by Louise Penny
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “But I think you do.”
Dominica smiled and gave a single grunt of either laughter or recognition.
“I saw your latest exhibition,” said Dominica. “In the cooperative collection of miniatures at the Brooklyn Art Space. Very generous of you, by the way, to agree to show with unknowns.”
Clara closed her eyes briefly. This was it. Finally. She had what she wanted. Needed. Dominica Oddly would tell the art world, all the naysayers and trolls and shits who’d turned on her, that they were wrong. Clara Morrow was a force within the art community.
Clara Morrow would get her revenge.
“Thank you,” she said. “You must know how important this is to me. You’ve seen all the horrible things people have said on social media. My own home gallery is threatening to drop me. People are saying I’m a … what did you just call it…?”
“A poseur. A fraud.”
“Yes. A fake. But a good review from you would change all that. Would stop all the attacks.”
“I’ve seen what they’re writing, yes.”
Then a thought occurred to Clara. Dominica was, for all her confidence, still young. Maybe she’s afraid that if she voices a dissenting opinion, she’ll lose credibility.
“I have no problem telling it like it is,” Oddly said, as though reading her thoughts. “Going against popular opinion. It’s one of my favorite things to do.”
“Then why haven’t you posted? Why wait to defend me? Damage is being done.”
“Because I don’t disagree.”
“Pardon?”
“Your miniatures are appalling, Clara. Trite. Predictable. A blunder.” She turned back to the Warrior Uteruses. “I admire an artist for trying something different,” and then she looked at Clara again. “But your miniatures show not just a shocking lack of technique but an almost insulting lack of depth, of effort. They’re cowardly.”
Clara stood stock-still in her studio.
“I was about to publish the review when Ruth Zardo’s invitation arrived. I decided to wait until I saw you. Until I had a chance to look you in the eye. And thank you personally for your previous work, and tell you how I feel about your latest. I think all those people posting are right. You’re insulting those who once loved your work, who once supported you. You’re insulting the art world. And, worst of all, you’ve squandered, cheapened your talent. Betrayed the gift you were given. And that’s a travesty. No real artist would do that, could do that.”
She brought a piece of paper out of her pocket. “Here.”
As she held it out to Clara, she caught, again, that elusive scent. Below the oils, below the turpentine, the wet dog, the old bananas.
It was lemon. Not the sour smell but the fresh, sweet scent of lemon meringue pie.
Clara reached for the paper, even as she felt the thrashing and heard the crunch of bones.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Catch this video. Sick. #GamacheSux
Heard Odd about to post review of Morrow stinkers. Finally. #ClaraMorrowSucks
@CarlTracey: Carl, trying to reach you. What’s happening? Call me.
Information was coming in quickly now.
Sitting in his car on rue Principale in Cowansville, Jean-Guy Beauvoir scanned the messages from his agents.
Smiling, he clicked the phone closed and got out to join Gamache, who’d sent him the address and had just arrived himself outside the pizza joint.
“The boot prints match Tracey’s,” said Beauvoir without preamble.
“Bon,” said Gamache. “It’s all coming together.”
“They’re in there,” said Cameron, coming around the corner to join them.
He pointed to an old low-rise apartment building.
“Used to be a crack house, run by the mother of one of the kids. We busted her, but the kid now runs his own operation out of there. Not crack but black-market shit.”
“Kid?” asked Gamache.
“Minor. Fifteen. Name’s Toby.”
There was a character in a book Beauvoir read to his son every night named Toby. A mischievous boy with a pet balloon.
Honoré found the adventures of Toby and his balloon hilarious. Jean-Guy found them strangely moving, as the boy struggled mightily to protect his vulnerable friend. And no matter what happened, to never let go.
“He runs a gang of kids dealing mostly prescription meds, painkillers. But other stuff, too. We catch them, but they’re on the street again in no time. Don’t be fooled by their age.”
“We aren’t,” said Beauvoir.
