Inspector and see if he¡¯d like to join us?¡±


    ¡°I thought you were the Chief Inspector,¡± said Rosenblatt. He stood gripping his briefcase and willed himself to relax.


    ¡°I am. He¡¯s the man I replaced. He retired down here.¡±


    ¡°So did I,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°A peaceful place.¡±


    ¡°I guess it depends where you live,¡± said Lacoste, taking a seat and indicating one across from her. ¡°There¡¯s something you need to know before we head into the woods. The site of the gun is also a crime scene. A boy was murdered there. We think he was killed because he found the gun. Someone wanted to keep its location a secret.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that,¡± he said, sitting down. Reluctantly. He was anxious to get going.


    ¡°But you don¡¯t seem surprised,¡± she said, watching him closely.


    ¡°If this gun is what I think it is, it would not be the first death associated with it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to tell me it¡¯s cursed,¡± said Isabelle Lacoste.


    ¡°No more than any gun.¡±


    Well, he thought. Perhaps a little more. For a gun that had never been fired, it had caused a shocking number of deaths. Of which the boy was just the latest, but not, perhaps, the last.


    ¡°And what have we found?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I need to see it first,¡± he said. ¡°To confirm.¡±


    ¡°What do you suspect it is?¡± she pressed.


    Through the mullioned windows, Professor Rosenblatt saw a man in his fifties walking over the stone bridge, toward the old train station. He was tall and more sturdy than heavy. He wore a cap and slacks and rubber boots and a warm waxed coat against the chilly September morning.


    And he looked familiar.


    Isabelle Lacoste turned to see who the professor was staring at with such intensity.


    ¡°That¡¯s Monsieur Gamache,¡± she said.


    Gamache, thought Rosenblatt. Chief Inspector Gamache. Of the S?ret¨¦.


    Yes, now he placed him. From news reports.


    Watching the man approach with a strong, determined step, Rosenblatt suspected Gamache was no more retired than he himself was.

 Page 41

    *   *   *


    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 S?ret¨¦ 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 S?ret¨¦ 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.

 Page 42

    He turned his head to look along the barrel as it disappeared into the darkness. Not even the floodlights could reach to the end.


    Gamache watched as the professor closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, then with one last exhale he turned to his companions.


    ¡°I need to find the firing chamber, to see if it¡¯s armed.¡±


    He was all business now.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be around here,¡± he said, walking to the rear of the gun. ¡°Did you open this?¡±


    He pointed to a round metal door, large enough to walk into.


    ¡°We tried, but couldn¡¯t make it open,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°We stopped, afraid we might inadvertently fire it.¡±


    Professor Rosenblatt was nodding. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t have. The firing mechanism is somewhere else. This is the breech. If there¡¯s a missile, it would be in here.¡±


    They watched as the professor ran his hands over the latches and handles and knobs.


    ¡°Careful,¡± warned Beauvoir, but Rosenblatt didn¡¯t respond. He was too focused on the mechanism.


    ¡°Do we know for sure he knows what he¡¯s doing?¡± Lacoste asked Beauvoir.


    Before Beauvoir could answer, they saw the professor reach out and grasp a lever. Leaning into it, the elderly man pulled but nothing happened.


    ¡°I need help,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s stuck.¡±


    Beauvoir joined him, and between them they pulled and pulled until it gave with such suddenness both men leapt back.


    There was a whirring, grinding sound, then a loud hiss.


    Gamache tensed. Afraid Rosenblatt had just set it off, but not at all sure what to do if he had.


    Then the massive door swung open, like a mouth. Like a maw. Inviting them in.


    The four of them stared. Gamache could hear heavy breathing and knew it came from Jean-Guy. Not because the effort had winded him, but because he was staring into his nightmare.


    While Gamache was afraid of heights, Beauvoir was terrified of holes. Armand stepped over to him.


    ¡°Stay here,¡± he said. ¡°If the door closes, please open it again.¡±


    Beauvoir didn¡¯t answer, but continued to stare.


    ¡°Do you need to write that down?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°Huh? Pardon?¡± said Jean-Guy, coming out of his reverie. ¡°Right. Wait, are you going in there?¡±


    He waved to the opening, where Professor Rosenblatt was already standing.


    ¡°I am. And if we need to climb up on the thing?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll go,¡± said Beauvoir, with a smile.


    ¡°You¡¯d better.¡±


    Gamache followed Rosenblatt and Lacoste into the chamber.


    In the beams of their flashlights, Gamache could see the professor¡¯s face. His eyes. Bright, but not overexcited. He seemed almost calm, in control.


    This was his natural environment. The belly of the beast. This was where the little professor belonged.


    ¡°Incredible,¡± Rosenblatt murmured, shaking his head. ¡°No electronics.¡± He looked back at his companions. ¡°It¡¯s like a Meccano set.¡±


    ¡°But is it armed?¡± asked Lacoste. She was beginning to get antsy. She¡¯d never suffered from claustrophobia, but then she¡¯d never been crammed into the firing chamber of a giant weapon with two other people before.


    ¡°No,¡± said Rosenblatt, and pointed toward the great long tube stretching out in front of them.


    Rosenblatt was studying the wall of the borehole.


    ¡°Empty. There¡¯s never even been a missile in here. It¡¯s unmarked.¡±


    Gamache reached out and touched the side. It felt slightly greasy.


    ¡°It¡¯s been prepared,¡± he said.


    Rosenblatt looked at him and nodded. ¡°You know guns.¡±


    ¡°Sadly, yes,¡± said Gamache. ¡°We all do. But never anything like this.¡±


    ¡°No one has known anything like this,¡± said Rosenblatt, and even by the limited beam of the flashlight Gamache could see the wonder in the professor¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Can it be fired?¡± Lacoste asked.


    ¡°I need to find the firing mechanism before I can answer and for that, we need to leave.¡±


    He did not need to say it twice. Lacoste was out in a flash, following the professor around to the side of the machine.


    ¡°That¡¯s interesting. The trigger should be here.¡± He placed his fist in a large hole. ¡°But it¡¯s missing.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s somewhere else,¡± Beauvoir suggested.


    ¡°No, it would have to be here, given the configuration inside.¡±


    He looked behind him, toward the back wall of the camouflage netting, and shook his head.

 Page 43

    ¡°But the main thing is,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°It isn¡¯t armed, and even if it was, it can¡¯t be fired.¡±


    ¡°Not without the mechanism, no.¡±


    ¡°What would it look like?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°The trigger would have cogs that fit onto this wheel.¡± The professor pointed to a circle with teeth, about a foot wide. ¡°There¡¯s nothing electronic on this thing. Not even the guidance system. It¡¯s all done manually.¡±


    ¡°Could it have fallen off?¡± asked Beauvoir, looking on the ground.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a LEGO set. Things don¡¯t just fall off. It¡¯s intricate, perfectly made. Each piece fits snugly, exactly.¡±


    ¡°So, no?¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°No,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°If it¡¯s gone, someone took it, and by the looks of it, not recently. I need to see the etching again.¡±


    The elderly man spoke with determination and Gamache realized that while he was afraid of heights, and Beauvoir was afraid of confined spaces, Professor Michael Rosenblatt was afraid of the etching.


    They walked back to it, and Rosenblatt stepped back, taking in the winged monster as it reared and bucked. Its seven heads were straining, its long necks intertwining like serpents. There was a woman on its back, holding reins. Controlling the beast. She stared out at them, a strange expression on her face. It wasn¡¯t wrath, thought Gamache. It wasn¡¯t vengeance or blood lust. It was more sinister. Something Gamache couldn¡¯t quite define.


    Professor Rosenblatt whispered under his breath.


    ¡°What did you say?¡± asked Gamache, who was closest to the scientist.


    Rosenblatt pointed to what looked like scales on the monster¡¯s body.


    Gamache stepped closer, then, putting on his glasses, he bent in. Straightening up, he looked at the professor.


    ¡°Hebrew?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Can you read it?¡± asked Rosenblatt.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m afraid not.¡±


    Rosenblatt looked again at the creature. At the detailing, which were not scales at all, but words. And he read, out loud.


    Then he turned to his companions in this dark place. He looked both triumphant and terrified. As though his worst fear and greatest wish were one and the same. And had come true.


    ¡°By the waters of Babylon,¡± he said, ¡°we sat down and wept.¡±


    The blood rushed from Gamache¡¯s face. In front of him the gun glowed, unnaturally, supernaturally, in the floodlights. Shadows were thrown on the canopy, a false sky above, a grotesque constellation.


    ¡°Now,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt, ¡°I can tell you what this is.¡±


    *   *   *


    They sat in the living room of the Gamache home, around the fireplace where flames leapt and danced and threw cheerful light on the somber faces.


    It had been cold in the forest, and the decision was made to return to someplace warm. And private.


    They sat with mugs of tea, warm and comforting, and plates of madeleines Armand had picked up at Sarah¡¯s boulangerie as they¡¯d passed by.


    ¡°What you¡¯ve found,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt, ¡°is Project Babylon. When we spoke this morning and you described it, I barely believed you. Project Babylon is a tale physicists told to scare each other. It¡¯s a Grimms¡¯ tale for scientists.¡±


    He took a deep breath and tried to cover his discomfort by reaching for another pastry. But his unsteady hand betrayed him.


    Gamache couldn¡¯t decide if the tremble was caused by fear or excitement.


    ¡°What you have is a Supergun. No, not ¡®a¡¯ Supergun, it¡¯s ¡®the¡¯ Supergun. The only one of its kind. Within the armaments community it¡¯s a sort of legend. For years we¡¯d heard rumors that it¡¯d been built. Some people tried to find it, but gave up. Then the talk died away, as time passed.¡±


    ¡°When you first saw it,¡± said Gamache, ¡°you whispered, ¡®He didn¡¯t.¡¯ Who did you mean?¡±


    Armand leaned forward, forearms on his knees, his large hands forming a sort of bow in front of him. Like a ship plowing through the seas.


    ¡°I meant Gerald Bull,¡± said Rosenblatt, and seemed to expect some sort of reaction. A gasp, perhaps. But there was nothing beyond rapt attention.


    ¡°Gerald Bull?¡± Rosenblatt repeated, looking from one to the other to the other.


    They shook their heads.


    ¡°Look on my works, ye Mighty,¡± said Rosenblatt as he drew his battered leather briefcase toward him. ¡°And despair.¡±


    ¡°Oh no,¡± sighed Beauvoir. ¡°Now we have two of them.¡±


    ¡°¡®Ozymandias,¡¯¡± said Gamache, looking at Jean-Guy with despair. ¡°The professor was quoting a sonnet by Shelley¡ª¡±

 Page 44

    ¡°¡ªof course he was.¡±


    ¡°¡ªthat speaks of arrogance, of hubris. A king who thought his achievements would stand for thousands of years, but all that remained of him was a broken statue in the desert.¡±


    ¡°And yet he was finally immortalized,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°Not because of his power, but because of a poem.¡±


    Beauvoir looked about to say something smart-ass, but stopped. And thought.


    ¡°Who was Gerald Bull?¡± he finally asked.


    Professor Rosenblatt had unbuckled the briefcase and, after sorting through the contents, brought out some papers.


    ¡°I found these in my files after we spoke. I thought they might be needed.¡±


    He put the papers, held together by a staple, on the coffee table.


    ¡°This is Dr. Bull.¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste picked them up. What the professor had brought was yellowed and typewritten. There was also a grainy black-and-white photograph of a man in a suit and narrow tie, looking put upon.


    ¡°He was an armaments engineer,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°Depending on who you speak to, Dr. Bull was either a visionary or an amoral arms dealer. Either way, he was a brilliant designer.¡±


    ¡°He made that thing in the woods?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°I think so, yes. I think it was part of what he called Project Babylon. His goal was to design and build a gun so powerful it could launch a missile into low Earth orbit, like a satellite. From there it would travel thousands of miles to its target.¡±


    ¡°But don¡¯t those exist?¡± asked Beauvoir. ¡°ICBMs?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but the Supergun is different,¡± said Rosenblatt.


    ¡°The Meccano set,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°No electronics.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡± The professor beamed at her. ¡°No computer guidance systems. Nothing that depends on software or even electricity. Just good old-fashioned armaments, not that far off the artillery used in the First World War.¡±


    ¡°But why was that such an achievement?¡± asked Gamache. ¡°It sounds like a step back, not forward. As Inspector Beauvoir says, if there¡¯re ICBMs that can send nuclear warheads thousands of miles accurately, why would anyone want or need Gerald Bull¡¯s Supergun?¡±


    ¡°Think about it,¡± said Rosenblatt.


    They did, but nothing came to mind.


    ¡°You¡¯re too mired in the present, in thinking that newer must be better,¡± he said. ¡°But part of Gerald Bull¡¯s genius was recognizing that ancient design could not only work, but in some cases, work better.¡±


    ¡°Did he also build a giant slingshot?¡± asked Beauvoir. ¡°Should we be looking for one of those?¡±


    ¡°Think,¡± said Rosenblatt.


    Gamache thought, and then he looked around their home. At the useless smartphone on the desk in the study. At the dial-up connection that barely worked.


    He looked at the crackling fireplace, feeling its heat, and he thought about the woodstove in the kitchen. In Clara¡¯s kitchen. In Myrna¡¯s bookstore.


    If the power went out they¡¯d still have warmth and light. They could still cook. No thanks to modern technology. That would be rendered useless, but they¡¯d have power because of old, even ancient, tools. Woodstoves. Wells.


    Three Pines might be primitive in many ways, but unlike the outside world, it could survive a very long time without power. And that itself was powerful.


    ¡°The weapon needs no power source,¡± said Gamache slowly. Coming to the realization, and the implication. ¡°It can send a missile into orbit without even a battery.¡±


    Professor Rosenblatt was nodding. ¡°That¡¯s it. The brilliance and the nightmare.¡±


    ¡°Why nightmare?¡± asked Beauvoir.


    ¡°Because Dr. Bull¡¯s Supergun meant any terrorist cell, any extremist, any crazy dictator could become an international threat,¡± said the scientist. ¡°They didn¡¯t need technology, or scientists, or even electricity. All they¡¯d need was the Supergun.¡±


    He let that sink in, and as it did even the cheery fireplace couldn¡¯t take the chill out of the room, or wipe the alarm from their faces.


    ¡°But maybe he didn¡¯t do it,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Maybe he wasn¡¯t successful. Maybe Bull abandoned it because it doesn¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt. ¡°He abandoned it because he was killed.¡±


    They stared at him.


    ¡°How?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°He was murdered in 1990. Some describe it as an assassination. He was living in Brussels at the time. Five bullets to the head.¡±


    ¡°Professional,¡± said Lacoste.

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    Rosenblatt nodded. ¡°The killers were never caught.¡±


    Gamache¡¯s eyes narrowed in concentration.


    ¡°I seem to remember this,¡± he said. ¡°Gerald Bull was a Quebecker¡ª¡±


    ¡°Actually, he was born in Ontario and studied at Queens University. It¡¯s all in there.¡± Rosenblatt waved at the papers he¡¯d brought them. ¡°But he did much of his work here in Quebec. At least, at first.¡±


    ¡°Did you know him?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°Not really. He was at McGill for a short while. Considered a bit of a crank. Difficult.¡±


    ¡°Unlike physicists?¡± asked Gamache, and saw Rosenblatt smile.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m not brilliant enough to be difficult,¡± he said. ¡°That¡¯s reserved for geniuses. I was just an academic, teaching students about trajectory. Or trying to. When sophisticated systems came in, students realized they didn¡¯t really have to know these things. Computer programs would do it all for them. I might as well have been using a slide rule and an abacus.¡±


    ¡°Dr. Bull never came to you for advice?¡± Gamache prodded.


    Now Rosenblatt laughed outright. ¡°Advice? Gerald Bull? No. And he wouldn¡¯t have come to me anyway. I was much too lowly.¡±


    The two men regarded each other before Gamache finally smiled and dropped his eyes. But Michael Rosenblatt took warning, and wondered if he might have just overdone it.


    ¡°The chatter after he¡¯d died was that Bull had in fact built the Supergun,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°And it was ready to be tested. But no one knew where it was. And it was all just gossip. People like drama but no one really believes it.¡±


    ¡°Why was he killed?¡± Beauvoir asked.


    ¡°No one knows for sure, of course,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°The assumption was he was killed to stop him from building the gun.¡±


    ¡°By the waters of Babylon,¡± Gamache quoted, his eyes on the elderly scientist, ¡°we sat down and wept. There¡¯s more to tell, Professor. We¡¯ll find out eventually, you know. Why was that etching, the beast, carved into the gun? Why did Gerald Bull put it there? And why that quote?¡±


    Professor Rosenblatt looked around in a glance that would have been ludicrously furtive had they not been talking about a gun whose very existence had killed at least two people. Its maker and Laurent. And whose intent was to kill far more.


    Michael Rosenblatt realized, too late, that he had vastly underestimated all three of them. And certainly Gamache. It was true, they would find out eventually.


    But perhaps, he thought, his mind racing, not everything.


    He might as well tell them. But perhaps, he thought, not everything.


    ¡°Gerald Bull was a Renaissance man,¡± he said, and heard Beauvoir snort. He turned to the Inspector. ¡°The Renaissance created amazing works of art, of innovation. But it was also a brutal time. I¡¯m not unaware of the fact that this is a weapon.¡±


    ¡°Of mass destruction,¡± said Gamache, who was also having none of this glorification of an arms designer, an arms dealer.


    Professor Rosenblatt studied him to see if there was any other agenda, anything else behind the exact words Gamache had just chosen. But there didn¡¯t seem to be.


    ¡°True. But he was also a classicist. A man who loved music and art and history. Dr. Bull knew perfectly well what he was building. Stories circulated within the armaments community that he¡¯d not only built the Supergun, but carved a seven-headed beast on it, as a reference to the Book of Revelation.¡±


    He looked at them. Isabelle Lacoste was thinking, trying to remember her Bible classes as a child. Beauvoir shook his head impatiently. And Gamache just stared in a way the professor found disconcerting.


    ¡°The Whore of Babylon?¡± said Rosenblatt.


    ¡°Just tell us,¡± said Beauvoir, his patience at an end.


    The professor took out his iPhone, punched at the screen, then put it on the table. Beside the golden madeleines glowed the image of a monster rearing up with seven heads on long serpentine necks springing from the body.


    And riding the monster was a woman, not looking out to where the beast was taking her, but staring back at whoever was staring at her.


    ¡°Who¡¯s the Whore of Babylon supposed to be?¡± Beauvoir demanded.


    Professor Rosenblatt was about to answer, but then turned to Gamache. ¡°I think you know.¡±


    Gamache hadn¡¯t taken his eyes off the image. ¡°The Antichrist.¡±


    Beauvoir sputtered in amusement. ¡°Oh, come on,¡± he said, his handsome lean face breaking into deep lines of laughter. ¡°Really?¡±

 Page 46

    He looked at them, his eyes finally resting on the elderly scientist.


    ¡°Are you seriously saying that thing in the forest is the devil?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not saying that, but you asked about the Whore of Babylon and that¡¯s the answer. You can look it up yourselves or ask any biblical scholar. There¡¯re all sorts of interpretations about what the beast and the seven heads represent, but most come to the same conclusion. She¡¯s heading for Armageddon.¡±


    ¡°As was Gerald Bull,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°In building the Supergun he was courting the end of the world.¡±


    ¡°Well now,¡± said Rosenblatt. He looked down at his feet, then up at her. ¡°The community is divided on that. Many, probably most, think Dr. Bull was a mercenary. An arms dealer. A one-stop shop. He¡¯d design, build and sell any weapon to the highest bidder.¡±


    ¡°And the others?¡± asked Gamache. ¡°The minority?¡±


    ¡°They think Dr. Bull was a hero. That he was very clear about why he was building the Supergun, and who he was making it for. They believe he carved the beast on it as a sort of gesture. Like pilots in the Second World War often painted frightening images on their planes.¡±


    ¡°He called it Project Babylon,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Who was the devil in the late 1980s?¡± Rosenblatt asked.


    ¡°The Soviet Union,¡± said Lacoste, remembering her history.


    ¡°The Cold War was waning,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Yeltsin and President Gorbachev were bringing in glasnost.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°But there was someone else. An ally who was fast becoming an enemy. A wolf in sheep¡¯s clothing, to use another biblical image.¡±


    ¡°Babylon?¡± said Gamache. ¡°Are you saying Gerald Bull built that thing for Saddam Hussein?¡±


    He didn¡¯t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice, and he could only imagine the look on Jean-Guy¡¯s face.


    ¡°You don¡¯t believe it?¡± asked Professor Rosenblatt. The words fell into the silence in the room and drifted into the fireplace, to be burned.


    ¡°Would you?¡± asked Isabelle Lacoste, regarding the elderly man and wondering just how crazy he might be. The gun itself was hard enough to swallow, but she could at least see it, touch it. She knew it was real. But this was a step too far.


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose it really matters if you believe it or not,¡± said Rosenblatt, gathering up his papers. ¡°You asked me here to tell you what I know. That¡¯s what I know.¡±


    He got up and Gamache rose with him.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t believe the boy either,¡± said Rosenblatt quietly. ¡°And look what happened.¡±


    Gamache felt himself go numb, for a moment. As though the life had been snuffed out of him. And then he took a breath and sat back down.


    ¡°Please,¡± he said, indicating the seat beside him. Professor Rosenblatt hesitated, then took his seat again. ¡°Tell us what you know about Project Babylon and Gerald Bull.¡±


    Professor Rosenblatt looked at them, still seeing disbelief, but now also seeing a willingness to try. To be open to the possibility that what he was about to tell them was the truth.


    ¡°It was no secret that Saddam wanted to destroy Israel,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°And start a full-scale war. He wanted to control the whole region.¡±


    Gamache nodded, remembering the late 1980s, early nineties. To Beauvoir and Lacoste it was history. To him, and Rosenblatt, it was a memory.


    ¡°To be fair, there are all sorts of theories about Project Babylon,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°Some more outlandish than others.¡±


    No one looked at Beauvoir who, with a mighty effort, was keeping his mouth shut.


    ¡°Some even believed Dr. Bull was building the Supergun for the Israelis. To hit Iraq first. They¡¯re pragmatists. They believe in God, but how do you fight the devil? With prayers? Well, Gerald Bull was the answer to a prayer.¡±


    ¡°But the Israelis have all sorts of sophisticated weapons,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Why would they need the Supergun?¡±


    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t,¡± said Gamache. ¡°But Saddam Hussein would.¡±


    Across from him, Armand saw Beauvoir¡¯s brows come together as logic began to penetrate disbelief.


    ¡°Yes,¡± said the scientist. ¡°A weapon of mass destruction that could be assembled anywhere, the middle of a desert, for instance. Without need of electronics or expertise.¡±


    ¡°How would the missiles be aimed?¡± Gamache asked, remembering images of Israeli citizens wearing gas masks and huddling in their homes as the sirens wailed during the Gulf War.

 Page 47

    ¡°There¡¯s a guidance system,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt. ¡°But without electronics it¡¯s difficult to be completely accurate, especially at a distance. It¡¯s the one possible flaw in Bull¡¯s design.¡±


    ¡°Flaw?¡± asked Gamache. ¡°I¡¯d call it more than that, wouldn¡¯t you?¡±


    The professor, under the sharp gaze, reddened.


    ¡°And that means?¡± Gamache pushed.


    ¡°It means from a distance the Supergun could not be guaranteed to hit just military targets.¡±


    ¡°It means more than that,¡± said Gamache. ¡°It was never designed to hit military targets, was it?¡±


    ¡°Then what was it designed to hit?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Cities,¡± said Gamache. ¡°The biggest, crudest bull¡¯s-eye. It was meant to destroy Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. It was designed to kill men, women, children. Teachers, bartenders, bus drivers. It was meant to wipe them out. To bomb Israel back to the Stone Age.¡±


    ¡°Or Baghdad to the Stone Age,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°If the buyer was Israel. After all, that inscription on the etching was in Hebrew.¡±


    Beauvoir had been quiet, except the initial grunts as he fought to keep scathing comments in.


    ¡°What are you thinking?¡± Armand asked him.


    ¡°I¡¯m thinking about Armageddon,¡± he said.


    ¡°The movie?¡± asked Lacoste, and saw him smile.


    ¡°Non. If that thing in the woods works, this Bull fellow made a gun that would fling a missile into orbit with the intention, the hope, of wiping out entire cities. Anywhere.¡±


    Professor Rosenblatt nodded. ¡°Anywhere.¡±


    It was now clear who the real monster was. Not the Whore of Babylon, not even the Supergun. But the man who had made them.


    *   *   *


    Gamache and Beauvoir left the house a few paces behind Lacoste and the professor.


    Rosenblatt was heading home to pack a few things and return to the B and B, to be on hand to help. Lacoste and Beauvoir were going back to the Incident Room, to see if the forensics reports were in. And Gamache was going to join Reine-Marie at the bistro.


    Beauvoir fell in beside Gamache.


    ¡°Do you believe him?¡± asked Beauvoir. ¡°About the Iraqis?¡±


    He was unconsciously mimicking Gamache by clasping his hands behind his back and falling into the rhythm of his walk.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Well, even if it¡¯s true, it can¡¯t possibly matter anymore. The intended target, or buyer, is long gone. Saddam Hussein was executed years ago. Any danger is long gone.¡±


    ¡°Hmmm¡± came from Gamache.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Someone killed Laurent to keep the gun a secret,¡± Gamache reminded him. ¡°I think the danger might¡¯ve been dormant.¡±


    They walked for a few more paces in silence.


    ¡°But now it¡¯s back,¡± said Jean-Guy.


    ¡°Hmmm,¡± said Gamache again. Then after a few more paces, ¡°Did you notice where that gun is pointed?¡±


    Beauvoir stopped then and looked toward the stone bridge and the forest.


    ¡°It¡¯s not pointing to Baghdad, that¡¯s for sure,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°No. It¡¯s pointing south. Into the United States.¡±


    Beauvoir turned to stare at Gamache, who was watching the elderly scientist get into his car.


    ¡°I wonder what Project Babylon was really about,¡± said Gamache. ¡°And if it really died with Gerald Bull.¡±


    CHAPTER 13


    As Chief Inspector Lacoste approached the old railway station, she noticed a nondescript car parked off to the side.


    A man and woman were sitting in the front seat, and as the doors opened her heart sank.


    Journalists, she thought. Much as a doctor might think, plague. But the thought was fleeting, disappearing as soon as she got a good look at them.


    ¡°Chief Inspector Lacoste?¡± the woman asked, after inelegantly slinging a large cloth handbag over her shoulder.


    ¡°Oui.¡±


    ¡°Oh good. We wondered if we had the wrong place.¡±


    She looked so relieved that Isabelle was relieved for her.


    ¡°I told you I knew where we were going,¡± said the man. ¡°Not a wrong turn all the way down.¡±


    ¡°Which is why you¡¯re the navigator,¡± said the woman.


    ¡°No. I¡¯m the navigator because you insist on driving.¡±


    ¡°Only after¡ª¡±


    The woman put up her hands and whispered to the man, loudly enough for Lacoste to hear it, ¡°We can talk about this later.¡±

 Page 48

    Isabelle Lacoste, far from being put out, almost smiled. These two reminded her of her parents, and were about the same age. Mid-fifties, she guessed. Sensibly, if unimaginatively, dressed. The woman wore a cloth coat of decent cut, though slightly baggy, while the man had on a raincoat, with the lightest dusting of doughnut sugar down the front.


    The woman¡¯s hair was obviously dyed at home, and due for another treatment. And the man¡¯s hair was combed over, in an attempt to hide what could not be hidden.


    ¡°My name¡¯s Mary Fraser.¡± Her hand, extended in greeting, revealed chipped nail polish. ¡°This is my colleague, Sean Delorme.¡±


    He smiled and shook hands. His cuticles were nibbled and torn.


    ¡°We¡¯re from CSIS,¡± she said cheerfully.


    Had Mary Fraser said they were from the moon it would have been more believable. Isabelle Lacoste tried not to show her surprise.


    ¡°Are we supposed to tell her that?¡± Sean Delorme asked, averting his face from Lacoste and putting his hand to his mouth. Again, trying to hide the obvious.


    ¡°What else are we going to say?¡± whispered Madame Fraser. ¡°That we¡¯re tourists?¡±


    ¡°Okay, but we should have consulted.¡±


    ¡°We had the whole drive down¡ª¡±


    Now it was the man¡¯s turn to put up his hand to stop the bickering.


    ¡°We can talk about this later,¡± he said. ¡°But if we get into trouble, it¡¯s your fault.¡±


    They spoke to each other in English but had spoken to Lacoste in heavily accented, textbook good, French.


    Perhaps, thought Lacoste, they didn¡¯t think she spoke English. She decided not to disabuse them of that thought.


    ¡°Un plaisir,¡± she said, shaking their hands. ¡°CSIS, you say? The Canadian Security Intelligence Service?¡±


    She had to be sure. If two people looked less like spies, and even less like intelligence agents, it was these two.


    The man, Sean Delorme, looked around, then leaned closer to Lacoste. ¡°Can we talk privately?¡±


    His eyes darted around, as though they were in Berlin in 1939 and he had the codes.


    ¡°Of course,¡± said Lacoste, and unlocking the door into the Incident Room, she led them inside just as Beauvoir arrived.


    Lacoste made the introductions.


    Like her, Beauvoir looked at them and asked, obviously needing to clarify, ¡°CSIS? The spy agency?¡±


    ¡°We prefer intelligence,¡± said Mary Fraser, but she didn¡¯t seem displeased to be called a spy.


    ¡°What brings you here?¡± asked Lacoste, taking them over to the conference table.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Delorme, dropping his voice to barely above a whisper. ¡°We heard about the gun.¡±


    Lacoste half expected him to tap the side of his nose.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to forgive Monsieur Delorme,¡± said Mary Fraser, giving her colleague a filthy look. ¡°We¡¯re not often allowed out of the office.¡±


    Now he gave her an equally filthy look.


    ¡°Where is your office?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Ottawa,¡± said Ms. Fraser. ¡°We¡¯re at headquarters.¡±


    ¡°May I see your identification?¡± asked Beauvoir.


    Delighted by the request, they were completely oblivious to the possible insult.


    They brought out their wallets but had trouble getting their laminated ID cards out. Mary Fraser was even having trouble finding hers.


    As the two squabbled, Jean-Guy and Isabelle exchanged a grimace. Ottawa, and CSIS, could not have thought much of the find in the woods if this is what they sent.


    Finally they handed the ID cards over to Beauvoir and Lacoste, who confirmed the two smiling middle-aged people across the conference table were Canadian intelligence agents.


    ¡°How did you hear about the gun?¡± Lacoste asked, sliding the cards back.


    ¡°Our boss told us,¡± said Delorme.


    ¡°How did he hear?¡± she tried again.


    ¡°I don¡¯t really know.¡± Delorme looked at Ms. Fraser, who shook her head.


