by Louise Penny
Gamache swung back around just in time to see Anton disappearing out the back door of the bistro.
*
“Patron,” said Jean-Guy as Gamache gripped his arm and hauled himself to his feet.
“Anton got away,” said Gamache, staggering a bit as he moved toward the open back door of the bistro.
“Oui. The American and his lieutenant took off after him,” said Beauvoir.
The turmoil in the bistro burst over Gamache.
Lacoste was on the floor, Ruth by her side. Holding her hand. Whispering.
Gabri was kneeling over Olivier.
Patrons, sipping drinks moments earlier, were crying and huddling and hugging and shouting. For help.
But he couldn’t stop.
“Armand,” Reine-Marie shouted, as she and Myrna and Clara arrived in the mayhem.
But it was too late. He was gone.
*
“You get Anton,” said Gamache. “I’ll get the American.”
“There’re two of them,” Beauvoir shouted after him.
He didn’t know if Gamache had heard, and there was no time to make sure.
The cartels had the advantage of a head start. But Gamache and Beauvoir had the advantage of familiarity.
They knew the woods, and the paths, and the route to the border. Partly because they’d walked the trails, in preparation. Partly because they’d spent hours and hours, in the Gamache home, poring over the detailed topographical maps.
They’d talked to hunters and hikers. To geologists and campers. To those who cut wood, and those who fished in the rivers.
In the past eight months, since finding the hidden door in the root cellar, and the oiled hinge, and understanding the significance, they’d been sure to learn every inch of the terrain.
The drug smugglers had not. They’d found the most direct route through the forest, from the Prohibition bolt-hole to the border. And they’d stuck to it.
“We’re studying the situation,” Gamache would reply with equanimity bordering on the dim-witted when microphones and cameras were thrust in his face. And sharp questions were asked about the rising level of crime.
Oddly enough, it was the truth. Though not the entirety of it.
He was studying the situation, just not the one the reporters were talking about.
Gamache had ordered a quiet investigation into all the cabins, barns, schools, and churches used by bootleggers almost a hundred years earlier along the long border with the United States.
There were holes that had never been plugged. All along the watchtower. His tower now. His watch now.
And then he’d ordered surveillance on them all.
And what they saw was that one by one, the Québec syndicate had used all the bolt-holes. But none more than St. Thomas’s, in the quiet, pretty, forgotten little village of Three Pines.
Where they could get across the border easily. And where the boss could monitor it all, from the kitchen where he worked, first as a dishwasher, then as a chef.
Anton had learned from his father, and his uncle, and apprenticed with his father’s best friend and confidant. Antonio Ruiz. Whom he was named after.
Until he’d been ready to take over himself.
They could hear the others, up ahead. They were gaining on them, since the drug dealers were essentially running wildly. One chasing the other. The Americans needing to kill the Canadian cartel head. To take over the territory.
And Anton needing to escape, and regroup, and defend his territory.
And Gamache and Beauvoir needing to stop them both. If they failed, there would be a bloodbath.
They could not fail.
Gamache saw Jean-Guy, just up ahead, split off and head east, and Gamache, understanding what he was doing, turned west.
They were driving their quarry, herding them, toward where Toussaint and the assault team were waiting.
*
Madeleine Toussaint arrived at the bistro with her team, weapons drawn. They approached rapidly but carefully, not sure what they’d meet.
The krokodil heading to the village had been a surprise, but she realized that even if the exchange took place there, they’d still have to get it across the border. And so she’d ordered her team to sit tight. To stick to the plan.
Until she’d heard the shots. Then she’d changed the plan and ordered her people into the village. To help the officers down there.
Even at a run, it took precious time to get there.
They skidded and scrambled down the hills, crashing through the forest, the gunfire getting louder and longer.
And then it stopped. And there was silence.
And then they heard it. The screams. The shrieking. The cries for help.
And then even that went quiet.
Superintendent Toussaint led her team into the village. Her sharp eyes taking in everything. Her assault team in formation behind her, they crouched and swung their weapons, scanning the homes, the windows, the gardens.
Bikes were lying on the side of the village green. A ball sat there.
But there were no people. No dogs. Not cats. Not even birds.
And then a woman came out of the bistro, a fireplace poker in her hand. Behind her, Toussaint heard the familiar and unmistakable sound of assault rifles leveled.
She raised her fist. Stop.
It was Madame Gamache. Running toward them. Calling for help.
Toussaint gestured to a squad to patrol, while she went to Madame Gamache.
“Are there any targets inside?” she demanded.
“Targets? I don’t know,” said Reine-Marie. “There’re people hurt. Some dead, I think. We’ve called for help.”
“Stay here,” said Toussaint, and led her team into the bistro, guns at the ready.
Reine-Marie did not stay there. She ran in behind them.
Toussaint saw tables and chairs overturned. She smelled the putrid scent of recently fired weapons.
But it was what she heard that she would never forget.
Nothing.
There was near total silence. As eyes, wide, turned to her.