They followed Cameron into the building.
The place reeked of damp and mold and rot. The chipped concrete stairs were sticky.
They climbed up one flight, but just as Cameron stepped onto the landing, there was a sharp whistle and the sound of footsteps racing on the floor above.
“Shit,” said Cameron, and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, followed by Gamache.
Beauvoir, though, seeing where this was going, ran downstairs, out the front door, and into the side alley, scanning for the back door.
There was a loud bang as a door flew open, and kids piled out of the basement.
* * *
Gamache and Cameron split up, chasing different kids down the hallways. Cameron cornered one in the stairwell leading to the roof.
“Where’s Toby?”
“Dunno.”
He frisked her and came away with packets of foil and a switchblade.
He cuffed her to the railing and moved on.
* * *
Gamache chased another kid into an apartment, where he tackled him, both of them falling onto one of the stained mattresses pushed together on the floor. Getting quickly to his feet, Gamache put the kid in a hold, patting him for weapons and scanning the room for other occupants. It was then he noticed pill bottles neatly arranged on shelves lining all four walls.
“Are you Toby?”
The boy was silent.
Gamache pulled a knife, a bottle of pills, and an ID from his pockets.
Not Toby.
“Where is he?”
* * *
Beauvoir grabbed hold of the collar of the largest kid as he tried to escape down the alley and swung him around. Not a he. A she. A girl about fifteen.
“Let her go,” came a voice from above.
Beauvoir turned, still holding the girl, and saw a skinny kid on the fire escape. Pointing a gun.
“You a cop?” the kid asked. “Of course you are.”
The girl yanked her jacket out of Beauvoir’s grip and stepped away.
“Toby?” Beauvoir asked the kid holding the gun.
“Get his gun,” said Toby.
The girl reached out, but Beauvoir backed away. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Give her your gun, old man,” said Toby.
“Or what? You’ll kill a cop?”
Beauvoir looked at the large girl standing in front of him. Her eyes were wide, round. She was stoned and afraid.
Then he looked at the kid on the fire escape and felt his heart leap in his chest.
He was not afraid. Not stoned.
His gray eyes were empty. Not cold. But not hot. Not glaring, not even threatening.
Chief Inspector Beauvoir had seen eyes like that, often. But only in the recently dead.
“I’m a minor,” said Toby. “What’re they gonna do to me?”
“You know what they’ll do to you?” came a voice down the alley.
Toby immediately turned his gun on the older man walking toward them. His hands were out by his sides, his jacket was open to show he wasn’t armed.
“If you kill a cop, if you even hurt one, they’ll try you as an adult. You’re close enough, right? What’re you?” Gamache turned his attention to the girl beside Beauvoir. “Fourteen. Fifteen.”
“Almost fifteen,” she said.
“Shut up, Daph,” said Toby, not moving the gun from the newcomer.
&n
She gave a small nod.
“If your friend shoots Chief Inspector Beauvoir—” He saw the girl’s eyes widen even further, though Toby did not react.
Gamache stopped where he was and addressed himself now to Toby. “That’s right. Not just a cop, but Monsieur Beauvoir here is head of homicide for the Sûreté. If you shoot him, you’ll have to shoot me, too. And our colleague will almost certainly then have to shoot you. Both.”
He let that sit there before speaking again, this time to Daphne. “Do you want to see fifteen?”
“I’m fifteen,” said Toby. “It’s not so great.”
“No,” said Gamache. He’d also noticed the look, or lack of it, in the boy’s eyes. “I don’t suppose it is. And I’m sorry about that. But it can get better.”
Just then Cameron rounded the corner, skidding in the slush as he tried to stop himself. Regaining his balance, he pulled out his gun. Pointing it at first one, then the other kid, finally settling on Toby on the fire escape.
“Put down your weapon, please,” said Gamache. And to everyone’s astonishment, it was clear he was talking to Cameron. “You might keep it at the ready. But just lower it.”