    ¡°Frankly, we just do as we¡¯re told, and we were told to come here to look at the gun.¡±


    Almost certainly this was the result of General Langelier ¡°thinking about it,¡± thought Lacoste. He must¡¯ve called someone in National Defence, who called CSIS, who sent it down the line until they ran out of line and came to these two.


    ¡°Why you?¡± asked Beauvoir. ¡°Not that we aren¡¯t thrilled to have you.¡±


    ¡°You know,¡± said Ms. Fraser. ¡°We were wondering the same thing. We work in the same section, Sean and I. Have for years. Mostly filing.¡±

 Page 49

    ¡°But some fieldwork,¡± Delorme jumped in.


    ¡°Putting records on computer. Cross-referencing,¡± she said. ¡°Seeing if any connections were missed. We¡¯re quite good at that.¡±


    ¡°We are,¡± he admitted. ¡°We see things others don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Best not to tell them we see things,¡± she said, and Delorme laughed.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Lacoste, warming to them. ¡°I imagine you¡¯d like to see the gun.¡±


    She sounded to her own ears like a 1950s housewife discreetly offering to show guests the facilities.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Do you wish you were out there?¡± Reine-Marie asked, as her husband took a bite of the maple-smoked ham, apple and Brie sandwich, on a pain de campagne.


    He looked out the bistro window, toward the stone bridge.


    ¡°You mean in the damp, cold woods at a crime scene?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°A little.¡±


    ¡°Monsieur Gamache,¡± said Reine-Marie, ¡°you¡¯re crazier than even my mother thought.¡±


    ¡°Your mother loved me.¡±


    ¡°Only because you made her own children look sane. Except Alphonse, of course. He really is nuts.¡±


    Henri was curled under their bistro table. The shepherd¡¯s head, resting on Armand¡¯s shoes, was smattered with flakes of crusty bread.


    ¡°Isabelle¡¯s doing a good job?¡± Reine-Marie asked.


    ¡°Not just a good job, a remarkable job. She¡¯s completely taken control of the department. Made it her own.¡±


    Reine-Marie watched him for signs of regret hiding beneath the obvious relief. But there was only admiration there for his young prot¨¦g¨¦.


    ¡°Jean-Guy seems to be accepting her as his boss,¡± she said, buttering a piece of fresh baguette from the basket that came with her parsnip and apple soup.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s still a bit of a struggle,¡± said Armand. ¡°But he at least respects Isabelle and knows he couldn¡¯t possibly be made Chief Inspector, after what happened.¡±


    ¡°You mean after he shot you?¡± Reine-Marie asked.


    ¡°That didn¡¯t help,¡± Armand admitted. He picked up his sandwich again, then put it down. ¡°I was threatened yesterday by a young agent.¡±


    ¡°I saw him put his hand on his billy club,¡± said Reine-Marie, lowering her spoon.


    Armand nodded. ¡°Fresh out of the academy. He knew I was once a cop and he didn¡¯t care. If he¡¯d treat a former cop like that, how¡¯s he going to treat citizens?¡±


    ¡°You look shaken.¡±


    ¡°I am. I¡¯d hoped by getting rid of the corruption the worst was over, but now¡­¡± He shrugged and smiled thinly. ¡°Is he alone, or is there a whole class of thugs entering the S?ret¨¦? Armed with clubs and guns.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Armand.¡±


    She reached across the table and placed her hand on his.


    He looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes, and smiled.


    ¡°It¡¯s a place I no longer recognize. To everything there is a season. I¡¯m thinking of talking to Professor Rosenblatt about his job at McGill.¡±


    ¡°You think he¡¯s not who he claims to be?¡±


    ¡°Oh, no, not at all. I¡¯m sure Isabelle and Jean-Guy checked him out. No, this is personal interest.¡±


    ¡°Really? Thinking about becoming a physicist?¡± asked Reine-Marie. When he didn¡¯t answer, she looked at him closely. ¡°Armand?¡±


    She knew he wasn¡¯t considering studying science, but now she understood what he was considering.


    If the big question facing both of them was, What next? could the answer be, University?


    ¡°Would that interest you?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Going back to school?¡±


    She hadn¡¯t really thought about it, but now that she did she realized there was a world of knowledge out there she¡¯d love to dive into. History, archeology, languages, art.


    And she could see Armand there. In fact, it was a far more natural fit than the S?ret¨¦ ever seemed. She could see him walking through the hallways, a student. Or a professor.


    But either way, he belonged in the corridors of academe. And so did she. She wondered if the killing of young Laurent had finally, completely, put paid to any interest he had in the disgrace that was murder.


    ¡°You like the professor?¡± she asked, going back to her soup.


    ¡°I do, though there seems a strange disconnect between the man and what he did for a living. His field was trajectory and ballistics. The main people who¡¯d benefit from his research would be weapons designers. And yet he seems so, so, gentle. Scholarly. It just doesn¡¯t seem to fit.¡±

 Page 50

    ¡°Really?¡± she asked, trying not to smile. It was what she¡¯d just been thinking about him. A scholarly man who pursued murderers. ¡°I guess we¡¯re not all what we seem.¡±


    ¡°He does seem to know his stuff, though. He identified the weapon immediately. He said it was a Supergun.¡±


    ¡°A Supergun?¡±


    He¡¯d wondered if she¡¯d laugh. Sitting in the warm and cheerful bistro, with fresh warm bread and parsnip and apple soup in front of them, the very word sounded ridiculous. ¡°Supergun.¡± Like something out of a comic book.


    But Reine-Marie didn¡¯t laugh. Instead she remembered, as he did every hour of every day, Laurent. Alive. And Laurent, dead. Because of the thing in the woods. No matter its name, there was nothing remotely funny about it.


    ¡°It was built by a man named Gerald Bull,¡± said Armand.


    ¡°But what¡¯s it doing here?¡± she asked. ¡°Did Professor Rosenblatt know?¡±


    Armand shook his head, then gestured out the window. ¡°Maybe they can tell us.¡±


    Reine-Marie looked out and saw Lacoste and Beauvoir walking across the dirt road, to the path into the woods. And with them were two strangers. A man and a woman.


    ¡°Who are they?¡± asked Reine-Marie.


    ¡°At a guess, I¡¯d say National Defence, or maybe CSIS.¡±


    ¡°Or maybe more academics,¡± suggested Reine-Marie.


    *   *   *


    Once again, Jean-Guy Beauvoir attached the huge plug to the huge receptacle and heard the clunk as the huge floodlights came on.


    He kept his eyes on the CSIS agents and wasn¡¯t disappointed.


    They¡¯d gone from standing shoulder to shoulder, holding their briefcases like commuters at a train station, to looking like two people who¡¯d lost their minds.


    Their eyes flew wide open, their mouths dropped, their heads in unison slowly, slowly tilted back. And they stared up. Up. Had it been raining they would have drowned.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± was all Sean Delorme could say. ¡°Holy shit.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s real,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°He did it. He actually built it.¡± She turned to Isabelle Lacoste, who was standing beside her. ¡°Do you know what this is?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Gerald Bull¡¯s Supergun.¡±


    ¡°How did you know?¡±


    ¡°Michael Rosenblatt told us.¡±


    ¡°Professor Rosenblatt?¡± asked Sean Delorme, recovering enough to stop saying ¡°holy shit.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°How did he know?¡± said Delorme.


    ¡°He¡¯s seen it,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°He¡¯s here.¡±


    ¡°Of course he is,¡± said Mary Fraser.


    ¡°I asked him to come,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°Ahhhh,¡± said Mary Fraser, turning away. Her eyes dragged back to the giant gun. But she wasn¡¯t looking at the weapon. The CSIS file clerk was staring at the etching.


    ¡°Unbelievable,¡± she said under her breath.


    ¡°The stories were true then,¡± said Delorme, turning to his colleague.


    Mary Fraser took a few tentative steps forward and leaned into the image.


    ¡°That¡¯s writing,¡± she said, pointing to, but not touching, the etching. ¡°Arabic.¡±


    ¡°Hebrew,¡± corrected Lacoste.


    ¡°Do you know what it says?¡± Delorme asked Lacoste.


    ¡°By the waters of Babylon,¡± said Isabelle.


    ¡°We sat down and wept,¡± Mary Fraser finished the quote, taking a step away from the image. ¡°The Whore of Babylon.¡±


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± said Sean Delorme.


    *   *   *


    Gamache and Henri walked toward the edge of the village. Henri had his ball, and Armand had his script.


    He looked down at the title, smeared with dirt from the grave Ruth had dug for it. But it hadn¡¯t rested in peace. He¡¯d dug it up and now it was time he read it.


    She Sat Down and Wept.


    It could be a coincidence. Almost certainly was. That the title of a play by a serial killer was so similar to the phrase carved onto the side of the weapon of mass destruction.


    Coincidences happened, Armand knew. And he knew not to read too much into them. But he also knew not to dismiss them altogether.


    He¡¯d planned to read the play at home, in front of the fireplace, but he didn¡¯t want to sully his home. Then he thought he¡¯d take it to the bistro, but decided against that too. For the same reason.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you giving it more power than it deserves?¡± Reine-Marie had asked.


    ¡°Probably.¡±


    But they both knew that words were weapons too, and when fashioned into a story their power was almost limitless. He¡¯d stood on the porch, holding the script.

 Page 51

    Where to go?


    To a place already sullied beyond redemption, he thought. Though the only place that came to mind was the forest, where a boy had been murdered and a gun designed to kill en masse had sat for decades. But there were too many people and he didn¡¯t want to have to explain himself.


    So if not a place that was damned, there was only the alternative. The divine. A place that could withstand the onslaught of John Fleming.


    He and Henri walked to the edge of the village. They climbed the stairs to the doors of the old chapel, always unlocked, and stepped inside.


    No one was in St. Thomas¡¯s Church but it didn¡¯t feel empty. Perhaps because of the stained-glass boys, there in perpetuity. Sometimes Armand would go up to St. Thomas¡¯s just to visit them.


    He sat now on the comfortably cushioned pew and put the play on his lap. Henri lay at Gamache¡¯s feet, his head on his paws.


    The two of them looked at the window, created at the end of the Great War. It showed soldiers, impossibly young, clutching guns and moving forward through no-man¡¯s land.


    Armand came here sometimes to sit in the light thrown by their images. To sit in their fear and to sit in their courage.


    This place was sacred, he knew, not because it was a church but because of those boys.


    He felt the weight of the script on his legs, and the weight of memory. Of what Fleming had done. It came crashing, crushing, down until the script felt like a slab of concrete, pinning him to those memories.


    And he heard again the testimony of the shattered officers who¡¯d finally found Fleming. And seen what he¡¯d done. And Armand saw, again, the photographs from the crime scene. Of the demon another demon had created.


    The seven-headed monster.


    Armand dropped his eyes to the script, red and gold light spilling from the boys onto the title page.


    He gathered his courage, took a breath, and opened the script.


    CHAPTER 14


    ¡°I see you¡¯re back. Do you mind if I join you?¡±


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir sat down across from Professor Rosenblatt at the bistro. The elderly scientist smiled, clearly welcoming the company.


    ¡°I just unpacked my things at the B and B and thought I¡¯d come over for lunch,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt.


    ¡°You¡¯re making notes,¡± said Jean-Guy, looking at the open notebook. ¡°On the gun?¡±


    ¡°Yes. And trying to remember all I can about Gerald Bull. Fascinating character.¡±


    ¡°I see you also stopped by the bookstore.¡±


    A slim volume sat on the table between them.


    ¡°I did. Wonderful place. I can¡¯t resist a bookstore, especially a secondhand one. I found this.¡±


    He gestured to the copy of I¡¯m FINE.


    ¡°I was actually going to buy something else, but some old woman stood by the cash register and said she wanted every book I chose. This was the only book she let me buy. Fortunately I¡¯m a fan.¡±


    Beauvoir smirked. ¡°You like the poet who wrote I¡¯m FINE?¡±


    ¡°I do. I think she¡¯s a genius. Who hurt you once/so far beyond repair/that you would greet each overture/with curling lip.¡± Rosenblatt shook his head and tapped the book. ¡°Brilliant.¡±


    ¡°Ruth Zardo,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°Ahhh, I see you know her too.¡±


    ¡°Actually I was introducing you. Professor Michael Rosenblatt, may I present Ruth Zardo and her duck, Rosa.¡±


    The elderly scientist looked up, startled, into the pinched face of the old woman who¡¯d essentially bullied him into buying her book.


    He struggled to his feet.


    ¡°Madame Zardo,¡± he said, and practically bowed. ¡°This is an honor.¡±


    ¡°Of course it is,¡± said Ruth. ¡°Who are you and what are you doing here?¡±


    Rosa, nestled against Ruth, stared beady-eyed at Professor Rosenblatt.


    ¡°I, well, I was just¡ª¡±


    ¡°We asked him here to help,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°With what?¡±


    ¡°With what we found in the woods, of course.¡±


    ¡°And what was that?¡± she demanded.


    ¡°It¡¯s a¡ª¡± Rosenblatt began, before Jean-Guy cut him off.


    Ruth glared at the professor. ¡°Have we met?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. I¡¯d have remembered,¡± he said.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Jean-Guy, looking at the empty chair at their table, then at Ruth. ¡°Good-bye.¡±


    Ruth gave him the finger, then limped away to join Clara at a table by the fireplace.


    ¡°Well,¡± said the professor, regaining his seat. ¡°That was unexpected. Is that her daughter?¡±

 Page 52

    ¡°The duck?¡±


    ¡°No, the woman she¡¯s sitting with.¡±


    The very idea of Ruth giving birth shocked Beauvoir. He was still struggling with the thought that she¡¯d been born. He imagined her as a tiny, wizened, gray-haired child. With a duckling.


    ¡°No, that¡¯s Clara Morrow.¡±


    ¡°The artist?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I saw her show at the Mus¨¦e d¡¯art contemporain de Montr¨¦al.¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°Wait a minute, did Madame Morrow do a portrait of Ruth Zardo? The old and frail Madonna? The one who looks so loathsome?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the one.¡±


    Professor Rosenblatt glanced at the other patrons. At the beamed and cheerful bistro, at the comfortable armchairs. He looked toward the bookstore, then, in the other direction, the boulangerie that carried moist madeleines that tasted like childhood.


    Then he looked out the window to the old, solid homes, and the three tall pines like guardians on the green. Then back to Ruth Zardo sharing a table and a meal with Clara Morrow.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± he asked, almost beneath his breath. ¡°Why did Gerald Bull choose to come here, of all places?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s one of the questions I came to ask you, Professor,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°Salut, Jean-Guy,¡± said Olivier, standing at the table with his notepad and pencil. ¡°Bonjour,¡± he said to the professor.


    ¡°Olivier, this is Professor Rosenblatt. He¡¯s helping us with our investigation.¡±


    ¡°Oh, really?¡±


    ¡°I believe I spoke to your partner, Gabri,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°I¡¯ve arranged for a room at the B and B.¡±


    ¡°Wonderful. Then we¡¯ll be seeing more of you.¡±


    Olivier waited, clearly hoping for more information. But what he got was their lunch orders.


    Jean-Guy, after a mighty struggle with himself, asked for the grilled scallop and warm pear salad. He¡¯d promised Annie to eat more sensibly.


    ¡°Maybe Gerald Bull coming here is karmic,¡± said Rosenblatt, after Olivier left. ¡°Yin and yang. Two halves of a whole?¡± he offered when he saw his companion¡¯s scowl.


    ¡°Oh, I know what it means, but you don¡¯t believe in that sort of thing, do you?¡±


    ¡°You think because I¡¯m a scientist I don¡¯t have a faith?¡± Rosenblatt asked. ¡°You¡¯d be surprised how many physicists believe in God.¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡±


    ¡°I believe for every action there¡¯s an equal reaction. What else is yin and yang? Heaven and hell. A peaceful creative village, and a dreadful killing machine close by.¡±


    ¡°Where else would the devil go, but to paradise?¡± asked Beauvoir.


    ¡°Where else would God go, but to hell,¡± said Rosenblatt.


    The elderly man raised his hands, blotched with age, and lifted first one then the other.


    A balance.


    ¡°Merci, patron,¡± said Jean-Guy, leaning back to make room for Olivier to put down his plate.


    The scallops were large and succulent and grilled golden brown. They lay on a bed of grains and fresh herbs and roasted pine nuts and goat cheese next to a warm grilled apple. He was about to ask about the pear but was distracted by the bacon club sandwich with thin, seasoned fries put before the professor.


    He is smart, thought Beauvoir.


    ¡°Can I tempt you?¡± Rosenblatt asked, pushing his plate a millimeter closer to Jean-Guy.


    ¡°Non, merci,¡± said Jean-Guy, taking a fry.


    The professor smiled, but then it faded.


    ¡°Who¡¯re they?¡±


    Beauvoir followed Rosenblatt¡¯s scowl and saw Isabelle Lacoste standing in the doorway of the bistro with Sean Delorme and Mary Fraser.


    Across the room, Mary Fraser turned to Lacoste. ¡°Is that him?¡±


    ¡°Professor Rosenblatt, oui,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Would you like an introduction?¡±


    Isabelle pretended not to hear the urgent whispers of Non, merci behind her as she wove between the tables.


    ¡°They¡¯re coming this way,¡± said Rosenblatt in an urgent whisper. Beauvoir half expected him to bark, ¡°Quick, hide.¡±


    ¡°There you are,¡± said Isabelle, as though seeing Beauvoir was a surprise and not part of the plan. ¡°We were just coming in for a late lunch too. I don¡¯t believe you¡¯ve met. Professor Michael Rosenblatt, may I present Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme. They¡¯ve just arrived from Ottawa. They¡¯re also interested in what we found.¡±


    Rosenblatt had once again struggled to his feet, though with far less gusto than for Ruth Zardo. He didn¡¯t exactly curl his lip at the newcomers, he was far too courtly for that. But it was close.

 Page 53

    ¡°We haven¡¯t met,¡± he said. ¡°But I believe we¡¯ve corresponded.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡± was all Delorme said, while Mary Fraser remained silent, though she did shake the professor¡¯s hand. More, Lacoste felt, out of habit than desire.


    Lacoste looked around and spotted a table in the corner, a distance from Beauvoir and the professor.


    ¡°I think that one¡¯s free,¡± she said, and watched as the CSIS agents practically climbed over the other tables to get to it.


    Chief Inspector Lacoste had asked Olivier not to mention that she¡¯d called ahead and reserved it.


    ¡°They work for CSIS,¡± said the professor, turning his back on them. ¡°But of course, you know that. I think it would be a stretch to call them intelligence agents.¡±


    ¡°Then what are they?¡± asked Beauvoir.


    ¡°File clerks,¡± said Rosenblatt.


    ¡°How do you know them? And how come they know you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve petitioned the government for the files on Gerald Bull and Project Babylon for years. I was planning to write a major paper on him to mark the twentieth anniversary of his assassination. Those two are in the department that keeps the dossier on Dr. Bull, but they won¡¯t release the information.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a good question, Inspector.¡±


    He glanced behind him, and saw Mary Fraser swiftly drop her eyes. Then Rosenblatt returned his attention to Beauvoir.


    ¡°How did they react to the Supergun?¡±


    ¡°They were as surprised as you were,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°I wonder if that¡¯s true.¡±


    *   *   *


    ¡°He was brilliant, you know,¡± Mary Fraser said. ¡°Gerald Bull. The youngest person to get a Ph.D. in Canada. At the age of twenty-two. Twenty-two. He was light years ahead of the rest. But there was something wrong with him. He had no brakes. He drew no line. And if he saw one, he was determined to cross it.¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste listened. The two CSIS agents were taking turns telling the story. It was now clear to Lacoste why they¡¯d been sent.


    Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme might not know much about being spies, but they knew a great deal about Gerald Bull. They were tasked with gathering, and guarding, that knowledge. And now they were letting it out.


    Or, at least, some of it.


    ¡°Dr. Bull worked with the American government, he worked with the Brits. He was involved with the High Altitude Research Project,¡± said Sean Delorme, speaking, Lacoste noticed, without need of notes. ¡°He was with McGill University in Montr¨¦al for a while. And then he moved to Brussels and went out on his own.¡±


    Delorme took his glasses off and polished them with one of the linen napkins.


    ¡°It was a disaster,¡± he said, putting his glasses back on. ¡°Gerald Bull went from being a scientist, a designer, to being an arms dealer.¡±


    ¡°And Canada lost control of him,¡± said Chief Inspector Lacoste.


    ¡°I think any control we thought we had over him was an illusion,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°I think Gerald Bull was always beyond control because he was beyond caring.¡±


    ¡°That man isn¡¯t much better,¡± said Sean Delorme, indicating Michael Rosenblatt across the bistro. ¡°We have a file on him too, you know. Not very thick, of course. Did he tell you he helped design the Avro Arrow? One of the most sophisticated jet fighters in the world, before the project was scrapped. He¡¯s no stranger to the arms race and arms deals. Don¡¯t be taken in by him.¡±


    *   *   *


    ¡°Do you seriously think Gerald Bull could have created the Supergun without the government knowing?¡± asked Rosenblatt.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°He seems to have built it outside this village without anyone knowing.¡±


    ¡°Given that that¡¯s the quality of agent at work, do you wonder?¡± Rosenblatt waved toward Lacoste¡¯s table.


    The scientist seemed to want it both ways. The government knew and de facto supported Bull¡¯s research, while at the same time, the government was too incompetent to know anything.


    When Beauvoir pointed this out, Rosenblatt shook his head.


    ¡°You misunderstand me,¡± he said. ¡°I think the Canadian government supported Dr. Bull¡¯s research, encouraged it even. Poured money into it. Knew perfectly well what he was building. And I think the papers filed away at CSIS will prove all that.¡±


    ¡°But then?¡± asked Beauvoir.


    ¡°But then when Bull suddenly moved to Brussels and cut ties with Canada, they went, pardon the term, ballistic. They panicked. Listen, I¡¯m no fan of Gerald Bull¡¯s ethics. I think he would have done just about anything to make a fortune and prove himself right. To rub the nose of the establishment in what he created.¡±

 Page 54

    ¡°And which establishment was that? The other armament designers?¡± Beauvoir asked.


    ¡°You carry a gun,¡± said Rosenblatt, looking at the holster attached to Beauvoir¡¯s belt. ¡°Best not to be hypocritical.¡±


    But his smile softened the statement.


    ¡°I guess we¡¯re all hypocrites, to a degree,¡± Rosenblatt admitted. ¡°I worked on ballistics and trajectory, and it wasn¡¯t for the fisheries department.¡±


    Beauvoir smiled, nodded and took a forkful of grilled scallop. It turned out to be delicious. The only possible improvement would be to deep-fry them, he thought.


    ¡°We all draw lines,¡± the professor was saying. ¡°Even those who design weapons. Things that are too horrible to do, even if they can be done.¡±


    ¡°This is a world with nuclear bombs and chemical weapons,¡± said Beauvoir, putting his fork down. Suddenly no longer hungry. ¡°How much more horrible can it get?¡±


    To his relief, Professor Rosenblatt didn¡¯t answer. Instead the elderly professor looked out the old windowpanes, to the quiet little village. ¡°I can¡¯t believe he built it. He was begged not to, but he thought the other designers were just jealous.¡±


    ¡°Did you know Dr. Bull?¡± Beauvoir asked.


    ¡°As I told you, only by reputation. I wasn¡¯t in his league, but I was a part of that community, even if it was just at the edges, the academic part.¡±


    ¡°And were you jealous?¡± asked Beauvoir. ¡°Were the other designers jealous?¡±


    Rosenblatt shook his head. ¡°We were frightened.¡±


    ¡°Of what?¡±


    ¡°That what Gerald Bull said could be done really could. And that he¡¯d actually do it. He was assassinated to stop him, there¡¯s little doubt of that. I think the CSIS files will prove it. But they didn¡¯t realize it was too late. The die was cast. The weapon built.¡±


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°But who did he build it for and why did he build it here?¡±


    *   *   *


    ¡°He¡¯s a crackpot,¡± said Mary Fraser, looking across the bistro at the elderly man¡¯s back. ¡°Has all sorts of strange ideas about Gerald Bull. And about us. He¡¯s got a sort of persecution complex. Thinks we¡¯re keeping information from him.¡±


    ¡°Well, we are,¡± said Delorme.


    ¡°Yes, but it isn¡¯t personal,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°It¡¯s all covered under the Security of Information Act. We can¡¯t release it, even if we want to. Which reminds me, who have you told about the Supergun besides him?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s in our official report on the crime,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°But that¡¯s confidential. We haven¡¯t made any announcement.¡±


    ¡°Good. Please don¡¯t until we get a handle on the thing.¡±


    ¡°Yes, we need to put this on lockdown,¡± said Delorme, obviously enjoying using that phrase perhaps for the first time in his career.


    ¡°I can understand keeping the Supergun confidential for now, but why has the information on Gerald Bull been kept a secret?¡± asked Isabelle Lacoste, taking a forkful of her warm duck salad. ¡°The man¡¯s long dead.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t really know,¡± said Mary Fraser. It seemed she¡¯d never asked herself that question. Her job, after all, was to analyze the files, not question the content.


    ¡°You¡¯ve obviously read the files,¡± Lacoste pressed. ¡°You¡¯re probably more familiar with Gerald Bull than anyone else in the world. What do those files say?¡±


    ¡°They say he was a common arms dealer, probably a sociopath,¡± said Mary Fraser. She was talking about Gerald Bull, but continued to look at Rosenblatt. ¡°He didn¡¯t care who he sold his weapons to, or how they¡¯d be used.¡±


    ¡°All Dr. Bull wanted was boatloads of money and the chance to prove his theories right,¡± said Delorme. ¡°And if, in the process, hundreds of thousands of people died, it wasn¡¯t his concern.¡±


    ¡°If he¡¯d succeeded, God knows what would¡¯ve happened in the region,¡± said Mary Fraser, turning back to look at Lacoste.


    ¡°Then his client really was Saddam?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°The field agents believed it,¡± said Mary Fraser.


    ¡°But even if they were wrong and he sold to the Israelis or the Saudis, it would still be a goddamn mess,¡± said Delorme.


    ¡°Armageddon,¡± said Mary Fraser. Somehow she managed to say it without making it sound ridiculous, even in this most peaceful of places.


    ¡°How did you know about the etching on the gun?¡± Lacoste asked. ¡°The Whore of Babylon.¡±

 Page 55

    Sean Delorme leaned across the table with enthusiasm. ¡°It¡¯s all part of the legend. That¡¯s what¡¯s so amazing. Our job is to collect information and file it.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d come across stories about the etching in some field agent reports from the late eighties,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°The agents were trying to keep track of Dr. Bull. While they were pretty sure his client was Saddam Hussein, they couldn¡¯t pin it down.¡±


    ¡°There were all sorts of wild rumors,¡± said Delorme. ¡°Makes for entertaining reading but not useful intelligence.¡±


    ¡°One rumor that kept coming up was that Bull had commissioned a drawing for the side of the Supergun,¡± said Fraser. ¡°The Whore of Babylon. From the Book of Revelation.¡±


    ¡°Satan. Armageddon,¡± said Delorme.


    ¡°Pure Bull,¡± said Mary Fraser, shaking her head.


    ¡°Did you mean to say that?¡± Delorme turned to her. ¡°Very clever.¡±


    Lacoste, watching these two, thought the play on Dr. Bull¡¯s name was more obvious than clever, but the CSIS agents seemed amused.


    ¡°What I meant was that Dr. Bull was famous for these grand gestures,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°But they were always empty. The more extravagant the claim, the emptier the bubble.¡±


    ¡°And a Supergun etched with the Whore of Babylon was pure Bull,¡± said Delorme, sneaking a smile, still amused by the obvious, and now worn, joke.


    ¡°No one believed it?¡± asked Isabelle Lacoste. ¡°It was a step too far. Just like the boy who was killed. Laurent Lepage. No one believed him either.¡±


    ¡°Obviously someone believed it,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°They were both killed.¡±


    *   *   *


    Isabelle Lacoste walked over to Gabri¡¯s B and B with the two CSIS agents, to make arrangements for them to stay there.


    It would be crowded, but it would also be interesting. Throw the agents and the academic together, and see what happened.


    Like Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme, she found it odd that Professor Rosenblatt should be so obsessed with a long-dead arms dealer. But she also found it odd that Mary Fraser claimed not to know the difference between Arabic and Hebrew, written on the etching.


    And she found it even odder that Sean Delorme had made his way straight to Three Pines, when getting lost was almost a prerequisite for finding the place.


    The Supergun was definitely strange, but it wasn¡¯t the only strange thing going on.


    CHAPTER 15


    ¡°You¡¯re back,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    She turned from the computer to look at Armand and Henri, who were standing at the door into the study.


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Armand. ¡°What¡¯re you up to?¡±


    ¡°Research,¡± she said, getting up to greet them. ¡°How bad is the play?¡±


    He tossed it onto the table by the door. ¡°As a play? It¡¯s not bad at all. In fact, Antoinette was right. It¡¯s brilliant.¡±


    He looked like he¡¯d just eaten something foul.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t finish it, but I will later. Just needed a break. Drink?¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± she said, returning to the computer. He heard the printer working and glanced in on his way to the cleaning closet, where they hid their best brands from Ruth.


    ¡°Lysol or Mr. Clean?¡± he called.


    ¡°Actually, a Spic and Span sounds good. But a light one.¡±


    He handed her a gin and tonic, with extra tonic and a wedge of lemon, and noticed she had the McGill site up and was reading.


    Armand slipped a CD into the stereo and the unmistakable voice of Neil Young came out. Then he took his Scotch and a book over to an armchair.


    He read the familiar first lines of the book and felt the calm come over him, like a comforter. He lost himself, even momentarily, in the familiar world of Scout and Jem and Boo Radley.


    Reine-Marie found him half an hour later sitting by the window, his finger in the book, staring into their garden and listening to the music. Henri by his side.


    ¡°Happy?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Peaceful,¡± he said. ¡°Find any interesting courses?¡±


    ¡°Pardon?¡±


    He waved to the sheaf of printouts in her hand.


    ¡°You were looking on the McGill site. Are you also going to check out the Universit¨¦ de Montr¨¦al? They have some terrific courses. Will you audit classes, or go for a degree?¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t looking up courses, Armand. I was looking up Gerald Bull. For a man whose work was supposedly secret, there¡¯s a surprising amount out there about him if you know the keywords, like Project Babylon. The public search engines like Google have a fair amount, all saying much the same thing. But it gets really interesting once you go into the private records.¡±

 Page 56

    ¡°Private?¡± he asked, sitting up.


