by Louise Penny
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.
“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 Sûreté 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—”
“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—” Gabri began, but Armand waved him quiet.
“Any idea what?” asked the Sûreté 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 Béliveau. “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 Béliveau, 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.
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 Montréal,” 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 Sûreté 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.”
“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 Sûreté, 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 Sûreté.”
“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.
“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.
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