“But—”
“Do it,” said Beauvoir.
The girl Daphne had backed up and, quite sensibly, was now standing a few paces away from Chief Inspector Beauvoir.
But Daphne was not the problem. Nor was she the solution.
“We’ve come to ask you about a bottle of pills we found in a murder investigation,” said Beauvoir. “Mifegymiso. It’s an abortion drug.”
“I know what it is. I know all the shit I sell.”
“So you do sell it?” said Gamache. “But probably not a lot.”
As he spoke, he moved a step closer to the fire escape but away from Beauvoir. Dragging Toby’s attention, and his gun, toward him. Forcing Toby to choose between them. Making it more difficult for the boy to shoot both before Cameron could get off a shot.
“Stop,” snapped Toby before glancing at Daphne. “I said get his gun.”
To Beauvoir’s dismay, he felt his gun removed from its holster. This was, he knew, another reason Gamache never wore one.
Because it could be taken. Used against him. Them. Anyone and everyone. Most guns used in crime were stolen from people who had them legally.
And here was one more on the street.
Gamache looked over his shoulder at Cameron, warning him not to react. Not to overreact.
Nothing had happened yet. Not really. Nothing that could not be undone. But once a trigger was pulled, there was no going back.
“We need to know who bought the drug from you,” said Beauvoir. “That’s all.”
His own voice was steady, matter-of-fact. Trying not to betray the fear he felt. Trying not to flash back to what it was like. To feel the bullet strike. To be lifted— He stopped there and fought to harness his thoughts. “Then we’ll leave.”
Toby did what Beauvoir hoped he’d do. He turned his attention, and his gun, away from Gamache. And onto him.
What Toby could not see, what no one could see, was that Beauvoir’s knees had begun to tremble. But his face remained placid. As though this were an everyday occurrence and nothing to worry about.
Cameron, watching this, his weapon lowered but ready to raise and shoot, felt he was looking into some parallel universe. Where people held reasonable conversations while pointing guns at each other. And were not terrified.
Because he was very afraid. And Cameron knew one thing, from his time on the gridiron and his time as a cop. People who were afraid often did very stupid things.
Don’t be the one. Don’t be the one. Don’t be the one to do something stupid. And please, please, don’t let me be the one shot.
Gamache was very still. Alert to any movement. Anything that could trigger the boy with the empty eyes. The only comfort, if it could be called that, was that Toby would almost certainly get off only one shot before Cameron took him down.
Still, by Gamache’s calculations there seemed a better-than-average chance at least one of them would die in that alleyway.
He took another step away from Jean-Guy, forcing Toby’s attention, and weapon, back onto him.
“Stop,” said the boy. “Not another step. You think I won’t shoot, you dumb fuck, but I will.”
“I know you will, Toby,” said Gamache. “But I hope you don’t.”
“We just want one thing,” said Beauvoir. “The name of the person who bought the pills from you.”
“You think I asked for his name? You’re a fucking idiot.”
His, thought both cops. His name.
So Vivienne hadn’t bought the drug. A man had. Almost certainly Carl Tracey.
“Can you describe him?” Beauvoir asked. They had to be sure.
“Are you kidding? Look, the guys I sell to don’t like it when I tell the cops on them.”
“I can appreciate that,” said Gamache. “My friends don’t like it when I pass their address on to burglars.”
Daphne laughed, but Toby did not. Though he did cock his head with interest at the old cop, with the gray hair and thoughtful eyes.
He held those eyes for a moment, sensing something else in them. There was menace, for sure. Here was a man who might be old but wasn’t weak. And with a start, Toby recognized him.
He wasn’t just a cop. The fucker had failed to say he’d been the head of the whole Sûreté. Toby knew that because he’d seen the video that morning, posted on Twitter and going viral.
Gamache noticed the change in the boy. Saw a look come into those eyes. It was venal. Feral. Triumphant.
