Chapter 22

C HAPTER 22

"Looking for this?"

Armand held up the map.

Frère Simon was on his stomach, on the stone floor, his body half under Gamache's bed.

The monk scrambled up, not an easy thing to do in robes, brushed himself off with as much dignity as possible, which was very little, and faced the S?reté officer.

"So, you found it," said Frère Simon.

"We did. How did you know I had it?"

"I went to the study to make sure it was still there."

"Dom Philippe showed you?"

"He told me not to tell anyone."

Gamache suppressed a smile, thinking of the wily Abbot. Though, to be fair to Frère Simon, he hadn't yet coughed up that secret. Jean-Guy had had to find the map himself.

"I can explain."

"I think you'd better. But not here."

A few minutes later they walked into Dom Philippe's study. Frère Simon stopped at the threshold. There, in the middle of the room, was another monk. Not as old as Simon, but more grizzled, more solid. More stolid.

They looked at each other in awkward silence.

Simon nodded a greeting.

The other monk did not.

"Let me introduce Frère Roland," said Beauvoir. "He was the Keeper of the Keys under Dom Philippe. Merci, mon frère. I'll let you get back to your chores. He's now," Beauvoir explained to Gamache, "assigned by Frère Simon to look after the physical plant, or at least the part of it having to do with the septic system."

They turned to the acting Abbot, who had the grace to look embarrassed and step aside to let Brother Roland pass. There was a slight pause while Roland glared. And Simon dropped his eyes.

It was the monastic equivalent of a thrashing.

The day had barely begun and already it was very bad for the acting Abbot. And about, he knew, they all knew, to get worse.

When they were alone, Armand closed the door and gestured with the map toward the chairs. Then he nodded to Beauvoir to take the lead.

"Let's not waste time. We know you opened the mail. We know the Abbot found out and told Frère Roland to hand it out himself, and bypass you. He didn't explain why, but Roland guessed."

Simon sat silent. Neither protesting nor confirming.

"When the Abbot left, he put you in charge, and you replaced Roland with your own person and went back to opening all the correspondence."

The color had returned to Simon's cheeks. They could have warmed their hands by it.

Beauvoir leaned toward the monk.

"We don't care about that. In fact, for our purposes, we're very glad you did. We just need to know what those letters from the Vatican said."

There was a pause that seemed to elongate. Light was now pouring into the room, into the entire abbey. The original architect monk had positioned the windows of Saint-Gilbert just so, to capture every available ray and draw it down. So that the entire building, from the chapel to the bathrooms, was bathed in light so giddy it was almost impossible not to smile.

It was like being immersed, baptized, in brightness.

Now Frère Simon sighed, setting the dust motes dancing in the sunshine. "That first letter, from the American monk to Frère Sébastien, was vague. It said that he'd heard about a plot, something so terrible he'd traveled from his place in the States to Rome. He wanted Sébastien to join him there."

The S?reté officers exchanged glances.

"No specifics?"

Simon shook his head.

"That would be asking a lot of Sébastien," said Beauvoir.

"So much so I dismissed it, thinking he'd never leave an abbey where he'd taken an oath to remain cloistered, to go all the way to Rome, on the vague request of another monk."

"But he did," said Beauvoir.

Simon nodded. He looked down at his long, elegant hands, then raised his eyes to the investigators. "He left the next day. The Abbot walked him to the boat and embraced him."

"Did the Abbot know what was happening?"

"How could he, when Frère Sébastien didn't even know? There are moral, ecclesiastical bonds to this place. But we're not in bondage. We're free to leave. Though I can't remember anyone ever doing it. Until now."

And now both the Prior and the Abbot of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups had left. Those letters had been the equivalent of the stone in the calm lake. A shocking event that disturbed the tranquil lives of these monks. And sent them scattering.

"The monk who sent the first letter from the Vatican must've signed it," said Gamache.

"No, that was the other odd thing. There was no signature."

"There was no way to identify who it was from?"

"Not that I could see."

"And yet Sébastien knew," said Gamache. "He must've known the sender very well to recognize him without even a signature."

"There was one thing that I do remember. Every B was underlined."

" B ?" said Beauvoir. "Bee? Like the insect or the word ‘be'? Or the letter?"

