Chapter 47

C HAPTER 47

The events at the LaSalle water-treatment plant had created a tsunami, with huge aftershocks.

On Jeanne Caron's testimony and the evidence she'd gathered and saved in the satchel, the Deputy Prime Minister, Marcus Lauzon, had been arrested and charged with murder and high treason. He, of course, denied everything, though the evidence was overwhelming.

An investigation was ongoing into other prominent political figures. The RCMP was in crisis and chaos, with the undeniable involvement of their now dead second-in-command in a terrorist plot to murder tens of thousands and overthrow the government.

And the S?reté had not emerged unscathed.

While Superintendent Toussaint was quickly cleared, as was the head of the Organized Crime division, charges were laid against Chief Inspector Goudreau, the head of the S?reté's Highways division.

It had long perplexed Gamache how an officer so ill-suited to command could be given such a hefty portfolio. It had become clear in recent weeks that the man was more than just incompetent. He was criminal.

At least we now know that Paolo Parisi brought the botulinum across the border. With Goudreau's help.

It would be helpful to know what else he allowed in , wrote Armand. Or who else.

Do you want me to do my own investigation? Quietly?

Gamache considered, then shook his head. Early days yet. Good officers are conducting the investigation. They'll work it all out.

They haven't arrested Moretti , Lacoste wrote, and saw Gamache's brows draw together.

Several aspects of the investigation troubled him and that was one. The involvement of the mob. Joseph Moretti had denied any knowledge, and his consigliere had claimed the mob soldiers had been working on their own. Besides, Monsieur Moretti had no connection to the mafia. And no mafia existed, in Montréal or elsewhere. The "Sixth Family" was a fantasy.

That was predictable, but what really troubled Gamache was how it was possible that Chief Inspector Tardiff, the head of the S?reté's Organized Crime division, hadn't known about the plot and the mob involvement. She'd continually denied that the Montréal mafia could be active again, despite what were obvious signs.

Was Tardiff involved? Or had she simply made, as people eventually do, a terrible mistake?

How easy it was to slide into conspiracies. To mistake misjudgment for deceit.

To see treacheries and plots and sedition where none existed.

Gamache was very aware of the warning not to attribute to malice that which can be explained by stupidity. There was much more stupidity around than malice. Though both were dangerous. And he never discounted the malicious.

Evelyn Tardiff wasn't just a colleague, she was a friend. But then, so was David Lavigne.

Jeanne Caron, on the other hand, was his enemy. And had saved not just his life, but thousands of lives.

Fully recovered from her wound, she'd visited the Gamaches in Three Pines.

"I plan to see your son next," Jeanne had said. "To apologize for what I did years ago."

Reine-Marie listened to this, tight-lipped.

They were in the bistro. It was a rainy, cool early-autumn day, and Olivier had lit the fire in the huge grate. Reine-Marie, on hearing that Madame Caron was coming to visit, had refused to allow the woman in her home.

She appreciated that Caron had saved Armand's life on that terrible day and that she should be grateful, but as she looked at Caron, all she felt was rage.

Reine-Marie had chosen to sit as far from Jeanne Caron as possible and still be in the conversation. For her part, Jeanne Caron, sensing what was obvious and awkward, tried to ingratiate herself, but it only seemed to make things worse.

Reine-Marie sat composed of stone and wishful thinking that this woman would just leave and leave them alone.

"It's not that I'm not grateful for what she did, Armand," Reine-Marie had said when he'd told her Madame Caron was coming to lunch in Three Pines. "But can't you just send a nice basket of fruit and be done with it?"

He'd smiled. He hadn't caught everything his wife had said, but he had caught the gist.

When the encounter in the bistro was over, Armand had walked Caron to her car.

"I hope Madame Gamache forgives me one day."

Armand had nodded but said nothing. Caron wasn't sure if he'd taken it in. His eyes were slightly unfocused and his expression almost blank.

It would be a while, she knew, before he could return to active duty. If ever. She looked around and knew that there were worse places, worse things, than retiring here.

She hoped he did.

Finally, he stirred. "The key. You gave Charles a key to our home. How did you get it?"

"I wondered if you'd ask. It was your cleaner." She realized she was talking to him in clear, simple statements, as though he were a child. "On the bus. I had someone lift the key and make an impression. She had no idea. But one thing still worries me. How did Parisi know Charles was meeting you in Open Da Night?"

Armand asked her to repeat it, staring intently at her mouth. Then he shrugged.