    ¡°I¡¯m an archivist,¡± she reminded him. ¡°Like a priest, we never really retire.¡± She held up the sheaf of papers. ¡°And I have the codes to the private McGill archives.¡±


    ¡°Bless you,¡± said Armand, reaching for the printouts and his glasses. ¡°What did you find?¡±


    ¡°Well, Gerald Bull was considered a bit of a failure in both his own academic record and his work. He seems to have been a great big pain in the derri¨¨re. According to his personnel file at McGill, he sort of muddled along, alienating everyone who came into contact with him. He was a big personality, with big and what were considered crazy ideas. No one wanted to work with him.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t they get rid of him?¡±


    ¡°They did eventually, though it¡¯s couched in all sorts of diplomatic, nonactionable terms. But they kept him on for a long time in the hopes that one of his outlandish ideas might work.¡±


    ¡°Which, of course, it did,¡± said Armand. He studied the papers, then looked up at her. ¡°But by then he was long gone. When was he born?¡±


    Reine-Marie scanned her notes. ¡°March 9, 1928.¡±


    Gamache did a quick calculation. ¡°That would put him well into his eighties now. Almost ninety.¡±


    Reine-Marie looked at him, puzzled. ¡°But he¡¯s dead. You know that. Dr. Bull was killed in 1990, at the age of¡±¡ªshe worked it out¡ª¡°sixty-two.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Armand, leaning back in his chair.


    ¡°What¡¯re you thinking?¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. It¡¯s ridiculous.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re wondering if Gerald Bull is still alive?¡± she asked, astonished.


    ¡°I¡¯ve spent too many years being suspicious,¡± he said with a smile. ¡°Forget I said anything.¡± He held up his weak Scotch. ¡°Blame it on the Lysol.¡±


    ¡°Armand, there is something odd in the files.¡±


    She took a couple of the sheets from his hands and lowered her glasses from the top of her head where they rested, to her eyes. Words and sometimes whole lines had been blacked out, redacted, on the pages. Even the secret files continued to hold some secrets.


    ¡°I¡¯m used to seeing this,¡± she said. ¡°Notes and papers are sent to the archives, but are edited by security first. It¡¯s often the personal diaries of politicians or scientists, so I wasn¡¯t particularly surprised.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Armand. ¡°Neither am I. Dr. Bull was doing research that obviously had weapons applications.¡±


    ¡°Right. What surprised me is this.¡±


    Reine-Marie sifted through the pages. She¡¯d put a pen behind her ear and her glasses had now slipped down her nose. She looked like Katharine Hepburn in Desk Set. All smart and efficient and completely unaware of how beautiful she was. Armand could watch her all day long.


    Reine-Marie found what she was looking for, and handed him one of the sheets. It had been heavily blacked out.


    ¡°It¡¯s part of an internal report on Dr. Bull¡¯s work. It was written after his murder. Look at that.¡±


    She pointed to one line. He put on his glasses and read it, then reread it, his brows drawing together. He sat up straight in the chair.


    The censor had missed one reference to the Supergun. Not a huge omission, since Dr. Bull¡¯s effort to create one was a kind of open secret.


    ¡°Do you think it¡¯s a typo?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I hope so.¡±


    He looked back down at the report. At the word. That should have been blacked out.


    ¡°Superguns.¡± Plural.


    Jesus, he thought. Could there be more than one of them?


    Reine-Marie pushed her glasses back up her nose and took the pen from behind her ear.


    Katharine Hepburn was gone. Spencer Tracy was gone. This was no comedy. Armand and Reine-Marie looked at each other. Then Armand got up, and started pacing. Not frantically. He took long, measured, almost graceful steps, up and down the living room.


    ¡°It might mean nothing,¡± he said. ¡°It might be just a typo, as you said. Almost certainly is. Let¡¯s stick to what we know to be true.¡±


    ¡°Well, according to the files, we know Dr. Bull worked at McGill, doing research into long-range artillery. We know he moved to Brussels in the early eighties and was killed there on March 20, 1990.¡±


    ¡°Do the reports you found say who was responsible?¡±


    ¡°The main theory is Mossad. Gerald Bull was apparently also working on the Scud missile program for the Iraqis. But the main thrust of his work was to build a cannon for Saddam that could shoot a missile into low orbit.¡±

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    ¡°And from there travel just about anywhere,¡± said Armand.


    ¡°Project Babylon,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°The Supergun was for the Iraqis after all.¡±


    ¡°Gun or guns,¡± said Armand. ¡°He was killed on March 20, 1990, you say?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Why?¡±


    Armand took a few more agitated paces, then stopped and shook his head. ¡°It doesn¡¯t make sense. I know it doesn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°What doesn¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°John Fleming¡¯s first murder was in the summer of 1990.¡±


    There was a pause as Reine-Marie absorbed that, and tried to compose herself. ¡°Are you suggesting there¡¯s a link? How could there be?¡±


    Armand sat down, his knees touching hers. ¡°Gerald Bull built Project Babylon, and etched onto it not just the Whore of Babylon but lines from a psalm, ¡®By the waters of Babylon, we sat down and wept.¡¯¡±


    He looked across their living room to the front door, where the goddamned play lay.


    ¡°John Fleming writes a play quoting the same line, or near enough. She Sat Down and Wept.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a famous line, Armand.¡± She tried to sound supportive without sounding patronizing. She could see the intensity in his eyes. ¡°There¡¯ve been lots of literary references to it, even music. Didn¡¯t Don McLean write a song with that lyric?¡±


    Then she saw what he was thinking and felt her concern spike.


    ¡°You¡¯re wondering if John Fleming could be Gerald Bull? But surely that couldn¡¯t be hidden.¡±


    He picked up the blacked-out sheets. ¡°You can hide anything, depending on who ¡®you¡¯ are.¡±


    Reine-Marie leaned forward and took both his hands in hers. She spoke slowly, quietly. Holding his gaze. ¡°You¡¯ve just been reading the play. It¡¯s brought up all sorts of memories of John Fleming. Do you think it¡¯s possible that your grief for Laurent has somehow gotten all mixed up with the trauma of the Fleming trial? I don¡¯t know what happened there, and maybe one day you¡¯ll tell me, but this isn¡¯t making sense, Armand.¡± She paused to let her words sink in, penetrate, and perhaps even overpower this delusion. ¡°The two aren¡¯t connected, except by a very common quote from the Bible. Do you see that? Fleming has gotten under your skin, or up your nose,¡± she smiled, and saw a small upturn at the corners of his mouth, ¡°but however he got there, he¡¯s in your head and you have to get him out. He doesn¡¯t belong there, and he doesn¡¯t belong in the murder of Laurent. It¡¯s just muddying things.¡±


    Armand got up and stood by the fireplace, his back to her, looking at the flames. Then he turned around.


    ¡°You¡¯re right, of course. John Fleming is in his early seventies now. Far too young to be Gerald Bull. That was foolish of me. My imagination run wild again.¡±


    He ran his large hands through his hair and smiled an apology.


    ¡°Still, I¡¯d like to know more about that play. How it came into the possession of Antoinette¡¯s uncle, for instance.¡±


    ¡°Does it matter? Antoinette said he probably picked it up at a flea market. People collect strange things. Maybe he collected the macabre. Items associated with crimes or criminals.¡±


    ¡°But neither Brian nor Antoinette mentioned a collection,¡± said Armand. ¡°Why would an engineer who showed no interest at all in the theater buy any script, never mind one by the most brutal killer in the country?¡±


    Reine-Marie stared at him. It was, she had to admit, an interesting question.


    He took a deep breath and shook his head, then smiled at her. ¡°You have a lot of patience, ma belle.¡±


    ¡°Not as much as you might think.¡±


    He smiled again. ¡°Nor should you. You¡¯ve put up with all this for far too long. It¡¯s supposed to be over.¡±


    He kissed her and walked to the door, inviting Henri along.


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll get some fresh air. Clear my head.¡±


    ¡°It has gotten a little crowded in there. Why don¡¯t I meet you at the bistro for tea in, say, twenty minutes?¡±


    ¡°Parfait. By then the eviction notices will have been served.¡±


    CHAPTER 16


    It was getting dark by the time the Gamaches returned home from the bistro. They found Ruth in the living room sipping Scotch from a measuring cup and eating leftover casserole while Rosa nibbled on a wild rice salad.


    Reine-Marie sat down next to the poet while Armand went into the kitchen to wash up and prepare dinner.


    ¡°We¡¯ve been waiting for you.¡±


    Gamache leapt, startled, then grabbed his chest.

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    ¡°Jesus,¡± he gasped. ¡°You scared me half to death.¡±


    ¡°Something¡¯s very wrong, patron,¡± said Isabelle Lacoste, getting up from her chair, ¡°when seeing Ruth is normal and we¡¯re the ones who frighten you.¡±


    He laughed, recovering, though he¡¯d been genuinely alarmed.


    ¡°I thought we locked the door,¡± he said.


    ¡°Ruth walks through walls,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°You should know that by now.¡±


    ¡°What did you want to see me about?¡± Gamache dried his hands on a dish towel and turned to face them.


    ¡°The forensics are back,¡± said Isabelle, getting herself a beer and taking her seat again. ¡°They found one set of fresh prints on the missile launcher. Laurent¡¯s. But there were also smudges. Our killer touched it, but wore gloves.¡±


    ¡°What did you find on Laurent¡¯s stick and cassette tape?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°All sorts on the stick, including yours. But on the cassette we only found three sets. Laurent¡¯s own, of course, as well as his parents¡¯. You were right. The cassette must¡¯ve belonged to the Lepages.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t necessarily mean anything,¡± said Armand, joining them at the long pine table.


    ¡°No,¡± Beauvoir agreed. ¡°But it could mean everything. It could mean that the cassette dropped from the murderer¡¯s pocket in the struggle, or as he picked the boy up. If not, then how did it get there?¡±


    Armand nodded. It made sense, of course. It might not be a smoking gun, but it was a pointing finger. Right at Al Lepage. With some surprise Armand realized he felt protective of Al Lepage. Perhaps because he liked the man and felt Laurent¡¯s father was suffering enough without the added weight of suspicion.


    But suspicion was inevitable and often turned out to be true. People were almost always killed by someone they knew, and knew well, which compounded the tragedy and was probably why, Gamache thought, so many murder victims did not look frightened. They looked surprised. While Gamache liked Al Lepage, and sympathized with him, he¡¯d arrested enough grieving family members for murder to know that Laurent¡¯s father was a legitimate suspect.


    And he wasn¡¯t the only one who thought so. While he and Reine-Marie were at the bistro they¡¯d heard the conversations, the rumors. Suspicion was settling on Laurent¡¯s father.


    ¡°We¡¯ve interviewed the Lepages once,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°And searched the house. But we¡¯ll go out again tomorrow.¡±


    Gamache nodded. He understood that Beauvoir and Lacoste did not need to report to him, and they weren¡¯t. They were simply informing him. It was a courtesy, not a requirement.


    ¡°I saw you taking some people into the woods.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°CSIS. Low-level functionaries.¡±


    ¡°File clerks,¡± said Jean-Guy, opening the fridge and taking out a ginger ale.


    ¡°But they know a great deal about Gerald Bull,¡± said Lacoste.


    She told him what they¡¯d told her about the arms dealer.


    ¡°They also know our Professor Rosenblatt,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°And he knows them. There¡¯s not a lot of love lost.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± asked Armand.


    ¡°He thinks they¡¯re hiding something,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°He suspects the Canadian government might¡¯ve been more involved with Gerald Bull than they¡¯re willing to admit.¡±


    ¡°His work or his murder?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°But he did say Fraser and Delorme might not have been as surprised about the Supergun as they appeared. He doesn¡¯t trust them.¡±


    ¡°And they don¡¯t trust him,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°They think it¡¯s odd that the retired professor is so obsessed with a long-dead arms dealer. And so do I.¡±


    ¡°What do you make of the CSIS people?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°They seem straightforward enough,¡± she said. ¡°A little out of their depth perhaps.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± asked Gamache. ¡°You¡¯re smiling.¡±


    ¡°They remind me of my parents,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Bickering and a little baffled. They¡¯re sort of endearing. But they¡¯re also not fools. They¡¯re very good at what they do, it¡¯s just that what they do is filing, correlating. Not fieldwork.¡±


    ¡°So why were they sent?¡±


    ¡°Probably because they know more than anyone else about Gerald Bull and his work,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°Did you call them in?¡± he asked Lacoste, who shook her head.

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    ¡°They just showed up. I think General Langelier at CFB Valcartier must¡¯ve called someone at CSIS. He said he¡¯d try to find us someone who could help. But I don¡¯t think anyone really believed that what we found was Project Babylon. I think if they did believe it they¡¯d have also sent some higher-ranking intelligence agents. I expect some to arrive any moment now.¡±


    She gazed out the window at the quiet village.


    ¡°They want to keep the existence of the Supergun secret, which might suit their purposes¡ª¡±


    ¡°But it makes investigating Laurent¡¯s murder almost impossible,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°But I guess we have no choice.¡±


    ¡°Mmmm,¡± said Gamache. ¡°There¡¯s something I think you should see.¡±


    He got up and returned a minute later with the papers he and Reine-Marie had left in the living room. Had Ruth read them? Had she learned about Gerald Bull and Project Babylon? And realized that was what was hidden in the woods?


    Armand had the uneasy feeling that she probably had, though she didn¡¯t say anything when he picked them up. Which in itself was suspicious.


    Returning to the kitchen, Gamache handed a page to Isabelle.


    ¡°Madame Gamache found these in a search of the archives,¡± he explained. Jean-Guy was reading over Lacoste¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Much of the information has been redacted, but they missed one reference.¡±


    Jean-Guy got there first and looked up from the page into Gamache¡¯s thoughtful eyes.


    And then, a moment later, Lacoste hit it. The one word. The one letter.


    ¡°A typo?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Maybe. We wondered the same thing.¡±


    ¡°And if it¡¯s not?¡± asked Beauvoir, sinking back into his chair. ¡°If there¡¯s another one?¡±


    ¡°Or two, or three?¡± said Lacoste.


    Gamache held up his hand. ¡°We don¡¯t know if there are more. I think we need to keep this quiet for now.¡±


    ¡°Not even tell CSIS?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°They¡¯re presumably the ones who blacked it out,¡± said Gamache. ¡°They must already know.¡±


    ¡°There was something else strange. Arabic and Hebrew. They look quite different, don¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°Very,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Would you expect CSIS agents to know the difference?¡±


    ¡°I would,¡± he said, and studied her for a moment. ¡°Why¡¯re you asking? Is it the etching?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Mary Fraser found the writing, but she thought it was Arabic.¡±


    He stared at her, not sure what to make of that.


    ¡°And there¡¯s something else,¡± she said. ¡°They didn¡¯t get lost.¡±


    ¡°Pardon?¡±


    ¡°Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°They drove down from Ottawa and came straight to Three Pines.¡±


    Gamache grew very still. The village itself was lost. Hidden in the hills. It was not on any map, or GPS. And yet the CSIS agents had come straight there. Which meant they might already have known where the village was.


    *   *   *


    Though invited to stay for dinner with the Gamaches and Ruth, and Rosa, the S?ret¨¦ officers declined.


    ¡°I think we¡¯ll go to the bistro, patron,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°See what people are talking about.¡±


    ¡°You know what they¡¯re talking about, numbnuts,¡± snapped Ruth. ¡°Al Lepage.¡±


    ¡°And are you helping spread the rumors, Ruth?¡± Armand asked.


    She glared at him, then shook her head and went back to her drink.


    ¡°Should she be¡­?¡± Beauvoir tipped his hand up to his mouth.


    ¡°It¡¯s tea,¡± said Armand as they walked to the front door. ¡°We put it in the Glenfiddich bottle.¡±


    ¡°And she doesn¡¯t know?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°If she does, she doesn¡¯t say,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Thank you for coming over and keeping me informed.¡±


    ¡°Always, patron,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Why don¡¯t you join us for breakfast at the B and B? We¡¯ll see if our little social experiment of throwing the professor and the CSIS agents together has produced anything.¡±


    ¡°Like an explosion?¡± he asked, and agreed to meet them for breakfast.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Oh, dear.¡±


    Mary Fraser sat straight up in bed the next morning and stared at the softly closing door. The footsteps retreated down the corridor of the B and B and she heard a tap next door.


    The owner, Gabri, was bringing up morning coffee. And news.

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    And now Mary felt like bringing up too.


    ¡°It¡¯s all over the village,¡± he¡¯d said as he put the cup of strong, rich coffee on the bedside table and fluffed up her pillows. ¡°About the gun. Cr¨¨me?¡±


    ¡°What gun?¡± Mary Fraser had asked, hauling herself upright and pulling the warm duvet over her flannel nightgown, for modesty.


    The large, friendly man had walked to the door and now he turned and gave her an astute look. Then a quick and forgiving smile.


    ¡°You know which gun. The one in the woods. The one you¡¯re here to see.¡±


    ¡°Oh. That one.¡± She could think of nothing more intelligent to say.


    ¡°Yes, that one. They¡¯re calling it a Supergun.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯re ¡®they¡¯?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Oh, you know. ¡®Them.¡¯¡±


    He left to deliver the morning coffee and spread the word. The word being ¡°Supergun.¡±


    ¡°Oh, dear,¡± she whispered. And then amended that to ¡°Merde.¡±


    *   *   *


    ¡°Merci,¡± said Sean Delorme, coming out of the bathroom, razor in hand, foam on his face, to thank the innkeeper for the coffee. And the news.


    Once the door had swung shut, he sank down on the side of the bed and stared at the closed door. Then out the window, where fresh air was blowing in from the mist-covered forest and across the village green. Below, he saw villagers stopping to talk. Hands were waving, gesturing. He could almost hear them.


    Huge, one was saying, spreading his arms wide.


    The other nodded. And pointed. Into the woods.


    Despite the fresh, slightly pine-scented air, the CSIS agent smelt a foul odor.


    ¡°Fuck, fuck, shit.¡± He took a deep breath and sighed. ¡°Oh, dear.¡±


    *   *   *


    ¡°Well.¡±


    Michael Rosenblatt sat in bed and sipped coffee and watched the commotion on the village green.


    ¡°Well, well, well.¡±


    He reached for his iPhone, then remembered it didn¡¯t work in this funny little village. Still, it wasn¡¯t the worst thing.


    The worst thing was on the lips of everyone in Three Pines.


    Professor Rosenblatt almost felt sorry for the CSIS agents. Almost.


    *   *   *


    Armand Gamache came out of the washroom in his bathrobe, a towel in hand, rubbing his hair dry. Then he stopped. And stood motionless in the middle of their bedroom.


    A word had drifted in through the wide-open window, fluttering the curtains as it went by. And that word was ¡°Supergun.¡±


    He shifted his gaze to Reine-Marie, whose eyes were wide with surprise.


    ¡°Did you hear that, Armand?¡±


    He nodded and, looking out the window, he saw two villagers walking their dogs and talking, animatedly.


    He thought he must have misheard. Surely they said Superman. Or Superglue.


    One gestured toward the forest.


    Or Supergun.


    *   *   *


    Clara Morrow was woken up by the phone. She answered, dazed, on the first ring.


    ¡°Hello?¡±


    ¡°Did you hear?¡± Myrna asked.


    ¡°Hear what? The phone waking me up?¡±


    ¡°No, what people are saying. Meet me in the bistro.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what¡¯s this about?¡±


    ¡°The Supergun. Hurry.¡±


    ¡°The what?¡± But Myrna had hung up.


    Clara showered and dressed quickly, her curiosity and imagination fueling each other. But as wild as her imagination could be, it could never have conceived of what she was about to hear.


    *   *   *


    Isabelle Lacoste sat on the edge of her bed in the B and B. She thought about what she¡¯d heard. And what it meant.


    Then she gave one curt nod and went into the bathroom to shower and prepare for the day.


    There was going to be hell to pay.


    *   *   *


    Ruth Zardo heard the soft knock on the back door.


    She was in the kitchen. The coffee was perked on the old stove and she had the toast and jam out.


    The knock did not startle her. She¡¯d been expecting it. Rosa, however, looked up from her feed with some surprise. Though ducks often looked surprised.


    Ruth opened the kitchen door, nodded and stepped back.


    ¡°You heard, Cl¨¦ment?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Monsieur B¨¦liveau. ¡°Worse than we feared.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s called Project Babylon, of course. What else would it be called?¡±


    ¡°How do you know that?¡± the old grocer asked the old poet as he sat at her kitchen table. ¡°No one else is saying that.¡±

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    ¡°I saw it in some papers last night, over at the Gamache place.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not the one who¡­?¡±


    ¡°Told everyone?¡± she asked, joining him. ¡°Of course not. We promised each other we wouldn¡¯t. Besides, we didn¡¯t know anything. Not really.¡±


    Monsieur B¨¦liveau looked at her, and she dropped her eyes to the white plastic table.


    ¡°We knew enough, Ruth. More than enough.¡±


    ¡°Well, why would I say anything now, after all these years?¡±


    ¡°To take the focus off Monsieur Lepage.¡± Cl¨¦ment paused before speaking again. ¡°To protect him.¡±


    ¡°Why would I do that? I don¡¯t even like the man.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to like him to protect him. Do you think he did it?¡± Monsieur B¨¦liveau asked.


    ¡°Do I think Al Lepage killed his own son?¡± asked Ruth. ¡°It would be a terrible thing. But terrible things happen, don¡¯t they, Cl¨¦ment?¡±


    ¡°Oui.¡±


    Monsieur B¨¦liveau was quiet for a moment, looking out the kitchen door to the rectangle of freshly turned earth in her backyard. She followed his gaze.


    ¡°The Fleming play,¡± Ruth said. ¡°She Sat Down and Wept. A reference to the psalm, of course.¡±


    ¡°Babylon,¡± he said. ¡°You buried it?¡±


    ¡°I tried to, but Armand came and asked for it.¡±


    ¡°You gave it to him?¡± It was as close as she¡¯d seen the grocer come to anger.


    ¡°I had no choice. He knew I had it.¡±


    Cl¨¦ment B¨¦liveau nodded, his eyes drawn back to the dark hole in the bright green grass. A dead thing among the living.


    ¡°Does he know?¡±


    Ruth shook her head. ¡°And I won¡¯t tell him. I¡¯ll keep my word.¡±


    Though words, Ruth knew, were what had gotten them into trouble in the first place.


    ¡°Project Babylon,¡± said Monsieur B¨¦liveau under his breath. ¡°And now it is now. And the dark thing is here.¡±


    CHAPTER 17


    Jean-Guy arrived in the dining room of the B and B to find Isabelle Lacoste sitting alone at a large table by the fireplace, rereading the printouts on Gerald Bull that Madame Gamache had found and Gamache had given them the night before.


    Gabri had laid, and lit, the fire. An autumn fog had descended, rolling down the cold mountains to pool in the valley. It would burn off in an hour or so, but for now the cheerful little fire was welcome.


    ¡°Salut,¡± said Beauvoir, sitting down. ¡°Did you hear? Someone leaked the news about the gun.¡±


    He took a warm crumpet from the basket on the table and watched as the butter melted into the holes. Then he smeared it with marmalade. His uncle, a devout Qu¨¦b¨¦cois separatist, had introduced him to the pleasures of crumpets and marmalade, apparently unaware he was consorting with, and consuming, the enemy.


    But allegiances, Jean-Guy knew, lived in the head, not the stomach. He took a huge bite and nodded when Gabri offered to bring a caf¨¦ au lait.


    ¡°I did hear,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°Makes the investigation into Laurent¡¯s murder easier,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°We can now talk about what he found. But I know two people who¡¯re going to be mighty pissed. Speak of the devil.¡±


    Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme appeared at the door of the dining room and looked around.


    Isabelle Lacoste waved them over.


    ¡°Would you like to join us?¡± she said.


    ¡°News of Gerald Bull¡¯s Supergun is all over the village,¡± said Sean Delorme without preamble. ¡°How did that happen?¡±


    He glared at them.


    ¡°We have no idea,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°We were just talking about it. We¡¯re as shocked as you. Fortunately, no one¡¯s talking about Dr. Bull. Just the gun.¡±


    ¡°¡®Just¡¯ the gun?¡± asked Delorme. ¡°Isn¡¯t that enough?¡±


    ¡°It could be worse,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt.


    The scientist had arrived in the dining room wearing gray flannels, a tweed jacket and bow tie. He looked around at the tables set for breakfast, with crisp white linen, sterling silver, and fine bone china. The fireplace lit with a modest fire.


    The walls were thick and the windows mullioned and Rosenblatt had the impression if he waited long enough the stagecoach would come by.


    But he wouldn¡¯t take it. This was far more interesting than any other place he could possibly think of.


    ¡°I won¡¯t join you,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt, as though he¡¯d been invited. ¡°You have things to talk about.¡±

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    ¡°Like the news,¡± said Jean-Guy.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Rosenblatt shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s a shame.¡±


    But he didn¡¯t look at all upset.


    ¡°Please,¡± said Lacoste, smiling at the professor and indicating a chair. ¡°The more the merrier.¡±


    ¡°Merrier¡± did not describe the gathering, no matter how many there were.


    Professor Rosenblatt took a seat and looked at the unhappy faces of the CSIS agents. ¡°Now, what were we talking about?¡± He put a white linen napkin on his lap and looked around at them. ¡°Ah yes, the leak.¡±


    Now there¡¯s a shit-disturber, thought Beauvoir with some admiration. What seemed interesting was the amount of shit this professor emeritus was able to disturb.


    Beauvoir shifted his gaze to the CSIS agents, whose faces were now masks of cool civility.


    And why were they so disturbed?


    ¡°Did you do it?¡± Mary Fraser asked. Her hair was still damp from the shower and she wore a gray sweater and black skirt, and pearls, in what looked like an effort to dress things up, but only managed to make her look even more dowdy.


    ¡°A moment ago you were accusing that young man.¡± Rosenblatt indicated Beauvoir. ¡°And now me? Who else are you going to blame? Him?¡±


    He looked at Gabri, making his way across the wide-plank floor with the caf¨¦ au laits. The innkeeper wore an apron with gingham frills, which drove Olivier nuts.


    ¡°It¡¯s fun,¡± Gabri had said to his partner. ¡°It makes me happy.¡±


    ¡°It makes you gay.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Otherwise no one would ever know.¡±


    Gabri arrived at their table, distributed the coffees and stood poised for their breakfast orders.


    Professor Rosenblatt asked him for a few more minutes to consider the menu. Lacoste and Beauvoir said they¡¯d wait a little longer as well, but the CSIS agents ordered, obviously anxious to finish as quickly as possible.


    ¡°There¡¯re only so many people who could¡¯ve leaked the information about the Supergun,¡± said Delorme once Gabri had left. ¡°And most of them are sitting at this table.¡±


    He looked around and Beauvoir was struck by how very hard the man was trying to be threatening, and how very unsuccessful it was. He just seemed petulant.


    ¡°Whoever did it will face the full weight of the law,¡± said Mary Fraser.


    She managed to be somewhat more threatening, though perhaps not in the way she intended. It was as though they¡¯d disappointed a favorite aunt.


    Jean-Guy wondered if they¡¯d be recalled to Ottawa and some real agents sent down. He hoped not. He quite liked these two.


    ¡°Bonjour,¡± said Armand Gamache, walking over to the table and taking off his jacket. ¡°Bit of fog this morning. The fire¡¯s nice.¡±


    He held out his large hands, momentarily, toward the hearth.


    ¡°Patron,¡± said Gabri, coming in from the kitchen. ¡°I thought I heard you. Caf¨¦?¡±


    ¡°S¡¯il vous pla?t,¡± said Gamache, and looked at the people already at the table.


    Beauvoir and Lacoste had gotten to their feet to greet him. He smiled at them, then shook the elderly scientist¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Professor,¡± he said with a smile.


    Gamache turned to the other two.


    ¡°May I introduce you?¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme are down from Ottawa. They¡¯re with CSIS. This is Armand Gamache.¡±


    Delorme had risen and took Gamache¡¯s hand, while Mary Fraser remained seated, staring at the newcomer.


    Trying, thought Jean-Guy, to place him. He knew that look. Here was a familiar face, a familiar name. But in an unfamiliar setting.


    And then she had it. ¡°Of course. Gamache. Of the S?ret¨¦.¡±


    It sounded much like Renfrew, of the Mounties.


    ¡°Late of the S?ret¨¦,¡± he said, taking the empty chair beside her. ¡°My former colleagues are being kind to include me. My wife and I have retired to the village.¡±


    Beauvoir marveled at Gamache¡¯s ability to make himself sound insignificant. But he could also see the wheels turning in Mary Fraser¡¯s mind. For a moment she looked less matronly and far shrewder. And then it was gone.


    ¡°It must be upsetting to have all this commotion just when you thought you¡¯d left it behind,¡± said Mary Fraser.


    ¡°Well, I can pop in and out of the case. It¡¯s different when it¡¯s not your responsibility.¡±


    Gabri came out with eggs Benedict for Sean Delorme, and for Mary Fraser, cr¨ºpes stuffed with apple confit and drizzled with syrup. On the side were thick strips of maple-smoked bacon.

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    ¡°A very good choice,¡± said Armand, leaning toward her conspiratorially.


    Mary Fraser all but blushed, and then to cover her reaction she pointed to the papers by Lacoste¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Are those about Project Babylon?¡±


    ¡°A little. Mostly they¡¯re about Gerald Bull.¡± Lacoste held them up. ¡°Redacted, so most of the information on Project Babylon has been removed.¡±


    ¡°Where did you get them?¡± asked Rosenblatt, taking a sheet and scanning it.


    ¡°Archives.¡±


    ¡°How did you get them?¡± he asked. ¡°I¡¯ve been trying for years.¡±


    ¡°And if you¡¯d joined the S?ret¨¦ you might¡¯ve been successful,¡± said Lacoste. She caught Gamache¡¯s eyes and saw his appreciation. She was not going to mention Madame Gamache.


    Rosenblatt frowned, but didn¡¯t say anything. Mary Fraser picked up the pages and scanned them, pausing at the black-and-white photograph of Gerald Bull.


    ¡°Did you ever meet him?¡± Lacoste asked, and Mary Fraser shook her head.


    ¡°This is a common photo of him though,¡± she said. ¡°Just about the only one I¡¯ve seen. For a man with an outsized ego, he didn¡¯t like to have his picture taken.¡±


    Mary Fraser put the photo down and turned to the typed pages.


    ¡°Interesting reading,¡± said Isabelle Lacoste. ¡°The details are blacked out, but the reports confirm that Gerald Bull would sell anyone anything. Not just the Iraqis.¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s over to you,¡± Rosenblatt said to the CSIS agents. ¡°Unless you¡¯d like me to answer.¡±


    Mary Fraser looked annoyed, but realized she really had no choice.


    ¡°The papers are correct. Gerald Bull went completely off the rails in Brussels. He took on contracts with anyone and everyone. All the legitimate powers who once worked with him backed off. He was like the Black Death.¡±


    ¡°Tell them about the Soviets,¡± said Rosenblatt, obviously enjoying himself.


    Delorme shot him what he must¡¯ve thought was a withering look but managed to be just comical.