"Why would there be bees in the letter?" asked Simon.

"You just said there were," snapped Beauvoir.

Now the two men stared at each other.

"I think you mean the letter B ," said Gamache, and Simon nodded.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Beauvoir finally said.

"How should I know? I have no idea what any of this means. But I can tell you that the letterhead wasn't just the Vatican. It was from the Office of the Doctrine of the Faith."

Both Gamache and Beauvoir looked puzzled.

"It used to be known as the Inquisition."

"Ahh," said Beauvoir, sitting back in his seat. "So this American is a Dominican. That would've been helpful to know."

"No, he's not necessarily a Dominican. All orders now contribute to that department of the Curia. But I think since Sébastien was a Dominican once, it's a reasonable assumption. That must've been where they met. When both worked for the Doctrine of the Faith."

Gamache nodded. It tracked. And yet something was off.

"So Frère Sébastien left here and presumably went to Rome. A while later he writes to Dom Philippe," said Beauvoir. "What did that letter say?"

Both investigators watched the monk closely. This was the vital moment. The vital question.

"It was short. More a note. Sébastien just asked the Abbot to meet him and said he'd send the time and place in another package."

"Nothing else?" asked Gamache. "Just that?"

"Just that."

"Was the letter B underlined?" asked Gamache.

"No, why would it be?"

"Oh, for God's sake," said Beauvoir, then stopped when Gamache raised his hand slightly. And the small room settled into silence.

The Chief Inspector let it stretch on, an interrogation technique he preferred, since most people found silence far more threatening than shouting.

Except…

Gamache realized that for these people, these monks, silence was their happy place. So he broke it himself. "What was in the second letter?"

Simon lifted his hands. "If Sébastien sent the details, I never found out. It was then that the Abbot spoke to Frère Roland, and I no longer had access to the mail. If anyone knows, it's Brother Roland."

He seemed aggrieved, as though a great wrong had been done him.

Gamache turned to Beauvoir, who nodded. His eyes bright. Anxious to tell Gamache what he knew. What the original Keeper of the Keys must have told him. But they needed to speak privately, not in front of this meddlesome monk.

The thought stirred something in the Chief Inspector. It was what King Henry had said that provoked the murder of the Archbishop. The murder in the cathedral.

Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?

He looked at Frère Simon and wondered…

There was one more thing Gamache needed to get out of the monk. "Did you look at the map?"

Simon shrugged. No use denying it now. Bigger cats had already escaped the bag. "But it didn't tell me anything. It's just numbers on lakes."

"Do you know who gave it to the Abbot?"

Simon shook his head.

"Did Dom Philippe have a visitor?" asked Gamache, his eyes searching, penetrating.

"Not that I know. I guess someone might've come on the supply boat, but if he did, he didn't come into the monastery."

"Did the Abbot say anything about it?"

"Only that I wasn't to show it to anyone."

Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged glances. Clearly if Dom Philippe really wanted it to be a secret, he wouldn't have told anyone about it, and certainly not the blabbermouth.

"I'd never actually seen a map of Québec before," said Simon. "The thing that most struck me was water."

Gamache cocked his head, but said nothing.

"You don't realize how much there is in Québec until you see it on a map or from a plane," said the monk.

"There's also a lot of forest," said Gamache, his voice calm, even. Not giving away the importance of the question. "But you thought of water. Why?"

Simon shrugged, but then hesitated. "Actually, now that I remember, it was because the Abbot quoted the Psalms. In a dry and parched land where there is no water. It seemed strange, since we're not exactly a dry and parched land. But I think he might've meant allegorically. About faith."

"Did he say anything else?" asked Beauvoir.

"No."

"Did he show you anything else?" asked Beauvoir.

"Like what?"

The two investigators just stared at the monk, who stared back.

"I can get a search warrant," said Gamache. His voice was low, grave. Filled with regret and warning.

Frère Simon blanched. "You'd do that? You'd violate the monastery?"

"I won't be the one violating it," said the Chief Inspector. "You will, by refusing to cooperate. You might not be lying, but you are holding out on us. You can stop a search by telling us everything. Showing us everything."

