Chapter 4
The three of them sat in plastic garden chairs all in a row in the basement of St. Thomas’s Church and stared at the map.
Raspberry jelly squirted from Jean-Guy’s doughnut, and Armand absently handed him yet another napkin.
Isabelle went to the map and turned toward Armand. To help him out, she also mimed. It was intentionally helpful, and unintentionally funny.
“We know what these mean, patron.” She swept her right arm, with unnecessary exaggeration, over certain lakes, like a weather forecaster on MétéoMédia demonstrating an incoming storm system.
Gamache nodded, trying not to smile.
“The numbers are dates when Charles Langlois visited the lakes,” she continued, “but he also wrote down those approval numbers.”
“The ones given by Marcus Lauzon to foreign buyers.”
The former Deputy Prime Minister, as it turned out, wasn’t just a terrorist; he was also a climate criminal, allowing certain industries to exceed the pollution limit by thirty times.
Chief Inspector Gamache had taken great personal pleasure in watching Marcus Lauzon being led off in cuffs.
As he’d stood in the crowd on Parliament Hill, Armand had unconsciously rubbed his wrists where the zip ties had bitten into his flesh as he’d knelt on the concrete floor of the water-treatment plant, waiting to be executed.
On the word of this man. The former Deputy Prime Minister of Canada.
A man poised to become the nation’s next leader.
Armand could still feel the meaty hand of the hitman shoving his head forward. Then the muzzle of the gun pressed into the base of his skull.
He’d closed his eyes.
We wait. We wait.
As he waited, Armand repeated one thing over and over: Reine-Marie. Reine-Maire.
Reine—
Lauzon’s accomplice pulled the trigger.
Armand had survived thanks to an unlikely intervention, and lived to stand in the crowd watching as Lauzon was led away.
The Chief Inspector had been offered special dispensation to arrest and escort the man himself, but he preferred to stand in the crowd, surrounded by the men and women whom the former Deputy Prime Minister had tried to kill in exchange for unlimited power.
Lauzon was far from the first politician whose reins of power were around the necks of their citizenry.
It had been a profoundly satisfying moment when the two men had, through the crowd, locked eyes.
And then it was over.
Or not.
“We need to speak to him,” said Gamache, his face grim as Lacoste handed him a napkin.
“Lauzon? Why?” she asked, watching as Armand absently brushed icing sugar off his sweater. “He just keeps denying everything.”
“Still, we need to try. And—”
“Dear God, I’m begging you,” said Jean-Guy, handing Isabelle a napkin and indicating a smear of chocolate from her glazed doughnut on her cheek. “Don’t say it.”
“—we need to go back to this lake. The last one Charles visited. See why he was there.”
“Easy for you, your doctor forbids you to fly.” Jean-Guy turned to Isabelle. “I guess he means you.”
Beauvoir would rather sit with Ruth in her rat’s nest of a living room, listening to her recite her own poetry—
You were a moth
brushing against my cheek
in the dark
I killed you
not knowing
you were only a moth,
with no sting.
—than get back into another float plane, after what had happened last time.
“There aren’t any settlements on the lake,” said Armand. “No industry, nothing. As far as we can tell, it’s pristine. So what was Charles’s interest in it? Why did he return there several times, including just days before he was killed?”
He tapped the map and stared at the body of water.
He wished he could sit on the shore and stare across the lake to the untouched forests.
He’d take off his boots, roll up his slacks, and dangle his bare feet in the fresh cold water, and try to figure out what Charles Langlois saw in that peaceful setting that might have cost him his life.
Instead, he looked at Isabelle, who nodded.
“D’accord, patron,” she said.
She was looking forward to going, though she would never tell Jean-Guy that.
To land on some remote body of water, like a dragonfly.
To see something as yet unspoiled. She wished she could take her children.
To show them what the world had been like.
Should still be like. If not for the plague that was humanity.
“It’s getting cold down here,” said Gamache. “Let’s go.”
It had, in fact, never been warm in the church basement, but now the cold had crept into his bones, magnified by uncertainty and fear.
They had a problem.
“Where to?” asked Isabelle as they followed the Chief out of St. Thomas’s.
While he didn’t hear her question, Jean-Guy did. “Guess.”
The three investigators sat in armchairs by the large open fire of the bistro, feeling the chill slide off them. They hadn’t realized how cold they were until they came into the warmth.
Though the mist had long since burned off, revealing a bright blue sky, there was indeed a nip, even a bite, in the air.
