by Louise Penny
Even his eyes could betray him, Gamache knew. Every gesture of his was being closely watched, he suspected. Every word monitored and evaluated by the visitors. They were confident, but they’d also be vigilant.
He could not afford a misstep.
“Should we have dinner here?” he asked. “I’m starving.”
“Well, it’s time for Honoré to eat, and then bath time,” said Annie, getting up.
“And I should be getting back to the city,” said Lacoste. “Not looking forward to tomorrow.”
“Oh, haven’t had a chance to tell you, but the judge has called an early start. Eight.”
“In the morning?” asked Isabelle, and Myrna and Clara laughed at her tone.
“Sorry,” he said. “She wants to get in as much as possible before the day heats up.”
“Then I really do need to get going. Are you staying the night?”
“Probably. Haven’t decided yet,” said Gamache.
“Do you want me to help?” Jean-Guy rose with Annie.
“I’ll go,” said Reine-Marie. “You two stay here. Enjoy your drinks. Dinner in about forty-five minutes. Salmon on the grill. Would you like to come over?” she asked Myrna and Clara.
“That sounds good,” said Myrna. “Unless you’d like to get into your studio and finish those paintings.”
“Har-dee-har-har,” said Clara, though it was obvious this needling was getting old. “Dinner sounds great. We’ll help.”
As they left, Armand hugged Reine-Marie. Not too tight, he hoped. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took in her scent of old garden roses. And Honoré.
Jean-Guy kissed Annie and Ray-Ray.
It was all he could do to not whisper to Annie to take Honoré and go back to Montréal. But he knew if he did that, and the heads of the cartels suspected, it would be the spark that could leave them all dead.
Only Ruth and Rosa remained at their table, the old woman swilling scotch. Rosa got up and waddled across the table to Beauvoir. He grunted as the duck hopped off the table, onto his lap. And settled down.
As he took a long pull at his beer, Armand noticed Lacoste drive away. Reine-Marie, along with Annie, Myrna and Clara, who was holding Honoré, walked the last few steps through the golden evening. Reine-Marie stopped, stooped, and picked a weed out of their front garden.
She showed it to Myrna, who clapped. It had become their running joke, from their early days in the village, when Reine-Marie and Armand had “weeded” the spring garden, only to discover they’d left the weeds and taken out most of the perennials.
Myrna had become their gardening guru.
Armand smiled as he watched them.
“I see that politician woman and her husband are back,” said Ruth. “She came by my place earlier this afternoon.”
“Really?” said Jean-Guy. “Why?”
Anton had come out of the kitchen and was talking to the Americans.
He put something on the table. A piece of paper with writing.
“To tell me they’re making me a Chevalier in the Ordre du Québec.”
“That’s wonderful, Ruth,” said Armand. “Félicitations.”
The young head of the cartel was gesturing to Anton to join them. The chef looked surprised and shook his head, indicating that he had work to do in the kitchen. But a look from the American made the chef reconsider. And he sat.
“A Chevalier?” said Jean-Guy. “The knight or the horse? Are you sure they didn’t say cheval? Because you’re halfway there already.”
In the back of the bistro, Gamache could see Matheo and Lea also watching the table with Anton and the Americans. Lea turned to Matheo and said something. Matheo shook his head.
Then Lea looked directly at Gamache. It was so swift he didn’t have time to drop his eyes. He knew if he did it now, it would look like what it was. An effort to hide something.
Instead, he held her gaze and smiled.
She did not return his smile.
Jean-Guy and Ruth were exchanging insults, though the old poet’s rheumy eyes were not on Beauvoir, but on Gamache.
Armand had settled into his chair, crossing his legs, the voices around him heard and half-heard. Nursing a cold beer after a tough day on the witness stand. Apparently at ease with himself and the world. But Beauvoir could feel what Ruth was sensing.
Something was radiating off Gamache.
Was it rage he felt from the chief? Jean-Guy wondered. It certainly wasn’t fear.
It was actually, Beauvoir realized with some surprise, extreme calm.
He was like the center of gravity in the room.
Whatever the outcome, the bombing would stop, that night. The war would end, that night.
CHAPTER 33
Lacoste pulled her car onto the old logging road about a kilometer from the village. The road hadn’t been used in years, and the undergrowth had become overgrowth. The branches of trees scraping and scratching and hiding her car.
Lacoste popped the trunk and put on her assault gear. The heavy boots and helmet with camera. She strapped the automatic pistols into their Velcro tabs and attached the belt with the cartridges. Her hands flew over the familiar gear, clicking, strapping, checking. Double-checking.
She’d called her husband in Montréal, and spoken to the children. Saying good night and telling them she loved them.
They were of an age where they were too embarrassed to say it back.
And so they didn’t.
When her husband came back on the line, she told him she had to work late, but would be home before he knew it.
“Do we still have Pinocchio?” she asked.
“The book? Maybe. Why?”
“Do you think the kids would like to read it tonight?”
“Our children? They’re a little old, aren’t they? They want to watch The Walking Dead.”
“Don’t let them,” she said, and heard him laugh.
“I’ll wait up,” he said. And even though she always told him not to, he always did.