Gamache was more and more convinced that if Langlois had given the Abbot the map to hide, then he also had given him the laptop and notebooks. How the biologist came to know the monk and the monastery remained a question to be answered. And they would. But first things first. They had to find what was hidden there.

Simon's eyes were wide with panic.

There was no doubt that this monk genuinely loved this place. And it was his job now to protect it. But instead, Frère Simon had brought this horror upon his brothers. His family.

"I don't know what you're talking about." His voice was high with alarm, a siren voice. "The Abbot didn't give me anything else. You have the map. Can't you just go? Take it. Leave us alone. Please."

Gamache studied the man, then stood up. "Right. You're coming with us. Go to your cell and pack. Take enough clothing for a few days. The rest can be sent for."

"What? Why?"

"I'm arresting you for obstruction."

"But that's absurd. I've done everything you've asked."

"You're hiding something, something vital." Gamache paused, giving the monk a chance to come clean. "Go. Pack."

Simon stared in disbelief but finally left.

When they were sure they were alone, Gamache turned to Beauvoir. "Tell me."

"I spoke to Frère Roland. He confirmed that two letters came with Vatican crests and postmarks. One for Sébastien, then, weeks later, one for the Abbot. We already knew about them. What we didn't know, and neither did Simon, is that something else arrived for the Abbot. Without a Vatican crest or postmark."

"It must've been the letter from Sébastien, telling Dom Philippe where to meet."

"Maybe, but it was big. A box. Dom Philippe left a few days later."

A box.

He looked around the tiny study. He really, really wanted to pace. To think. But the place was too small, and he sure didn't want to take another walk in the woods.

He could have gone into the Abbot's walled garden, but decided to stay where he was and let his mind run wild while he stood still. His hands grasping each other behind his back, the Chief Inspector stared out the window. The morning sun warmed his face as he closed his eyes and chased his thoughts.

Finally, he ran one to ground.

"Suppose what was in that box wasn't from the Vatican at all, but from Charles Langlois."

Beauvoir's eyes widened. "His notebooks and laptop?"

"Maybe."

"That means they are here."

"Maybe."

But there was something else. Some small thought that had brushed by Armand when they were discussing that first letter.

"The American monk said he'd discovered something so disturbing that it sent him from his community in the States to Rome."

"Yes," said Beauvoir.

"Which makes it sound as though he arrived in Rome recently."

"Probably, yes."

"Which means that Frère Sébastien and this American monk could not have met in the Curia," said Gamache. "Sébastien left Rome a couple of years ago. And the American just arrived."

"So they must have met somewhere else. We need to find out more about this Sébastien," said Jean-Guy. "But his records were burned. Simon told us that's their ritual."

"His application to the Gilbertines was burned—"

"But not necessarily his original application and records with the Dominicans." Beauvoir was smiling broadly. "I'll get on it as soon as we get back."

"Good, good. It makes sense that if there's something nasty going on, a Dominican would find it."

"Why do you say that?"

"The Inquisition. It's no longer active, but the Dominicans are clearly an order given to inquiring. Not that different from what we do."

"There's a world of difference," said Jean-Guy, flaring up. "The Inquisitors found and punished what never existed. They used the excuse of sacrilege to exact revenge and gain power. At least the Gilbertines only burned paper. The Dominicans burned people." He glared at Gamache. "And we do neither."

Armand had never asked his son-in-law why he loathed the church and now was not the time. But the time would come. And perhaps sooner rather than later.

Instead, he said, "That was hundreds of years ago."

"You're no longer a practicing Catholic, patron ."

Gamache tilted his head, wondering about what seemed a non sequitur, but suspected it was a sequitur.

"That's true."

"You rarely go to church," Beauvoir continued. "And when you do, it's the little chapel in Three Pines, which, from what I can see, has no actual denomination."

" Oui. "

"And yet when you do go into a Catholic church, for a wedding or funeral, or during an investigation, you cross yourself and give a little genuflect. You even do it here." Beauvoir waved vaguely toward the chapel.

Gamache frowned. He hadn't realized that anyone had noticed. It wasn't a secret, but it was, he thought, private.

"Also true." His frown turned into a grin. "Just in case."

