Chapter 8 #2
She ignored him. “He has something very rare in my experience. A well-honed animal instinct. He can always find the weak spot. He can smell fear.”
Beauvoir knew that to be true.
“Do you mean a killer instinct?” Armand asked.
“Of sorts. He will go for the jugular.” Too late she remembered whose jugular Lauzon had gripped. Daniel Gamache’s.
Jean-Guy saw the color rise so quickly in Armand’s face he feared the man might pass out. But he stood stock-still, fighting to regain control. He needed Caron. But Daniel’s father had clearly not forgiven her.
Beauvoir remained silent but watchful, in case that rage broke free. As a father now, he completely understood. What wouldn’t he do to someone who’d tried to kill Honoré and little Idola? He suspected his own restraints would be breached in no time.
Standing close to Armand, he saw something Caron probably could not. His lips were moving very, very slightly. In prayer? Armand was repeating some phrase that was helping to keep him from lashing out.
“The current Prime Minister is young and popular,” said Caron. “Marcus Lauzon is neither. People admired, even respected, him, but they did not like him. A successful politician must be liked. He knew he’d never get to the top job legitimately.”
“And so he planned to wipe out hundreds of thousands of his own citizens?” asked Gamache, having regained control of himself.
“Well, someone did,” she said. “Why not a man driven mad by insecurity and thwarted ambition?
“All those damning documents you found,” said Beauvoir. “His trips to Sainte-émiline. His links with the Moretti family. His accepting bribes to sell off Canada’s resources and allow clear-cut catastrophic pollution—”
“But he actually did all those things,” said Caron, trying to make them see reason.
“Did he? All of that could be faked.” Beauvoir was beginning to see Gamache’s reasoning. “Or at least planted.”
Caron’s eyes widened. She looked at Gamache, who was peering at her closely.
“Frederick Castonguay?” She said it slowly, enunciating clearly so he could not mistake what she said. “That’s what you’re thinking?”
Gamache nodded. “Oui. It’s a possibility. He had access not just to your computer and office and files, but Lauzon’s.”
“You think he planted the evidence? Wait.” She put up her hand and studied the large, quiet man in front of her. “You think my assistant was, is, behind whatever is happening?”
“Not necessarily. But I do think he knows who it is. Is, in fact, working for him. Or her.”
His last words seemed lost on Jeanne Caron as she put down her mug of tea and stared at the map, then turned back to the two senior officers.
“So what’s this all about? What’s going to happen?”
“We don’t know,” admitted Gamache.
Caron looked at her phone. “It’s getting late. If you don’t have anything else you need from me, I’ll head home.”
“You’ll keep this to yourself,” said Gamache as they walked to the door.
“You really think I want a butterfly net over my head? Believe me, this is going no further. But you’ll keep me posted?”
“Oui. Let us know if Castonguay gets in touch.”
“I will. You think he’s either dead or the one in charge. Seems quite a difference.”
“And we’re either brilliant or crazy,” said Gamache.
Caron stared at him, not expecting humor. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure you’ve lost your minds.” She looked around. “I need a bathroom.”
While she was away, Armand turned to Jean-Guy and whispered, “I need to speak to Marcus Lauzon. We’ll invite him to Sunday lunch.”
“You are crazy. Who’s going to tell Reine-Marie?”
“I’ll give you five dollars to do it.”
“Not even for ten.” He glanced at the bathroom door, still closed. “What were you saying?”
Armand raised his brows. “What do you mean? I thought I was the one with the hearing problem.”
“No, I mean when Caron talked about…” Jean-Guy didn’t want to bring it up again, so he ended up just waving his hand. “You know.”
“Daniel.”
“Oui. You were repeating something to yourself. What was it?”
Armand paused and lowered his eyes to the worn linoleum floor before raising them again. “Do you remember the Vaslov case?”
“Of course. The girl murdered by her classmates for being transgender.”
It had been a horrific crime. A hate crime by a gang of teenagers. It was a shock, and a wake-up.
Armand and Isabelle had spent a lot of time with Katie’s parents. Trying to answer questions. Preparing them for the onslaught of press, and the court cases. And the online bile and hate. Aimed, incredibly, at their daughter, and them.
“Her parents are staunch Christians. Born-again. They couldn’t accept Katie as transgender. After she was killed, they went to the trial every day, then in the evenings they volunteered at the LGBTQIA+ help line.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Non. Not many do. They wanted to turn their ignorance into understanding. To help others like Katie. To help other parents, like themselves. To turn hate into love.”
“So that was what you were repeating? ‘Hate into love.’”
“Non. I was saying, ‘Katie Vaslov. Katie Vaslov.’ It’s what I always say when tempted to put more hate into the world.”
“Is there no one you hate?”
Again, the smile, though now without the tinge of sadness. “I wouldn’t say that. If you took the last éclair…”
“I would never dare, patron. Now, off to let Reine-Marie know who else is coming for Sunday lunch.” Jean-Guy motioned to the door. “You first.”