“You have to help Armand,” Madame Gamache broke the silence.
“Where is he?”
She scanned the place and saw Lacoste on the ground, an elderly woman and two others kneeling beside her. One of the women, Toussaint noticed, was clutching a fireplace brush. Another, a duck.
Chief Superintendent Gamache wasn’t there. Neither was Beauvoir.
They weren’t dead. But neither were the cartel heads.
“They went through there. Into the woods.” Madame Gamache pointed toward the back of the bistro.
“How many were there?” Toussaint asked Madame Gamache, her voice urgent.
“I don’t know.”
“Three.”
A slender blond man, a dishtowel tied tightly around his arm and propped against a heavyset man, spoke. His voice weak but his words clear.
“Anton and two others,” said Olivier.
Toussaint ordered her team out of the bistro.
Instead of going out the back, Toussaint led her assault team the way they came.
Past the church, up the hill, and into the woods.
If she were Gamache, she thought as she ran, she’d try to herd the cartel members toward the border. Where the Sûreté assault team would be waiting and could finish the job.
Except they were no longer there. They’d veered from the plan.
Shit, shit, shit.
*
Gamache’s lungs were burning and he could taste blood in his mouth, but he didn’t slow down. Willing his legs forward, faster.
He could see the American and his lieutenant through the trees, up ahead.
Good, good, he thought. They’d be there soon. Right into Toussaint, who’d be waiting.
But as he ran, another thought occurred to him.
What would he do, if he knew the opioid was heading to the village? And then heard shots?
Chri
st, he thought. He’d change the plan. Would have to. He’d take his team into the village. To help.
He’d leave the border.
Toussaint wouldn’t be there. But the syndicates would. They were running right into the arms of both cartels.
But it was too late. Far too late to stop. They had to see this through, to the end.
*
Anton recognized this part of the forest.
The border, he knew, was just ahead. And waiting there were his people. Armed and ready.
Gamache had shocked him. The Chief Superintendent had obviously known for a long time who he was. And what he was doing. He almost certainly knew about the root cellar and the hidden door.
The Americans were gaining on him. He could hear them, like a stampede through the forest. Anton picked up speed.
But then he slowed down.
Something had occurred to him.
He wasn’t running to the border. He was being herded.
The border was just up ahead, he knew. He couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see his men, though he knew they were there. But whether Gamache was alive or dead, he almost certainly would have positioned a Sûreté assault team by the border. And the Americans would have their own people there.
He was running into a trap.
He stopped. He’d have to fight it out there. He turned and leveled his gun at the sound coming at him through the forest.
He fired.
*
A bullet grazed Jean-Guy’s leg and he fell.
He lay there for a moment, taking in what had happened. What was happening.
For some reason, Anton had stopped and decided to take a stand. The bullets from his gun moved in an arc, away from Beauvoir, as Anton sprayed the forest.
Beauvoir edged forward, the burning in his leg ignored.
The goal had not changed. To win the war, they had to do one thing.
Get the leaders.
Anton was behind a tree, sighting on the Americans. He fired again, his automatic weapon pumping out rounds.
Jean-Guy moved to the side, any noise he made masked by the weapons fire. Then he brought his gun up, and placed it behind Anton’s ear.
*
The syndicate soldiers, waiting at the border for their chiefs, heard the gunfire and quickly raised their weapons.
The Canadians pointing, unflinching, at the Americans.
The Americans, equally determined, held their weapons on the Canadians.
It was a standoff. Until one of the younger members panicked.
And then it was bedlam.
*
Toussaint, realizing what was happening, ordered her squad to get between the syndicates fighting it out, where she suspected Gamache and Beauvoir were running down the cartel heads.
She might not be able to help them, but at the very least she could stop whoever survived from the syndicates from going to the aid of their leaders.
*
The head of the American cartel heard the gunfire up ahead and guessed what it meant.
His own guard was dead. Cut down in the initial shots.
There would be no help. He’d have to find his own way across the border. Taking off like a man on fire, he ran. Racing, racing. Through the woods toward Vermont. And safety.
He could hear a noise behind him. Someone chasing him.
He could see the post marking the border just up ahead. Closer. Closer.
And then he was across.
*
The American was putting more and more distance between him and Gamache. Younger, swifter, the head of the cartel was getting away.
And then they were across the border. Gamache didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. He raced after the man. Then he saw the man stop. Turn. And lift his weapon, even as Gamache tried to stop his own forward momentum.
He felt himself skidding, trying to stop.
He was losing his balance. Lost his balance. His feet came out from underneath him. He was falling.
*
The American stopped, turned, and saw the dark figure coming toward him out of the forest. He couldn’t make out features. It was just an outline.
He raised his gun and fired.
*
Gamache found himself on one knee as bullets ripped into the trees millimeters over his head.
Bringing up his gun, he aimed. And fired.
CHAPTER 34
Armand Gamache and Maureen Corriveau sat together in the quiet office.
