by Louise Penny
And that brought them to the other reason. The killer wanted the bat to be found.
“To manipulate the results,” said Beauvoir. “To plant DNA evidence.”
“Maybe,” said Gamache. “And if that’s what’s happened, it might be helpful to let the real murderer think he’s fooled us.”
“More incompetence, patron?” asked Beauvoir. He smiled.
And yet Beauvoir felt a creeping concern that they weren’t simply pretending to be incompetent, but that they actually were. That these decisions would lead them in the wrong direction and a killer would go free.
“We need more evidence,” he said.
Gamache was nodding. It wasn’t enough to find out who’d murdered Katie Evans. They had to be able to prove it.
“Been a long day,” he said. “We need to eat.”
There was no challenging that last statement at least.
*
Anton hadn’t been lying about his skills as a chef.
The beef casserole, with hints of herbs, and wild garlic and succulent mushrooms he’d gathered in the fall and dried, was unlike anything they’d ever tasted.
“Does Olivier know what he has in Anton?” Reine-Marie asked.
She’d been trying to put on a cheerful face, though she was clearly exhausted, wrung out by the events of the day.
“I don’t think so,” said Armand, clearing the table while Jean-Guy got out the dessert.
“Panna cotta with raspberry coulis,” Beauvoir read from the note attached to the ramekins. “Anton told me he learned how to cook in treatment. Clearly I went into the wrong treatment program.”
“Never,” said Gamache. “We love our macramé plant hangers.”
“That’s good, because Christmas is coming up.”
“Come on,” Armand said to Reine-Marie, who had dark circles under her eyes and was fading fast. “Time for bed. We’ll save a dessert for you.”
“I’m all right,” she said.
“I know you are.”
He helped her up, and when Isabelle and Jean-Guy had said their good-nights, he walked with her upstairs, but not before taking Jean-Guy and Isabelle aside.
“Call Myrna and Ruth. See who else they told about the Prohibition story. And see what you can find out about Anton.”
The dishwasher chef had admitted to a lot, including knowing both the cobrador and the victim. But it wasn’t really anything the investigators wouldn’t have found out on their own eventually.
Were his admissions the act of an innocent man, clearing his conscience, or the preemptive act of a killer?
“When I come down, we’ll go over to the B&B.”
“Oui, patron.”
After getting Reine-Marie settled in bed, he returned a few minutes later only to find her fast asleep. Tucking the hot water bottle under the covers, he kissed her softly, so as not to wake her, and left the tea on the bedside table. The scent of chamomile, he knew, would be soothing.
As he went downstairs, he could hear Jean-Guy on the phone.
“Listen, you old hag, it’s a simple question.”
He could even hear Ruth’s scratchy reply.
“You call in the middle of the night to ask about Prohibition, numbnuts? Isn’t it a little late, in every way?”
“It’s nine thirty, and I need to know.”
“It’s 2017, and Prohibition has been repealed, or hadn’t you heard, asshat.”
“I’m not calling for a history lesson…”
Their conversation, if that’s what it could be called, continued as Gamache looked into his study and saw Lacoste on his computer, entering Anton’s name into the Sûreté records.
“That’ll take a while. I’m going to take Henri and Gracie for a walk. Need some fresh air?” he asked, as more filth floated in from the room next door.
“Good idea.”
Once outside, they looked at the B&B. Lights were still on.
They walked, heads bowed into the wind, while the dogs played and did their business, oblivious to the driving sleet.
“Patron, about the cellar. Why don’t you want us—” Lacoste began before Gamache stopped her by raising his hand, palm toward her, in warning.
“But we’re alone,” she shouted, above the wind.
Without a word, he pointed toward the shops.
A light had gone on in the loft above Myrna’s bookstore. Jean-Guy must have moved on to the next person on his list. No doubt a more pleasant conversation.
But that wasn’t what Gamache was indicating.
In the bistro, patrons could be seen through the mullioned windows chatting and having dessert and coffee in front of the fireplace, before heading home.
A figure walked past the window, dark against the lights. Bundled up, so that it was impossible to see if it was a man or a woman.
Gamache and Lacoste watched as the person went directly toward the B&B.
And then kept going.
To the Gamaches’ home.
Armand scooped up Gracie and walked swiftly in that direction. Henri ran right past them, straight for the dark figure, now on the Gamaches’ porch.
The person stopped dead when confronted with the German shepherd. Either not noticing the furiously wagging tail and ball in his mouth, or not wanting to risk it.
Gamache arrived a moment later and, taking the visitor by the arm, he turned him to face the light.
Staring for just a moment, Gamache said, “You have something to tell us?”
“I do,” said Jacqueline. “I’ve come to confess.”
*
Isabelle Lacoste turned from watching Olivier, mixing a pitcher of sangria at the bar, to look out the window.
Lea Roux, in sundress and sandals, and Matheo Bissonette, in slacks and light shirt, were walking down the wide steps of the porch at the B&B, and heading in their direction.
“Were they expected?” she asked.
“Non. They called late this afternoon and just arrived.”
The two guests by the hearth, an older and a younger man, were again glancing in her direction. Anton had probably told them that she was the head of homicide for the Sûreté. That always brought stares.