"You don't believe a little curtsy will get you into Heaven. It serves no purpose. But you do it anyway. You believe in God, but you don't believe that going to church, or any of its rules and rituals, brings you closer to God. And yet you still go through what you were taught." Beauvoir crossed himself and genuflected. "Just in case."

Gamache nodded, wondering where this was going.

"Do you really think, patron , that the Dominicans are any different? Aren't centuries of ritual, of their vocation, even more deeply ingrained in them?"

"You think the Dominicans—"

"Not just them, but the whole Office of the Protection of the Faith or whatever the hell they call it—"

"Doctrine of the Faith—"

"Doctrine, protection, comes to the same thing."

"You think it's still conducting an Inquisition?"

"Yes, I do. Just in case. It's cloaked in secrecy, hiding behind incense and chants and all sorts of magic tricks, to distract. For all we know, they're behind what's happening. Turning water into poison or power. Do you think we can really trust what these monks, once we find them, will tell us?"

Armand sighed. He did not for a moment believe the Vatican, the Curia, was behind a plot to poison Québec's drinking water. That was absurd. He suspected the truth was far simpler, and probably much closer to home.

But he understood what Jean-Guy was saying and agreed that the Holy See did not always see clearly. And often saw what served its purposes. Still, he suspected that what these two monks had discovered had less to do with the sins of the church, and everything to do with more earthly sins. Mortal sins.

"Do we ever totally trust anyone? Non , we'll listen to what they say, then we'll corroborate. But I think these monks are risking a great deal. I think the American found out who's behind the plan to poison the water. He passed it on to Sébastien, who told his Abbot. Who wanted to give me the information."

"But why the games? If they knew something, why not just tell the authorities?"

"It's possible they did."

Beauvoir stared at his chief as the importance of what he said sank in.

Suppose these monks found out that there was some terrible and imminent threat to the population? Where would they go? Not to the local cop shop. They'd go to the top. To the head of the S?reté in Québec, charged with protecting the people. And to the federal government, which had the power and resources to investigate and stop any plot. They'd go as far up the chain as they could, possibly all the way to the minister responsible for counterterrorism. The Deputy Prime Minister of Canada. Thinking the head of the S?reté and the federal leader would stop it. Not realizing they were actually informing the very people who needed to be stopped.

"That might explain how Jeanne Caron came to have half the Chartreuse formula. They gave it to her. Not realizing…" Beauvoir thought for a moment. "We still don't know how Chartreuse fits into it."

"We'll find out eventually. It might be the monks' own code, using an elixir of life to stop so many deaths. But for now, we don't let anyone know we know about the monks. The Abbot. We try to look as incompetent as possible. Do you think you can manage that?"

"Which of us went for a stroll in woods thick with wolves? I think we can manage incompetence."

But it wasn't really a joke. It needed to appear, to anyone watching, as though the Chief Inspector and his team were now just bumbling along in shadow. Stuck in perpetual vespers. And it wasn't all that far from the truth.

"If Jeanne Caron somehow got the other half of that list, why did she send it to you?"

That was also worrying Gamache. He was beginning to wonder if it was a game she was playing. She'd obviously studied him. She knew about Open Da Night. She knew where he lived. She'd gotten a key to their apartment.

Was she manipulating him? Did she know him well enough to know that dangling an ancient mystery, a secret formula, right in front of him, would catch his attention, his imagination? Had it worked? Was he standing here in a remote monastery interviewing cloistered monks when he should be somewhere else?

It was ridiculous to think that an old recipe for Chartreuse, an obscure liqueur, could have anything to do with a terrorist plot to poison Québec's drinking water.

Gamache realized he might not be pretending to be incompetent. He might actually be.

And yet… and yet… Charles Langlois had been murdered, and Dom Philippe had left Gamache one of the fragments. Propelling him here. Where they'd found Langlois's map. And where there might be more hidden in this remote monastery.

Something was happening. And it was all connected.

There was still far too much they didn't know. But they knew far more than when they'd arrived, less than twenty-four hours earlier.

"Come on." The Chief Inspector made for the door.

"Are you really going to take Frère Simon with us?" Jean-Guy asked as they hurried through the pools of sunshine in the long corridor.

