Chapter 6 #2
And then he began to speak, his voice much louder than it normally would have been. He wasn’t yet practiced in modulating it, so he was unintentionally, unknowingly shouting at them over the noise only he could hear.
When he’d finished, there was silence. He swayed slightly but caught his balance. And looked out at the dozens of faces. Of men and women who’d trusted him. And who he’d abandoned.
Then one of the agents stepped forward. The youngest. The newest recruit. Mélanie Fontaine. Just out of the academy, she had her whole life ahead of her. The agent who knew him least, and who had the most reason to despise him.
“I understand.” She’d spoken slowly, her actions managing to also convey meaning. “You had no choice. My own father would have done the same. As would I.”
Others around the room were nodding. Not all, perhaps, but the vast majority.
He did not catch every word the young agent said, and yet he’d understood her meaning more clearly than anything else that had been said to him practically his whole life. Except that first time Reine-Marie had whispered, “I love you.”
This young woman had, in effect, said, I forgive you.
He felt himself losing his balance. As he swayed almost to the point of no return, Armand felt hands reach out and hold him steady. Hold him up. Hold him safe.
All this Armand remembered as he stared out the window at Honoré and Idola and Annie. At Rosa and mad Ruth, who was perhaps the sanest of them all.
And now it is now
and the dark thing is here,
The lines that drifted into Armand’s mind were from Ruth’s poem “Waiting.”
and after all it is nothing new;
it is only a memory after all:
a memory of a fear …
you have long since forgotten
and that has now come true.
Now there was a new fear. One the young S?reté highways agent had inadvertently alerted Beauvoir to. Not about Armand himself and what he’d done, but what had been found hiding in plain sight on the internet.
If a trained S?reté agent could believe the lies, believe the poisoning plot never happened, then how many others had been manipulated too?
How many others now believed Lauzon was a hero. Railroaded. Wrongly convicted and soon to be martyred.
And the most pressing question: Who was behind those posts? And why do it? Was it just to stir the pot, or was there another reason?
Merci, he wrote.
What do you want me to do now? replied Jean-Guy.
Armand wrote, Nothing. Come back. But then he erased it and wrote, Find Jeanne Caron. Bring her down here.
In his car, Jean-Guy looked at the text and frowned.
And don’t make a face, wrote Armand. I’ll meet her in the church, not at home.
They both knew Reine-Marie would never allow that woman in her home. Or the bistro. Or the bench. The church was okay. It could be cleansed.
Armand could imagine the women, led by Myrna with her smoldering stick, smudging the space in an ancient and powerful ritual.
D’accord, wrote Jean-Guy. And what do we do about Lauzon?
We need to speak to Caron before deciding.
Jeanne Caron had been Marcus Lauzon’s assistant, then Chief of Staff, and chief architect of his ascent and wrongdoings since the early days in their small Québec town.
Caron had also been the instigator of the attacks on Chief Inspector Gamache when, years ago, he’d refused to let Lauzon’s daughter off a manslaughter charge.
The charges had ultimately been dropped, thanks to the first in what would be a long series of dirty dealings by Caron on her boss’s behalf. But Gamache had still gone to the ethics commissioner to report the then junior member of Parliament.
It did no good. The daughter remained free, and the attacks on Gamache only escalated. When those didn’t work, Caron and Lauzon turned their attention to the Chief Inspector’s teenage son, Daniel, who was struggling with drug addiction.
Their attacks, the lies and insinuations, had been so brutal, so aggressive, Daniel had relapsed and tried to overdose, in a suicide attempt.
Straight now for decades, neither son nor parents would ever forget.
And yet, when the gun had been pressed against Armand’s skull as he’d knelt on the concrete floor, handcuffed and helpless in that water-treatment plant, it had been Jeanne Caron who had saved his life. And almost certainly the lives of thousands, perhaps millions, of others.
She’d tried, since that day, to make amends. Apologizing to Daniel. To Armand. Trying to apologize to Reine-Marie. But Daniel’s mother would not listen. Would never believe there was any genuine remorse. Or that Caron wouldn’t attack again, if need be.
So, no. Jeanne Caron was not invited to Sunday lunch. But Armand still needed to meet with her. And there was someone else he needed to contact, urgently.
“Have you told Moretti that you’re going to see Gamache?” Yvette Nichol asked, and got an angry glare from Chief Inspector Tardiff.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Désolée, patronne. I’m not telling, just asking.”
“We both know it comes to the same thing,” Tardiff snapped. “I’m going home. You should too.”
Yvette Nichol knew she should, and she would. But she waited until the Chief Inspector had left, then fired off a message.
Joseph Moretti was enjoying a meal with his family in the same hole-in-the-wall diner he’d visited every Saturday since he could remember. His phone buzzed, and he read the flagged message.
Merci, he tapped out. Good to know.
Then he went back to his croque-monsieur, the thick sliced ham under melted Gruyère and béchamel, on the fresh croissant, while his daughter struggled with a large cannoli. Off to the side, the owner of the small restaurant in north end Montréal watched, wiping her moist palms on her dirty apron.