by Louise Penny
“People who wouldn’t see,” said Beauvoir.
“People who wouldn’t question, Chief Inspector. And there are a lot of those.”
Lamontagne looked at the statement on the table. A few slender sheets of paper, but, like Madame Ogilvy that afternoon, the broker could see what they meant.
Ruin.
This scandal would kill Taylor and Ogilvy. And throw them all out of work. And maybe Anthony Baumgartner would, in death, have his revenge.
Beauvoir thanked Monsieur Lamontagne and made his way back along the corridor to the interview room where Bernard Shaeffer waited.
Delusion and madness, he thought as he reentered the room. There was a lot of those in this case.
* * *
It was close. Amelia could feel it.
Even those around her, the junkies, the whores, the trannies who’d been drawn to her, could feel it. They couldn’t feel their fingers and toes. Their faces were numb and ravaged.
They’d lost all compassion. All good sense. Even their anger and despair were gone. They’d lost their families, and they’d lost their minds.
But this they could feel.
Something big was coming.
It didn’t yet even have a street name. Whoever controlled it would get naming rights. For now it was just “it.” Or “the new shit.” And that seemed to only add to the excitement, the mystique.
Amelia knew what “it” was.
Carfentanil.
She also knew that whoever had it, whoever controlled the carfentanil, would win. And Amelia was determined to win.
But time was short. Once it hit the street, it was out of her hands.
Amelia stood at the window, but the view was obscured by thick frost and grime, so that all she saw were blurry streetlights.
Though she couldn’t see them, she knew they were out there. Waiting for her.
The junkies and whores and trannies. Who’d turned to her for protection. Because she had muscle on her bones and a brain not completely fried. And she could see around corners. What was hiding. What was waiting. What was coming.
They slept in the corridor outside Marc’s room, armed with guns and knives, and some had clubs, and waited for her to come out. And lead them.
Their eyes glowed in ways their mothers would never recognize.
They had nothing to lose and one thing to find. It.
Out there somewhere, in the hollowed-out core of Montréal, there was a factory cutting and recutting the drug. And this David knew where it was.
If she wanted to find it, she’d have to first find him.
“So, Sweet Pea,” said Marc as they prepared to leave. “What’re you going to call it?”
“What?”
They’d stepped out of his room, and Amelia saw, up and down the dingy hallway, skeletons struggling to stand on pin legs. On feet clad in boots stolen from corpses of friends who’d OD’d.
Bodies. Pale. Frozen. Picked up by dark vans and taken to lie on autopsy tables, then in drawers. Unnamed. Unclaimed. By mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, who’d spend the rest of their lives wondering whatever became of their bright-eyed child.
“It. The shit,” said Marc. “Ha. It rhymes. It the shit.”
Amelia had to smile. She thought her favorite poet, Ruth Zardo, would like that little morsel. It the shit.
“When you find it, you’ll have naming rights,” said Marc. His eyes were unfocused and his words indistinct. Mumbled. His lips and tongue no longer able to work properly. He shuffled and muttered like an old man after a stroke. He put his arm around her shoulders. “Dragon. Wicked. Suicide. Something terrifying. Kids like that.”
She felt, even through his winter coat, his bones.
There was hardly anything to him anymore. He was being eaten alive. Consumed from the inside out. They all were.
Except Amelia. At least not so that was visible. But still she wondered if her mother would recognize her anymore. Or claim her as her own.
* * *
Beauvoir took his seat across from Bernard Shaeffer and smiled.
“Tell me.”
“What?”
“No more games,” said Beauvoir, his tone cold but calm. “Baumgartner set you up at the Caisse Populaire, a bank, for a reason. Now I want that reason.”
“I don’t—”
“Tell me.”
“There’s—”
“Tell me,” Beauvoir snapped. “Where do you think I was just now?”
Shaeffer looked from Beauvoir to Agent Cloutier, his eyes wide. He clearly hadn’t given it any thought. Now he did.
“I don’t know—”
“I was next door, in another interview room.” Beauvoir glared at him. “Asking questions and getting answers. Now I’m giving you a chance. Answer the question. What did Baumgartner want from you?”
There was silence.
“Now,” shouted Beauvoir, bringing his open hand down on the table with such force that Shaeffer nearly jumped out of his skin. As did Agent Cloutier, who dropped her pen on the floor and had to quickly bend to scoop it up.
“An account,” said Shaeffer. “Okay? He wanted me to set up an offshore account. And put the money he sent into it.”
“For both of you?”
“No. Just under the name Anthony Baumgartner.”
“He used his own name?”
The question seemed to surprise Shaeffer. “Of course. Why not?”
“Easy to trace.”
“He didn’t expect to be caught.”
“How much is in it?”
“I’d have to check, but I think it’s somewhere around eight million,” said Shaeffer.
“And how much did you take for yourself?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” said Beauvoir. “How stupid are you? You know we’ll find out.” He turned to Agent Cloutier. “She’s in charge of forensic accounting for the entire Sûreté. Nothing gets past her. She’s brought down business leaders, politicians, mob heads. She’ll bring you down too. Before breakfast. So save us the trouble.”