Saint Gilbert Between the Wolves was, Gamache knew, a place of duality. Of profound silence and the voice of God. Of light and dark. Of good and evil. Of Heaven and the Hell on earth that was coming.

"We have to," he said. "Before someone shows up here to get rid of the meddlesome monk."

"Oh, shit. You think he's next on the list?"

"I think in this case knowledge isn't power, it's a death warrant, and our curious friend knows more than he's telling."

Within minutes, the investigators were packed and standing on the dock. The monks stood shoulder to shoulder in a semicircle just outside the abbey. Not so much to say goodbye, thought Gamache, as to make sure they left.

The Chief Inspector had spoken to Frère Roland, who was now acting Abbot, and asked him to organize a search of the monastery.

"You're looking for a laptop and notebooks that belonged to a young biologist named Charles Langlois. I think the Abbot agreed to hide them here."

Frère Roland, while surprised, did not question except to ask, "And if we find them?"

"Try not to handle them. Call me. Here's my card. And mon frère , whatever happens, do not let anyone else into the monastery. No matter who they are."

"The Pope?"

"Not even him," said Gamache, with a smile.

"Dom Philippe?"

He thought for a moment and nodded. "Only if he's alone."

"Sébastien?"

Gamache shook his head. "No. Keep the doors closed and locked. Even if the S?reté comes calling."

That made the monk raise his brows in what other monks would recognize as a scream.

"Are we in danger?"

"I'm not sure. Best to be careful." Just in case , he thought but did not say. "What is it?"

"If someone is in distress, I have to let them in." He smiled. "We let you in. Casual visitors will stay outside the walls. But someone in need, we will help. We were denied sanctuary once. We would never do the same to others."

He made it sound as though it were yesterday and not centuries ago, to monks long dust. And ash. Jean-Guy was right. There was a long memory here.

"Just so you're warned."

" Merci. We'll do as you ask." Roland looked at Frère Simon, climbing awkwardly into the seaplane. "He's not a bad man, you know. But it's possible his place is in the world and not here. God willing, he'll discover where he belongs. It's what we all want."

As the monks watched, their hands up the drooping sleeves of their robes, the officers squeezed, albeit with a certain reluctance, into the small plane. Even the pilot seemed nervous, which did not help.

In the back seat, beside Simon, Jean-Guy was muttering.

Armand turned around from his place in the copilot seat. "Are you praying?"

"Only if there's such a person as a Saint-Merde."

"Patron saint of homicide investigators," said Armand, and heard Jean-Guy laugh.

Frère Simon only scowled, convinced now that he was indeed in the company of heathens. Beside him, Inspector Beauvoir went back to his incantations.

Armand was pretty sure he saw Jean-Guy cross himself.

They glided down the lake, gaining speed. Then the craft lifted off and left the lake and land, no longer earthbound, in an event that would have been deemed by the Inquisition proof of demonic possession. A burning offense.

As the float plane banked and headed south to Montréal, Armand forced himself to look down at the vast, seemingly endless stretches of forests and water. And once again thanked God his children and grandchildren lived in Québec, where the resources, while increasingly vulnerable, were still plentiful.

Canada might not be the most powerful nation on earth, but power was shifting from weapons to resources. And Canada was resource-rich. Which was tipping the balance of power.

Where once the population had been dismissed as hewers of wood and drawers of water, servile and menial, now, in this climate of change, that description turned out to be a very good thing. Canada had plenty of wood to hew and fresh water to draw. To drink.

They just had to do a much better job of protecting it.

What was that quote the Abbot had said as he'd hidden Langlois's map?

In a dry and parched land where there is no water.

There were more and more of those lands, those nations, suffering terrible droughts. And while climate change had hit Canada, especially in the form of terrible wildfires, it had been felt less forcefully than in most other areas. Even in the nation to the south, once green and fertile land had become dry and parched. Roaring rivers had withered to a trickle.

Times were becoming desperate. People were becoming desperate.

A few minutes earlier, while the pilot was preparing the plane and Simon had been saying his goodbyes, Armand and Jean-Guy had stood on the dock and stared out at the vast freshwater lake.

"I remember the last time we left," said Jean-Guy quietly.