They could hear time ticking away on the clock on the desk.
It was just after eight in the morning, a week to the day after the events at the border.
A man slightly older than Gamache sat at the desk. Looking first at the judge, then at the head of the Sûreté.
Gamache’s face was beaten and bruised, but the swelling had gone down.
“How is Chief Inspector Lacoste?” the Premier Ministre du Québec asked.
“We’ll know soon,” said Gamache. “They’ve put her in a coma. The bullet damaged her brain, but we don’t know how badly.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Premier. “And the villagers? Three Pines, is it?”
“Oui.”
“Funny, but I’d never heard of it. I’d like to go there, when this is all cleared up.”
“I think they’d like that, sir. They’re—we’re—trying to get back to normal.”
He chose not to mention that there was nothing normal about Three Pines at the best of times, and the recent events did not get it any closer. But he did know that a strange sort of peace had settled over the village. A quietude.
It had never felt more like home than it did now. And the villagers had never felt more like family, than now.
“There were injuries, I know,” said the Premier.
“The owner of the bistro, Olivier Brulé, was shot in the arm, but his partner acted quickly and stemmed the bleeding. Others were hurt by flying glass and shards of wood. Everyone’s out of the hospital now. The gravest injury was to Chief Inspector Lacoste.”
“I asked you a few months ago, Armand, to tell me what was going on. You refused. You asked me to trust you. I did.” He paused to stare at the man. “And I’m glad I did.”
Gamache nodded very slightly, his thanks.
“But it’s time. Tell me what happened.”
When Gamache had finished, the Premier Ministre just stared at him.
He’d read the reports, of course. Those in the media. But also the confidential ones, stacked on his desk.
And he’d seen the video, from Lacoste’s camera attached to her helmet. Her point of view, even as she’d fallen.
The video had left him ashen. He didn’t think he could ever look at this man again without some part of him seeing Armand Gamache leaping forward. Throwing himself at the two men.
And the knife.
It was an image, a knowledge, the Premier could never erase. What this man, this thoughtful, calm, even kindly man, was capable of doing. What he had done.
“I’m sorry I have to ask these questions.”
“I understand.”
“Were you across the border, Armand, when you killed the American?”
“I believe I was. It’s difficult to tell in the forest exactly where the border is. There’s a marker that was put there during Prohibition, though I doubt the rum runners were worried about complete accuracy. But I believe I crossed the line, yes.”
The Premier Ministre du Québec shook his head slightly and gave him a wry smile.
“You choose now to tell the truth?”
He refrained from saying that Gamache had indeed crossed a line. Several, in fact. So many that the politician had stopped counting, or caring, though the Departments of Justice in both countries had not.
“And you did it knowing you had no jurisdiction?”
“I didn’t even think of jurisdiction at that moment, and if I had I’d have done it anyway.”
“You’re not making this easy, Armand.”
Gam
ache didn’t say anything. Though he did sympathize with the Premier, who was, he suspected, trying to help.
*
He’d dragged the body of the cartel leader back past the faded old marker. Hauling the dead weight, step by step. His own body leaning forward, toward Québec, toward home.
The firefight up ahead had stopped and he heard Jean-Guy, calling him.
It was over.
But there was no celebration in his heart. He was too shattered.
When he was sure he’d crossed back into Québec, Gamache fell to his knees in exhaustion, so that when Beauvoir found him, he saw a man covered in blood, apparently praying over the body he had created.
With Jean-Guy’s help, they dragged the American back to where Toussaint was turning chaos into order.
Jean-Guy had sustained an injury to his leg, but it was minor and quickly bandaged. His was the only injury among the Sûreté team. Except, of course, for Isabelle.
The cartel members, from both sides, had almost managed to wipe each other out. Those who survived were being handcuffed, while paramedics sorted through the rest.
It looked, in those old-growth forests, like what it was. A battlefield. Sirens, from more ambulances and police, could be heard.
Anton had his hands secured behind his back.
“You did my job for me, Armand,” said Anton, nodding toward the body. “You think you’ve won back the province, don’t you? Just wait for it.”
“I should’ve killed him,” said Jean-Guy, as they’d made their way back to Three Pines.
Gamache wiped blood, now congealing, from his eyes. But said nothing. In that moment, he agreed with Jean-Guy. It would have been better, far better.
*
“It’s a shame,” said the Premier Ministre du Québec, when Armand had finished his account, “that Anton Boucher survived.”
The comment, said so dryly, so matter-of-factly, surprised Gamache. Not that the Premier would think it, but that he would say it out loud.
“There are lines,” said Gamache. “That cannot be crossed. And once crossed, there’s no going back.”
“Like murder,” said the Premier. “Which brings me to my next question.”
Judge Corriveau shifted slightly in her chair, knowing it was her turn now. Knowing what he was about to ask.
“Tell me about the killing of Madame Kathleen Evans.”
*
It was much the same conversation Chief Superintendent Gamache had had with Judge Corriveau a few days after the attack.