Once again she raised her glass to them, and when they lifted theirs in a salute, she took a sip, hoping they couldn’t see from across the room that the liquid only went as far as her lips. But not through them.
But Olivier saw. And frowned. And said nothing.
Lacoste turned away and leaned against the bar. Casually looking out the mullioned window at the pleasant gardens in full bloom.
Her face was placid, even slightly vacant, but her mind was racing.
When Olivier left to take the sangria to a table, she leaned across the bar and took another licorice pipe from the jar. The older man saw this and raised his brows.
Lacoste grinned and put a finger to her lips. He smiled and nodded.
Then she left the bar and walked to the bathrooms, carefully palming the handset she’d taken from behind the bar.
CHAPTER 31
Gamache and Beauvoir were more than halfway to their destination, and still no word from Lacoste.
But they had received a text from Superintendent Toussaint.
The equipment was assembled, the van was loaded. The assault team was ready.
“If we don’t hear otherwise,” Toussaint wrote, “we’ll leave Montréal in ten minutes and get into position before nightfall.”
“Merde,” wrote Gamache. The Québécois equivalent of “good luck,” and an internal Sûreté signal that all was proceeding well.
“Merde,” she replied. And went silent.
They wouldn’t see each other again until the action was under way.
Gamache looked at the dashboard clock. Six thirty. It would be dark by eight thirty. Superintendent Toussaint had timed it perfectly.
“What’s keeping her?” Jean-Guy asked, as he drove.
The “her” he meant was obvious.
“I don’t know.”
Picking up his iPhone, Gamache called home. And let it ring. And ring. Until he heard Reine-Marie’s recorded voice.
He left a cheerful message, saying he was on his way and that Jean-Guy was with him.
“No answer?” said Jean-Guy. “She’s probably at Clara’s or Myrna’s.”
“Probably.”
*
Once in the bathroom, Lacoste locked the door and hit the green talk button. Hoping, hoping the old handset signal reached that far.
She heard a dial tone and quickly punched in numbers.
“Chief?” she whispered when he picked up after half a ring.
“Isabelle, where’ve you been?”
“I couldn’t get away until now. I’m in the bistro. He’s here.”
“Who is?”
“The head of the cartel. Here in Three Pines.”
“We know that,” came Beauvoir’s voice over the speaker. “That’s why you’re there, right? To monitor.”
“No. I mean the American cartel.”
Gamache and Beauvoir looked at each other.
“Are you sure?” asked Gamache.
From anyone else, in any other circumstances, Lacoste would have been annoyed. But she understood his need to be absolutely clear.
“Yes. The American cartel.” The insistence in her voice made it sound like a hiss.
“Shit,” said Beauvoir. “Did he recognize you?”
“I don’t know. The other man with him, his bodyguard or counselor, kept staring. I think Anton told him who I am.”
“Fucking great,” said Beauvoir.
“But I made sure to order a drink and even waved at him.”
“Waved? You waved at the head of the drug cartel?” demanded Beauvoir.
“Well, I didn’t wave my gun,” she said. “I wanted him to know I’d seen him, and clearly had absolutely no idea who he was. It was a friendly little gesture. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”
Gamache nodded slowly. Few people had the presence of mind, the poise of Lacoste. It was exactly the right thing to do. And if the U.S. cartel had any doubts about the incompetence of the Sûreté, that would surely put them to rest. A senior officer not recognizing one of the top criminals in North America.
“What should we do?” she whispered.
The handle of the door rattled. Someone wanted in.
“Just a moment,” she sang out, and the handle went silent.
“How many are there?” Gamache asked.
“The Americans? None outside that I noticed. Only the two of them in the bistro.” Lacoste had dropped her voice even further. “The head of the cartel and an older guy. He’s the one watching closely.”
Yes, thought Gamache. Like in Canada. With the new opioids, the new dark economy, and new technology, there’d been a new leadership. Sometimes bloody, as in the States, sometimes generational, a passing of the torch, as in Canada.
It was a young person’s game now. And few people were more vicious, in Gamache’s experience, than young men. Or women. They hadn’t yet grown weary, grown disgusted with all the bloodshed. In fact, they seemed to revel in it. In their ability to order a kill, and have it carried out. To kidnap and torture and deliver adversaries back in pieces.
It was their own grotesque addiction.
No one was immune. Cops, judges, prosecutors. Children, mothers, fathers. All targets for the butchers.
Unfettered by conscience, they were all-powerful. Immortal. Not godfathers, but gods.
If the Sûreté action that night didn’t work, there’d be bedlam. And the payment would be in flesh and blood. Theirs. Their families’.
Gamache was under no illusion about what was at stake.
“Once you arrive we can take them,” said Lacoste. “I’m sure of it. How far away are you?”
“Twenty minutes,” said Beauvoir, and sped up. “Fifteen.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Gamache’s mind flew over the different possibilities.
He’d expected to confront them in the woods that night, not in the bistro.
But in some ways, this was even better. It meant Toussaint was right and the cartels had fallen for it completely. They were so convinced that the Sûreté was no threat that they’d come this far into the open.