"So do I."

"I was so angry."

Armand looked over to the rugged shoreline and the trees that clung to it, then his eyes came to rest on Jean-Guy.

"So was I."

Jean-Guy turned to him. "You were? You never told me."

Armand nodded. "When you made your choice, and I watched you leave without me, I was so angry I could barely breathe. Not at you. But at…" Armand didn't say the name. Didn't have to. "Dom Philippe could see my rage. That's when he explained where this place got its name."

"To distract you?"

" Non. To help me make my choice."

"What do you mean?"

"You were right, Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups is an unusual name for a monastery, to say the least. And it comes from an unusual, even unorthodox source.

"When the Gilbertines fled the Inquisition, they ran all the way to the New World. And still they kept going. Until they finally stopped. Here." His eyes shifted to the vast forest. "In the middle of what seemed wilderness but turned out to be much more civilized than where they'd come from. The people here, the Cree, welcomed them. Helped them."

"Bet they regretted that."

"Actually, as it turns out, it was one of the few examples of peaceful coexistence. It helped that the Gilbertines had no sense of entitlement or need to convert. After the horrors of the Inquisition, they just wanted to live in peace and be left alone. Over time the monks learned the local language. They learned the customs and beliefs of the Cree and were taught how to survive. The Abbot and the Chief discovered an unexpected friendship. One day, while visiting the monks, the Cree Chief asked why they were there. The Abbot explained that they had been chased out of their home. Some killed, burned at the stake, others tortured and imprisoned. By those meant to be their spiritual family, their fellow frères and pères . The Gilbertines who were left escaped. It was clear that the Abbot had brought his rage with him, and with each visit, as more details came out, his anger grew. His rage, while understandable, was threatening to destroy not just him but the new life they were creating. No place is safe if built on a foundation of hatred."

Listening to this, Jean-Guy became very still. He watched the Chief and could barely believe that this man had been the focus of his own hatred.

Sensing the scrutiny, Armand turned and looked at him with such tenderness it made Jean-Guy's eyes burn.

"You're not alone," said Armand quietly. "I felt the same way. As I stood on this very spot and watched you leave, I could feel hatred growing. Changing me, consuming me. Dom Philippe knew exactly what I was feeling. That's why he was telling me the story."

Armand gestured toward a point of land.

"One evening, as they sat by a fire on the shore over there, the Cree elder told the Abbot something that had happened to him when he was a child. His grandfather, the Chief at the time, told the boy that he had two wolves at war inside him, tearing at his insides. One of them, a grey wolf, wanted the old man to be strong and compassionate. Wise and courageous enough to be forgiving. The other, a black wolf, wanted him to be vengeful. To forget no wrong. To forgive no slight. To attack first. To be cruel and cunning and brutal to friends and enemies alike. To spare no one. Hearing this from his grandfather terrified the child. He ran away. It took a few days before he dared approach the old man again. When he did, he asked his grandfather, ‘Which wolf will win, the grey or the black?'"

Armand was now watching Jean-Guy. It was as though they were the first, last, and only people on earth. "His grandfather said, ‘The one that I feed.'"

Jean-Guy exhaled, then dropped his head, staring at the sparkling water at his feet. After taking a deep breath, he nodded and looked up at Armand.

"Saint Gilbert Between the Wolves."

"We all have them, inside. Best to acknowledge that. Only then can we choose which one we feed." Armand turned and looked out across the mirror lake. "There's a huge black wolf out there, Jean-Guy. Has been for a while. Feeding on rage, on the need for power. Spreading fear and hatred. Infecting the frightened and vulnerable. Convincing them to do the unthinkable."

"We need to find him. We need to stop him," said Jean-Guy.

"Or her," said Armand, even as he saw his own black wolf lift its head. "But there's also a grey wolf. We need to find him too."

Jean-Guy considered before saying what he was thinking. But finally, he spoke.

"Are we so sure which is which, patron ?"

As the plane banked to make its way back to Montréal, with Jean-Guy muttering prayers and Frère Simon muttering curses in the back seat, Armand looked down at the water. But in his mind, he saw the monks of Saint-Gilbert watching them leave, their black robes fluttering lightly in the soft breeze.