Winter was fast approaching. The trees on the surrounding mountains were already naked. Their branches grey, like old bones left out in the elements. Soon the maples and apples and oaks in the village would also be bare. Many of their red and amber and yellow leaves had already fallen.
The first snow was expected in the coming week. A killing frost was on the way.
But for now, the villagers were snug and warm in their heavy sweaters. Their scarves and hats and boots and gloves were at the ready by the front door.
The firewood was cut and stacked.
Shovels leaned against veranda walls and snow brushes had been placed in vehicles along with booster cables and emergency kits.
This was a time to prepare. To build the defenses.
Though far from building a defense, these three sat in front of the muttering fire and planned an offense.
“I wonder what they’re talking about,” said Clara.
Myrna had placed herself where she could see the three S?reté officers. Though she was unable to hear what they said, she too was adept at reading body language. Now she tried out her lip-reading skills.
Jean-Guy and Isabelle’s faces were intense as they listened to their Chief. Nodding every now and then.
Armand’s back was to Myrna and Clara, but it was still eloquent. His shoulders were slightly raised, in tension. Then, as Myrna watched, he rolled them, then lowered his head a bit, and much of the stress fell away. Though not, Myrna could see, the burden. But it was now shared.
As she watched her friends, she thought of the power of three. It had long ago struck her, in her practice as a psychologist, what could happen, for better or worse, when three people found a common goal.
One person alone could have a great idea, but it was unlikely to thrive until someone came along who agreed. At that point, life was breathed into that idea. It was animated.
But what happened when a third person was invited in?
It was a tricky number. Three’s a crowd. Three on a match. The third wheel. There were all sorts of warnings about the number three. But at the same time, it was considered by many cultures and beliefs as the most powerful number. The perfect number.
The Three Graces. The Holy Trinity.
For Pythagoras, three was the number of harmony, wisdom, and understanding. Three words to describe the number three.
Philosophy aside, it was the first number that could form a pattern.
Three people in agreement, working together toward a common goal, could feed each other, encourage and support each other, bring different strengths to the project, and send their common idea out, healthy and strong, into the world.
For better or worse.
And Myrna Landers, in her work in the Special Handling Unit, had looked into the eyes of “worse.” People who might have led normal, even exemplary lives had they not met that other one. And then the final one.
Dr. Myrna Landers watched Armand and Jean-Guy and Isabelle.
When the rule of three worked, its power was nearly immeasurable.
“The sooner you get to that lake, the better, Isabelle,” said Armand.
He was trying to catch the eye of the new server in the bistro, who seemed determined not to serve them.
“I’m ready now. Just have to let my husband know and pack a few things in case the pilot and I need to camp. Do you think we can get a hot chocolate?”
“I’m trying,” said Armand, raising his arm, but to no effect.
Brother Simon, the wayward Gilbertine monk, still had not forgiven Gamache for taking him out of the monastery. For his own safety, Armand had explained.
And while Simon pretended to hate his new life, the fact was he’d grown fond of the villagers and the village. To serving. It was a different sort of service, but the former acting Abbot was realizing he could serve God and serve coffee at the same time.
Just not to Armand.
“Isabelle is saying, ‘Hot choking,’” said Myrna. “Now why would she say that?”
“Maybe she didn’t,” said Gabri.
“Shhhh. Well, now I’ve lost it.”
Clara made a guttural sound and focused on her bowl of café au lait.
“I have a close friend who’s a biologist,” said Armand, giving up on Simon. It had actually become a sort of game between them. One the former monk was winning. “Someone I trust. I’ll see if she can go with you. She might be able to see what you can’t.”
“Good idea,” said Jean-Guy.
“Wait. Jean-Guy is speaking. He’s saying, ‘Bunny day.’”
“What?” said Clara. “Dear God, you’re worse than autocorrect.”
Myrna turned back to her friend. Lip-reading was harder than it looked, and exhausting.
Ruth, Rosa, and Olivier joined them. Myrna continued to shoot glances at the S?reté officers. It might be near impossible to pick up the specifics of their conversation, but the gist was clear to anyone watching. Even Rosa could figure out that something was wrong.
“Did Isabelle just say, ‘Giraffes can’t swim’?” Gabri asked.
“I think it was ‘Gyroscopes cancel soap,’” said Olivier.
“You’re morons,” said Ruth. “She said she’ll be happy to fly to the lake.”
“Well, that doesn’t make sense, does it?” said Gabri, turning to Clara.
But she wasn’t paying attention. She was staring at the investigators around the fire. All three, in unison, had turned so that their faces were in profile, staring into the flames.
Something was about to happen.