“Love you,” he said.
“I love you,” she replied. Her words clear, deliberate.
Then she hung up and locked that phone in her glove compartment, slipping her Sûreté phone into one of the Velcro pockets.
It had buzzed as soon as she’d driven over the hill, out of Three Pines.
There was a single text. From Toussaint.
They were in position.
Lacoste texted back.
G&B in bistro. Am getting in position.
As she made her way through the forest, Lacoste felt another vibration.
package left church on way to village.
Lacoste quickly typed, village? confirm
village
She turned and looked toward Three Pines, but all she saw were trees.
“Christ,” she whispered and stood still for a moment, her mind flashing through the options open to her.
Then Isabelle Lacoste turned and ran away. Away from the church. Away from the border.
And toward the village.
At the dirt road she paused, to make sure it was clear, then she crossed and reentered the forest. Down the hill she sprinted, clutching the assault rifle across her chest.
She slipped past the old schoolhouse. Crouched low, she passed behind Ruth’s home. At the Gamaches’ back garden, she heard conversation. Madame Gamache, Myrna and Clara were talking. Someone said something, and they laughed.
And then Lacoste was gone. Running across the Old Stage Road and reentering the woods on the other side. Behind the B&B now, she rounded the corner and stopped, catching her breath and trying to catch sight of any cartel member, patrolling.
Her eyes rapidly took in the homes. The road. The village green. The children playing.
Go home, she pleaded, though no one heard. Go home.
She saw the door to the bistro swing shut.
*
Gamache watched as two large men entered the bistro, each carrying a packing crate. They lowered them to th
e floor next to the head of the American cartel.
Anton stood up abruptly as the American nodded to the two men.
One moved beside Anton, the other stationed himself beside the head of the American cartel.
Others in the bistro were openly watching. The boxes were stamped Matryoshka Dolls in English and Cyrillic. Interesting, but not interesting enough to derail drinks and conversation, which started up again.
What most couldn’t see was that the words were slightly obscured by blotches, drips, of red.
*
Isabelle Lacoste carefully opened the internal door connecting the bookstore to the bistro.
Through the crack she saw the chief lean back in his chair, relaxed. A beer in his hand. While off to the side, the head of the American cartel gestured to Anton to sit back down.
This was a different Anton.
No longer the dishwasher. No longer the chef.
He must know now, thought Lacoste, if he didn’t before, that this wasn’t a friendly tête-à-tête, to divide territory. This was a hostile takeover. If nothing else, the red splashes on the boxes of toys would tell him that. They were what was left of his own couriers.
Lacoste carefully took the safety off her assault rifle.
Olivier passed in front of her and stood by the table, in direct line of sight. Direct line of fire. At the edge of her peripheral vision, she noted that Beauvoir had started to get up from the table.
The soldiers looked over at him. Lacoste lifted her rifle. Through the sights she saw the men grin.
Jean-Guy was holding a duck. The guards smiled as they watched him take the duck off his lap and give it to a woman so old she looked mummified.
It was like laying siege to Hooterville.
Ruth, clutching Rosa to her chest, got up.
“Well, fuck you too,” she said to Beauvoir, at the top of her lungs. “Numbnuts.”
That provoked outright laughter from the enforcers, though they stopped laughing when Ruth turned her fuck-you gaze on them.
“For God’s sake,” Lacoste whispered, as the old woman limped toward the two huge men. “Get out.”
Now Ruth was also obscuring any shot she had.
“Oh, come on, Ruth,” said Gamache, getting up and ushering her to the side. “Leave these poor men alone. They’re just trying to have their dinner. And it’s probably time for yours. We’ll take you over.” He pushed her slightly toward the door. “Olivier? The bill, please.”
“Of course, patron.” And Olivier moved to the bar.
“Jean-Guy?” said Gamache, indicating that he should look after Ruth.
The young American was watching this, amusement frozen on his face. Thrown off, slightly, by this strange turn of events. Though clearly not alarmed.
Yogi and Boo-Boo either had no idea what was going on, or the head of the Sûreté knew perfectly well, and was running away. Ceding the floor, the territory, to them.
But the head of the American cartel would have been alarmed, should have been alarmed, had he stopped watching Gamache and noticed the expression on Anton’s face.
It was feral now. Savage. Not the look of an animal cornered. More the look of something that had its claws in some unfortunate creature and was about to gut it.
Lacoste, watching from the bookstore, had a clear shot thanks to the chief. But the expression on Anton’s face disturbed her. How could that be? He was clearly outnumbered. Outmaneuvered. But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe—
She came to it a moment too late.
“Bonjour,” a man’s voice whispered. And she felt the thrust of a gun to the back of her ear.
Anton was not alone. Of course, he’d have his own bodyguard close by.
And now he had his weapon pressed to her head, as he twisted the rifle out of her hands.
The other thing Isabelle Lacoste knew, in that moment, was that she was dead.
*
There was a slight noise off to Gamache’s left. As he turned to look, Isabelle Lacoste was pushed through the door from Myrna’s bookstore, a man behind her with a gun to her head.