My God, thought Gamache. He’s going to shoot me.
He stared into the boy’s eyes and thought of Reine-Marie. And silently apologized for what was about to happen.
But what did happen was unexpected. Toby relaxed. Just a little. But enough to get Gamache’s heart going again.
“Okay, old man. He was Anglo. Not fat, but soft. I didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him.”
“How many people do you trust?”
Toby gave one gruff laugh. But didn’t answer.
“I think we have enough,” said Beauvoir. “We’re going to leave you now.”
He slowly lowered his arms and held out his hand toward Daphne.
This was the moment.
“My gun, please.”
Daphne looked up at Toby, who raised his gun slightly.
Seeing this, Cameron raised his slightly, before Gamache could signal him to stop.
Toby, alarmed, raised his gun more, until it was pointing at Beauvoir’s head.
Jean-Guy was staring straight down the barrel.
Everyone froze.
This was, Jean-Guy knew, a bullet he would not feel.
“It’s all right,” said Gamache softly. “No one needs to get hurt. We’re almost done.”
He stopped talking. Allowing the tension to ease.
He saw Toby’s gun lowered. Slightly.
It was a millimeter in the right direction. But they weren’t out of it yet.
Please, Gamache begged. Please don’t let anyone come into the alley now. Please.
The moments stretched on. Elongating.
Gamache wanted desperately to say more, to try to reason with the boy. But he knew it would be a mistake. If they were to avoid a bloodbath, the next move had to come from Toby.
“Go,” said Toby.
“My gun,” said Beauvoir. “You know I can’t leave it behind.”
“Do you want to die, man?” shouted Toby. “Get out, before I change my mind.”
Oh, for God’s sake, what’re you doing? Cameron’s mind screamed. Let’s go. Oh, please, let’s go.
And Jean-Guy Beauvoir wanted to. With every part of his being, he wanted to turn and walk away. Run away. Go back to Annie. Hold her tight. Smell the sweet, fresh scent of her. Hold Honoré in his arms. Get on a plane to Paris and never look back.
But he couldn’t go. Couldn’t let go. Not yet.
Instead he stood there, staring. Willing the boy to see what he saw. They held each other’s eyes.
Finally Toby spoke. “I’m fucked, aren’t I? If I shoot, he’ll kill me. If you leave without the gun, you’ll be back to get it. You have to. You’ll find us and arrest us. Daph and me.”
“That’s true,” said Beauvoir.
He gave Toby a small nod. Of admiration. Acknowledging the boy’s logic. And clarity.
“So either I kill you all now. Or I give up.”
Oh, God, thought Cameron. Oh, God, here it comes.
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “That’s about it. One you live. One you die.”
Toby seemed to make up his mind. He braced.
It was slight and too subtle for Cameron to see. But Gamache could, and he knew what it meant. Every muscle tightened, even as he realized there was nothing he could do.
Toby was about to shoot. Jean-Guy.
“You know,” said Beauvoir, his voice remaining conversational even as his knees threatened to give way. “I once faced exactly the same situation.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I’d reached the end. Couldn’t go on. I didn’t care anymore.”
“Shut up.”
“I thought about killing myself. But when it came down to it, I realized that what I really wanted was for the pain to stop. I didn’t really want to die, but I didn’t know how to live. How to go on.”
There was silence then. Utter, almost suffocating silence. As the air was sucked out of the alley.
“What did you do?”
“I let go.” Beauvoir closed his eyes. “I let go.” Then he opened them again and met Toby’s. “Sometimes we just have to let go. And trust. There is a way back. Believe me.” He smiled and opened his arms wide. “And look at the great place it brought me.”
The words hung in the air of the void before the boy laughed.
Jean-Guy cocked his head. “Toby, I don’t want to die. And I don’t think you do either.”
Toby closed his eyes, and while they could have moved, no one did.
Then, eyes still shut, Toby let go of his gun.
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