    ¡°Bull used the Soviets and South Africans as conduits for his weapons and designs,¡± said Fraser. ¡°But as you know, his biggest contract was with the Iraqis. He was completely amoral.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not be disingenuous here,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°We¡¯ve been doing our own research. Saddam got a lot of his weapons from the West. Dr. Bull was far from alone.¡±


    ¡°The region¡¯s a quagmire,¡± Mary Fraser admitted. ¡°We supplied Saddam, but stopped when we realized what he was capable of. Gerald Bull did not. He saw a business opportunity, a market, and he jumped in. We deeply regret selling Saddam any weapons, but who knew he¡¯d turn out to be a sociopath?¡±


    Professor Rosenblatt looked about to say something, so Sean Delorme jumped in.


    ¡°No one¡¯s proud of the choices we made, but at least we were trying to keep order. But Gerald Bull was a whole other beast. He was beyond any form of control. He¡¯d slipped below the official channels and was into the dark region of arms suppliers. There were no rules or laws, and no boundaries. If governments were making a mess of it, you can imagine the damage the arms dealers were doing. We¡¯re pretty sure the gun was destined for the Iraqis. Bull apparently convinced Saddam that he could make him the only superpower in the region.¡±


    ¡°And you had no idea this was happening?¡± asked Beauvoir.


    Sean Delorme shook his head and a long strand of the combover came loose. ¡°Informants told us they thought Gerald Bull was having parts of the cannon made in different factories around the world, but he was killed before he could assemble it.¡±


    ¡°Then what¡¯s that?¡± Beauvoir pointed toward the forest.


    The CSIS agents shook their heads in unison. More combover came loose, exposing Sean Delorme¡¯s skull if not his thoughts.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°I mean, we know what it is. It¡¯s a Supergun. But we don¡¯t know how it got there.¡±


    ¡°And why someone had to murder a nine-year-old boy to keep it quiet,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Thank God it doesn¡¯t work,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°But why doesn¡¯t it work?¡± asked Professor Rosenblatt. ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong, I¡¯m as relieved as you, but, well¡­¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s the key?¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°The what?¡± asked Delorme.


    ¡°The key,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt. ¡°The missing firing mechanism.¡±


    ¡°But there¡¯s something else missing,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°Something you haven¡¯t mentioned.¡±

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    ¡°What?¡± asked Delorme.


    ¡°The plans,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt.


    He no longer looked like he was enjoying this. Now he was deadly serious, his eyes bright and his voice grave. This was not a man who was there for amusement.


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Beauvoir, nodding. ¡°When I make a model plane, I have plans. You can¡¯t tell me Gerald Bull made it up as he went along. He might¡¯ve been a genius, but no one could do that. He must¡¯ve had drawings.¡±


    The CSIS agents fell silent.


    ¡°Well?¡± asked Beauvoir.


    ¡°No plans were ever found,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°And not for lack of trying. Dr. Bull¡¯s apartment had been broken into several times before he was killed. As a warning for him to stop his activities, but also, we suspect, to search for his schematics.¡±


    ¡°You suspect?¡± said Lacoste. ¡°So it wasn¡¯t CSIS?¡±


    ¡°No. We don¡¯t know who broke into his home.¡±


    ¡°Probably the same people who killed him,¡± said Delorme.


    ¡°It was a professional hit,¡± said Mary Fraser, the words coming out with disconcerting ease. And familiarity. ¡°Bullets to the head to be sure of the kill.¡±


    And Isabelle Lacoste looked with fresh eyes at this middle-aged, slightly drab woman. Was she familiar with this method through training or personal experience? Was it possible she knew much more about the murder of Gerald Bull than she was saying? This conversation was obviously redacted.


    Lacoste did a quick calculation. Mary Fraser was probably in her mid-fifties. Gerald Bull was murdered in Brussels twenty-five years ago.


    Fraser would have been in her mid-twenties.


    It was possible. Most soldiers were that age, or younger.


    ¡°Are you sure he¡¯s dead?¡± asked Gamache, and all eyes swung to him.


    ¡°Pardon?¡± said Mary Fraser.


    ¡°Gerald Bull. Did CSIS see the body? Did anyone at the Canadian Embassy identify it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course,¡± said Delorme. ¡°He¡¯s dead. Five bullets to the head will do that.¡±


    Gamache smiled. ¡°Merci. I was just wondering. And John Fleming?¡±


    Now the CSIS agents really did stare at him, though both Lacoste and Beauvoir dropped their eyes to the table.


    ¡°I beg your pardon?¡± asked Mary Fraser. ¡°John Fleming?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Gamache, his voice conversational, friendly even. ¡°How is he connected?¡±


    Mary Fraser looked first at her colleague, then over to the S?ret¨¦ agents. There was an awkward silence.


    ¡°You do know we¡¯re talking about Project Babylon,¡± she said.


    ¡°Oui,¡± Beauvoir jumped in. ¡°We found a play by John Fleming and it seemed a coincidence, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°You found it at the site of the gun?¡± asked Sean Delorme, trying to follow, trying to find the logic.


    ¡°Well, no,¡± Gamache admitted.


    ¡°Then why¡¯re we talking about this?¡± Mary Fraser looked at the S?ret¨¦ officers, obviously asking for clarification. None was coming. They¡¯d lapsed into embarrassed silence.


    Armand Gamache, however, had not.


    ¡°So as far as you know, John Fleming has no involvement at all with Gerald Bull and Project Babylon?¡± he asked, looking from Mary Fraser to Sean Delorme and back again.


    ¡°I frankly don¡¯t even know who you¡¯re talking about,¡± said Mary Fraser, getting to her feet. ¡°I think this conversation has run its course. Thank you for your company and your help. Will you excuse us?¡±


    ¡°I have work to do too,¡± said the professor. ¡°Notes I¡¯d like to reread. I¡¯d also like to borrow those¡±¡ªhe pointed to the redacted pages¡ª¡°if you don¡¯t mind. I¡¯ll give them back to you.¡±


    ¡°It would be good to get your opinion, sir,¡± said Lacoste, handing them to the elderly scientist.


    Professor Rosenblatt chose the spacious banquette by the window and immediately started reading.


    After Gabri took their breakfast orders, Isabelle turned to Gamache.


    ¡°What was that about?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°John Fleming.¡±


    ¡°I just wanted to see their reaction,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°And you saw it,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°They think you¡¯re nuts.¡±


    ¡°And you?¡± he asked, the smile softening. ¡°What do you think?¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste looked into his shrewd eyes. ¡°I¡¯ve never known you to ask a stupid question, sir. You might sometimes be wrong, but not foolish. I think you genuinely believe there might be a connection.¡±

 Page 65

    ¡°But you don¡¯t?¡±


    He looked from Lacoste to Beauvoir, who dropped his eyes.


    ¡°I just don¡¯t see it,¡± Isabelle admitted. ¡°Bull and Fleming use a popular biblical quote on their creations, but that doesn¡¯t mean they worked together or knew each other.¡±


    Gamache looked over at Beauvoir, who was fidgeting a little.


    ¡°I agree with Isabelle. I think you blew your credibility with those people. I could see the way she looked at you.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Gamache, sitting back. ¡°That was interesting. A bit too dismissive, wouldn¡¯t you say? She never even asked who I meant by John Fleming.¡±


    Once again, Lacoste and Beauvoir exchanged a quick glance, not lost on Gamache.


    ¡°What do you make of the CSIS agents?¡± Lacoste asked, her voice overly cheerful. Changing the subject.


    ¡°I think they know a great deal about a gun no one thought had been built by a man long dead,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°So do I,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°They¡¯re not quite as bumbling as they appear. Do they really spend their days filing?¡±


    ¡°And reading,¡± Beauvoir said to Gamache. ¡°I told you it was dangerous.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think the sports page will kill you, mon vieux.¡±


    Their breakfasts arrived. Cr¨ºpes and sausages for Gamache and Beauvoir, and eggs Florentine for Lacoste.


    A basket of warm, flaky croissants was placed on the table by Gabri, who smiled at Lacoste.


    Beauvoir looked from Isabelle to the retreating apron of Gabri.


    ¡°He and I shared a very special night,¡± said Lacoste.


    Armand slowly lowered his cutlery. ¡°It was you. You told Gabri about the Supergun,¡± he whispered so that Professor Rosenblatt wouldn¡¯t hear. ¡°And asked him to spread it around.¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste gave a very small shrug. ¡°Oui.¡±


    ¡°You did it?¡± asked Beauvoir. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Everyone agrees the gun would be dangerous if it fell into the hands of people who wish us harm, but let¡¯s not be blind,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s also dangerous in the hands of our own people. Especially if it¡¯s a secret. But I didn¡¯t do it for reasons of national security. Honestly, I¡¯m not smart enough to understand all the working parts of that beast.¡±


    Gamache doubted that. He¡¯d always had great respect for his young prot¨¦g¨¦, and never more than now.


    ¡°You said it earlier, Jean-Guy,¡± she continued. ¡°It¡¯s almost impossible to investigate Laurent¡¯s murder unless we can talk about the motive. The gun. Our duty is to Laurent, not CSIS. Besides, if the murderer wants the Supergun to be a secret, the best thing we can do is not comply. Get it out there. See if it rattles the killer. And, as you taught us, Monsieur Gamache, a rattled killer will make himself known.¡±


    It was true. But what struck both men wasn¡¯t her reasoning, but her calling Gamache ¡°Monsieur.¡± It was the first time she had not called him Chief Inspector.


    It was natural, healthy. It was true. But to Armand Gamache it felt like having a tattoo scraped off.


    ¡°And what else did I teach you?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Never use the first stall in a public washroom,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°Besides that.¡±


    ¡°That a murderer is dangerous,¡± she said. ¡°And a rattled murderer is even more dangerous.¡±


    Gamache got up. ¡°That was a big boot you used, Chief Inspector. You hit CSIS where it hurts. In their secret parts. But we can at least see their reaction. You also delivered a swift kick to the killer and he¡¯s still invisible to us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m hoping this will make him act,¡± said Lacoste, also rising. She examined his face. So familiar from so many conversations just like this. Except he¡¯d always been the one making the decisions.


    ¡°Did I make a mistake?¡± she asked.


    ¡°If you did, it was one I¡¯d also have made,¡± he said, and smiled. ¡°It¡¯s dangerous, but necessary. This is not a time for timidity. Or secrets.¡±


    ¡°Except ours,¡± said Beauvoir.


    CHAPTER 18


    Michael Rosenblatt looked up from his French toast and saw the S?ret¨¦ officers get up to leave.


    He¡¯d been reading and making notes and eating. The trip to this little village had been a revelation. The village itself had been a revelation. As had the excellent French toast and sausages and maple syrup almost certainly made from the sap of trees he could see out the window.


    But mostly that gun had been a revelation. When he¡¯d crawled through that tiny opening on his hands and knees and looked up, he half expected to hear the celestial choir singing, ¡°Ahhhh.¡±

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    There was Gerald Bull¡¯s Supergun. Bathed in light.


    Goddamned Gerald Bull. Dead, but never gone. How had he done it?


    How had he built the goddamned gun?


    Professor Rosenblatt looked at the papers by his plate, then over to his notebook, slightly stained by drops of maple syrup. One word had been written large, and circled.


    How.


    Then he wrote, Why?


    That too seemed a good question.


    But now that he thought about it, he added another.


    Who?


    Professor Rosenblatt put down his pen and watched Gamache say good-bye to his colleagues.


    John Fleming. When the former Chief Inspector had said that name it had rattled the professor. He hadn¡¯t heard it in years. He knew, of course, who Gamache meant, and he could see the CSIS people knew too. The serial killer. A man gone badly wrong.


    But to make the connection between Fleming and Bull? It seemed incredible.


    Professor Rosenblatt watched as Gamache and the S?ret¨¦ officers parted. He could see the expressions on the young officers¡¯ faces as they looked at Gamache. With some concern and a great deal of affection.


    Here was a nice man, Rosenblatt felt, and he realized that he did not himself know many nice people. Clever people, smart people, accomplished people, certainly. But not very nice. And not always good.


    ¡°I hope I¡¯m not disturbing you,¡± said Gamache, walking across the wide-plank floor to the professor¡¯s table.


    ¡°Not at all, please.¡± Rosenblatt indicated a seat in the booth across from him.


    ¡°Did you sleep well?¡± Armand asked, sliding in.


    ¡°Not so well,¡± admitted Rosenblatt. ¡°New bed. New Supergun.¡±


    Gamache grinned. The professor did, in fact, look tired. But his eyes still glowed with intelligence.


    Here is a formidable man, thought Gamache.


    Here is a formidable man, Rosenblatt knew. While his assessment that Gamache was a nice man hadn¡¯t changed, it had broadened. To include what else he now knew about Armand Gamache, having done some research the evening before.


    The large and thoughtful man across from him had turned in, and on, his superiors. He¡¯d killed. And almost been killed.


    Rosenblatt had learned those eyes, as kind as they appeared, had seen things few others had. And the hand that shook his, as warm as it was, had done things.


    And would again, if need be.


    Michael Rosenblatt was both comforted and a little frightened by Armand Gamache.


    ¡°You obviously spent some time in the night thinking about the gun,¡± said Gamache. ¡°The CSIS agents have their strengths but they¡¯re not scientists. I¡¯d like to hear what you make of Gerald Bull¡¯s creation.¡±


    Professor Rosenblatt shook his head and exhaled. ¡°As a scientist? It¡¯s even bigger than I imagined possible. Incredible. Powerful, but also elegant.¡±


    ¡°Elegant?¡± said Gamache. ¡°An odd word for something destined to become a weapon of mass destruction.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a moral judgment, it¡¯s just a description of the mechanics. Mostly what we mean by elegant is that it¡¯s simple. Easy to use.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s simple?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes. The best designs are. That¡¯s its genius. It looks complex because it¡¯s so big. But there aren¡¯t all that many moving parts, so it would be fairly easy to manufacture and assemble. And fewer things to break down. Like a slingshot is elegant, or a bow and arrow. Or the gun you wore.¡±


    ¡°I rarely wore a gun,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Hate the things. They¡¯re very dangerous, you know.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t believe in the theory of the balance of terror?¡± asked Rosenblatt.


    ¡°Prime Minister Pearson¡¯s phrase to describe the Cold War?¡± said Gamache. ¡°I think he used it as a condemnation and warning, not as a goal.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°But it has worked, hasn¡¯t it? When both sides can destroy each other, neither side is willing to pull the trigger.¡±


    ¡°Until you give that weapon to a madman,¡± said Gamache.


    Rosenblatt¡¯s face grew grim and he nodded. ¡°That¡¯s the flaw in the argument.¡±


    ¡°So Gerald Bull¡¯s gun is elegant,¡± said Gamache. ¡°But is it still relevant, or have time and technology passed it by?¡±


    ¡°A slingshot will still kill,¡± said Rosenblatt.


    ¡°And so will a bow and arrow. But it¡¯s not an advantage when faced with a nuclear bomb.¡±


    Rosenblatt thought for a moment. ¡°I feel I should agree that the ICBMs of today are more dangerous than what Bull designed thirty years ago, but the fact is, they aren¡¯t. What Gerald Bull built might be less sexy, but it gets the job done.¡±

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    ¡°The question is, what was the job?¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Yes, that is a good question.¡±


    ¡°If the Supergun is really just a huge cannon,¡± said Gamache, ¡°would it fire only conventional missiles or could it be adapted?¡±


    ¡°It would fire anything put into it.¡±


    Gamache paused to absorb that statement, said so matter-of-factly.


    ¡°Including a nuclear warhead?¡±


    Rosenblatt shifted a little in his seat and nodded.


    ¡°Chemical weapons?¡± asked Gamache.


    Another nod.


    ¡°Biological weapons?¡±


    Now Rosenblatt leaned forward. ¡°It would shoot a Volkswagen into the lower atmosphere. It would carry whatever the person firing it wanted.¡±


    That was followed by silence.


    ¡°So what¡¯s it doing here?¡± Gamache asked.


    More silence, until Rosenblatt finally spoke, quietly. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Guess.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t guess. I¡¯m a scientist. Guessing isn¡¯t part of what I do.¡±


    Gamache smiled. ¡°Of course it is. Scientists come up with theories all the time. What are they except best guesses? Try. It¡¯s not as though you haven¡¯t been sitting here wondering the same thing.¡±


    Professor Rosenblatt took a deep breath. ¡°It could be a prototype, something to show buyers. That might explain why the firing mechanism is missing. It¡¯s not meant to be fired. It¡¯s meant as a sort of mock-up. A sales tool.¡±


    ¡°Or?¡±


    ¡°Or it¡¯s meant to be fired. Did you notice where it¡¯s pointed?¡±


    ¡°Into the United States,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Which theory do you think is most likely? A mock-up, or built to be used?¡±


    Rosenblatt shook his head. ¡°The missing firing mechanism is a puzzle. Was it never made? Was it removed?¡± He looked into Gamache¡¯s face. ¡°I honestly don¡¯t know.¡±


    Armand Gamache wasn¡¯t sure he believed the scientist, but he knew he would not, at this point, get a clearer answer.


    ¡°The good news is we found the Supergun before it could be fired, if that was the intention,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Unfortunately, it cost Laurent Lepage his life.¡±


    Professor Rosenblatt looked closely at his companion. ¡°You¡¯re retired. What¡¯s your interest in this?¡±


    ¡°Laurent was my friend.¡±


    Rosenblatt nodded. The statement was simple. Elegant. And as powerful as the gun.


    ¡°And now you¡¯re out for revenge?¡± asked Rosenblatt.


    Gamache tilted his head slightly. ¡°I hope that¡¯s not it.¡±


    Now it was Rosenblatt¡¯s turn to tilt his head. ¡°But you¡¯re not sure.¡±


    ¡°Anything interesting in the papers you borrowed?¡± Gamache asked, his voice clipped.


    Rosenblatt looked at him for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the pages.


    ¡°A shame about the blacked-out bits, but I don¡¯t think there¡¯s really anything in here that isn¡¯t common knowledge.¡±


    ¡°Common?¡±


    ¡°Since Bull¡¯s death and with the passage of time, some information has come out about his work,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve found some yourselves now that you know the key words. But there¡¯re still some things only people in the field know, or guessed.¡± Rosenblatt paused a moment. ¡°Theorized.¡±


    ¡°And what field would that be?¡±


    Rosenblatt realized, too late, that his initial impression had been right. Here was a dangerous man. And he¡¯d led him into dangerous territory.


    Rosenblatt¡¯s formidable mind raced, but kept coming back to the same place.


    He could lie, but it would be found out eventually.


    ¡°The field of armament design,¡± said Professor Rosenblatt, and noticed that Gamache showed absolutely no surprise.


    ¡°It would have to be, wouldn¡¯t it?¡± said Gamache, being equally open with Rosenblatt. ¡°After all, why else would you be here?¡±


    The two men stared at each other. Not challenging, not threatening each other. There was no power struggle. Just the opposite.


    There was recognition.


    Here was someone else best in his field. And that field was pitted, and weedy, and pocked with land mines. You didn¡¯t get to the other side without some wisdom, and without some wiles. And without some scars.


    ¡°What are you asking me, monsieur?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m asking if you worked with Gerald Bull.¡±


    Gamache saw the eyes flicker, wanting to drop, to break contact. But they held, and Michael Rosenblatt gave one curt nod.

 Page 68

    ¡°As I told your young colleague, Inspector Beauvoir, we worked at McGill at the same time, but I¡¯m afraid I wasn¡¯t completely honest. We did work together, not in the same department but on some of the same projects. Though no one really worked with Gerald Bull. It might start out that way, but eventually you found yourself working for him.¡±


    ¡°Were you working for him when he came up with the plans for the Supergun?¡±


    ¡°No. I left when he began using the Soviets as a back door to sell his arms. He wasn¡¯t very smart.¡±


    ¡°Is that why you left? Fear you¡¯d get caught?¡±


    ¡°No. I left because it was wrong. It¡¯s one thing to design weapons for your own country, it¡¯s another to sell them to the highest bidder. Gerald Bull was the consummate salesman, and completely without a conscience.¡±


    ¡°Why did you just say that he wasn¡¯t very smart?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°He made some stupid choices, like cozying up to the Soviets. He had an outsized ego that told him he was smarter than other people.¡±


    ¡°The ego lied?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°Shocking, I know. Dr. Bull was bombastic. The perfect personality for a man who sold cannons and Bull was, as I said, a great salesman.¡±


    ¡°Why would he have the Whore of Babylon etched into the cannon? Was it a sort of calling card? A signature? Did Dr. Bull put it into all his designs?¡±


    ¡°Not that I know of. It was probably another sales tool. What else would appeal to a crazy despot like Saddam but a weapon etched with a symbol of the apocalypse? And one from ancient Iraq, no less. It was perfect.¡±


    ¡°But this wasn¡¯t Saddam¡¯s gun, was it?¡± said Gamache. ¡°Gerald Bull didn¡¯t build it in Iraq, he built it in Qu¨¦bec. And he etched the Whore of Babylon on it. Why?¡±


    ¡°Maybe it supports the mock-up theory,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°He built it to show the Iraqis. After all, by then all the intelligence agencies in the world were interested in Bull and Project Babylon but they¡¯d never think to look for it here. He could show it to the Iraqis and once the order was in, he could dismantle it, and ship it piece by piece to Baghdad.¡±


    Gamache listened to this curiously detailed hypothesis. He had to admit, it fit. Qu¨¦bec was a showroom. Though there was still another possibility. The other one.


    ¡°Or it could¡¯ve been meant for Qu¨¦bec all along,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Saddam couldn¡¯t strike U.S. soil with a Scud. Maybe the goal was never to hit Israel, or Iran, or any target in the region. Maybe the target was the U.S. Maybe those weapons of mass destruction that the Americans were so sure were there were actually here.¡±


    Maybe, maybe, thought Gamache. All maybes.


    It was frustrating. Though he felt they were getting closer. Maybe.


    Gamache leaned against the banquette and looked across the table at his companion, remembering something else Reine-Marie had discovered while researching Gerald Bull.


    ¡°Dr. Bull got his Ph.D. very young,¡± said Gamache. ¡°In physics. A remarkable achievement. But I understand his marks weren¡¯t very good.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know about that. I didn¡¯t know him as a student.¡±


    ¡°No. But you knew him afterward. He¡¯d have been about twenty years older than you, is that about right?¡±


    ¡°About.¡± Now Rosenblatt was watching Gamache closely. He¡¯d not be tricked again, but he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling they were again wandering into the minefield.


    ¡°His marks weren¡¯t terrific,¡± said Gamache, musing almost to himself. ¡°And you¡¯ve described him a few times as a great salesman. Not a great scientist. But a salesman.¡±


    And now Michael Rosenblatt knew he was indeed in the middle of the minefield. Drawn there by this calm, reasonable, kindly man.


    And he waited for the next, inevitable, question.


    Gamache leaned forward and seemed almost apologetic.


    ¡°Was Gerald Bull smart enough to design the Supergun? Or was he just the salesman? Was there another genius at work we don¡¯t know about?¡±


    Ka-boom.


    CHAPTER 19


    Clara Morrow turned into the Lepages¡¯ driveway. It was long and rutted, as most of the dirt drives were in this area.


    She glanced down at the passenger-side foot well, where a casserole covered in foil sat, along with an apple crisp. Still warm. She could smell the brown sugar and cinnamon, and wondered if it was a bad thing that she was salivating. And tempted to turn around. And eat it all herself.


    She parked in front of the small farmhouse.


    A curtain moved in an upstairs window and she saw Evelyn¡¯s face, a look of distress glancing across it, as though Clara was a germ and Evie an open sore.

 Page 69

    An old mongrel dog, Harvest, lay on the grass. He struggled to his feet, his tail wagging slowly.


    ¡°Clara,¡± Evie said, coming to the screen door, forcing a smile that looked painful.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to disturb you,¡± Clara said, cradling the dishes. ¡°But I know how much energy it takes to get out of bed in the morning, never mind shop and cook. There¡¯re a couple bags of groceries in the trunk. They¡¯re from Monsieur B¨¦liveau. And Sarah sent some croissants and baguettes from her boulangerie. She says you can freeze them. I wouldn¡¯t know. They never last that long in my house.¡±


    Clara saw a hint of a genuine smile. And with it a slight relief, a loosening of the tight bands holding Evie Lepage in, and the world out.


    *   *   *


    Armand Gamache watched the old scientist leave the B and B dining room.


    As soon as Gamache had asked about Gerald Bull¡¯s real contribution to Project Babylon, Michael Rosenblatt had looked at his watch and slid awkwardly out of the banquette.


    ¡°I really must go. Thank you for the company.¡±


    Armand had got up too.


    Professor Rosenblatt offered his hand and Gamache, stepping into the handshake, had whispered in the scientist¡¯s ear.


    Then stepped back to look into the startled face.


    Rosenblatt had turned and strolled away with forced leisure, and Armand had returned to the banquette, and his coffee, and his musings.


    Had Gerald Bull designed his Supergun? Or was he just the clever front man? Was there another genius behind that one? Someone younger, smarter? And far more dangerous?


    And perhaps still alive. According to Reine-Marie, Gerald Bull had been sixty-two when he¡¯d been murdered. Gamache knew that most scientists did their best work, their most dynamic and creative work, by the time they were forty.


    Did Bull have a silent partner? A scientist, a physicist, an armaments designer? Did they make the perfect team? One staying in the shadows, scribbling plans for a gun unlike any other? An elegant weapon? While the other schmoozed, moved about in powerful circles, made deals? Found buyers. Found Saddam?


    Both brilliant and both commanding different fields.


    Gamache did the math. Michael Rosenblatt would have been in his mid-forties when Gerald Bull was killed. The design of the Supergun must have been made half a decade earlier, perhaps more. Putting Rosenblatt in his thirties.


    It fit. Was Michael Rosenblatt the father of the monster in the woods?


    Armand Gamache noticed that Rosenblatt had left so quickly he¡¯d forgotten the redacted papers. Armand gathered them up, and thought maybe it hadn¡¯t been an oversight. Maybe there was nothing in them that could possibly be news to the elderly scientist.


    Gamache sipped his coffee, and thought.


    He had a sense that Rosenblatt was a scientist with a conscience. The question was, had Rosenblatt¡¯s sense of right and wrong come too late? Had he already contributed to the balance of terror?


    Or perhaps his sense of what was right was different from Gamache¡¯s.


    ¡°We sat down and wept,¡± Gamache had whispered into Rosenblatt¡¯s ear, as they¡¯d said good-bye. And then he provided the next line of the psalm. The one not written on the weapon. ¡°When we remembered Zion.¡±


    Dr. Bull and Professor Rosenblatt might have their weapons of mass destruction, but so did Armand Gamache. And judging by the look on Rosenblatt¡¯s face as they¡¯d parted, he¡¯d made a direct hit.


    Had Rosenblatt had a hand in creating Project Babylon, and then, when he realized that it was intended for Saddam, and that Saddam intended to use it against Israel, had he also had a hand in trying to stop it? By killing Gerald Bull. Perhaps he hadn¡¯t actually pulled the trigger, but who else would have intimate knowledge of Bull¡¯s movements, except a close colleague? A whispered word was all it would take.


    Mossad, the CIA, the Iranians, CSIS would do the rest.


    But that was a twenty-five-year-old murder case. Armand Gamache¡¯s responsibility wasn¡¯t to the gun, and it sure wasn¡¯t to Gerald Bull. It was to Laurent. Who¡¯d warned them all, and been ignored.


    *   *   *


    Isabelle Lacoste was running out of village and villagers to interview.


    The S?ret¨¦ investigators could finally talk openly about the Supergun, and while wildly interested, the villagers were not even remotely helpful.


    Most had been either too young at the time the gun was built, or hadn¡¯t lived there then. Like Myrna. And Clara. And Gabri and Olivier.


    And now Isabelle took the black-and-white photograph of Dr. Bull and her questions into the general store, to speak with the last person on her list. The second oldest resident, Monsieur B¨¦liveau, while Jean-Guy got the short straw and was interviewing the oldest resident.

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    *   *   *


    ¡°Like some, numbnuts?¡±


    Ruth tilted the Glenfiddich bottle toward Beauvoir.


    ¡°You know I don¡¯t drink anymore,¡± he said.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t alcohol. I took it from the Gamaches¡¯,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s tea. Earl Grey. They think I don¡¯t know.¡±


    Beauvoir smiled and accepted, though part of him still felt uncomfortable seeing the amber liquid flow from the Scotch bottle into his glass. He smelled it. There was no medicinal scent of alcohol.


    Nevertheless, he pushed the glass away from him and slid the photograph he¡¯d had copied toward her.


    It was black and white, and showed a substantial man in a suit and narrow tie, a coat slung over one arm. The image of a businessman, whose business was in trouble. While the stance might be casual, there was no mistaking the anxiety in his face, as though he¡¯d heard a shot in the distance.


    ¡°Do you know this man?¡±


    Ruth studied it. ¡°Should I?¡±


    ¡°You know about the gun?¡±


    ¡°I heard something. Everyone¡¯s talking about it.¡±


    ¡°That man built it. His name¡¯s Gerald Bull.¡±


    ¡°Then it¡¯s true. About the gun, I mean.¡±


    Jean-Guy nodded.


    ¡°They¡¯re calling it a Supergun,¡± said Ruth.


    Again he nodded. ¡°Bigger than any weapon I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±


    ¡°Laurent was telling the truth,¡± said the old poet.


    To Jean-Guy¡¯s eyes she¡¯d never looked older.


    ¡°It was built in the mid to late eighties,¡± he said. ¡°You were here then. Do you remember anything? It must¡¯ve made a racket in the forest. You couldn¡¯t miss it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a question only a city person would ask. You think the countryside is silent, but it isn¡¯t. It would put New York City to shame some days. Chain saws are going around here all the time. Clearing land, cutting down trees, sawing off branches hanging too close to Hydro lines. People getting wood for the winter. Between the chain saws and the lawnmowers it can be deafening. And don¡¯t get me started on the frogs and beetles in spring. No one would notice, or remember, a particular racket in the woods thirty years ago.¡±


    Beauvoir nodded. ¡°He didn¡¯t hire locals?¡±


    ¡°Well, he didn¡¯t hire me,¡± said Ruth. She slugged back the tea.


    *   *   *


    Monsieur B¨¦liveau looked more morose than ever.


    ¡°D¨¦sol¨¦, I wish I could help. I was here at the time and running the general store, but I don¡¯t remember anything.¡±


    ¡°The gun is huge,¡± Chief Inspector Lacoste said. ¡°Massive. Whoever built it would¡¯ve needed help clearing the land and bringing in the pieces, and then assembling it. Can you remember any activity in the forest?¡±


    ¡°Non,¡± he said, shaking his head.


    She waited for more, but no more was offered. She would have to go in and get the information, pull it from him.


    ¡°If he was going to hire someone to clear the site, who would it have been back then?¡±


    ¡°Gilles Sandon did a lot of work in the woods,¡± said Monsieur B¨¦liveau. ¡°But he¡¯s too young. And Billy Williams has a backhoe and is handy with a chain saw, but he¡¯s had the municipal contract for forty years. Keeps him pretty busy.¡±


    Lacoste had already spoken to both men. Neither knew Gerald Bull. Neither knew anything about the gun. Neither had been hired to clear the land or bring in strange machinery back in the mid to late 1980s.