Gamache recognized the man immediately, from the attack on the cobrador. He’d been the one with the fireplace poker. Marchand. Gamache had thought he was just a drunken rowdy, but he saw now he’d been wrong. Marchand was Anton’s man. A cartel soldier.
Gamache took this in in an instant.
The world seemed to stop, and everything grew very clear, very bright and colorful. Very slow.
Before Lacoste was even across the threshold, Gamache moved.
*
The only advantage, Isabelle realized, to already being dead, was that she had nothing to lose.
As soon as she was pushed through the door, she planted her feet and thrust herself backward, into her captor.
*
Beauvoir was just a millisecond behind. He could see Gamache launching himself forward toward the guard.
He could see Lacoste and the armed man behind her falling backward, suspended, it seemed to his racing senses, in mid-flight, mid-fall.
Beauvoir lowered his shoulder, and bringing his hand to his holster, he pushed off.
*
Gamache lunged.
Everyone else in the bistro, including Anton, including the head of the American cartel, was distracted by Lacoste. For just that instant.
That was all Gamache needed.
He couldn’t see what Beauvoir was doing. Or Lacoste, though he had seen her brace, and knew what she was about to do.
All his focus now was on the nearest bodyguard, who was just turning, just noticing what Gamache was doing. A look of surprise just coming onto his face.
He had not expected an older, complacent, beer-swilling man to act so quickly. And so decisively.
The guard had just time enough to move his hand to his weapon when Gamache smashed into him, pushing him on top of Anton. Knocking them off their feet.
All three fell to the floor, a grunt escaping Anton as they landed on top of him.
Gamache brought his forearm to the throat of the first man, pushing his head back, and without hesitation he pulled the hunting knife from his pocket. Flicked it open. And plunged it in.
Gunshots were going off.
*
Boom. Boom. Boom. Deafening. Not the pops of a handgun but the explosions of an assault rifle. And automatic weapons. Wood was splintering, people were screaming. Chairs and tables overturned. Glass shattered.
Gamache scrambled over the dying guard trying to get at his gun, still in the holster beneath the man. Anton was struggling, writhing, trying to get out from under the heavy body.
*
Jean-Guy Beauvoir crashed into the table, scattering glass and china, krokodil and traffickers.
Within moments there was chaos. Screaming, shouting. Gunfire.
He couldn’t see Gamache anymore, but he did see, as though in the flash of a strobe light, Lacoste crumple.
And then everything moved so quickly, it was as though frames were skipping. Unlike the chief, Beauvoir wasn’t a large man, but like the chief, he had the momentary element of surprise. And he used it.
He hit and rolled, and bringing out his weapon, he shot the second guard in the chest just as the man leveled his own gun at Beauvoir.
*
“What’s that?” asked Annie, her face white.
“Gunshots,” said Myrna. “From the bistro.”
They looked at each other for a moment, an eternity. And then Reine-Marie got up and hustled Annie, who was feeding Honoré, from the back terrace into the house.
Myrna and Clara ran in with them.
“Call 911,” Reine-Marie said to her daughter. “Lock the door after us.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You’re looking after Ray-Ray,” said her mother.
“Does Armand have a gun?” asked Clara, her eyes wide and hands trembling, but her voice strong.
“Non.” Reine-Marie looked around and grabbed the fireplace poker. Myrna
and Clara did the same thing. Myrna came away with a hatchet-like thing, and Clara was left with a fireplace brush.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.
The gunfire was continuing, and the dogs were barking. Annie was shouting into the phone to the 911 dispatcher. And their hearts were pounding as they left the house and ran down the path to the road.
“Oh, Christ,” said Myrna.
Half a dozen children were lying on the ground. Apparently dead.
But then they started to stir, to stand. Staring at the bistro. Arms at their sides, mouths open.
“Come here,” Clara screamed at them, waving for them to come to her. She ran over as they began to run to her. Some crying, some confused. All understanding that the safest place in the world was not safe after all.
Clara herded them down the path to where Annie was standing at the open door, frantically waving them in, just as the windows of the bistro shattered with gunfire.
Without hesitation, Reine-Marie, Myrna and Clara ran all out. Toward it.
*
Ruth crawled across the floor to Rosa, who was sitting, looking more stunned than usual, under an overturned table.
The air was almost unbreathable, with fieldstone and brick and plaster exploded into dust.
She reached Rosa and curled her body around the duck.
Only then did she see Isabelle Lacoste, lying on the ground, her eyes open and staring.
*
Gamache gripped the handle of the gun in the dying man’s holster, but before he could yank it out, a boot landed in his face, stunning him.
The world went white and his vision blurred. Another blow landed.
Anton was striking out wildly. Viciously, desperately, kicking Gamache’s head, his shoulders, his arms.
Anton writhed and twisted and kicked with his one free leg. Hammering away at Gamache, who hunched his shoulders against the blows, his only focus the gun in the holster.
Then his grip tightened around the handle and he yanked the gun free.
Bringing it around, he rolled and fired, bang, bang, bang. Point-blank into Marchand, who was steps away, Lacoste’s assault rifle raised. Marchand looked shocked. And then was propelled backward, hitting the floor. Dead.