It was rare, almost unheard of, for the actual head of a syndicate to be at the site of any criminal act. They sent their lieutenants. That’s what they were for.
To have not one but both exposed was exceptional.
Yes, this was far better than they dared hope.
And even worse.
Their plan was based on a meeting in the forest, surrounded by trees, not in the bistro, surrounded by friends. By family.
“We can’t arrest them yet,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “We have no proof against either of them. That’s been the problem. Their soldiers, yes, but they make sure to be clean themselves. We have to catch them doing something illegal. Sitting in the bistro is not.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck,” said Beauvoir under his breath. Once again, the mantra did not calm him down.
The chief was right.
Their entire operation depended on catching them with their hands dirty. And that meant on site when the krokodil crossed the border. Until that happened, they had no definitive proof against the heads of the cartels.
They were together, yes, but in the wrong place.
If the exchange happened in the woods, while the cartel heads were having a pleasant chat in the bistro, then they’d have failed. They’d lose them. They’d lose.
Beauvoir was staring at Gamache, his eyes wide and questioning.
Lacoste was waiting on the other end of the line. They could hear her breathing. And then the rattle of the door again.
“Hello?” came a man’s voice, in English.
“Tabernac,” she said. “I think that’s the bodyguard.”
“Almost done,” she sang out cheerfully.
Gamache knew once he hung up he couldn’t reach her again. His orders had to be clear, definitive. And fast.
One shot.
“There’s one other thing,” came Lacoste’s voice, so low they could barely hear it. “Madame Gamache is here too. With Annie and Honoré.”
The blood drained from Gamache’s face and he looked at Beauvoir, whose hands tightened on the steering wheel, and the car’s engine roared as he sped up even more.
“They have to get out of there,” said Jean-Guy.
“No, wait,” said Gamache. “Wait.”
They waited a beat.
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes—”
“Ten,” said Beauvoir.
“Keep them there, and invite Ruth to join you.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Beauvoir.
Lacoste flushed the toilet in case the bodyguard could hear Beauvoir’s raised voice down the line.
“Honoré,” said Jean-Guy forcefully, as though Gamache hadn’t taken that in. Then, more quietly, “Honoré.”
It was as though Jean-Guy’s entire world had come down to one word.
“Annie,” he whispered.
Two words.
Reine-Marie, thought Gamache.
“They have to stay. It’s safe. They’re there to talk, not shoot up the place.”
“How do we know?” asked Beauvoir, his voice unnaturally high. “Wouldn’t be the first time a parlez turned into a bloodbath.”
“Non. If one or both had that in mind, they’d be meeting in the woods, with their soldiers. Not in the bistro. They’re brutal, but not stupid.”
He sounded more confident than he actually was. But Chief Superintendent Gamache understood that a leader could not afford to reveal his own emotions. He couldn’t demand courage in others while quaking in fear himself.
“If we didn’t see this coming,” said Beauvoir, “we probably won’t see what’s coming next. They could do the exchange right there, in the bistro. In front of everyone. We’re the ones who convi
nced them it’d be safe. We did this.”
“He’s right,” said Lacoste, running the water now. “What do I do then? I’d have to arrest them, or try. In a roomful of people.”
Honoré, thought Gamache. Annie. Reine-Marie.
Not just people.
Beauvoir’s foot pressed harder on the gas. The car was going 140 kilometers an hour, and gaining speed. They’d turned off the highway and were on secondary roads. Roads not designed for speed. The car bounded off ruts, flying then bumping to the asphalt.
But Gamache didn’t tell him to slow down. If anything, it was all he could do not to shout at him to hurry up. Speed up.
“Get Ruth to the bistro,” Gamache repeated, his voice low. “And go and join Reine-Marie and Annie. The head of the American cartel probably won’t know who they are, but the Canadian does. They’d never believe we’d put them in harm’s way.”
There was silence.
None of them could believe it either. Especially Gamache.
But there was no choice. To have Isabelle remove Reine-Marie and Annie and Honoré would almost certainly alert the cartel, and they must already be on the lookout for anything unusual.
They might be confident that they were in no danger, but they’d still be vigilant. It was animal instinct. And these people were animals.
“Are you sure?” Lacoste whispered.
From anyone else, in any other circumstances, Gamache might have been annoyed at this questioning of his orders. But he understood her need to be absolutely clear.
“Oui.”
“Okay,” she said. Just before she hung up, he heard one last word. “Merde.”
Merde, he agreed.
But this time it wasn’t the signal that all was going well. It was just merde.
Lacoste hid the handset in her pocket and unlocked the door.
“Désolé,” she said to the older man, who was examining her. “Sorry. That time of the month.”
She put a hand over her uterus and he immediately backed up before she could tell him more. But just to be on the safe side, she mumbled, “Cramps.”
*
As soon as Lacoste had hung up, Gamache called Toussaint and gave her the update. There was a long silence.
“Bon,” she said, her voice crisp. No sign of panic. “What do we do? You want us in the village?”
“No, go to the border, stick to the plan. Whatever happens, the chlorocodide has to cross into the States, and the only thing we know for sure is where it’ll happen. Your informant is watching the church?”