    ¡°Most everyone around here has a chain saw and cuts wood for the winter. Most do odd jobs for cash.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Not exactly skilled labor.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s this supposed to help find who killed the Lepage boy?¡± asked Monsieur B¨¦liveau.


    Isabelle Lacoste picked up the photograph.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± she admitted. ¡°But that gun and Laurent¡¯s death are connected. He was killed because he found it. I don¡¯t suppose you remember anyone, a stranger, coming here in the last few years, asking about a gun in the woods?¡±


    ¡°Non, madame, no one came into my store asking for a Supergun.¡±


    His morose and serious tone made his answer all the more ludicrous.


    She put the photograph of Dr. Bull back into her pocket. They were doing the forensics, doing the interviews, collecting all the facts. But it wasn¡¯t a fact that had killed Laurent. It was fear. Someone was so frightened of what the boy had found, by what the boy would do or say, that they had to kill him.

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    It took a certain type of person, and a certain type of secret, to kill a child. And a great, big, stinking, putrid emotion.


    Chief Inspector Gamache had taught her that.


    Yes, collect evidence, collect facts. Absolutely. The facts would convict him, but the feelings would find him.


    *   *   *


    Clara had put the shepherd¡¯s pie and apple crisp in the fridge. They¡¯d been her own comfort food, after Peter had gone. She¡¯d followed the casseroles back to sanity. Thanks to the kindness of neighbors who kept baking them, and kept bringing them. And who¡¯d kept her company.


    And now it was Clara¡¯s turn to return the comfort and the casseroles and the company.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Al?¡± she asked. The large man was usually at home, fixing something or sorting baskets of produce.


    ¡°In the fields,¡± said Evie. ¡°Harvesting.¡±


    Clara looked out the kitchen window and saw Al Lepage, his gray ponytail falling down his broad back as he knelt in the squash patch.


    Immobile. Staring down at the rich earth.


    It seemed far too intimate a moment, and Clara turned back to Evie.


    ¡°How¡¯re you doing?¡±


    ¡°It feels like my bones are dissolving,¡± said Evelyn. And Clara nodded. She knew that feeling.


    Evie left the kitchen and Clara and the dog followed her. Clara thought they were going into the sitting room, but instead Evie lumbered up the stairs and stood at a closed door. Harvest had stayed at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at them, either too old to climb, or no longer motivated, without the reward of the boy to play with.


    ¡°Al won¡¯t come in here,¡± she explained. ¡°I have to keep the door closed. He doesn¡¯t want to see anything to do with Laurent. But I come up, when he¡¯s outside.¡±


    She swung the door open and stepped inside. The bed was as Laurent had left it, unmade. And his clothes were scattered about, where he¡¯d tossed them.


    The two women sat side by side on Laurent¡¯s bed.


    The old farmhouse creaked and groaned, as though the whole home was in mourning, trying to settle around the gaping hole in its foundation.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid,¡± said Evie, at last.


    ¡°Tell me,¡± said Clara. She didn¡¯t ask, ¡°Of what?¡± Clara knew what she was afraid of. And she knew the only reason Evelyn had allowed her past the threshold wasn¡¯t because of the casseroles she carried in her arms, but because of something else Clara carried. The hole in her own heart.


    Clara knew.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid it won¡¯t stop, and all my bones will disappear and one day I¡¯ll just dissolve. I won¡¯t be able to stand up anymore, or move.¡± She looked into Clara¡¯s eyes. Clung to Clara¡¯s eyes. ¡°Mostly I¡¯m afraid that it won¡¯t matter. Because I have nowhere to go, and nothing to do. No need of bones.¡±


    And Clara knew then that as great as her own grief was, nothing could compare to this hollow woman and her hollow home.


    There wasn¡¯t just a wound where Laurent had once been. This was a vacuum, into which everything tumbled. A great gaping black hole that sucked all the light, all the matter, all that mattered, into it.


    Clara, who knew grief, was suddenly frightened herself. By the magnitude of this woman¡¯s loss.


    They sat on Laurent¡¯s bed in silence, except for the moaning house.


    It was a boy¡¯s room. Filled with rocks, that might be pieces of meteors, and bits of white that might be plastic, or might be bones from saber-toothed tigers or dinosaurs. There were pieces of porcelain, that might be from an ancient Abenaki encampment. Had the old tribe enjoyed high tea.


    The walls were covered with posters of Harry Potter and King Arthur and Robin Hood.


    Up until that moment Clara had been shocked by Laurent¡¯s death and appalled that it was murder. But she hadn¡¯t really thought of him as a person. She¡¯d only known Laurent as the strange, annoying little boy who made up stories and demanded attention.


    And so Clara had averted her eyes whenever he burst in erupting with another fantastic tale.


    But now she sat on his Buzz Lightyear bedspread. And saw his shoes, flung off in different directions. And socks, balled up and tossed to the floor. And books, loads of books. Who read anymore? What child, what little boy read? But Laurent¡¯s room was filled with books. And drawings. And wonder. And a grief so thick she could barely breathe.


    This was the real Laurent, and he was lost forever.


    Clara stood up and walked to the bookcase, and gripped it, her back turned to Evie so that Laurent¡¯s mother wouldn¡¯t be subjected to Clara¡¯s own suddenly overwhelming sorrow.

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    She was face-to-face with Babar and Tintin and the Little Prince. Leaning against the books was a series of small framed drawings of a nimble lamb. Pen and ink on white paper. The lamb was dancing. What was the word? Gamboling, she thought. Nine frames were lined up, leaned up against the books. The later ones were more sophisticated, with some watercolor added. All of the same lamb in a field. And in the distance, a ewe and a ram, watching. Guarding. On the back of each was written, Laurent, aged 1. Laurent, aged 2, and so on. The first lamb, the simplest, had just ¡°My Son¡± written on the back and a heart.


    Clara looked at Evie. She had no idea this woman had such skill. While his father was the singer in the family, Laurent¡¯s mother was the artist. But there would be no more lambs. Laurent Lepage had stopped aging.


    ¡°Tell me about him.¡± Clara walked back to the bed and sat beside Evie.


    And she did. Abruptly, in staccato sentences at first. Until in dibs and dabs and longer strokes, a portrait appeared. Of an unexpected baby, who became an unexpected little boy. Who always did and said the unexpected.


    ¡°Al adored him from the moment he was conceived,¡± Evelyn said. ¡°He¡¯d sit in front of me and play his guitar, and sing. His own songs, mostly. He¡¯s the creative one.¡±


    Clara remembered Al sitting on that chair at the funeral. The guitar on his lap. Silent. No songs left. Clara wondered if, like her art, his music was now gone forever. That great pleasure consumed by grief.


    ¡°He didn¡¯t do it, you know.¡±


    ¡°Pardon?¡± said Clara.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard the gossip, we¡¯ve seen how people look at us. They want to say something nice, but they¡¯re afraid we did it. Do people really think that?¡±


    Clara knew that grief took a terrible toll. It was paid at every birthday, every holiday, each Christmas. It was paid when glimpsing the familiar handwriting, or a hat, or a balled-up sock. Or hearing a creak that could have been, should have been, a footstep. Grief took its toll each morning, each evening, every noon hour as those who were left behind struggled forward.


    Clara wasn¡¯t sure how she¡¯d have managed if the grief of losing Peter was accompanied not by shepherd¡¯s pie and apple crisp, but by accusations. Not by kindness but by finger-pointing. Not by company and embraces and patience, but by whispers and turned backs.


    Al Lepage, the most social of men, the most jovial, had spent most of his time since the tragedy kneeling in a field. And no one had gone to get him.


    ¡°They don¡¯t know what they¡¯re saying,¡± said Clara. ¡°They don¡¯t realize the harm they¡¯re doing. People are afraid and they¡¯re grabbing at whatever they can no matter how ridiculous.¡±


    ¡°We thought they were friends.¡±


    ¡°You have friends. Lots of them. And we¡¯re defending you,¡± said Clara.


    It was true. But it was possible they could have done a better job. And Clara realized, with some shock, that part of her wondered if the gossip wasn¡¯t perhaps, maybe, just a little ¡­ true.


    ¡°Well, they have something else to talk about now,¡± said Clara.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    She hasn¡¯t heard, thought Clara. These two really were isolated. It was like a moat had been carved around them.


    ¡°The gun,¡± she began, watching Evie, who was looking blank.


    Beyond Evelyn, out the window of Laurent¡¯s bedroom, Clara saw a familiar car drive up and park beside her own. Behind it came two S?ret¨¦ squad cars. On seeing the look on Clara¡¯s face, Evie turned, then rose stiffly to her feet.


    ¡°The police.¡± She looked at Clara. ¡°Why? What was it you were saying about a gun?¡±


    CHAPTER 20


    ¡°Al?¡± said Evie, approaching the large man planted in the field. ¡°The police are here.¡±


    Al Lepage remained kneeling on the ground but straightened up. And then he very slowly hauled himself upright. He turned and stared at his wife as though not quite understanding what she was saying.


    Evie put out her hand and he took it in his massive hand. And she led him back to the house.


    ¡°Al,¡± said Clara as he passed, but while he looked at her, he said nothing.


    Clara wasn¡¯t sure what to do. It seemed invasive, and perhaps even ghoulish, to stay. She didn¡¯t want to appear to be simply curious, collecting gossip. But to leave felt like running away, abandoning them.


    She decided to stay. Laurent¡¯s parents had been left on their own far too often and far too long.


    ¡°Monsieur, madame,¡± said Isabelle Lacoste. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m going to have to ask to search your home again.¡±

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    She glanced at Clara and gave the tiniest of nods of acknowledgment.


    ¡°Why?¡± asked Evie. ¡°Has something happened? Is this about the gun?¡±


    ¡°Gun?¡± said Al. His slack face tightened up, and his eyes came back into something like focus. ¡°What gun?¡±


    ¡°I was just telling Evelyn,¡± said Clara. ¡°But I didn¡¯t get to the details. I don¡¯t think Al knows.¡±


    The two S?ret¨¦ officers looked at Laurent¡¯s father, wondering, of course, whether that was true.


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± said Al.


    If he did know about the Supergun, thought Beauvoir, he was doing a pretty good imitation of someone who was completely ignorant.


    ¡°The thing that was hidden under the netting,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°In the woods. Where Laurent died. It¡¯s a gun.¡±


    ¡°A cannon, really,¡± said Beauvoir, studying them. ¡°A missile launcher. It¡¯s called a Supergun.¡±


    ¡°Laurent was telling the truth,¡± said his father, staring at Lacoste, his eyes pleading for something, though she didn¡¯t know what.


    Forgiveness? For ignorance? For her, and her news, to go away.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t believe him. I laughed at him.¡±


    ¡°We both did,¡± said Evie.


    ¡°No, you wanted to go and see, in case it was real.¡±


    ¡°But then he told us about the monster,¡± Evie reminded him. ¡°There was no way to believe that.¡±


    ¡°Christ,¡± said Al. It sounded more like a plea, a prayer, than a curse. ¡°Oh no.¡± Lepage shut his eyes and hung his head, shaking it slightly. ¡°I can¡¯t believe it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not the only ones who didn¡¯t believe him,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°None of us did.¡±


    While she spoke kindly, Chief Inspector Lacoste never lost sight of the fact that she might be speaking to Laurent¡¯s killer.


    ¡°May we search your house?¡± Inspector Beauvoir asked.


    Both Evie and Al nodded and followed them inside.


    The agents who came with them began the search on the main floor, while Lacoste and Beauvoir went upstairs to the bedrooms.


    While Lacoste searched Al and Evie¡¯s room, Jean-Guy went through Laurent¡¯s, opening every drawer, looking behind the posters tacked to the walls. He got on his hands and knees and looked under the bed, under the mattress, under the pillow, under the rug. He searched the closet and the pockets of Laurent¡¯s clothing. Anywhere and everywhere a clever child could hide something. But there was nothing.


    Laurent might be inquisitive, creative, but he was not by nature secretive. In fact, he seemed to want to tell everyone everything.


    Nothing was hidden.


    On the bedside table was a collection of rocks, with quartz and fool¡¯s gold running through them. And a book, splayed open.


    Le chandail de Hockey, by Roch Carrier. One of Jean-Guy¡¯s favorite stories growing up. About a Qu¨¦b¨¦cois boy, a rabid Canadiens fan, who¡¯s sent a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey sweater by mistake, and has to wear it.


    Jean-Guy picked up the book and saw that Laurent was nearing the end of the short story. He replaced the book exactly as he¡¯d found it, his hand lingering on the familiar illustration on the cover.


    ¡°Find something?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    ¡°You okay?¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    Isabelle picked up one of the tiny lamb drawings, reading what was written carefully on the back. My Son. And then a heart. She replaced it. This was a job that had to be done, but it never stopped feeling like a violation.


    ¡°You?¡± Beauvoir asked.


    ¡°Nothing much.¡±


    She¡¯d found that Al had an enlarged prostate, and Evie waxed her facial hair, and one of them needed suppositories. They found that Al read books on solar power and historic fiction, and Evie read about organic gardening and biographies.


    There was no television in the home and one old desktop computer.


    Lacoste had turned it on and did a search and read emails from clients and family and friends. Condolences that petered out in the last few days.


    After the search they met the Lepages and Clara in the sitting room of the small farmhouse. Clara had made tea, and offered the officers some, but they declined.


    The room was dominated by a large brick fireplace inserted with a woodstove. Two old sofas faced each other across the hearth, each with a knitted afghan folded across the back. The floors were hardwood, and pocked and scratched. Braided rag throw rugs were scattered here and there on the floors. The old dog lay with its head on its paws by a rocking chair.

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    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.

 Page 75

    ¡°Al,¡± said Evie, pulling him away. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what people say. We have to help the police find out who did this to Laurent. That¡¯s all that matters.¡± She turned from her husband to Lacoste. ¡°You have to believe it wasn¡¯t us. Please.¡±


    The other S?ret¨¦ agents came up from the basement and shook their heads. Nothing.


    Chief Inspector Lacoste picked up the cassette. ¡°Thank you for your time.¡±


    ¡°May I take this with me?¡± asked Beauvoir, holding up Al Lepage¡¯s record. ¡°I¡¯ll be careful with it.¡±


    Al waved at him, dismissing the man, the record, the question.


    Clara walked with Lacoste and Beauvoir to the cars.


    ¡°You don¡¯t really think Al or Evie had anything to do with Laurent¡¯s death, do you?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I think people can do terrible things,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°Lash out. Hurt or even kill someone they love. That man is coming apart.¡±


    ¡°From grief,¡± said Clara.


    ¡°From something,¡± said Beauvoir.


    Once in the car, Beauvoir turned to Lacoste. ¡°Did you notice anything strange about the Lepages?¡±


    Lacoste had been quiet, thinking. Now she nodded.


    ¡°Neither of them asked about the gun,¡± she said.


    Beauvoir nodded. ¡°Exactly.¡±


    *   *   *


    They spent the balance of the afternoon following up on the interviews and checking facts and details.


    Isabelle saw Gamache leave his home with Henri, first glancing in the direction of the old train station, then turning away and walking out of sight.


    A few minutes later she found him on the bench above the village, Henri sitting by his side.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t avoiding me, are you?¡± she asked, joining Gamache on the bench. ¡°Because this isn¡¯t a very good hiding place.¡±


    He smiled. His face creasing with amusement.


    ¡°Perhaps I am,¡± he admitted. ¡°It¡¯s not personal.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s professional,¡± she said, and nodded. ¡°It must be strange not to be in charge of the investigation.¡±


    ¡°It is, a little,¡± he admitted. ¡°It¡¯s hard not to slip back into the old roles. Especially since¡ª¡± He spread his large hands, and she understood the enormity of his struggle. ¡°Laurent.¡±


    She nodded. This murder had hit home.


    ¡°You need your space, Isabelle. It¡¯s your investigation. I have no desire to return, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s in the blood.¡±


    She glanced down at his hands. Those expressive hands. That she¡¯d held, as he lay dying. As he¡¯d sputtered to her what they both knew would be the last thing he¡¯d say.


    Reine-Marie.


    She¡¯d been the vessel into which he¡¯d poured his final feelings, his eyes pleading with her to understand.


    And she did.


    Reine-Marie.


    She¡¯d held his hand tightly. It was covered in his own blood and that of others. And it mingled with the blood on her hands. Her own, and others.


    And now catching killers was in their blood.


    Chief Inspector Gamache hadn¡¯t died. And he¡¯d continued to lead them for many investigations. Until the time had come to come here.


    He¡¯d done enough. It was someone else¡¯s turn.


    Hers.


    ¡°You and Madame Gamache seem happy here.¡±


    ¡°We are. Happier than I ever thought possible.¡±


    ¡°But are you content?¡± Isabelle probed.


    Gamache smiled again. How different she was from Jean-Guy, who¡¯d come right out and demanded, ¡°Are you going to stay here doing nothing, or what, patron?¡±


    He¡¯d tried to explain to Jean-Guy that stillness wasn¡¯t nothing. But the taut younger man just didn¡¯t understand. And neither would he have, Gamache knew, in his thirties. But in his fifties Armand Gamache knew that sitting still was far more difficult, and frightening, than running around.


    No, this wasn¡¯t nothing. But the time was coming when this stillness would allow him to know what to do. Next.


    What next?


    ¡°Please take the Superintendent¡¯s position, patron. There¡¯s a lot left to do at the S?ret¨¦. A mess still to clean up. And you saw those two recent recruits. The new agents have no discipline, no pride in the service.¡±


    ¡°I did notice that.¡±


    ¡°If those are the ones coming up through the ranks, we¡¯ll be back where we started within ten years.¡± She turned to fully face him. ¡°Please, take the job.¡±


    He looked down at the village.

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    ¡°It¡¯s so beautiful,¡± he said, almost under his breath.


    She followed his gaze and looked at the cottages, the gardens, the three soaring evergreens on the village green. And she knew those weren¡¯t what made this village so attractive.


    Gabri came out of the bistro and headed to the B and B. He spotted them on the ridge and waved. Sarah stood at the door of her boulangerie and flapped a towel embedded with flour. They could see movement through the window of Myrna¡¯s New and Used Bookstore.


    Isabelle suddenly felt horrible, for making him feel this shouldn¡¯t be enough.


    Gamache lifted his gaze from the village to the rolling mountains covered in a forest that had taken root thousands of years ago. The brilliant autumn leaves interspersed with pines.


    ¡°Look at it,¡± he said, shaking his head slightly, almost in disbelief. ¡°I sometimes sit here and imagine the wildlife, the lives, going on in that forest. I try to imagine what it must¡¯ve been like for the Abenaki, before the Europeans came. Or for the first explorers. Were they amazed by it? Or was it just an obstacle?¡±


    He spent a moment imagining himself an early explorer.


    He¡¯d have been amazed. He was even now.


    ¡°Not surprising the gun wasn¡¯t found,¡± he said. ¡°Even if you knew it was there, and were looking for it, you¡¯d probably never find it. You could walk within a foot of the thing and still miss it.¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste stared across the village to the vast forest.


    ¡°What¡¯s shocking is that it was found at all,¡± he said.


    ¡°What¡¯s shocking is that it¡¯s there,¡± said Lacoste, and saw him nod.


    ¡°After you left this morning I asked Professor Rosenblatt about that.¡±


    He told her about the two theories put forward by the scientist. That the Supergun was either a display model to show potential buyers, or it was placed deliberately to hit targets in the United States.


    ¡°But either way, why here?¡± she asked. ¡°Why not the forests of New Brunswick or Nova Scotia? Or somewhere else in Qu¨¦bec along the U.S. border? Why here?¡±


    She pointed to the ground.


    Armand Gamache had been sitting there wondering the same thing. Someone had planned this, probably for a very long time. And then placed it. Carefully. Intentionally. Here.


    ¡°Three Pines isn¡¯t on any map,¡± he said. ¡°That would be an advantage when trying to hide something, but at the same time the village would provide services and workers when needed.¡±


    ¡°Except according to all our interviews, no local worked on the site,¡± she said.


    ¡°No one willing to admit it.¡±


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Lacoste.


    Armand Gamache returned his gaze to the forest. He wasn¡¯t sitting there with Henri simply marveling at the wildlife it contained. He was also scanning it. For new growth among the old. For holes in the canopy.


    For evidence of one reference in the redacted notes the censors had failed to find. And black out.


    ¡°Professor Rosenblatt read the notes Reine-Marie printed out,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Did he find them interesting?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°He didn¡¯t seem to. And he either missed, or chose not to mention, the plural.¡±


    The one letter among hundreds, thousands. Like a single tree in a forest. But one that changed everything.


    ¡°The s,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Superguns.¡±


    Then she too looked across at mile after mile of forest.


    ¡°We told the Lepages about the gun,¡± she said. ¡°Today, when we searched their place again.¡±


    ¡°Did you find anything?¡±


    ¡°No, though they admitted the Pete Seeger cassette was theirs but didn¡¯t know how it got near the gun. But that¡¯s another interesting thing. When we told them about the Supergun, they seemed surprised but neither of them asked any questions about it. Not one.¡±


    ¡°They might be absorbed in grief,¡± he said. ¡°People don¡¯t behave normally when there¡¯s been a death, especially a violent one. Especially a child.¡±


    ¡°True.¡± After a few moments she spoke, under her breath. ¡°Why here?¡±


    ¡°The gun?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No, the man. I asked Al Lepage that question. Why did he come to Three Pines, when he was dodging the draft.¡±


    ¡°And what did he say?¡±


    ¡°He said he¡¯d walked across the border from Vermont and saw the lights of the village.¡±


    Now she turned to look at her former boss. His brows were raised, but he said nothing.


    ¡°But he couldn¡¯t have, could he?¡± she said. ¡°The forest is too thick. No one would just walk across the border, unless they wanted to get lost in the woods. He¡¯d have to have known where he was going.¡±

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    Gamache nodded.


    ¡°He¡¯d have to have had a guide. Someone who brought him here.¡±


    They looked again at the old village. And the tall pine trees planted for one purpose. To signal to those seeking sanctuary that they were safe.


    They¡¯d made it to Three Pines.


    CHAPTER 21


    Reine-Marie and Armand knocked first, then let themselves into Clara¡¯s home. Some of the other guests had already arrived, though ¡°guests¡± made it sound too formal. They¡¯d received a call late that afternoon from Clara inviting them for a potluck.


    ¡°And the luck,¡± said Clara, ¡°is that Olivier and Gabri are taking the night away from the bistro and are providing a main course and hors d¡¯oeuvre.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll bring a salad,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    ¡°Salad?¡± Clara had said. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    They arrived with an apple crumble and a container of Coaticook vanilla ice cream.


    Olivier and Gabri showed up at the same time, with Ruth and Rosa.


    ¡°Here¡¯s our casserole,¡± said Gabri, putting it on the counter as though he himself had made it.


    ¡°Looks delicious,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Rock Cornish game hens,¡± said Olivier, when it appeared Gabri was about to fabricate the ingredients. ¡°With wild cranberry and¡±¡ªhe looked at the crumble on the counter¡ª¡°apple stuffing.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°Well, if you¡¯re the luck, I suppose she¡¯s the ¡®pot,¡¯¡± said Myrna, coming into the kitchen from the living room and pointing to Ruth.


    ¡°That would make you the kettle,¡± said Ruth.


    ¡°She¡¯s calling the kettle black,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°I know, I got it,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± asked Ruth, turning around and listening to the strange sound.


    ¡°Something you¡¯ve never used,¡± said Clara. ¡°The doorbell.¡±


    ¡°A doorbell?¡± Ruth asked. ¡°I thought they were a myth, like Pegasus.¡±


    ¡°And boundaries,¡± said Gabri.


    Clara reappeared a moment later with Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme.


    ¡°I think you know some of the people here,¡± said Clara.


    They nodded to Gamache and Jean-Guy, then Clara introduced them to Reine-Marie and Ruth, who said, ¡°They don¡¯t look like spies.¡±


    ¡°And you don¡¯t look like an invited guest,¡± said Clara. ¡°Yet here you are.¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t know what to bring,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°We picked this up at the general store.¡±


    Clara took the bottle of apple cider.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said, putting it in the fridge alongside the clinking row of other cider bottles.


    ¡°So, what were you up to today?¡± asked Armand, as he and Reine-Marie walked with the newcomers into Clara¡¯s living room. ¡°I didn¡¯t see you in the village.¡±


    ¡°Oh, we were about,¡± said Sean Delorme. He lowered his voice. ¡°Doing some legwork on the you-know-what.¡±


    ¡°The gun?¡± asked Ruth. ¡°That great big goddamned thing in the forest where Laurent was murdered?¡±


    That fell like a brain aneurysm on the gathering. Everyone in the living room stopped moving, talking, breathing.


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Delorme. ¡°That would be the one. Nice duck.¡±


    Rosa, in Ruth¡¯s arms, thrust her beak toward the CSIS agent, who stepped back.


    ¡°What have you found out about it?¡± asked Myrna. She¡¯d returned to the sofa and was sitting beside Professor Rosenblatt.


    ¡°We can¡¯t say much,¡± said Mary Fraser, who obviously wished she didn¡¯t have to say anything. She shot a withering look at Rosenblatt, who refused to wither. He sat contentedly holding a glass of Scotch, like a benign grandfather among precocious children.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± said Delorme. ¡°We¡¯re on it.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry?¡± asked Ruth. ¡°There¡¯s a huge fucking missile launcher in our backyard and apparently the only thing between us and Armageddon is some guy who¡¯s afraid of a duck.¡±


    Sean Delorme gave a strained smile and squirmed slightly. But Gamache thought his discomfort stemmed as much from the social situation as Ruth¡¯s caustic comment. Delorme seemed more at home with people on paper than in person. And Mary Fraser, while perhaps better at covering it up, looked like she was searching for someplace to hide. Or a file to read.


    She drifted, naturally, over to the bookcases and read the spines.

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    The phone rang and Clara left to answer it.


    ¡°Don¡¯t mind Ruth,¡± said Olivier, taking Delorme¡¯s arm with one hand and Mary Fraser¡¯s with the other and steering them to the drinks table. ¡°She¡¯s one sneeze away from the asylum.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re already there,¡± shouted Ruth.


    Armand turned his attention to the old poet.


    Ruth had said ¡°Armageddon.¡± Not ¡°catastrophe,¡± not ¡°disaster,¡± but the one word associated with the gun. With the etching. With the Whore of Babylon, marching toward the end of the world.


    But no one had been told about the etching. Was it a coincidence, or did she know something? It was the sort of word she¡¯d use, and certainly the sort of event she evoked.


    ¡°Speaking of asylum,¡± Beauvoir said to Ruth. ¡°Do you have a record player at home?¡±


    ¡°Is that a non sequitur?¡±


    ¡°No. I have Al Lepage¡¯s record and I¡¯d like to hear it, but it¡¯s only on LP.¡±


    ¡°Come over if you must after dinner,¡± she said. ¡°I have a record player somewhere.¡±


    It was as gracious an invitation as he¡¯d had from Ruth.


    Myrna excused herself to see if she could help in the kitchen, and Armand and Reine-Marie took her place beside Professor Rosenblatt.


    Gamache hadn¡¯t spoken with him since that morning when the elderly physicist had left the breakfast table with Armand¡¯s question ringing in his head.


    Did Gerald Bull create the Supergun, or was he just the salesman, and someone else the actual designer? Did Dr. Bull have a silent partner, who¡¯d survived assassination because Bull had taken all the credit? And all the bullets.


    Gamache hadn¡¯t tried very hard to track down Rosenblatt and continue that conversation. He knew, from years of investigation, that sometimes a difficult question was best left to burrow into a person. And sit there, barbed.


    He suspected Professor Rosenblatt had been avoiding him, and that was fine with Gamache. Let the question fester. For now.


    ¡°Professor,¡± said Gamache, with a cordial nod. ¡°I¡¯m not sure you¡¯ve met my wife, Reine-Marie.¡±


    ¡°Madame,¡± said the professor.


    ¡°We¡¯ve been discussing taking courses at either McGill or the Universit¨¦ de Montr¨¦al,¡± said Armand. ¡°I know Reine-Marie has been anxious to talk with you about that.¡±


    ¡°Oh, really?¡± Rosenblatt turned to her.


    Taking her cue, Reine-Marie started chatting with Rosenblatt about McGill, while Armand walked over to Jean-Guy.


    ¡°Interesting group,¡± said Jean-Guy, surveying the gathering. ¡°Was it your idea to invite everyone?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± said Armand. ¡°I¡¯m as surprised as you.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s too bad,¡± said Clara, returning from the phone call.


    ¡°What is?¡± asked Jean-Guy.


    ¡°I invited Antoinette and Brian, but Brian¡¯s in Montr¨¦al at a meeting of the Geological Survey and she just called to ask for a rain check. I think she wants a quiet evening to herself. Les Filles de Caleb is on, you know.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I know,¡± said Armand. ¡°We¡¯re taping it. For Reine-Marie, of course.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± said Clara. ¡°I¡¯m taping it too.¡±


    It was a repeat of the old Qu¨¦b¨¦cois drama that had gripped the nation years ago, and was even more of a hit now. Few strayed far from the television on nights it was on.


    ¡°It¡¯s been a difficult time for Antoinette,¡± said Armand. ¡°Is she still getting grief from members of her play group?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think they call it a play group,¡± said Clara, laughing. ¡°But the answer is yes. They¡¯re still pissed at her for choosing the Fleming play without telling them. A lot of bad blood there now, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    John Fleming, Gamache knew, had a habit of creating blood, most of it very bad.


    ¡°A shame she didn¡¯t come tonight. This is nice,¡± he said, looking around the gathering. ¡°Been a while.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t been in the mood for entertaining,¡± said Clara.


    ¡°So what brought this on?¡± asked Jean-Guy.


    ¡°Seeing the Lepages this afternoon,¡± said Clara. ¡°They were so sad, and so alone. It made me miss this.¡±


    She looked around her living room. The hubbub of conversation had increased, as guests mingled and chatted. Isabelle Lacoste had arrived and was offering around a platter of cheeses. But instead of crackers the cheese sat on top of thin slices of apple. It was actually, Clara had to admit, inspired and delicious.

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    ¡°I came home and decided I¡¯d had enough of my own grief. I wanted to move on.¡±


    ¡°Is such a thing a choice?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°In a way,¡± said Clara. ¡°I think I might¡¯ve gotten stuck. I haven¡¯t even been able to paint. Nothing.¡± She waved toward her studio. ¡°But after seeing the size of their loss, mine suddenly seemed manageable. And this¡±¡ªshe looked around the room¡ª¡°is how I decided to manage it. With friends. I called up Evie and invited them, but she said they couldn¡¯t.¡±


    Evie Lepage had made it sound as though they had another engagement, which Clara supposed was true in a way. They were bound to their home and engaged to their grief.