Shaeffer looked at Cloutier, who now wished she hadn’t stuck the pen in her mouth and chewed it.
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe a little. But don’t tell him.”
“That I can promise,” said Beauvoir.
Shaeffer shook his head. “Sorry. I forgot he’s dead.”
Beauvoir hadn’t missed the tone of Shaeffer’s voice when he’d, just for a moment, forgotten that Baumgartner was dead.
He was afraid of him, thought Beauvoir. Genuinely afraid. In fact, Jean-Guy thought as he got to his feet, that might’ve been the most genuine moment in this whole interview.
“Give Agent Cloutier the information on the account, please.”
“I can go?”
“We’ll see.”
They were getting closer, thought Beauvoir as he walked toward his office. Closer to embezzlement, if not murder. But he knew Gamache was right. When they found the money, it would be infused with delusion. With madness. With the stink of emotions rotten enough to lead to murder.
* * *
Amelia could hear the footsteps of the junkies and whores and trannies following them as she and Marc walked down the concrete stairs. Marc gripping Amelia’s hand for support.
The air got colder and colder the closer they got to the front door.
Amelia braced for the frigid blast as soon as the door opened, but still it took her breath away and made her eyes water.
“Oh, fuck,” she heard Marc say, coughing and choking on the air.
Through watery eyes Amelia saw a little girl in a red hat with the Montréal Canadiens logo. She stood alone, at the mouth of an alley.
Amelia could just see, poking out of the darkness, a pair of legs. On the ground. In ripped fishnets. The rest of the body was in darkness. But Amelia had no doubt. It was a body.
She caught the eyes of the girl, who looked to be five or six years old.
Amelia took a ste
p toward the girl but was stopped by a single word.
“David.”
A skinny black kid had come up to her. No more than fifteen, she thought. He was staring at her with eyes far too big for his head.
“What about him?” she said, and felt, more than saw, the junkies and whores and trannies form a semicircle behind her.
“I’d heard you want him. I know where he is. For a tab I’ll tell you.”
“Yeah, right. Get outta my way, shithead,” she said, and shoved past him, heading across the street. To the girl, who was still standing there. Staring.
“David,” he repeated, and pushed the sleeve of his thin coat up. To expose his forearm. “Look.”
And there, written in Magic Marker, was the same word she’d found on her own arm. The word that was still there. Indelible.
David.
Like a calling card.
And beside the name there was a number: 13. No. It was 1/3.
She pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and took a closer look at her forearm. “David,” it said. And the number. Not 14 but 1/4.
Amelia stared at it and felt her heart beating in her throat. “Where is he?”
“I have to show you. Now. Before he leaves.” He put out his hand.
“Give him one,” said Amelia, and Marc handed over a single pill. “You’ll get another when we get to meet David.”
The kid pocketed the currency and without another word turned and walked down the dark street.
Amelia looked behind her. To the mouth of the alley. But the little girl was gone.
“Almost there,” Marc whispered as they followed. “Come up with a name yet?”
“Sweet Pea,” she said. “You started calling me that when I was five years old.”
“That’s what you’re going to name the shit? Sweet Pea?”
“No. I’m going to call it Gamache.”
“After the head of the Sûreté? The guy who got you into the academy?”
“The guy who got me kicked out. The genius who gave us the shit. He deserves to have it named after him. To know that the last thing tens of thousands of kids will say will be his name. It’ll become synonymous with death. Gamache.”
“You hate him that much?”
“He ruined me,” said Amelia. “Now it’s his turn.”
CHAPTER 32
“Oh look,” said Benedict. “I think my truck’s back.”
They’d crested the hill leading down into Three Pines. There were lights at the windows of the homes, and in the bistro they could see figures moving about.
The headlights of Gamache’s car caught the swirl of snow as it fell, and where the beams hit the surrounding forest, the trees were alternately dark and bright as snow rested on the branches.
Armand knew there’d be fires lit in each of the homes, including his own. But before he could join Reine-Marie in front of it, there was something that had to be done.
Benedict pulled up behind his truck, and, getting out, he went to inspect the tires.
“They’re very good,” he said. “The best. Are you sure I can’t pay for them?”
“I’m sure,” said Armand.
Benedict tossed the tail of his tuque around his neck and over his shoulder and looked about him. “I’m going to miss it here. What is it?”
Armand was regarding him in a way that made Benedict uncomfortable.
* * *
Isabelle stared at her laptop.
Her husband had returned, and the kids had come in from playing, and all around was pandemonium.
But she was sitting at the kitchen table in her own little bubble. Where all was deadly quiet. There were just the two of them. Isabelle Lacoste and Katie Burke.
“So that’s who you are,” whispered Lacoste. And reached for the phone. While the kids chased each other and the dog barked and her husband called to them to wash up for dinner.
* * *
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had his feet crossed on the desk. A file on his lap. The information Madame Ogilvy had had her assistant give him on the Kinderoths, and Bernard Shaeffer, and Anthony Baumgartner.
He slowly lowered the file and stared at his own reflection in the window. Then, dropping his legs off the desk with a thud, he muttered, “Gotcha,” as he reached for the phone.
