Chapter 7 #2
“Something else is about to happen. Something much worse.”
“Than killing most of the population of Montréal and setting off a global panic?” She seemed almost amused.
As Jean-Guy watched, her amusement slid away and was replaced by something close to pity. It was obvious to him, and probably Armand, exactly what she was thinking, if not saying.
That Chief Inspector Gamache had fabricated some crisis to make himself important. Again. Give himself purpose again.
Did she really think he was that pathetic? Apparently so. Though Jeanne Caron’s opinion of him did not seem to bother Armand one bit. Instead of explaining or defending himself, he persevered.
“Where’s your assistant?” he asked.
There was silence as Caron stared from one to the other, her rapid mind trying to catch up to this change of direction.
“Frederick? Castonguay? Him?”
“Oui.”
“Why in the world would you suddenly be asking about him?”
“Because he’s disappeared,” said Beauvoir.
“So? He’s no longer my assistant. I’m unemployed.
Unemployable. Frederick Castonguay is the least of my worries.
Who cares where he is?” Though even as she said it, she was examining them.
“You care. Which means you’ve been looking for him.
Which means…” Now she stopped and stared in open astonishment.
“You’re investigating. Still. Good God, you really do believe this isn’t over. Have you lost your minds?”
She seemed to be trying to figure out who was the most unhinged, Gamache or his number two. She settled on the Chief Inspector.
“Okay, let’s say you are investigating.” She did not add, but it was clear she wanted to say, the mythical second plot. “Why would you be looking for Frederick?”
Though she spoke to Gamache, it was Beauvoir who answered, clearly covering for his Chief.
“He was here that night. You were wounded but managed to get into the car with Frederick. What happened then?”
“You know what happened. I’d been shot and needed to stop the bleeding.
” By instinct, she brought her left elbow closer to her side, as though protecting it.
“I had him pull over at a pharmacy and get painkillers, antiseptic, bandages. When Frederick came back, he tossed the bag into the car and ran away. I got as far as Montréal before I pulled over and passed out. I came to just in time to get to the water-treatment plant.”
It was unsaid but implied, and never forgotten: And save your life, Armand.
“Have you seen Castonguay since?”
“Non. I’ve looked, but not too hard. Honestly, I have nothing to say to him except good luck and goodbye, you cowardly shit.”
Beauvoir barely suppressed a grin. He and Honoré had been watching The Wizard of Oz. Over and over. The Cowardly Shit would make a good character in an alternative production. He’d watch that.
“We’ve looked for him since the events in the plant,” said Beauvoir. “He wasn’t initially a priority, just a loose end. But we can’t find him. It’s actually quite difficult for people to disappear completely. Unless…”
“Unless he’s dead.” Caron studied their faces, remaining on Gamache’s, who’d been silent. “You think he’s dead?” She spoke the words clearly.
Armand nodded, understanding. “If he is, it means he knew enough to be dangerous to someone still out there.”
“Funny how people around you get killed,” said Beauvoir.
“I could say the same about you.” She threw him an angry glance before her eyes drifted slowly, meaningfully, back to Gamache, as though she could see the ghosts that surrounded him.
Ignoring that gibe, Armand walked over to the wall. “This map belonged to Charles Langlois, the biologist who alerted me—”
“Yes, I know who he was.” She’d joined him. “I was the one who recruited him. Remember?”
“What I remember, Jeanne, is that you hired Charles Langlois to quietly investigate what was happening at the water-treatment plants. What you didn’t assign him to do, what you didn’t even know he was doing, was visiting remote lakes.”
As he spoke, Armand’s tone was growing harder, harsher. “He hid this map.” His glare was now icy. Glare ice. “From you.”
The air crackled between them. By instinct, Jean-Guy stepped closer to Armand.
Jeanne Caron shifted her attention from Gamache to the map. Her ire forgotten.
“Why did Charles Langlois go to these lakes?” Then a thought struck her. “He was working part-time for that environmental agency. What’s it called? Agence Québec Bleu.”
“Action Québec Bleu,” Beauvoir corrected, while Gamache continued to watch Caron.
“Right. Maybe it has something to do with his work there. Maybe it’s meaningless.”
“Then why hide it?” asked Beauvoir.
She turned to look squarely at them. “You really think there’s more going on? Something else?” She watched their faces. “Something worse?”
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “We think the poisoning of the water was the first step.”
“But if we stopped that, then maybe there is no second step.”
“Why did Marcus Lauzon, the Deputy Prime Minister, approve the sales of primary industries to Americans?” Jean-Guy asked, in what appeared to be another ninety-degree turn. “He knew it was illegal. He must’ve known if it came out, his political career would be in ruins.”
“Why do you think? He got huge kickbacks, that’s why. And thought he could cover it up.”
“With your help,” said Beauvoir.
“Oui.” There was no use denying it. She’d been given immunity in exchange for her testimony against her former boss and in light of her actions in stopping the poison attack.
“But these lakes that Langlois visited,” she said, looking again at the map, “aren’t the ones with industry. They have nothing to do with those agreements or the poisoning plot.”
They waited for her to say more, which she finally did. “Charles Langlois wrote on some of them. I recognize approval numbers, but what are the others?”
“Dates when he visited. This”—Beauvoir tapped the paper—“is the last lake he went to before he was killed.”
“But there are other numbers and symbols on it. What’s that about?”
“No idea,” admitted Armand, speaking at last.
Caron dropped her eyes to the bottom of the map. “What does this mean? This line.”
She was pointing to the dotted line that bled into Vermont.
“We don’t know,” said Beauvoir.
“Where does it go?” asked Caron.
“Jericho.”
They turned and saw Reine-Marie standing at the foot of the stairs.
“It goes to Jericho,” she said, looking straight at Jeanne Caron.