    Evie had hesitated, though, and Clara could hear that part of her wanted to come. To try. But the grip was too strong, the loss too new, the desire to isolate too powerful. And then there was the guilt.


    Clara knew how that felt.


    ¡°The painting will come back,¡± said Armand. ¡°I know it.¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡± she asked, searching his eyes for the truth, or evidence of a lie.


    He smiled and nodded. ¡°Without a doubt.¡±


    ¡°Merci,¡± she said. ¡°Ruth¡¯s helping me.¡±


    ¡°Ruth?¡± both Armand and Jean-Guy asked at once. Neither had realized Clara had a creative death wish.


    ¡°Well, to be honest, more as a cautionary tale.¡± Clara looked over at the old poet, who was having an animated conversation with a painting on the wall.


    In the foreground they saw Reine-Marie with a fixed smile on her face as Professor Rosenblatt entertained her with anecdotes from the world of algorithms.


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll just see if Madame Gamache needs rescuing,¡± said Jean-Guy, and walked off.


    ¡°Not that I¡¯m not delighted,¡± said Armand, turning back to Clara, ¡°but I¡¯m wondering why you invited them?¡±


    He looked toward Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme, then over to Rosenblatt.


    ¡°They don¡¯t know anyone here,¡± she said. ¡°I thought they might be lonely. Especially the professor. I wanted them to feel welcome. We all want that.¡±


    ¡°True. And the fact they have information about the Supergun?¡±


    ¡°Totally irrelevant. Never entered my mind. But now that you bring it up, since they won¡¯t talk, what can you tell us?¡±


    ¡°Us?¡±


    ¡°Me. Spill.¡±


    He smiled. ¡°Sorry, I can¡¯t tell you anything you don¡¯t already know.¡±


    ¡°But I know nothing. None of us does.¡±


    ¡°Someone does, Clara. The gun was built here, just outside Three Pines, for a reason.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Why? What¡¯s its purpose? Does it work? Who built it?¡±


    Unfortunately they were all questions he genuinely couldn¡¯t answer.


    *   *   *


    Reine-Marie Gamache, relieved of physicist duty, wandered over to where Isabelle Lacoste was talking with Mary Fraser.


    Someone who seemed less like an intelligence agent would be hard to find, though Mary Fraser did look very intelligent, thought Reine-Marie, but not exactly sharp. More the slow, steady, often frightening mind, that took its time and arrived at a conclusion others might miss or did not want to see.


    Having worked in archives and research all her professional life, Reine-Marie knew and admired that type of mind, though they could be a little frustrating to work with. They were often stubborn. Once a conclusion was finally reached they were loath to leave it, since it had taken so long to get there.


    ¡°Lots of people spent lots of time in the early nineties looking, but the plans were never found,¡± Mary Fraser was telling Isabelle Lacoste.


    ¡°Who were these people?¡±


    Mary Fraser gave Reine-Marie a swift glance.


    Reine-Marie veered away, recognizing this was not a conversation she should interrupt.


    ¡°Arms dealers hoping to sell the plans,¡± said Mary Fraser, once Madame Gamache had walked out of earshot. ¡°Or intelligence agencies hoping to suppress them.¡±


    ¡°Including CSIS?¡± asked Isabelle Lacoste.


    ¡°Yes. We looked for them but weren¡¯t successful. After a while most agencies gave up, thinking either the plans to Dr. Bull¡¯s Supergun never existed, just another of his fantasies, or, if real, it had become obsolete, overtaken by advances in technology. Project Babylon would be just an oddity now. Everyone lost interest.¡±


    ¡°Except you.¡±


    ¡°And him.¡± She pointed to Professor Rosenblatt, now deep in conversation with Jean-Guy Beauvoir.


    ¡°But now we have the Supergun,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°It proves everyone wrong, and Gerald Bull right. The plans just got valuable, didn¡¯t they?¡±

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    ¡°I don¡¯t think ¡®valuable¡¯ quite covers it,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°With the discovery of the gun they just got priceless.¡±


    She sounded triumphant, as though the accomplishment was her own. And in a way it was. The find had vindicated her and Delorme. Thrust them into the spotlight at CSIS. They¡¯d gone from low-level functionaries correlating useless information in the basement to valuable resources. Priceless in their own way.


    ¡°Governments would pay a great deal for the plans?¡± asked Isabelle.


    ¡°Not just governments. Anyone with money and a target.¡± Mary Fraser glanced quickly over to Professor Rosenblatt. ¡°Have you wondered why he¡¯s still here? He¡¯s identified the gun, done what you asked. He¡¯s supposed to be retired. Shouldn¡¯t he be at home, or in Florida, or somewhere else? Relaxing.¡±


    ¡°What do you think?¡±


    ¡°I think weapons of mass destruction are a strange hobby,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°Don¡¯t you?¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste had to agree.


    *   *   *


    ¡°He worked for Gerald Bull, did he tell you that?¡± said Delorme, looking across the room to where Rosenblatt and Beauvoir were talking.


    ¡°He did,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°He insinuates that he was more than just some assistant, but he hasn¡¯t contributed a thing to the field.¡±


    Again with the ¡°field,¡± thought Gamache. For something that was supposed to be covert, that field seemed surprisingly large and crowded.


    ¡°Was he good at what he did?¡± Armand asked.


    ¡°Rosenblatt?¡± said Delorme. ¡°We studied him, you know, thinking with Dr. Bull dead then Rosenblatt might be the next best thing, and perhaps even better. But all his research hit dead ends.¡±


    ¡°I thought he helped design the Avro Arrow jet fighter,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Peripherally, yes. But it wasn¡¯t a contribution someone else couldn¡¯t have made. And the Arrow was scrapped, so again, we¡¯re back to nothing. Professor Rosenblatt has nothing to show for fifty years¡¯ work. Had he never lived, it wouldn¡¯t have mattered.¡±


    It was such a brutal thing to say, and said so casually, that Gamache found himself reassessing this man. Perhaps it was just the unthinking utterance of a socially and emotionally inept person. Or maybe it was more than that. Maybe he genuinely loathed the man.


    ¡°Michael Rosenblatt¡¯s genius is attaching himself to brilliant people,¡± said Delorme. ¡°He¡¯s a leech. And now he¡¯s trying to take credit for the Supergun.¡±


    ¡°Credit?¡± asked Gamache. ¡°Can such a word be applied to such a thing?¡±


    ¡°You might not like it,¡± said Delorme, ¡°and I might not, but the Supergun is a remarkable achievement. That¡¯s just a fact. What we don¡¯t really know is what Gerald Bull planned to do with it. The problem is that it¡¯s an ever-changing world. Friends become enemies, and the weapons you sold them are suddenly killing your own people.¡±


    ¡°Non,¡± said Gamache. ¡°The problem is that these weapons are built in the first place and people like Gerald Bull have no allegiances.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯ve been weapons since there¡¯s been man,¡± said Delorme. ¡°Neanderthals had them. It¡¯s the nature of the beast. Whoever can make a better one wins. Where do you think weapons come from?¡±


    They grow in a field, thought Gamache, though no one was suggesting hammering their swords into plowshares.


    ¡°We can¡¯t predict the future,¡± said Delorme. ¡°So we do our best to choose our allies.¡±


    ¡°And your weapons,¡± said Gamache. ¡°You said ¡®we.¡¯ I thought you were a file clerk.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I meant the collective ¡®we.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Of course, forgive me.¡±


    But for just a moment, Sean Delorme no longer looked or sounded like a low-level office worker. He no longer seemed maladroit or ill at ease. An unexpected edge had appeared in this rather dull, almost comical, clerk.


    There was an act going on here, Gamache was sure of it. Sean Delorme was alternately plodding and sly. A slightly muddled bureaucrat one moment, and in the next he was implying he was himself involved in the secretive world of arms dealing.


    Was it more fantasy? Like Laurent playing soldier on the village green?


    Was Sean Delorme playacting in a dangerous field? And then going home for dinner?


    Armand Gamache looked at Sean Delorme and suddenly felt some concern that what had happened to Laurent, what happened to Gerald Bull, might happen to him. That reality would come calling. And once found, it would take his life. As it had taken theirs.

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    ¡°You said almost everyone had stopped looking for the Supergun,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°True.¡±


    ¡°Almost,¡± Gamache repeated. ¡°Almost everyone. But some would have kept going?¡±


    Who kept going when every reasonable person gave up, Gamache wondered, though he already knew the answer.


    The unreasonable. That¡¯s who. The fanatics.


    ¡°Who is still looking for the gun?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°This is all just theory, supposition.¡±


    ¡°Then theorize.¡±


    Delorme sighed. ¡°Okay. The people who stopped looking were probably those who went on to other interests. They brokered other deals, found new clients, created new weapons. But there are some who can¡¯t do that.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°They don¡¯t have the skills. There are some within the arms community who are bottom feeders. They live off the ideas of others. They¡¯re opportunistic. Mercenary. They¡¯re like grave robbers or treasure hunters. They don¡¯t have to amass the treasure, they just have to find it. And steal it.¡±


    ¡°Surely stealing from an arms dealer can¡¯t be a good idea.¡±


    ¡°No, but if the reward is big enough it might be worth the risk. And in this case, there was no risk. The man who designed the Supergun is dead.¡±


    ¡°Is he?¡±


    Sean Delorme¡¯s head fell to the side, as though the question had shoved him off-kilter. ¡°Are we back there? We told you over breakfast, Gerald Bull took five bullets to the brain. He¡¯s dead.¡±


    ¡°Oui, you did. But suppose Dr. Bull was a great salesman, but not a great designer.¡±


    Delorme opened his mouth to speak, but Gamache held up his hand.


    ¡°Hear me out. Isn¡¯t there a certain amount of evidence suggesting just that? That Bull might¡¯ve had the idea, but someone else had to actually design the gun? They¡¯d make the perfect team. Gerald Bull would find a buyer and someone else would draw up the plans.¡±


    Sean Delorme was silent, taking this in. Then he smiled, breaking into a huge, goofy grin.


    ¡°You¡¯re kidding, right? Having fun with me?¡±


    Gamache said nothing.


    ¡°Come on, there¡¯s no proof of that at all. And who would it be? And please don¡¯t say John Fleming.¡±


    Again, Gamache remained silent, but looked across the room. And Delorme¡¯s smile faded.


    ¡°You don¡¯t think¡­¡± He glanced over toward Rosenblatt. ¡°But that¡¯s ridiculous. He¡¯s not nearly smart enough.¡± He lowered his voice. ¡°If he¡¯s still here, it¡¯s for a whole other reason.¡±


    Gamache remembered Delorme¡¯s description of Rosenblatt. A leech. And his description of those who¡¯d spent decades searching for the Supergun. As people who fed on the work of others. Leeches.


    ¡°The gun no longer matters, does it?¡± said Gamache. ¡°Once it was found, anyone looking for the Supergun would have shifted their search. After all, the gun¡¯s being guarded. No one can steal it, or fire it.¡±


    ¡°But someone might build another one,¡± said Delorme.


    ¡°If they had the plans,¡± said Gamache.


    And if the gun was here, the plans might be too.


    They¡¯d assumed Laurent had been murdered by someone who knew the gun was there and wanted to keep its location secret. After all, who else would believe his ridiculous story?


    But suppose Laurent was murdered by someone who¡¯d spent decades searching for it? And when a dirty little boy came flying out of the woods yelling about a gun bigger than a house, with a monster on it, one person believed him. A plan had begun to form. For murder.


    And Gamache now had an answer to a question that had been bothering him. It seemed inexplicable that a Supergun, a massive missile launcher, could be found in the woods of Qu¨¦bec and CSIS only send two file clerks.


    No squad of soldiers. No team of scientists.


    Gamache now knew it was because they didn¡¯t need anyone else. The gun was essentially a sculpture. All but useless. What CSIS needed were people who could find the plans.


    And that task fell to two middle-aged bureaucrats who knew more about Project Babylon and the beast marching to Armageddon than anyone else.


    With the possible exception of an elderly physicist.


    *   *   *


    Michael Rosenblatt sipped his Scotch and looked over at the fresh young S?ret¨¦ Chief Inspector, speaking with Mary Fraser, the dried-up CSIS agent.


    And they were looking at him, but averted their gaze when he met their eyes.


    Then he shifted his glance to the retired Chief Inspector speaking with Delorme.

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    They too were looking at him. The CSIS agent quickly looked away, but Armand Gamache held his eyes.


    Professor Rosenblatt suddenly felt hemmed in.


    Turning to his companion, he said, ¡°I wonder why they¡¯re still here.¡±


    ¡°The CSIS agents?¡± asked Beauvoir. ¡°To gather information about the gun, of course. Why else?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°Why else.¡±


    *   *   *


    Dinner was served, with the platters of game hens and bowls of grilled vegetables and baskets of sliced baguette put on the long pine table in Clara¡¯s kitchen. The room was lit with candles, and in the middle of the table sat an exuberant centerpiece.


    Myrna had spent the afternoon collecting arching branches of bright fall leaves, and smaller branches still bearing tiny red crab apples. She¡¯d collected pine cones from under the trees on the village green. Sticks and cones. A tribute to the boy who¡¯d spent his whole life protecting Three Pines.


    CHAPTER 22


    Once dinner was over and the dishes done, the guests went their separate ways.


    ¡°Coming, numbnuts?¡±


    ¡°I just want to get the record, I¡¯ll be over in a minute.¡±


    And he was. Within minutes Jean-Guy was carefully tipping the vinyl record out of the sleeve.


    ¡°Here, give me that.¡± Ruth grabbed the LP from him and almost dropped it on the floor.


    Finding the A-side, she put it on the turntable, surprising Beauvoir by fitting the small hole onto the post effortlessly. But he stopped her before she swung the arm of the record player over the precious disc and scratched it.


    ¡°Let me do that.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever done it before?¡± Ruth demanded, shoving him aside with a sharp elbow.


    ¡°Hey,¡± he said. ¡°That hurt.¡±


    ¡°You want to know hurt? Wait ¡¯til your ears get a load of that.¡± She jabbed her finger at Al Lepage¡¯s record, now going round and round on the turntable. Ruth lifted the arm and expertly, delicately, lowered the needle to the vinyl.


    A rhythmic crackling came from the speakers.


    And then the first song started with a simple guitar. Classical, melodic. And then a drumbeat, like a metronome. At first a slow march, then it gathered speed, intensity. It picked up more instruments as it began to race along. A piano, strings. Horns. The drum became almost militaristic, building to a vigorous, energetic, stirring crescendo.


    And weaving through it was the voice.


    Beauvoir sat on the lumpy old sofa and stared at the turntable, marveling at Al Lepage¡¯s deep, gravelly voice.


    As the first song wound down, Jean-Guy turned to Ruth. ¡°That was incredible. Even you must see that.¡±


    ¡°Did you listen to the lyrics?¡±


    ¡°I think so.¡±


    ¡°Well, if you thought they were great, more than your nuts are numb. Excuse me, I have to pee.¡± She rocked herself out of the chair. ¡°I¡¯ve been drinking tea all night.¡±


    When she left, Jean-Guy carefully lifted the arm and replaced the needle at the beginning of the record.


    A soldier and a sailor met in a bar, Al sang in his raspy voice. The one said to the other, there you are.


    Jean-Guy listened as the soldier and sailor talked about war and love, parted ways, then ended up on different sides of a conflict.


    Ruth was right. It was painful, but not in the way Al Lepage probably intended. The story was clich¨¦d, embarrassing, cringe-worthy. The rhymes were either obvious or tortured. But the music and voice obscured that, camouflaging it. Making it appear better than it was. Perhaps, thought Beauvoir, like the man himself.


    The next song was on. The music was powerful, with piano and banjo and harmonica. A fusion of folk and rock and country.


    Now Al was singing about a dog who gets lost and is just about to curl up and die when he¡¯s found by a pack of wild dogs and saved. He¡¯s accepted into the pack but, too late, he realizes they¡¯re wolves and he¡¯s expected to kill other animals. As they do. Not because they¡¯re cruel but because it¡¯s in their nature. Just as he¡¯s about to kill a little lamb, his heart in despair, he sees a light through the trees and runs toward it. A door opens, and it¡¯s his family. Calling to him. Waiting for him.


    Jean-Guy sat on the sofa marveling how a story that should have been, could have been, very moving had been rendered ridiculous by infantile and clunky lyrics and silly attempts to force words to rhyme. Beauvoir was not sure ¡°dog¡± rhymed with ¡°ideologue.¡±


    It was a shame. Lepage¡¯s ideas, his voice, his music were powerful. His lyrics, on the other hand, were merde. They should never have been shared. Beauvoir wondered how the record had fared.

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    Jean-Guy was having fun finding words that rhymed with merde, when Ruth reappeared. And glared.


    ¡°Had enough?¡± she asked. ¡°If you keep listening, your brain will turn into something soft and smelly.¡±


    ¡°How do you know? Have you heard it before?¡±


    The mad old poet walked over to her stereo and returned to the sofa holding Al¡¯s record. Her own copy.


    ¡°How¡¯d you get this?¡± Beauvoir asked, taking it from her.


    ¡°It¡¯s self-produced. I bought one and listened to it once to be polite, but it¡¯s crap.¡±


    And yet, thought Jean-Guy, she¡¯d kept it. The record didn¡¯t end up in the church rummage sale. Or the dump. And since when was Ruth polite? Or perhaps the question should be, when did she become impolite?


    ¡°He used to busk on the street in Cowansville, when he first arrived,¡± said Ruth. ¡°Sometimes he¡¯d play in the bo?tes ¨¤ chansons in Montr¨¦al, but mostly he sang in the coffeehouses around here. That was before Gabri and Olivier opened the bistro.¡±


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t play there now, though, does he?¡± asked Beauvoir.


    ¡°No,¡± said Ruth. ¡°He stopped singing, thank God.¡±


    Jean-Guy put the album facedown. He didn¡¯t want to look at the smiling young man with the bushy red beard, who had no idea what heartbreak was waiting for him a few decades down the road.


    ¡°How did Al Lepage get across the border?¡± Jean-Guy asked.


    ¡°He ran, I guess. Probably chased by a gang of music lovers.¡±


    ¡°Lepage claims he walked across the border from Vermont. But how¡¯d he find Three Pines? He didn¡¯t just stumble into it, did he? He had to have had help.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he was meant to find Three Pines,¡± she said, getting up again and gathering Rosa in her arms.


    ¡°You don¡¯t believe that.¡±


    ¡°You have no idea what I believe,¡± she snapped, then softened her expression as she made for the stairs to her bedroom. ¡°Turn off the lights when you leave.¡±


    ¡°Are you going upstairs to heave?¡± he called after her and heard, out of the darkness, a chuckle.


    Jean-Guy leaned back and listened to the music, trying not to hear the lyrics. Something about¡ª


    Buy, buy this good apple pie.


    Oh no, thought Beauvoir, surely not.


    Drove my Honda, which I¡¯m fonda ¡­


    He tuned out the lyrics and replaced them with the conversation after dinner, when he and Isabelle had walked to the Gamaches¡¯ from Clara¡¯s so he could pick up the record and they could have a brief discussion about the evening.


    ¡°What I find strange,¡± Isabelle had said, as they sat in the Gamaches¡¯ living room, ¡°is that neither the CSIS people nor Rosenblatt picked up on Dr. Bull¡¯s poor academic record and that maybe there was someone else, the real designer, working behind the scenes. I mean, it was right there. Even Madame Gamache found it.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, dear,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    ¡°D¨¦sol¨¦. But you know what I mean. These people are supposedly experts on Gerald Bull, and professionals at deciphering information, and yet they miss that?¡±


    Armand nodded. ¡°Why do you think that is? Beyond the obvious answer that Reine-Marie is far smarter than all of them.¡±


    ¡°Merci, mon cher,¡± said Madame Gamache. ¡°You know, a lot of geniuses did poorly in school. Maybe that was Dr. Bull.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°But I think the CSIS people, and perhaps even Professor Rosenblatt, didn¡¯t miss it. They were just hoping we would. I think they know perfectly well someone else was involved with Project Babylon.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s why they¡¯re still here,¡± said Armand, nodding.


    ¡°To look for the plans or the person?¡± asked Isabelle.


    ¡°Both,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°You think the person who designed Project Babylon is here in Three Pines?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°Not really. But maybe. I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Impressive,¡± said Lacoste.


    Jean-Guy smiled tightly and got up. ¡°I¡¯m heading over to Ruth¡¯s place with Al Lepage¡¯s record. I want to hear it. Coming?¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m going back to the Incident Room and see if any reports have come in. Both the Canadian government and the Americans are looking into Al Lepage. Does it seem odd that he arrived in Qu¨¦bec already having a French surname?¡±


    ¡°What strikes me as odd,¡± said Beauvoir, ¡°is that he said he walked across the border and just stumbled into Three Pines.¡±

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    ¡°How else would you find it?¡± asked Reine-Marie. She thought for a moment. ¡°He was a draft dodger, right?¡±


    The S?ret¨¦ officers nodded.


    ¡°From what I remember, they were welcomed in Canada,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°I¡¯m not sure they really had to sneak across the border.¡±


    ¡°They were pardoned too,¡± said Armand. ¡°By Jimmy Carter. Many returned.¡±


    ¡°But not Al Lepage,¡± said Isabelle Lacoste.


    ¡°I¡¯ll ask Ruth if she knows anything,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°One other thing you might check out tomorrow,¡± said Armand, as he walked them down the path. ¡°Where the CSIS agents disappeared to today. They weren¡¯t in the village and I don¡¯t think they were at the site of the gun.¡±


    That had been an hour ago, and now Jean-Guy found himself alone in Ruth¡¯s living room, listening to Al Lepage¡¯s record.


    When it was finished he placed the needle on the spinning vinyl again, but not at the beginning. Sitting back down, he listened, again, to the saga of the dog in the woods. The listener was meant to come away with the heartwarming image of the family not giving up hope, and the dog finding home. But what stayed with Jean-Guy was the image of an animal getting in touch with its true nature. Willing to kill if it had to.


    *   *   *


    The call came into the Incident Room in the old train station the next morning. It was from the local detachment of the S?ret¨¦.


    ¡°Since you¡¯re already here, Chief Inspector, I thought you¡¯d want to know.¡±


    ¡°Know what?¡±


    ¡°A body was found this morning.¡±


    Lacoste grabbed a pen and motioned to Beauvoir, who came over.


    ¡°Who?¡±


    She wrote the name on her notepad, and next to it the word murdered. And heard Jean-Guy whisper, ¡°Merde.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡± Lacoste wrote an address. ¡°Is there a team there?¡±


    ¡°The first response just reported in. I¡¯ve told them not to touch anything.¡±


    Inspector Beauvoir had moved over to his desk and she could hear him calling for a Scene of Crime unit from Montr¨¦al.


    ¡°Bludgeoned to death at home,¡± the local agent said. ¡°The place has been ransacked. Looks like robbery. I¡¯ve dispatched an ambulance, of course, but it¡¯s too late.¡±


    ¡°Call the coroner,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°Already done. She¡¯ll meet you there.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    She hung up and looked down at her notepad, where a name was written and circled.


    Ten minutes later they were kneeling beside the body of Antoinette Lemaitre.


    CHAPTER 23


    ¡°I recognize her,¡± said Sharon Harris, the coroner. ¡°She runs the Knowlton Playhouse, doesn¡¯t she?¡±


    Dr. Harris and Isabelle Lacoste were kneeling beside Antoinette, who was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Surprised. Jean-Guy Beauvoir was crouched on the other side of the body.


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Chief Inspector Lacoste. ¡°The Estrie Players.¡±


    ¡°They were doing the Fleming play,¡± said Dr. Harris, her gloved hands swiftly checking the body. ¡°Community¡¯s in a bit of an uproar about it.¡±


    The coroner grimaced as she spoke Fleming¡¯s name, as though she¡¯d put a rotten trout into her mouth. Here was a woman who worked with corpses in all states of decay and what disgusted her? The very mention of John Fleming.


    The grimace was, Lacoste knew, involuntary. Like being tapped on the kneecap. Flinching at the mention of Fleming was a healthy human reaction.


    ¡°Not much damage that I can see,¡± said the coroner. ¡°I don¡¯t want to move her until your forensics people have arrived, but from what I see she¡¯s been dead less than twelve hours, but more than six.¡±


    ¡°Between nine thirty last night and two thirty this morning,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°And cause of death?¡±


    ¡°At a guess, I¡¯d say that.¡± The coroner leaned close to Antoinette¡¯s head and pointed to the back of her skull where her purple hair was clotted and matted a deep red.


    ¡°It looks like a single catastrophic blow. Crushed the skull. She probably didn¡¯t know what hit her.¡±


    ¡°And what did?¡± asked Lacoste.


    They looked around and quickly found blood staining the corner of the hearth.


    Beauvoir leaned closer. ¡°Looks like it.¡±


    He stood and stepped aside so that the coroner and Lacoste could get a better look. They stared at the stone corner, then back to Antoinette, glassy-eyed and shocked.

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    ¡°She was either pushed or fell backward, hitting her head,¡± said Lacoste, and both Dr. Harris and Inspector Beauvoir nodded agreement.


    ¡°Murder,¡± said the coroner. ¡°But perhaps not intentional. Looks like she might¡¯ve surprised someone robbing her home.¡±


    ¡°There doesn¡¯t seem to have been forced entry,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°But that could mean nothing.¡±


    As often as she¡¯d been to this area of Qu¨¦bec, it still amazed her that people didn¡¯t lock their doors. Perhaps when they went to bed, but beyond that anyone could walk in and out. Sometimes people survived. Sometimes they did not.


    But the fact that the door was unlocked did suggest Antoinette Lemaitre hadn¡¯t yet gone to bed. And she was still in her street clothes, not pajamas.


    ¡°She was supposed to go to Clara Morrow¡¯s for dinner last night,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°But she called to cancel.¡±


    Sharon Harris looked up. ¡°How do you know?¡±


    ¡°We were there,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°You know her?¡± Dr. Harris motioned to the body.


    ¡°Not well,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°But yes. What time did Antoinette call Clara?¡±


    Beauvoir thought. ¡°Not sure exactly, but it was before dinner and we ate at seven thirty.¡±


    ¡°Did Clara say why Antoinette canceled?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°No, she just said she thought Antoinette wanted a quiet night to herself after all the stress of the Fleming play. Brian, her partner,¡± Beauvoir explained to Dr. Harris, ¡°had a meeting in Montr¨¦al. Something to do with his job. So Antoinette had the place to herself.¡±


    ¡°I believe he¡¯s the man in the kitchen,¡± said Dr. Harris. ¡°He found her.¡±


    Beauvoir turned to the local agent guarding the scene. ¡°Is that true?¡±


    ¡°Yessir. When we arrived he was next door, but we brought him over. He¡¯s pretty shaken up. He was her conjoint.¡±


    ¡°What did he tell you?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Not much,¡± said the agent. ¡°It was all we could do to keep him upright.¡±


    Both looked down again at the dead woman.


    They hadn¡¯t known Antoinette well. Beauvoir had seen her and Brian in the bistro a few times, and once at dinner with the Gamaches.


    The Gamaches, he thought. He¡¯d have to tell them.


    Knowing the victim was both a help and a hindrance. It meant they knew something of the victim¡¯s habits, her personality. But it also meant they came at it with preconceptions.


    Jean-Guy studied Antoinette Lemaitre and realized he hadn¡¯t liked her.


    She¡¯d been childish and coquettish in a way that creeped him out. Antoinette did not behave like a woman in her forties. She wore too much makeup, had spiky hair dyed purple and clothes that were too young and too tight and too short. She could be willful and bossy.


    He looked again at the blood, sticky on the hair and carpet.


    But his main objection had little to do with her appearance and more to do with the fact she¡¯d chosen to produce a play by a serial killer. He wondered if her murderer had had the same objection.


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t seem to have been violated,¡± said Dr. Harris, standing up.


    ¡°Anything under her fingernails?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°No flesh or hair. Whoever did this seems to have taken her by surprise. This¡±¡ªDr. Harris gestured at the room¡ª¡°wasn¡¯t done in a fight.¡±


    They looked around at the overturned furniture, the drawers pulled from the desk and cabinets and dumped on the floor. The books splayed in piles on the carpet. Some even lay on Antoinette¡¯s body.


    ¡°What does it look like to you?¡± Jean-Guy asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Not vandalism. Nothing¡¯s broken. No spray-paint or excrement. I agree with Dr. Harris, it looks like she disturbed a robber.¡±


    ¡°A pretty desperate or persistent robber, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡± he asked. ¡°Most just grab the TV and run. Maybe pull out a few drawers looking for money.¡±


    Lacoste considered. ¡°Oui.¡±


    It just wasn¡¯t adding up, though. A robber generally waited for the home to be empty, or the person to be asleep. But the lamps were still on. Whoever did this knew the owner was probably at home and almost certainly awake.


    And most of the mess was made after Antoinette was dead by someone who knew he wouldn¡¯t be disturbed. And who was not disturbed by having just killed someone.


    And that bothered Jean-Guy Beauvoir. A lot. Most robbers were just that. Robbers. They had no desire or stomach for murder. This was different. Someone had killed Antoinette, then spent hours searching her home while her body cooled.

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    The Scene of Crime team arrived and got to work. Jean-Guy directed them while Chief Inspector Lacoste walked around the rest of the house. Looking into rooms but not touching anything.


    It was a modest single-story home with a basement. Even that had been ripped apart. It must¡¯ve taken hours. The further she got into the house the more convinced Lacoste became this was not a simple robbery, and Antoinette Lemaitre not a random target.


    Carpets had been ripped up, floorboards lifted. Paneling hung from the walls. A chair stood in the middle of the hall beneath an opening in the ceiling. Lacoste got on it and shone her light into the attic. She heard scampering and got off the chair.


    If she had to she¡¯d go up, but that was one of the perks of being Chief Inspector. She could assign someone else to do that now.


    ¡°The forensics team and Scene of Crime are doing their job,¡± said Beauvoir, joining her. ¡°Time to talk to Brian.¡±


    Jean-Guy had spoken with him briefly on his way to find Lacoste.


    ¡°How does he seem?¡± Lacoste asked.


    ¡°Stunned. Numb.¡±


    But neither was under any illusion. As they walked back down the hallway, both seasoned homicide investigators knew they were about to speak to their main suspect.


    Brian Fitzpatrick got to his feet when they entered. He was about to say something, but then looked as though he¡¯d forgotten how to speak.


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Brian,¡± said Isabelle Lacoste. ¡°This is terrible.¡±


    He nodded. His eyes darted from one to the other.


    ¡°What happened?¡± he asked, sitting back down on his chair at the Formica table.


    Lacoste looked at the agent from the local S?ret¨¦ detachment, standing bored by the doorway.


    ¡°Can you make a pot of coffee?¡± she asked. The agent looked put out, but agreed.


    The kitchen had also been ransacked, though the damage did not seem as great. Mostly flour, sugar and cornflakes spilled out onto the counter, and drawers opened and emptied.