* * *
Benedict picked up the keys to his truck from Madame Gamache and thanked her profusely and sincerely for their hospitality.
“I don’t know what I’d have done,” he said. “Without you.”
“You’re welcome back anytime, right, Armand?”
“Let me walk you to your truck,” said Gamache.
As the door closed, he could hear the phone ringing.
“I don’t know how I can ever thank you, sir.”
“You promised me a driving lesson.” Gamache looked around. There was a good four inches of snow on the road. Billy Williams would be by soon to clear it, but right now it was accumulating. “You can thank me by giving me that lesson.”
“Now?”
“Is there a better time?”
“Well, it’s dark, and you must be tired.”
“It’s six thirty. I’m not quite that old.”
“I . . . I didn’t mean that,” stammered Benedict.
“Get in,” said Gamache, walking around to the passenger side and climbing up. “Let’s drive a few kilometers out of the village. I have a spot in mind.”
He was quiet as they drove, and then Gamache asked, “Who’s Katie Burke?”
“Who?”
Gamache was silent, staring at the snow swirling in the headlights.
“She’s my girlfriend.”
The truck was speeding up, exceeding the limit now.
“My ex.”
They were gathering speed.
“Your ex? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago did you break up?”
“Two months.”
“About the time Bertha Baumgartner died?”
The engine growled as Benedict pressed harder on the gas.
“I guess. I don’t know.”
“Did she know Madame Baumgartner?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you sure? Be more careful with your answers.”
“Maybe you should be more careful with your questions. Leave Katie out of this. You wanted a lesson? Here goes.”
He put his foot to the floor just as they crested a hill.
“Benedict—” Gamache began, but got no further.
Benedict hit the brakes, and the truck spun, veering out of control.
Gamache was thrown against the door, hitting his head on the window. He heard Benedict grunt as he was tossed sideways.
“Let go of the brake,” Gamache shouted.
But Benedict’s foot was jammed onto the pedal as he yanked the steering wheel first one way, then the other. Fighting for control. The snowbank approached, then the car caught and fishtailed in the other direction. Toward the other bank. And the drop-off.
Gamache released his seat belt and forced himself forward. Grabbing the wheel, he tried to steer into the spin, but Benedict’s grip was too tight, and it was now almost impossible to tell which way was forward. And which would send them into the trees.
Benedict was bucking against Gamache’s body, which was pinning him to the seat. Partly to try to force his foot from the brake and partly to help protect the young man against what now seemed the inevitable crash.
Gamache grabbed Benedict’s pant leg, pulling it as hard as he could. Trying to yank his foot off the brake.
It finally lifted, and Gamache could feel the truck catch and slow, but he knew it was too late. In the headlights he saw the snowbank approaching and, beyond it, the trees.
He closed his eyes and braced himself.
The truck shuddered and then slowed.
Gamache opened his eyes and turned to look out the windshield. And saw not the woods but the road.
He shoved the gear into neu
tral, and the truck glided to a stop, pointing straight ahead.
Both men stared straight ahead, gathering themselves.
Gamache took a deep breath and exhaled while, beside him, Benedict was hyperventilating. His breaths coming out in short puffs.
“Katie Burke,” said Gamache. “Tell—”
“Leave her out of this.”
“Are you really prepared to kill us both? To protect her?”
“Leave her alone,” said Benedict.
“Was it her idea or yours?”
“Enough.”
“Or what? You’ll run us off a cliff? More death? Does it get easier, Benedict, the more you do? I’m giving you a chance to tell me yourself.”
Benedict was staring at him, wild-eyed, desperate.
“No?” said Gamache. “Then I’ll tell you. Katie knew Madame Baumgartner. She was her first contact in the nursing home. That’s how you got onto the will, isn’t it?”
Benedict continued to glare at Gamache, but now with more surprise than hostility.
“Murder, Benedict. Is that what you wanted? Was it planned?”
But Benedict seemed too stunned to answer.
“Tell me. The truth now.”
* * *
As soon as they walked back into the house, Reine-Marie said, “Both Jean-Guy and Isabelle have been calling. They’d like a callback.”
It sounded to Armand that they would more than just “like” a call.
“You’re back,” said Reine-Marie to Benedict. “Everything okay? You look pale.”
“He’s just going to rest for a bit,” said Armand, making for the study. “We’ve been testing the tires. We gave each other little lessons on driving in dangerous conditions.”
Benedict collapsed into an armchair facing the fire.
“What did you do to him, Armand?” Reine-Marie whispered at the door to the study.
“Taught him a lesson,” said her husband. “If he tries to leave, let me know. But I don’t think he will.”
Armand held up the keys to the truck.
Then, picking up the phone to return the calls, he noticed there was a message. A soft, now-familiar voice told him that she’d found the girl. And Armand could come get her anytime. She’d be safe.
Now it was Armand’s turn to sit, almost collapse, into a chair. He closed his eyes briefly, and exhaled, whispering, “Merci.”
Then he called Jean-Guy, who was in his car. “On my way down, patron. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