"He must've followed him there. How else could he have known?"

His voice was louder than it should have been, though he was obviously unaware of it.

"I'm not sure if you noticed, Armand, but when we spread my uncle's ashes in Blanc-Sablon, we found a small statue on his favorite rock. No one seemed to know where it came from."

Armand had smiled, in a vague manner. As though he'd only partly understood.

But he'd understood perfectly and had simply chosen not to tell her that Clara Morrow had created two sculptures at his request.

Armand had given them to Jean-Guy and asked him to place one on Yves's favorite rock in Blanc-Sablon, and the other on the peninsula at Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, where the Cree Chief had told the first Abbot about the two wolves.

Jean-Guy took photos, which Armand kept framed on his desk. Of the grey wolf, staring out across the water. Ever watchful.

And he'd understood something else. That her question about Parisi was far more important than he let on.

That night, after lying awake for hours trying to settle the cicadas, Armand had finally given up and got up.

He made a pot of tea and lit the fire. Henri trudged downstairs and slowly crawled onto the sofa, placing his head on Armand's lap. Little by little Armand's eyelids grew heavy. He put down the mug of tea, and his head fell back as he drifted off to sleep.

He woke up with a start, to find Henri bolt upright, staring at him. He'd had another nightmare. Again, about the damned notebooks.

Lavigne threatening him with the slaughter of his family and more if he didn't give them up. It was obvious why he needed them. Charles Langlois had documented, in a way that was complete and utterly damning, the whole plot. Not by foreign terrorists at all, but domestic. By the Deputy Prime Minister.

If their scheme to put Lauzon in power was to succeed, David Lavigne needed to destroy those notebooks.

Once again, in his dream, he told Lavigne where to find them. Once again, he woke up screaming.

Armand dropped his face into his hands and rubbed. If this was the easiest of the nightmares, he was in big trouble.

He sat in the dark and peaceful living room in Three Pines and stared into the embers of the fire. And forced himself back to the treatment plant.

The gun was pressing hard to his head. He knew he was going to die. But it wasn't just his own murder he was facing. Lavigne was hissing threats. Give up the notebooks or he'd come here and…

And there it was. What had been bothering him.

Notebooks. Plural. Not just the one that documented the planned attack on Montréal's water. Lavigne wanted, demanded, needed both.

But why?

And why had Charles Langlois hidden both? Why not just the one to do with poisoning the drinking water?

Armand sat upright and shifted his stare from the fire to Henri, who'd been Clara's model for the grey wolf, and whose immense ears now moved fully forward.

They stared at each other for a moment before Armand got up and went to his study, where he sat in front of his laptop.

He'd given the notebooks to the prosecutors, but not before making copies.

He brought them up on his screen. Then, knowing it would be a long night, he made a pot of coffee, toasted some brioche, and returned to his study.

Smelly old Fred and tiny Gracie joined Henri, and the three were now curled at his feet.

Charles Langlois had two notebooks. The second chronicled what he'd found in his investigation at the LaSalle treatment plant. That was the one he and Beauvoir had focused on. The one the prosecutors were poring over. The one many of the charges were based on.

But…

Suppose. Suppose…

Suppose it was the other way around? Langlois's evidence about Montréal's drinking water was in the first notebook. Terrible, terrifying. But just the beginning. That discovery had sent the young biologist into an even deeper, darker cave.

And there he'd found something else. Something worse. Someone worse. And had chronicled it in the other notebook. That was why David Lavigne was demanding both books. It was actually the other that he most needed to destroy. The one about the lakes.

Gamache opened that file and started reading the scanned pages. It was just random words, numbers. Sketches. Partial sentences. But it was enough for Armand to get a sense of why David Lavigne was so desperate to get his hands on both books.

He sat for a long time, staring at the screen. Then he sent a private message to Jean-Guy and Isabelle.

It was 4:15 in the morning when they arrived, one after the other.

Armand had stoked the fire, and now it danced and popped in the grate. There was a pot of fresh coffee and the home smelled of warm cinnamon buns.

"What is it?" Jean-Guy asked.

Armand pointed to his laptop, now sitting on the coffee table in the living room.

The black wolf was in there. In the scribbles of a young biologist who was just beginning to understand what he had.

In focusing solely on the one attack, in allowing himself to be misled, Armand had given the creature time to grow even more malicious. Even more powerful.

Ever closer.

Isabelle and Jean-Guy sat down and read, then looked up.

"We have a problem."