    It seemed more pro forma, as though the robber-turned-killer had run out of steam or was running out of time. Or conviction.


    Brian looked at them, all eyes, wide and red.


    ¡°What time did you find her, Brian?¡± Lacoste asked.


    ¡°I left Montr¨¦al about seven thirty this morning, so I got here about nine.¡±


    ¡°You were in Montr¨¦al last night?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Yes, at a meeting. I stayed over. I wish I hadn¡¯t.¡± He had that haunted look people got when alternate endings began to appear. Endings in which they did something different. What might have been, if only ¡­


    ¡°What did you find when you got home?¡± Lacoste asked.


    Jean-Guy had assumed the role Chief Inspector Gamache favored in interrogations, of just listening. And watching. Occasionally contributing, but mostly absorbing what was being said, or not said.


    ¡°The door wasn¡¯t locked¡ª¡±


    ¡°Did that surprise you?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Not really. Antoinette would¡¯ve been up and working by nine. She¡¯d have unlocked the door already. But it did seem strange that the curtains were still closed.¡±


    ¡°She was a translator, is that right?¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°Yes. She works from home.¡±


    There was a conflict of tenses that would resolve itself with time.


    ¡°So you opened the door,¡± Lacoste prompted.


    ¡°I yelled ¡®Hi,¡¯ but there was no answer. Of course.¡± He seemed to deflate a little at those last two words. ¡°I hung up my coat and walked toward the living room and saw¡ª¡± he gestured, but Chief Inspector Lacoste did not fill in the blank. ¡°Everything was all over the place. I think I sorta went blank. Froze. And then I panicked and started shouting for Antoinette. I ran into the room and must¡¯ve tripped because I ended up on the floor. That¡¯s when I saw¡­¡±


    ¡°Saw what, Brian?¡± asked Lacoste quietly when the silence had gone on.


    ¡°Her foot. I¡¯m not sure what happened next. I¡¯ve been sitting here trying to put it together but it just seems like¡­¡± He struggled for the word. ¡°I remember seeing her face, and her eyes. And knowing. I think I might¡¯ve touched her because I remember feeling cold. And then thinking I was about to pass out. It was just too¡­¡±


    He stared out the kitchen window and seemed to have ground to a halt, overwhelmed.


    ¡°What did you do then?¡± Lacoste asked.


    She had the impression that had she not prompted him, Brian would have spent the rest of his life staring out that window. Stuck.


    Lacoste glanced over at Jean-Guy, who also sat very still, absorbing it all.

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    ¡°I panicked,¡± said Brian softly, not meeting their eyes. ¡°I ran away. I had to get out. I went over to Madame Proulx¡¯s place next door. She called the police.¡±


    ¡°Did you come back here?¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°Only when the police arrived. They asked me to come back with them, and they put me in here.¡±


    The coffee was ready and Beauvoir poured them each a mug. When they¡¯d taken a sip of the strong coffee, Lacoste resumed the interrogation. She made it sound like a conversation, but only a fool, or a man numb with grief, could mistake it for that.


    ¡°Can you tell us what you did last night?¡±


    ¡°I was in Montr¨¦al. The monthly meeting of the Geological Survey. We go through our reports.¡±


    ¡°Last night?¡±


    ¡°No, yesterday afternoon but I stayed over. Some of us go out for drinks and dinner after. We always do.¡±


    ¡°Can you give us the details, a phone number of someone who was there?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Beauvoir took it down.


    ¡°What time did you finish?¡±


    ¡°About eight, eight thirty. Not late.¡±


    ¡°Where did you stay? A hotel?¡±


    ¡°No, we have a pied-¨¤-terre. Just a studio. I stay there when I¡¯m in town for meetings and will have a few drinks.¡±


    ¡°Can anyone vouch for you?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Vouch for me?¡± he asked, and then it dawned on him, as it did every suspect eventually. That they were suspected. But unlike many, Brian didn¡¯t get angry or defensive. He just looked even more frightened, if that was possible.


    ¡°I was alone in the apartment. There¡¯s no doorman. I let myself in and didn¡¯t go out again.¡±


    ¡°Did you call anyone?¡±


    ¡°Just Antoinette.¡± He pressed his lips together and took a ragged breath.


    ¡°What time was that?¡±


    ¡°When I got in, about three in the afternoon. Just to say I¡¯d arrived safely. She told me we¡¯d been invited over to Clara¡¯s for dinner, but she thought she might cancel.¡±


    ¡°Did she tell you why?¡± Beauvoir asked, speaking for the first time in the interrogation.


    ¡°She said she thought a couple of people might drop by later.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°People from the theater,¡± he said. ¡°They wanted to talk to her. I think they wanted to fire her, but I didn¡¯t say anything.¡±


    ¡°What did she think it was about?¡± Lacoste asked.


    ¡°She thought they¡¯d changed their minds and were going to do the play after all.¡± His hand went to the copy of She Sat Down and Wept on the kitchen table. It was covered in scribbled notes. ¡°She couldn¡¯t believe everyone had quit.¡±


    Once again Brian gave them names, and once again Beauvoir took them down.


    ¡°Emotions were running high about the play,¡± said Lacoste.


    Brian nodded. ¡°It was a mistake, of course. We shouldn¡¯t have been doing it.¡± He looked at her then, focusing completely for the first time. ¡°You don¡¯t think it had anything to do with¡ª¡± He gestured out the kitchen door toward the living room. ¡°But that¡¯s ridiculous. It¡¯s just a play. No one cares that much.¡±


    ¡°They cared enough to quit,¡± said Lacoste.


    But enough to kill?


    ¡°Who knew you¡¯d be in Montr¨¦al?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said Brian, thinking but obviously not grasping the significance of the question. ¡°I think people knew I went in every now and then, but I don¡¯t think I told anyone I was going in yesterday.¡±


    Lacoste caught Beauvoir¡¯s eye. Did Brian really not know he¡¯d just been given a chance to take the heat off himself?


    Antoinette was killed by someone who knew he wouldn¡¯t be interrupted. The murderer therefore didn¡¯t know about Brian, or knew Brian was in Montr¨¦al, or was Brian.


    Had he told them lots of people knew he¡¯d be away, that would open up the list of suspects. But he hadn¡¯t. Which showed he was innocent or stupid, or so sure of himself he chose to play stupid.


    They went through the rest of the questions and Brian gave answers, some halting, some incomplete, some thorough. What emerged was the image of a man numb with grief, who¡¯d been a hundred kilometers away when Antoinette was killed. Who had nothing to do with it. Who wished he¡¯d been there. Who couldn¡¯t think of anyone who wanted her dead.


    ¡°I know you have to look at all possibilities, but it was a robbery, wasn¡¯t it?¡± Brian finally asked. ¡°It must¡¯ve been. Look at the place.¡±

 Page 88

    When the S?ret¨¦ investigators didn¡¯t answer, he looked more confused than ever.


    ¡°You¡¯re not saying someone killed Antoinette on purpose, are you?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a possibility,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°Who would do it?¡± he demanded. ¡°Why? I know she could rub people the wrong way, but she never got anyone that upset.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t think of anyone?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± said Brian. ¡°This must¡¯ve been a terrible accident. Someone came to rob the place, and Antoinette found them. Jesus, what¡¯re you saying?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re saying it was probably robbery, but we have to be sure,¡± said Lacoste, her voice soothing. Certain.


    Her calm seemed to have its effect. Brian took a deep breath and regained his composure.


    ¡°I¡¯ll help in any way I can. What can I do?¡±


    ¡°You can prove you were in Montr¨¦al,¡± said Beauvoir.


    This time Brian didn¡¯t miss the implication, but instead of getting defensive he just nodded and gave them the address of the apartment building, the number of the superintendent, the names of neighbors.


    He gave them the codes to their computers, their banking, their phones.


    ¡°Antoinette used the last four digits of your phone number?¡± said Beauvoir as he looked down at what he¡¯d written.


    ¡°I know, too obvious,¡± said Brian. ¡°I told her that but she wanted something she could remember.¡±


    ¡°And yours?¡± asked Beauvoir. ¡°0621 for everything?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Something I could never forget. June twenty-first. Our first date. Ten years ago.¡±


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir concentrated on the page, on the numbers, on the pen as he wrote it down. And tried not to look into Brian¡¯s red, wondering eyes.


    Like Brian, he too used his first date with Annie as his code. Something he would never, could never, ever forget.


    How would he feel if he found Annie¡­?


    Chief Inspector Gamache had told them to crawl into the skins of the victim and the suspects, but he¡¯d warned his investigators that it was difficult to do, and it was dangerous. Jean-Guy had never really understood the need, or the danger.


    But now he did.


    He¡¯d gotten into Brian¡¯s skin but had overshot the mark and ended up in his broken heart.


    As they left, Jean-Guy picked up the copy of the play from the table. Brian explained it was Antoinette¡¯s. He¡¯d taken it with him to Montr¨¦al, having left his own copy in the theater.


    Beauvoir was not a superstitious man, or claimed not to be. But even to this rational man, the play seemed heavier than just paper.


    *   *   *


    They interviewed all the neighbors, none of whom saw or heard anything, and left Madame Proulx, next door, ¡¯til last. She was middle-aged and plump and worried, her large, red hands intertwined and fidgety.


    ¡°What did Brian Fitzpatrick say to you exactly?¡± Isabelle Lacoste asked as they took seats in the comfortable living room. ¡°When he arrived this morning.¡±


    ¡°That something had happened and he needed to call for help, but he was trembling too hard, so I called.¡±


    ¡°Did he say anything else?¡±


    ¡°Only that Antoinette had been hurt. I asked if we should go over to help and he looked so frightened, I knew.¡±


    Her eyes moved from one to the other. ¡°She¡¯s dead, isn¡¯t she?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid so.¡±


    And then she did something rarely seen anymore in Qu¨¦bec. She crossed herself.


    ¡°Did you see anyone arrive at their place last night?¡± Isabelle Lacoste asked.


    ¡°No, I had the curtains drawn and was watching television. Les Filles de Caleb.¡±


    Lacoste nodded. It was what all the other neighbors had said. Everyone had drawn the curtains and settled in front of the television to watch the rerun of the wildly popular show.


    A werewolf could tear apart the living room and this woman wouldn¡¯t budge while that show was on. Lacoste was beginning to wonder if the killer had chosen the time for that very reason.


    ¡°Do you know who did it?¡± asked Madame Proulx.


    ¡°Non, not yet, but we will,¡± said Lacoste.


    She tried to reassure Madame Proulx, but without a suspect arrested the reassurance was hollow.


    At least Laurent Lepage¡¯s murder hadn¡¯t appeared random. It seemed clear from the beginning that he was killed not because he was Laurent, or a child, but because of what he found in the woods. There was a reason.


    But the murder of Antoinette Lemaitre seemed senseless. There was no obvious motive. And into that void there streamed all sorts of suspicions. And understandable terror.

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    Lacoste could see exactly what Madame Proulx was thinking. It could¡¯ve been me. Followed closely by, Thank God it was the woman next door.


    ¡°What did you think of Antoinette?¡± Lacoste asked.


    ¡°She was okay. She¡¯s friendly without being overly familiar, if you know what I mean.¡±


    ¡°Did you like her?¡± Lacoste asked.


    There was a hesitation and Madame Proulx shifted in her La-Z-Boy. ¡°I warmed to her. I liked her uncle, Guillaume. We¡¯d chat over the fence in the summer while he gardened.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like you didn¡¯t really like her, though,¡± Lacoste gently pushed, though it didn¡¯t take much.


    ¡°She was difficult,¡± Madame Proulx admitted. ¡°As soon as she moved in she started complaining. About the kids playing street hockey and the noise from family barbeques. She behaved like it was her seigneurie and we were all habitants, if you know what I mean.¡±


    Lacoste did. Les Filles de Caleb was having its effect, down to the old-fashioned description of lord and peasant. But while the words were from a TV script, the emotions seemed genuine. Madame Proulx did not take kindly to the city woman bossing them around. It was what they¡¯d heard, in various versions, from the other neighbors, once they¡¯d gotten past being polite about the recently, and violently, deceased.


    ¡°Can you think of anyone who might¡¯ve done this?¡± Lacoste asked, and saw Madame Proulx¡¯s eyes widen.


    ¡°No. Can¡¯t you? Isn¡¯t that your job? You have no ideas?¡±


    ¡°We have some,¡± said Lacoste, bringing out the reassurance yet again, and yet again it had a marginal effect. ¡°But I need to ask. No especially violent feuds with neighbors?¡±


    ¡°None. It was annoying, nothing more. And she looked odd. Those clothes. She was like a spoiled child.¡±


    She turned shrewd eyes on the investigators.


    ¡°You don¡¯t think it was just a robbery?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re looking at all possibilities.¡±


    Madame Proulx took in, apparently for the first time, the script in Beauvoir¡¯s hand, and she rose to her feet. Not swiftly, not even struggling out of the comfortable chair. There was a grace and ease about all her movements. And there was also certainty.


    ¡°I would like you to leave, and take that with you.¡±


    There was no need to ask what ¡°that¡± was.


    ¡°You¡¯re aware of the play?¡± Beauvoir asked, holding it up. He thought for a moment Madame Proulx was going to cross herself again. But she didn¡¯t. Instead she straightened up completely and stood, tall and formidable, facing both him and John Fleming¡¯s creation.


    ¡°We all were. It¡¯s a travesty. How she couldn¡¯t see that is beyond me. I¡¯m not a prude, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking. But it¡¯s not right.¡±


    No philosophical debate, no discussion of the evils of censorship. Just a clear statement of fact. Producing the Fleming play wasn¡¯t right. But exactly how wrong it was wasn¡¯t yet clear.


    At the door Beauvoir asked about Brian.


    ¡°We liked him,¡± said Madame Proulx, apparently speaking for the whole neighborhood. ¡°Now if he killed her we could understand. But he seemed to really care for her.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Happens a lot, doesn¡¯t it? You look at a couple and wonder what they see in each other. You never know, if you know what I mean.¡±


    Beauvoir did know. You never knew.


    They got in the car and headed back to Three Pines.


    ¡°Why did you take the play with you?¡± Lacoste asked Beauvoir as he drove.


    ¡°It¡¯s been nothing but trouble,¡± he explained. ¡°And whoever killed Antoinette was looking for something. Maybe it was the play.¡±


    ¡°But there¡¯re lots of copies out there.¡±


    ¡°True, but that¡¯s the original. I thought it was worth a read.¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste nodded. He was right. She wished she¡¯d thought of that.


    There were times when she felt completely up to the job of Chief Inspector. And times when she knew it should have gone to this man.


    ¡°Is there anything else I missed?¡± she asked him.


    ¡°You don¡¯t miss much, Isabelle,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°And what you do, I pick up. And vice versa. It¡¯s what makes us a strong team.¡±


    ¡°Do you miss Monsieur Gamache?¡± she asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s no reflection on you, but I¡¯ll always miss Chief Inspector Gamache.¡±


    ¡°So will I,¡± she said. They drove a few more miles before she got up the courage to ask a question that had been bothering her since her appointment.

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    ¡°Should you have been made Chief Inspector?¡±


    She immediately regretted asking. Suppose he said yes?


    ¡°I would¡¯ve liked it,¡± he said at last. ¡°But I wasn¡¯t expecting it. Not after all that happened.¡±


    ¡°You mean the drinking?¡± she asked. ¡°And the drugs? Or when you shot Chief Inspector Gamache?¡±


    ¡°When you say it like that it sounds pretty bad,¡± said Beauvoir, but he smiled as he said it. They both knew pulling the trigger was the one thing he did right. He¡¯d saved Gamache¡¯s life, by almost taking it.


    Few, if any, would have had the courage to shoot. Lacoste wasn¡¯t sure she would have.


    ¡°You could¡¯ve stopped me, you know,¡± he said. ¡°You had me in your sights, just as I had him. You had no idea why I was about to gun down the Chief. Why didn¡¯t you stop me?¡±


    ¡°By shooting you?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yes. Others would have. Anyone else would have.¡±


    ¡°I almost did. But you pleaded with me to trust you.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t your words, it was your voice. You weren¡¯t angry or deranged. You were desperate.¡±


    ¡°You trusted your instincts?¡±


    She nodded, gripping her hands together to stop the trembling that always overcame her when she thought of that horrific day. Having Beauvoir in her sights, her finger on the trigger. And hesitating. And watching him not hesitate. Watching him gun down Chief Inspector Gamache.


    It had felt as though she herself had been shot.


    Then seeing Chief Inspector Gamache¡¯s body leave the ground. Then hit the ground.


    ¡°You trust your instincts,¡± Jean-Guy said. ¡°That¡¯s why you¡¯ll make one of the great leaders in the S?ret¨¦, Isabelle. And why I will be your loyal right hand for as long as you need me.¡±


    ¡°And would you shoot me?¡±


    ¡°In an instant, patron.¡±


    She laughed. Then realized it was the first time he¡¯d called her patron.


    The Fleming play sat in the backseat like a passenger. Listening to them. Absorbing the talk of murder.


    CHAPTER 24


    ¡°Bonjour,¡± said Armand Gamache.


    He¡¯d found Mary Fraser alone in the small library at the back of the B and B. She was in a comfortable chair, her back to the corner bookshelves and her feet on a hassock, stretched out toward the mumbling fire in the grate.


    Her sweater was pilled and her big toe stuck out of one stocking. She did not bother to conceal it, nor did she seem at all embarrassed by this sartorial underachievement.


    What she clearly did not want him to see, though, was the file she was reading. She closed it as soon as Gamache entered and splayed her hand over it. It was done without haste, almost languidly. But still the result was a closed and secret document.


    ¡°Old school?¡± he asked, indicating the dossier. ¡°Before everything was put on computer? Or maybe some things are best left as hard copies. More easily managed. And destroyed.¡±


    He sat down in the other comfortable chair in the library.


    Mary Fraser took her feet off the hassock and replaced them in her shoes. She crossed her legs and looked at him.


    ¡°What a funny thing to say, Monsieur Gamache,¡± she said, a cordial smile on her face. ¡°Most of our files are still paper. To be honest, I prefer it that way.¡±


    ¡°Fahrenheit 451?¡± he asked.


    She looked baffled, and then she caught the reference and looked at him as his third-grade teacher, Madame Arsenault, had when he¡¯d finally said something clever.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t planning to burn it,¡± she said.


    ¡°Though you could.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Can I help you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just wondering why you¡¯re not more interested in the Supergun.¡±


    His voice was pleasant, matter-of-fact, but his sharp eyes studied her.


    Her indifferently dyed hair. Her face without makeup, except some lipstick and slightly clotted mascara. She didn¡¯t wear contacts, preferring glasses in unfashionable frames. She hid nothing. Not wrinkles, not flawed eyesight, not even the hole in her pantyhose. And that was one of Mary Fraser¡¯s great advantages, he was beginning to think. Being able to make artifice look genuine. Giving the impression all was revealed, when in fact very little of substance was revealed.


    This CSIS woman had appeared like Mary Poppins, descending on the village to make everything all right. Only everything wasn¡¯t all right. He knew it. And she knew it.


    No, he didn¡¯t trust Mary Fraser, but he did find her interesting.


    Now she was giving him an equally assessing look.

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    ¡°And I¡¯m just wondering why you¡¯re so interested,¡± she said. ¡°In the gun.¡±


    ¡°Then we¡¯re even, madame.¡± He sat back, crossing his legs. Settling in. ¡°You know more about the Supergun than you¡¯ve told us so far. I¡¯d like to hear it.¡±


    ¡°Why should I tell you anything?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re afraid, and you need all the allies you can get.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not afraid.¡± She also sat back, wriggling a bit into the soft corner of the large chair. As a small creature might in a warm den.


    ¡°You should be afraid. Someone¡¯s found Bull¡¯s gun and is almost certainly looking for the plans,¡± said Armand. ¡°You¡¯re afraid they¡¯ve already been found.¡±


    ¡°They haven¡¯t been.¡±


    ¡°How do you know?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been three days since the gun was found. If the plans had been there, the killer would have started sending out feelers, looking for buyers. Setting up an auction.¡±


    ¡°How do you know he hasn¡¯t?¡±


    It was just the two of them and the real Mary Fraser was beginning to appear, seeping out from the ladder in the stocking, the undyed roots of her hair, the clotted mascara. The file clerk was receding. But then, the real Armand Gamache was also appearing. The kindly retired cop was receding.


    She gave him a patient smile. ¡°We know.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know everything. You didn¡¯t know about the gun.¡± But even as he said it he wondered if that was true.


    ¡°We knew Dr. Bull was working on it, of course, but not that he¡¯d actually built it. That came as a surprise.¡±


    ¡°An unpleasant one, I¡¯m guessing.¡±


    ¡°Well, not necessarily. After all, we now have the world¡¯s only Supergun. It might come in handy.¡±


    ¡°Until another one¡¯s built,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Where are the plans?¡±


    ¡°Nowhere. They were destroyed by Gerald Bull.¡±


    ¡°Then why are you so worried?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not.¡±


    ¡°Then why are you still here?¡± he asked.


    She had nothing to say to that.


    ¡°And why are you reading a file on Dr. Bull?¡±


    Her hand splayed further, to better conceal the cover.


    ¡°You¡¯re not a fool, Madame Fraser, so why are you pretending to be?¡±


    ¡°Am I?¡±


    ¡°Word is spreading about the Supergun. The villagers now know, and while they¡¯ve been asked to keep it quiet, it¡¯s just a matter of time before it breaks out of this valley. And then journalists, gawkers, other scientists will arrive. And who knows who else might come out of the shadows. Come looking. Time is not on your side.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t ¡®someone¡¯ who leaked the news, Monsieur Gamache. It was Isabelle Lacoste.¡±


    Gamache sat absolutely still. Trying not to give anything away. Not a word, an expression, a twitch.


    ¡°That was foolish of her,¡± said Mary Fraser. ¡°She has no idea the world she¡¯s entered, and neither do you. You think you do, but you don¡¯t. There are no rules, monsieur. No laws. No gravity. Nothing binding us, holding us down or back.¡±


    ¡°I thought you were a file clerk.¡±


    She looked at the manila folder on her lap. ¡°I am. And what are files? They¡¯re information. Knowledge. And what is knowledge?¡±


    He didn¡¯t need to answer that, and neither did she.


    ¡°Why are you here?¡± he asked. ¡°Why you?¡±


    ¡°Be careful¡± was all she would say.


    ¡°Did you know Gerald Bull?¡± Gamache asked. ¡°Did CSIS kill him?¡±


    There was silence. He leaned forward and looked into the bland, unremarkable face.


    ¡°Did you?¡± he asked.


    ¡°You have not been careful, Monsieur Gamache.¡±


    He got up and bowed slightly. She remained where she was. But as he leaned toward her she whispered, ¡°Don¡¯t think it¡¯s escaped our notice how strange it is that a senior officer would take early retirement in the middle of nowhere, and shortly afterward Project Babylon is found.¡±


    Gamache straightened up, genuinely surprised. But the real surprise came next. Standing up and facing him, Mary Fraser¡¯s soft face became rigid.


    ¡°And don¡¯t think it¡¯s escaped our notice that a grown man claims to have been friends with a nine-year-old boy. You are either a pervert or you wanted something from that poor child. And I will find out which. I have my eye on you.¡±


    Gamache knew his mouth had just opened slightly, but he couldn¡¯t help it.

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    Was she really threatening him? Was this more artifice? A posture? Or did this woman genuinely believe he might be mixed up in this?


    Were they on the same side? He knew what his role was, and wasn¡¯t, in this. But he could not figure her out. Mary Fraser appeared socially inept, a little bumbling, maladroit. Soft-spoken and bookish. But she was also fiercely intelligent, and strong.


    Armand Gamache never, ever, made the mistake of demonizing strong women. Indeed, he¡¯d been raised by one, married one, promoted one. But he was far from certain he trusted this one.


    He took a few steps back and examined her, trying to figure out if she was sincere in her suspicions of him or just trying to toss the rock back.


    ¡°What¡¯s at Highwater?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Are you threatening me?¡± she asked. And she looked genuinely alarmed.


    It was not the reaction he¡¯d expected.


    He¡¯d hoped to speak to Lacoste and Beauvoir first, but when he saw them leaving Three Pines that morning, he¡¯d made the call himself to Agent Yvette Nichol, a former colleague in the S?ret¨¦. He asked her to track the movements of the CSIS investigators the day before through their cell phones. She reported back half an hour ago.


    Instead of spending the day examining Gerald Bull¡¯s Supergun, or searching for the plans, the pings from their cell phones indicated Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme had driven twenty miles away, to the village of Highwater, right on the Vermont border.


    ¡°Is what I said threatening?¡± Gamache asked. ¡°I had no idea. My apologies.¡±


    He left, feeling her eyes on his back until he was out the door of the small library.


    He knew where he was going next.


    *   *   *


    He didn¡¯t get there.


    Armand Gamache got as far as the front porch of the bed and breakfast when he saw Lacoste and Beauvoir return. Their car slowed, pulled over, and Jean-Guy leaned.


    ¡°We need to talk,¡± both men said at once.


    ¡°I¡¯ll come over to the Incident Room,¡± said Gamache. He could tell by their faces that something had happened.


    As the car pulled away, he noticed a copy of Fleming¡¯s play on the backseat, its cover covered with scribbled notes.


    Lacoste and Beauvoir were waiting for him beside the car as he walked across the bridge to the old railway station.


    ¡°What¡¯s happened?¡± he asked.


    ¡°You first,¡± said Lacoste as they went inside and took seats at the conference table.


    ¡°I know where the CSIS agents went yesterday,¡± said Gamache. ¡°I asked Agent Nichol to track their cell phones. I realize I was overstepping¡ª¡±


    Lacoste smiled and held up a hand to stop the apology. ¡°Please, don¡¯t. We want your help.¡±


    Gamache gave a curt nod. ¡°They went to a place called Highwater. It¡¯s in Qu¨¦bec, close to the border with Vermont, about thirty kilometers from here.¡±


    ¡°Do you know it?¡± Jean-Guy asked, getting up to consult the huge map tacked to the wall.


    ¡°No,¡± he said, joining Beauvoir along with Lacoste. He pointed it out, having already looked it up. ¡°I¡¯ve never been there. I gather it¡¯s pretty small.¡±


    ¡°Hmmm,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Any idea what they were doing there? Meeting someone?¡±


    ¡°Could be,¡± said Gamache, as they returned to their chairs. ¡°They stayed in one place for most of the day, then came straight back. Your turn.¡±


    ¡°Antoinette Lemaitre¡¯s been murdered,¡± said Isabelle Lacoste, and saw the shock on Gamache¡¯s face. ¡°I know she was a friend of yours.¡±


    He sat back in his chair and stared at them. Taking it in. ¡°What happened?¡±


    ¡°The place was ransacked,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°Looks like she interrupted a robbery, or it was made to look like that. She seems to have fallen and hit her head on the corner of the fireplace. Dr. Harris says it happened last night between nine thirty and two thirty in the morning.¡±


    ¡°She was supposed to be at Clara¡¯s,¡± said Armand. ¡°But she called to cancel. I wonder if the killer¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªalso thought she¡¯d be at Clara¡¯s and the place would be empty?¡± asked Lacoste. ¡°Could be.¡±


    Beauvoir excused himself to make some calls while Lacoste told Gamache, succinctly, the story as they understood it so far. Gamache was quiet, focused. Not taking notes, but taking it all in.


    ¡°We asked the neighbors if they saw anything but they were all watching Les Filles de Caleb.¡±


    ¡°Maybe Antoinette asked her guests to come at that time for that very reason. She wanted to make sure no one saw them arrive,¡± said Beauvoir, returning.

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    ¡°But why would it be a secret if it was just members of the theater company?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°Because it wasn¡¯t,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°I called them just now. Neither has heard from Antoinette since they quit. So either Antoinette lied to Brian or he lied to us.¡±


    ¡°But he must¡¯ve known we¡¯d find out,¡± said Lacoste. She thought for a moment. ¡°It¡¯s more likely Antoinette lied to him about who was coming over.¡±


    ¡°And why?¡± said Gamache. ¡°Who could her visitors have been?¡±


    ¡°And did they kill her?¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°It seems likely. But they were running a risk. Suppose Antoinette told Brian who was really coming over?¡±


    ¡°They must¡¯ve known she wouldn¡¯t tell him the truth,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Which means it was something she wanted to keep secret.¡±


    ¡°Something shameful?¡± suggested Beauvoir, tossing out ideas. ¡°Something illegal or unethical? An affair?¡±


    They stared at each other. Then Gamache¡¯s eyes were drawn to the script. So much seemed to circle back to it. The goddamned play.


    Beauvoir followed the glance. ¡°Yes, we were wondering the same thing. Could her death have something to do with the Fleming play? Were they looking for it? Does that explain the mess in their home? Brian had taken it to Montr¨¦al, but they couldn¡¯t have known that.¡±


    Gamache got up. ¡°I¡¯ve almost finished reading it. There¡¯s nothing hidden in the plot that I can see. Do you need me for anything? I was going to drive to Highwater, but it¡¯s getting late, and with this news, I think I¡¯ll stay here. Do you mind if I tell Reine-Marie?¡±


    ¡°No. In fact, we might as well tell everyone,¡± said Lacoste, joining him. ¡°I¡¯ll come with you and start the interviews.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s something else you need to know, Isabelle.¡±


    He stopped, and she turned to him. ¡°I asked Mary Fraser about Highwater. They know that we know they were there.¡±


    ¡°And her reaction?¡±


    ¡°She asked if I was threatening her.¡±


    ¡°Huh,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°That¡¯s strange. I wonder what she meant.¡±


    ¡°I wonder what¡¯s in Highwater.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll look it up when I get back to the Incident Room.¡±


    ¡°You have other things to do,¡± he said. ¡°I can look it up. I still have my security codes.¡±


    ¡°Oh, the damage you could do, patron,¡± Lacoste said, with a smile.


    ¡°Funnily enough, Mary Fraser seems to think the same thing. She all but accused me of being involved in Laurent¡¯s death and somehow involved in the hunt for Gerald Bull¡¯s Supergun.¡±


    ¡°If she thinks that she¡¯s crazy.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s complex,¡± he said. ¡°I was talking with an old friend at CSIS just a week or so ago. I¡¯ll call her up again and have Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme checked out, on the quiet of course. But there¡¯s something else. They know you were the one who leaked the information about Project Babylon.¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste¡¯s eyes widened, just a bit, and she sighed. ¡°Well, bound to happen. I¡¯m not worried.¡±


    But she looked worried. As well she should be, thought Armand as they walked into the quiet village and parted ways. He was beginning to think Mary Fraser was not someone you wanted on the other side. The question was, which side was she on?


    CHAPTER 25


    Clara Morrow sank onto the chair in the bistro. She¡¯d been having drinks with a few friends, including Myrna, when Isabelle Lacoste had come in.


    They could tell by her face that she had news that would not be good. But neither Clara nor anyone else in the bistro thought it could be quite that bad.


    Antoinette was dead. Murdered.


    Like everyone else in the room, Clara had gotten to her feet on hearing the news. Then she¡¯d sunk back down, staring at Myrna, who¡¯d also dropped to her seat.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening here?¡± asked Clara.


    ¡°It¡¯s the goddamned play,¡± said Ruth, a few tables over. ¡°She should never have decided to produce it.¡±


    They fell silent again, thinking of the play and its author.


    It felt as though a long, elongated shadow had slipped between the bars of Fleming¡¯s cell, stretching toward them. Like a finger. Thin and grotesque.


    And last night, it had arrived.


    Clara and Myrna went over to join the old poet, who was scribbling in her notebook. Lines of poetry, Clara saw, but couldn¡¯t read the words. Gabri and Olivier were already at the table.

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    Professor Rosenblatt sat at a corner table, watching them from the outer edge of their universe. Clara motioned to him and he got up and joined them. There seemed safety in numbers, though they all knew safety was comforting but an illusion.


    Chief Inspector Lacoste pulled a chair over to their table.


    ¡°What happened?¡± Olivier asked.


    She told them what she could.


    ¡°Do you have any idea who did this to Antoinette?¡± Myrna asked.


    They spoke in hushed tones.


    ¡°Not yet.¡±


    ¡°Or why?¡± asked Clara.


    Again, Lacoste shook her head. ¡°When Antoinette called last night and said she wasn¡¯t coming for dinner, did she say anything else?¡±


    Clara thought about that. ¡°She said she was tired and thought she¡¯d have a quiet evening to herself.¡±


    ¡°What impression did you get?¡± Lacoste asked.


    Clara shook her head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but I got no impression at all beyond what she said. She wanted an evening to herself, with Brian away and all.¡±


    ¡°How did you know he was gone for the night?¡±


    ¡°She told me when I called to invite them that afternoon.¡±


    ¡°Did anyone else know he¡¯d be away?¡± Lacoste looked around the gathering. Everyone was shaking their heads. ¡°Did you know Brian had regular meetings in Montr¨¦al?¡±


    ¡°We knew he had to go in every now and then,¡± said Olivier. ¡°And that they have a small apartment in the city, but I don¡¯t think we knew when he went.¡±


    ¡°Oh, my God, poor Brian,¡± said Gabri. ¡°Does he know?¡±


    ¡°He found her,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°This morning.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll call him,¡± said Gabri, getting up and going to the phone. ¡°See if he wants to come stay with us for a few days.¡±


    ¡°Is her death connected to the gun?¡±


    That question was asked by Professor Rosenblatt, who up to now had sat quietly.


    ¡°We don¡¯t know,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°But how could it be?¡± asked Myrna. ¡°Antoinette had nothing to do with it, did she?¡±


    ¡°Not that we know of,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°It was the play,¡± Ruth repeated. ¡°It was John Fleming.¡±


    ¡°Someone might¡¯ve killed Antoinette because they were angry about the play,¡± conceded Lacoste. ¡°And then made it look like robbery. It seems the most likely motive. But it wasn¡¯t John Fleming. He¡¯s in prison. Has been for years.¡±


    ¡°Has he?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯re you saying, Ruth?¡± Clara asked.


    ¡°You of all people should know.¡± The old poet turned to her. ¡°Creations are creatures, and they have lives of their own. That play is Fleming and Fleming is a murderer.¡±


    ¡°And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,¡± said Rosenblatt, looking down at Ruth¡¯s notebook, ¡°Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?¡±


    Ruth glared at him and closed her notebook with such a snap they all jumped.


    *   *   *


    After breaking the news to Reine-Marie about Antoinette, and talking about it until there seemed little more to say, Armand went into the study and started searching the files for information on Highwater.


    It seemed an innocuous little village. Like many communities, it was settled along the border with Vermont and had once thrived with lumber mills and a train station. But, like many small communities, it had shrunk once the railway had closed the station. And now it was almost invisible.


    He spent a couple of hours but found absolutely nothing remarkable about Highwater. Absolutely no reason two intelligence agents should spend the day there.


    But something was there. Something, or someone, had drawn Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme to Highwater.


    He wandered out of the study and his eyes fell on his own copy of the Fleming play. He grabbed a day-old copy of La Presse and settled in. Then he got up to see if Reine-Marie was all right. She was in the kitchen, making dinner.


    ¡°Can I help?¡± he asked, though he knew the answer.


    When upset, Reine-Marie liked to chop, to measure, to stir. To follow a recipe. Everything in order. No guessing, no surprises.


    It was creative and calming and the outcome was both comforting and predictable.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m fine. And yes, I mean that sort of FINE,¡± said Reine-Marie, making reference to the title of one of Ruth¡¯s poetry books, where FINE stood for Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical.


    He laughed, kissed her and returned to the living room, picking up a New Yorker. But his eyes were drawn to the play on the table by the door.

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    Finally he poured a drink for Reine-Marie and one for himself, then he picked up the goddamned play, and read.


    He had to remind himself that there was nothing supernatural about what he held in his hands. Nothing malevolent. It contained only the power he gave it.


    Armand forced himself to read a few more pages, then looked over at the bookcases lining their walls crammed with cherished volumes.


    Where once his grandparents put up crucifixes and images of the benediction on their walls, he and Reine-Marie put up books on theirs. History books. Reference books. Biographies. Fiction, nonfiction. Stories lined the walls and both insulated them from the outside world and connected them to it.


    He laid the script on the sofa and got up, browsing the shelves. Reading the familiar titles. Touching the covers.


    Renewed, he returned to the play. And plowed onward.


    A few minutes later the phone rang and Gamache realized he was gripping the play so tightly it took an effort to let it go.


    ¡°Chief?¡± said Lacoste. There was excitement in her voice.


    ¡°Oui?¡±


    ¡°Can you come over to the Incident Room? We¡¯ve found something.¡±


    ¡°About the Lemaitre case?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but something else too.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be right there.¡±


    He asked Reine-Marie to hold dinner for a few more minutes and explained where he was going.


    ¡°Invite them back if you¡¯d like,¡± she called after him. ¡°There¡¯s plenty.¡±


    She was four courses upset and considering an amuse-bouche.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Adam,¡± said Gamache, taking the younger man¡¯s hand in a grip that was strong and enveloping. ¡°A sight for sore eyes.¡±


    ¡°Chief,¡± said Adam Cohen with delight.


    ¡°Are you one of the investigators on the Lemaitre case?¡±


    ¡°Oh, God no, sir. They won¡¯t let me near the place,¡± said Agent Cohen. ¡°Chief Inspector Lacoste barely lets me leave my desk at headquarters.¡±


    ¡°And yet, here you are in Three Pines. You¡¯ll have to come down more often. I normally have to content myself with my son-in-law.¡±


    Gamache gestured toward Jean-Guy Beauvoir.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid your daughter has shown questionable taste, sir.¡± Agent Cohen lowered his voice in the pretense of a whisper.


    ¡°It runs in the family,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Her mother did too.¡±


    He examined the young agent. Cohen had washed out of the academy and taken a job as a prison guard. But he¡¯d come to Gamache¡¯s aid during a terrible time, when everyone else was deserting the Chief, and Gamache had not forgotten. He¡¯d managed to get Cohen back into the academy, tutoring him until he¡¯d graduated.


    Gamache had asked Lacoste, as one of her first acts and his final one, to take on Adam Cohen as a trainee and prot¨¦g¨¦. To take care of him.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°Chief Inspector Lacoste asked me to look into Antoinette Lemaitre¡¯s family. I tried to send what I found, but the Internet connection here is so weak I decided to bring it down myself to make sure it arrived.¡±


    ¡°He gnawed through his chain,¡± said Beauvoir, leading everyone over to the conference table.


    Gamache sat down and looked from one to the other to the other, finally settling on Isabelle.


    ¡°What have you found?¡±


    She leaned forward. ¡°The home Antoinette Lemaitre was living in was in her name, but before that it belonged to her uncle.¡±


    Gamache nodded. He knew that. Brian had told them.


    Armand noticed that in front of Agent Cohen there was a page, facedown.


    Cohen, Gamache realized, had more than a little bit of the dramatist about him. He must have studied under Jean-Guy Beauvoir.


    ¡°Guillaume Couture¡¯s family was from the area,¡± Agent Cohen reported. ¡°He built the house on some of the land they owned. There were no other relatives. He retired in the early 1990s.¡± Cohen¡¯s fingers moved to the edge of the paper. ¡°He died in 2005. Cancer. But before he retired he held a fascinating job.¡±


    ¡°He was an engineer,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Antoinette said he built overpasses. Not dull, but not what I¡¯d describe as fascinating.¡±


    Adam Cohen turned the page over.


    It was a grainy black-and-white photograph blown up from a smaller image. It showed a group of men standing in what looked like a tube.


    Gamache put on his glasses and leaned closer.


    ¡°That,¡± Adam Cohen pointed, ¡°is Guillaume Couture.¡±


    The nondescript man grinned, almost maniacally, into the camera. His hair was lank and he wore glasses with thick black frames and an ill-fitting suit and tie. Two men stood on either side of him. The one in a cap was caught looking down and away from the camera, while the other appeared disinterested, even disdainful. Impatient.

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    Gamache felt his cheeks grow cold. He looked up from the photograph into the glowing eyes of Agent Cohen.


    Then Armand took off his glasses and looked from Beauvoir to Lacoste.


    They were staring at him in triumph. And for good reason.


    ¡°Voil¨¤,¡± said Lacoste, putting her finger right onto the churlish face of the third man in the picture. ¡°The connection.¡±


    It was Gerald Bull.


    Gamache took a deep breath, trying to take it in. ¡°Guillaume Couture knew Gerald Bull.¡±


    ¡°More than knew him, sir,¡± said Agent Cohen. ¡°The picture¡¯s from Dr. Couture¡¯s obit. Not the one in the newspaper, but the one in the McGill Alumni News.¡±


    ¡°Guillaume Couture went to McGill?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°No. He graduated from the Universit¨¦ de Montr¨¦al,¡± said Cohen. ¡°But he worked at McGill.¡±


    ¡°In what department?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°Dr. Couture was a mechanical engineer,¡± said Chief Inspector Lacoste. ¡°But he was seconded to the physics department, to work on the High Altitude Research Project.¡±


    ¡°HARP,¡± said Adam Cohen, leaning back, then deciding that was far too casual, he sat forward again. ¡°The forerunner of Project Babylon.¡±


    ¡°Antoinette¡¯s uncle worked with Gerald Bull,¡± said Gamache.


    CHAPTER 26


    Dinner was served, starting with parsnip and apple soup, with a drizzle of walnut-infused oil on top.


    ¡°Olivier gave me the recipe,¡± said Reine-Marie, turning down the light in the kitchen.


    Candles were lit, not so much to create a romantic atmosphere for herself and Armand, and Isabelle and Jean-Guy and young Mr. Cohen. It was for the calm that came with twilight, and tea lights, and the small flickering flames. If the topic of conversation was harsh, at least the atmosphere could be gentle.


    They¡¯d returned to the Gamache home for dinner, and to continue what they¡¯d started in the Incident Room.


    ¡°Was there any evidence in Antoinette¡¯s house of her uncle¡¯s association with Gerald Bull?¡± Armand asked.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°In fact, there was no evidence of her uncle at all. Nada. Not a photograph, not a card. No private papers. If we didn¡¯t know Guillaume Couture was Antoinette¡¯s uncle and had once lived in the place, we¡¯d never have discovered it in that house.¡±


    Gamache took a couple of spoonfuls of soup. It was smooth and earthy and just a touch sweet.


    ¡°Delicious,¡± he said to Reine-Marie, but his mind was elsewhere.


    ¡°Some people aren¡¯t nostalgic,¡± Lacoste said. ¡°My father¡¯s like that. He doesn¡¯t keep papers or letters.¡±


    ¡°Maybe Antoinette just wanted to make the house her own,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°Heaven knows she was self-involved enough. Her uncle¡¯s things might not have been welcome in the seigneurial home.¡±


    ¡°But not even a photograph?¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°They were close enough for him to leave her his home and she didn¡¯t keep anything belonging to him? Seems like a purge.¡±


    Armand agreed with Reine-Marie. It suggested a cleansing far deeper than simply making a place her own.


    ¡°Maybe that¡¯s what the killer was doing,¡± said Isabelle. ¡°Maybe he wanted to erase all evidence of Dr. Couture and his connection to Gerald Bull.¡±


    Gamache remembered his conversation with Mary Fraser earlier in the day. And the file the CSIS file clerk was trying to conceal. But why hide a file on Gerald Bull? Everyone expected her to have one of those.


    She was trying to hide the name on the file because it was unexpected. And Gamache thought he knew what it said. He¡¯d been wrong. It wasn¡¯t Gerald Bull in that dossier, it was Guillaume Couture.


    ¡°More likely the killer was looking for something he thought Dr. Couture would have in his home,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°The plans for Project Babylon,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Is that why Antoinette was killed? For something she never even knew she had?¡±


    ¡°But why would Guillaume Couture have had the plans?¡± Beauvoir asked. ¡°I can¡¯t imagine Gerald Bull would trust anyone with them.¡±


    ¡°Maybe Dr. Couture stole them from Bull,¡± Lacoste suggested.


    ¡°Okay, let¡¯s say he stole them, then what?¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°Couture just hides them in his home. Why not sell them if they were that valuable?¡±


    ¡°Maybe he wanted to make sure no other gun was ever built,¡± said Cohen.


    ¡°Then why not destroy the plans?¡± asked Beauvoir. ¡°Why keep them?¡±

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    ¡°We don¡¯t know that he did keep them,¡± Lacoste pointed out. ¡°We¡¯re pretty sure he didn¡¯t sell them because no other gun was ever built, but he might¡¯ve destroyed them. We don¡¯t know, and the killer wouldn¡¯t know either.¡±


    ¡°But that would mean the murderer knew about the connection between Antoinette¡¯s uncle and Gerald Bull,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°Why didn¡¯t he look for the plans sooner? Why now?¡±


    ¡°Because the gun was found now,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°That¡¯s the catalyst. Until then the plans were worthless. But once a working model was found¡ª¡±


    ¡°The plans become priceless,¡± said Reine-Marie. ¡°I get it.¡±


    ¡°There is another possibility,¡± said Gamache. ¡°That Gerald Bull never had the plans.¡±


    They stared at him. They¡¯d moved from the soup to fettuccine with grilled salmon, tossed with fennel and apple.


    ¡°His apartment in Brussels was searched several times before his death, and nothing was found,¡± Gamache explained. ¡°After his murder, people looked but the designs for Project Babylon never turned up. It was assumed that Bull, knowing he was in trouble, destroyed them. But suppose they weren¡¯t found on him because he didn¡¯t have them?¡±


    ¡°Because he gave them to Dr. Couture,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°Or because Couture stole them,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°Or,¡± said Gamache, ¡°because Gerald Bull never had the plans to begin with.¡±


    ¡°You think Gerald Bull was the ¡®front of house,¡¯¡± said Lacoste. ¡°And Dr. Couture the real genius?¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s possible Dr. Bull did not have the plans because Dr. Bull did not make the plans,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Do you still have the photograph, Adam?¡±


    Agent Cohen jumped up and returned a moment later with the picture. He put it on the kitchen table and everyone leaned in.


    ¡°Do you want more light?¡± asked Reine-Marie.


    ¡°No, this is fine,¡± said her husband. The candlelight was indeed soothing. ¡°I think they might have been a perfect team,¡± he said, looking at the photo. ¡°Bull gregarious, outgoing. Dr. Couture quieter, a bachelor scientist. Devoted to his work.¡±


    ¡°His work being Project Babylon,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°According to what you found out¡±¡ªGamache turned to Cohen¡ª¡°Dr. Couture started working with Gerald Bull at McGill, on HARP.¡±


    ¡°Right, but funding for the High Altitude Research Project was cut,¡± said Cohen. ¡°And Dr. Bull left McGill.¡±


    ¡°What did he do then?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°He formed the Space Research Corporation,¡± said Cohen.


    ¡°And the SRC eventually developed the long-range artillery that became Project Babylon,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°By then it was a private company, run by Bull.¡±


    ¡°Gerald Bull became an arms dealer,¡± said Gamache. ¡°But not, perhaps, an arms designer.¡±


    ¡°That explains why Project Babylon was built here,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°Because Guillaume Couture was here.¡±


    ¡°He built the prototype close to home,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Where he could oversee it, but no one else could. In the middle of a Qu¨¦bec forest, where the Iranians, the Israelis, the Iraqis, our own people would never think to look. A gun that doesn¡¯t exist in a village that doesn¡¯t exist.¡±


    ¡°The last place on earth,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°Three Pines.¡±


    ¡°And no one guessed that Gerald Bull wasn¡¯t the creator of Project Babylon?¡± asked Cohen.


    ¡°Why would they?¡± asked Chief Inspector Lacoste. ¡°And who would care? As long as he delivered.¡±


    ¡°And when he¡¯s murdered, Couture gets scared,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°He hides the plans, or maybe destroys them, and goes to ground. Retires to his tomatoes and peppers, and tries to forget about the thing in the woods.¡±


    ¡°It was covered with camouflage netting,¡± said Gamache. ¡°An effort had been made to hide it. And the firing pin was removed. Who else but the designer could do that? Did you find the firing pin in Antoinette¡¯s home?¡±


    ¡°No, though to be fair, we weren¡¯t looking,¡± said Beauvoir. ¡°We¡¯ll go back and have another look.¡±


    ¡°If it was there, the killer probably took it,¡± said Gamache. ¡°But worth a look.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll double the guard on the gun,¡± said Lacoste, and headed to the telephone in the study.


    The lights suddenly went on, full force, and Armand looked over at Reine-Marie, who was standing by the switch, then she returned to the table.

 Page 98

    ¡°Well, that killed the mood,¡± said Jean-Guy.


    ¡°I wanted a clearer look at this picture,¡± she said, bending over it.


    ¡°Do you recognize someone, Madame Gamache?¡± Adam Cohen asked.


    ¡°No, not the people, but the place looks familiar. Armand?¡±


    The three men in the grainy enlargement were standing at the top of a very long tunnel that sloped downward. The walls appeared to be metal, with strips of more metal shooting down the sides and ceiling. Huge pot lights were attached to the top.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think this¡¯s a tunnel,¡± she said. ¡°I think they¡¯re standing at the top of a long cylinder.¡±


    ¡°The mouth of a gun, perhaps,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°It would have to be a pretty big gun.¡±


    ¡°Well, we have a pretty big gun,¡± he said.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s a gun,¡± said Beauvoir, leaning over Madame Gamache¡¯s shoulder. ¡°It actually looks more like a stairway.¡±


    ¡°Or an escalator,¡± said Armand.


    It did look vaguely familiar. A metro stop? An airport? It could be anywhere.


    ¡°Oh, this¡¯s killing me,¡± said Reine-Marie.


    ¡°Probably doesn¡¯t matter,¡± said Armand. ¡°The picture was obviously taken years ago.¡±


    ¡°What would happen if another one of those guns was built?¡± Reine-Marie asked.


    Gamache was silent for a moment, then opened his mouth. But there were no words. Certainly none of the reassuring words she was hoping for. The candlelit words. And to Reine-Marie¡¯s horror, he simply closed his mouth and looked at her.


    ¡°Do you think the killer found the plans?¡± she asked quietly.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Mary Fraser accused me of not understanding how dangerous the world of arms dealers is. And she¡¯s right. I don¡¯t think anything we¡¯ve faced compares to it. The scale of death they deal in is almost beyond comprehension. They create and feed wars, they encourage genocide. For profit. And what a profit. The money must be in the billions. Lives are worthless, incidental.¡±


    He spoke almost matter-of-factly, which only added to the horror of what he was saying.


    ¡°I think we have to assume the worst,¡± said Jean-Guy. ¡°That the plans have been found.¡±


    The dinner broke up shortly after that. There didn¡¯t seem much else to say. They made arrangements for Adam Cohen to take Beauvoir¡¯s room at the B and B while Jean-Guy moved into the Gamaches¡¯ home. The young man seemed relieved not to have to drive back to the city.


    After Lacoste and Cohen had gone and the dishes were done, Armand and Henri went for a walk.


    ¡°Mind if I join you?¡± Jean-Guy asked.


    The three of them walked in companionable silence around and around the village green. It was a clear, cold night and they could see their breath. The sky was filled with stars, and moon shadows from the three huge pines stretched across the grass and landed at the bistro.


    They could see Professor Rosenblatt sitting alone at a table. Gamache paused and thought. And knew it was time.


    ¡°Chilly night,¡± he said to Jean-Guy. ¡°I feel like something to warm me up.¡±


    ¡°I was thinking the same thing, patron.¡±


    A minute later they were standing over the professor¡¯s table.


    ¡°Bonsoir,¡± said Armand.


    ¡°Hello,¡± said the professor, looking up and smiling.


    Armand took the photograph from his pocket and placed it on the bistro table, sliding it slowly forward, toward Michael Rosenblatt.


    ¡°I¡¯d like an answer to my question now, s¡¯il vous pla?t,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Did Gerald Bull design the Supergun? Or did someone else? Someone smarter?¡±


    He watched as the smile flattened. Flatlined. Died on Rosenblatt¡¯s face.


    CHAPTER 27


    ¡°Last call,¡± said Olivier from behind the bar.


    There were two other occupants of the bistro, young lovers on a date, holding hands across the table. Gamache wasn¡¯t worried about them. They clearly were in their own world. One that, thankfully, did not include genocide, and warheads, and dark things hidden in deep forests. Gamache wanted to make sure the two worlds did not meet.


    ¡°Monsieur?¡± Gamache nodded toward Rosenblatt¡¯s cognac.


    ¡°Oh, I think not.¡±


    The elderly scientist was slurring slightly, and now blood rushed, in a flush, to his face.


    ¡°Perhaps a glass of water, patron,¡± said Beauvoir, and Olivier returned with a pitcher and three glasses.


    ¡°I wondered when you¡¯d find out,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°I probably should have told you.¡±

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    ¡°Oui,¡± said Gamache. ¡°That would¡¯ve been helpful, and might even have saved a life.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯d you mean?¡± Professor Rosenblatt opened his eyes wide, then screwed them shut, in an attempt to focus.


    It wasn¡¯t, Gamache thought, simply the alcohol. The man looked exhausted.


    ¡°A woman named Antoinette Lemaitre was killed last night,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°Yes, I heard. Terrible,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°The people here seem to think it had something to do with a play. Must have been a very bad play.¡±


    ¡°She was Guillaume Couture¡¯s niece,¡± said Gamache.


    Michael Rosenblatt stared at them as though they¡¯d gone fuzzy.


    ¡°Guillaume Couture,¡± he repeated. ¡°I haven¡¯t heard that name in a long time.¡±


    ¡°How did you know him?¡± Beauvoir asked.


    Rosenblatt looked surprised by the question. He glanced at the photograph, then from one to the other of his companions.


    ¡°We worked together, briefly. With Gerald Bull. Back in the McGill days.¡±


    They waited for more. The young couple left, arm in arm, and Olivier began cleaning up.


    And still they waited.


    It seemed Rosenblatt had fallen into a stupor.


    ¡°Where did you get that?¡± He finally spoke, gesturing toward the picture.


    ¡°The McGill alumni magazine. It¡¯s from Dr. Couture¡¯s obituary,¡± said Beauvoir.


    Michael Rosenblatt nodded. ¡°I remember seeing the notice and the photo and wondering if anyone would put it together. But they didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Put what together?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°Or maybe they did,¡± said Rosenblatt, either ignoring the question or lost in his own thoughts.


    He seemed to be rallying, rousing. His voice was less dreamy. His eyes sharper.


    Gamache wasn¡¯t sure this was such a good thing. His defenses would soon go up again, and this man¡¯s barriers were thick and old and encrusted with a lifetime of evasions.


    ¡°He was very clever, you know. Switched on.¡±


    ¡°Dr. Couture?¡± asked Gamache.


    Rosenblatt laughed. ¡°No. Not him. Gerald Bull. Most scientists are sort of idiot savants. They know one thing very well, but fail in most other aspects of their lives. But not Dr. Bull. He could be off-putting. Abrupt, impatient. But he could also be charming and clever. He was shrewd, you know. Picked up on things that others missed. It¡¯s a useful tool. He made connections. I don¡¯t mean social, though he did that too. He made intellectual connections. He could see how things fit together.¡±


    ¡°As a scientist?¡± asked Gamache.


    Now Rosenblatt chuckled. ¡°As a scientist he was crap.¡± He reflected a bit on that, then amended what he¡¯d said. ¡°Not crap really. He¡¯d earned his Ph.D. He was workmanlike. No, you were right yesterday when you suggested his real genius was public relations. Getting people to agree to the disagreeable. But he was also ruthless.¡±


    ¡°Who designed Project Babylon?¡± asked Gamache.


    Rosenblatt nodded toward the photograph. ¡°You already know.¡±


    ¡°I need you to confirm it.¡±


    Even now, even when worn down and cornered, Gamache could see the elderly scientist twisting, so deep was the instinct and perhaps the training to evade.


    ¡°The plans may have been found,¡± Gamache said quietly.


    ¡°Ahh,¡± said Rosenblatt. The sound slipped out of him, like a long tail on a sigh.


    He nodded a few times, carrying on some internal conversation. A debate. An argument. And then he spoke.


    ¡°Guillaume Couture designed Project Babylon. I suspect Gerald Bull conceived of the idea, but he needed someone smarter than himself to actually figure out how to do it. So he found Dr. Couture ferreting away in the engineering department of McGill. Couture became Bull¡¯s chief designer and silent partner.¡±


    Now that he¡¯d started, Professor Rosenblatt couldn¡¯t seem to stop talking. It was such a stream of information and confidences that Gamache found himself wary. Not sure if this was the truth, half-truths, or a blockade of lies.


    Though it fit with their own conclusions. Perhaps a bit too well.


    ¡°Gerald Bull essentially committed suicide when he put himself forward as the sole designer of Project Babylon,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°He was killed to stop him. No one knew about Guillaume Couture.¡±


    ¡°Except you,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°Oh, I didn¡¯t know. Not until much later. All that research on Gerald Bull, it didn¡¯t fit, until I factored in someone else. Someone smarter.¡±


    ¡°Do you think Dr. Couture would have kept the plans?¡± Beauvoir asked. ¡°After all, they¡¯re what got his boss killed.¡±

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    ¡°It was his life¡¯s work,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°Guillaume was a nice man, in many ways a gentle man. But he was unbothered by a conscience. He had no imagination. No, that¡¯s probably unfair. He was myopic. Shortsighted. He only saw the challenge, the scheme. He didn¡¯t look beyond that, to what his plans would actually do.¡±


    ¡°So what does that mean?¡± Beauvoir demanded. ¡°Would he have kept the plans or not?¡±


    ¡°I think so,¡± said Rosenblatt. ¡°They were the work of a lifetime. Without doubt the highlight of his career.¡± He considered for a moment. ¡°You say the woman killed last night was his niece?¡±


    ¡°She lived in his home,¡± said Gamache.


    In the background, the clock on the bistro mantel struck the hour. Midnight.


    ¡°And you didn¡¯t find the plans?¡± Rosenblatt asked.


    Gamache shook his head and in the silence the clock continued to sound. One measured stroke after another.


    ¡°You think the killer has the designs for Project Babylon,¡± said Rosenblatt.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s possible. We have to assume he found them,¡± said Gamache.


    The clock struck one last time, then stopped.


    Michael Rosenblatt looked at it, then back at Gamache.


    ¡°The chimes at midnight, Chief Inspector,¡± he said quietly. ¡°It¡¯s later than we thought.¡±


    Beauvoir saw a look pass between the two men and knew he¡¯d missed some reference. But not the meaning.


    They walked the professor back to the B and B and made sure he got up to his room. A light was on under Mary Fraser¡¯s door, and Gamache paused, then tapped.


    ¡°What¡¯re you doing?¡± Beauvoir whispered.


    ¡°The CSIS agents need to know that the plans might¡¯ve been found,¡± Gamache whispered back.


    ¡°Just a minute,¡± came Mary Fraser¡¯s pleasant voice. The door opened and she stood there adjusting an unexpectedly frilly dressing gown. ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°You were expecting someone else?¡± Jean-Guy asked.


    ¡°Well, I wasn¡¯t expecting you,¡± she said. She had her glasses on and papers were spread out on the bed. Jean-Guy strained to get a look at them, but she stepped out and closed the door.


    ¡°What can I do for you? It must be late.¡± She peered at her watch. ¡°It¡¯s past midnight.¡±


    It¡¯s later than we thought. Rosenblatt¡¯s words drifted into Beauvoir¡¯s mind.


    ¡°The plans might¡¯ve been found,¡± said Armand.


    The bookish woman who lived in a filing cabinet disappeared and a much sharper person stood before them, albeit in a frilly pink dressing gown.


    ¡°Come with me,¡± said the CSIS agent, and led them downstairs and into the farthest corner of the B and B¡¯s living room.


    ¡°Should we get Monsieur Delorme?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°No need,¡± she said, taking a seat. ¡°You can tell me and I¡¯ll pass the information on to him.¡±


    Gamache and Beauvoir sat in the two remaining armchairs.


    ¡°You might have heard about another murder in the area,¡± said Gamache. ¡°A woman named Antoinette Lemaitre.¡±


    ¡°Yes, the owner of the B and B told me. He seems to be town crier.¡±


    ¡°Antoinette Lemaitre was Guillaume Couture¡¯s niece.¡±


    Fraser stared at Gamache, the words sliding off her expressionless face to drop into silence. It took effort for an intelligent person to look that vacant, and Gamache suspected she was working very, very hard at that moment.


    ¡°Whose niece?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Please, madame,¡± said Gamache. ¡°We have no time for this. You know as well as I do that Guillaume Couture worked with Gerald Bull at HARP, and almost certainly on the Supergun.¡±


    Once again he took the photograph out of his pocket. Unfolding it, he handed it to her. Her brows rose very slightly, creating tiny crevices in her forehead.


    ¡°You cannot possibly be an expert on Gerald Bull and not know that,¡± said Gamache.


    Mary Fraser folded the picture in half and offered it back.


    ¡°Dr. Bull had many colleagues. Including, might I remind you, Professor Rosenblatt.¡±


    ¡°True, but Professor Rosenblatt¡¯s niece wasn¡¯t just murdered and the home he once owned ransacked,¡± said Gamache, taking back the photograph. ¡°Time is running out and your evasions are wasting what little we have left. You seem to be treating this as some sort of game. We know all about Dr. Couture.¡±


    ¡°You know nothing,¡± she hissed. ¡°You¡¯re mired in guesses, not facts. And don¡¯t you ever presume to lecture me about the importance of what we¡¯re doing. You gave up that right when you ran away to this quaint little village with its caf¨¦ au laits and village f¨ºtes. Do you know what I see when I look at you?¡±