A few minutes later the forensics team arrived and began the arduous task of searching the theater.
* * *
Gamache drove through what was now drizzle. The dramatic dawn with its broken clouds and shafts of light had made way for the storm, which in turn became just a dreary, cold, rainy early autumn afternoon.
Now the wipers made a lazy, rhythmic motion as he drove south from the Knowlton Playhouse toward the Vermont border, listening to Neil Young on CD sing about the place his memory went when he needed comfort. All his changes were there.
Helpless …
Gamache had left Lacoste and Beauvoir and the forensics team at the theater and was following his GPS along the route Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme had taken two days before. Just south of Mansonville, he turned right and drove into Highwater.
Bounded by a hill on one side and a river on the other, it should have been a picturesque little village. Could have been. Would have been. Almost certainly had been a pretty little village, once. But now it felt abandoned, forgotten. Not even a memory.
… helpless.
It was far from the first run-down little community Armand Gamache had arrived in. He looked around and saw the old train station, shuttered. The transport link, like an artery, was severed and the once vital community had died. Slowly. The young people seeping away for jobs elsewhere, leaving aging parents and grandparents.
Gamache looked at his GPS. He was in Highwater, but the CSIS agents seemed to have traveled slightly beyond it. Turning right again, then left, he came to a line of high chain-link fencing and a gate with a rusty chain and a new lock.
Without compunction, or hesitation, Gamache reached into his glove compartment, brought out a small pouch of tools, and within moments the lock was open. He drove in, parked the car behind an old building, then taking the GPS and an umbrella with him, he started to walk.
Up.
The walk turned into a trudge along a narrow, muddy path. He tried not to slip but twice he lost his footing, dropped the GPS, and a knee, into the mud. On the second tumble, as he reached for the wet and soiled GPS, hoping it wasn’t broken, he noticed tracks. Rails. Uncovering them, he realized he was walking in the middle of a set of railway tracks. Narrower than the ones used by passenger or freight trains. These were abandoned, overgrown, all but invisible to everyone except a man on his knees.
He stood, pausing to catch his breath. He was almost at the top of the hill. After a few more minutes’ climb there was no more up left, only down. Bending over, he rested his hand on his knee. It was at times like this he realized he was no longer thirty, or even forty. Or even fifty. Straightening up, he looked around. The crown of the hill was wooded, but he could tell by the relatively new growth that it had once been clear-cut.
With the toe of his rubber boot, he uncovered the narrow rails and followed them until they ended at a concrete platform, half buried under years of dirt and roots and fallen leaves. Around it were other lumps, but those had been recently excavated. The huge pieces, like artifacts, sat half buried and half rusting in the drizzle. He examined them, taking photographs, and then returned to the platform.
A view that would once have thrilled him now left him queasy. He looked over the vast forest, his sight line skimming the treetops all the way to the Green Mountains of Vermont in the distance. Mist and low clouds clung to them and the world seemed washed of all vibrant color. He could hear, on the umbrella over his head, the drum of raindrops.
The Whore of Babylon had been here, and then moved on. Leaving behind a graveyard of giant severed limbs.
There was no mistaking what, when whole, they had once been.
CHAPTER 30
Once again the investigators sat around the conference table in the Incident Room. Jean-Guy watched as Gamache put on his reading glasses and looked down at the report Beauvoir had handed out. Then Gamache took off his glasses and turned thoughtful eyes on his former second-in-command and Jean-Guy had to remind himself that Gamache was a guest and not in charge anymore.
As a joke he’d given his father-in-law a Walmart greeter’s vest as career advice. Gamache had laughed with genuine amusement and once even wore it when his son-in-law and daughter visited, opening the door with, “Welcome to Walmart.”
But now Jean-Guy regretted the vest and the implication that the Chief Inspector could not possibly be happy in retirement. That something else, something more, was expected of this man who had given his life to his job.
He remembered what Mary Fraser had said, the hurtful words. And realized he’d essentially said the same thing to his father-in-law with that vest.
Beauvoir didn’t need to consult his own report. There was not much to say.
“We’ve interviewed Antoinette Lemaitre’s friends, clients and the members of the Estrie Players. There’s no doubt her decision to produce the Fleming play caused a lot of bad feeling. People were angry, to say the least.”
“Do you think the play had anything to do with her death?” Lacoste asked.
“No, I don’t. We’re checking alibis now, but so far everyone seems in the clear.”
“And Brian?” asked Lacoste.
“He’s a little more difficult, of course. His prints and DNA are all over the crime scene, but you’d expect that. The clothes he was wearing also had her hair and some minute particles of skin and blood, but he found her, and he thinks he touched her body, so again—”
He put up his hands.
“His alibi checks out,” Lacoste read from the report.
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “His cell phone shows him in Montréal the whole time, but as we know, he could have deliberately left it there.”
“We know Antoinette took her uncle’s things over to the playhouse the day she died, maybe even that evening,” said Gamache. “Anyone see her do it?”
“No,” said Jean-Guy. “We have witnesses though who saw her that afternoon at the grocery store, the bakery and the Société des alcools, where she bought two bottles of wine.”
“The autopsy reports a dinner of pizza, tarte au chocolat and red wine,” said Lacoste. “Her blood alcohol was well above the limit, and there was an empty bottle in recycling.”
“And the other bottle?” asked Gamache.
“In the cupboard, unopened,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache pondered for a moment. “What does it sound like to you?”
“Sounds like an alcoholic,” said Jean-Guy.
“Sounds like a woman letting herself go for a night,” said Lacoste. “You guys have no idea how attractive sitting around in sweats eating junk and guzzling wine sounds to any woman. Nice dinner in Paris? Forget it. Give me pizza, wine, chocolates and sweatpants and I’m happy.”
Beauvoir and Gamache looked at her.
“Motherhood,” she explained. “Annie will understand one day. And I bet if you ask Reine-Marie—”
“But she wasn’t in sweats,” said Gamache. “She was in her street clothes.”
“True,” said Lacoste. “She had casual clothing in her closet. She could’ve changed.”
“But didn’t,” said Gamache. “Why not?”
“Maybe she meant to, but got into the wine right away,” said Beauvoir. “And got so shit-faced she no longer noticed or cared what she was wearing. I think the wine was to numb herself. She was obviously afraid. Why else take those things to the theater?”
“But if she was so afraid, why did she let Brian go to Montréal?” asked Lacoste. “If I was afraid, I think I’d want company.”
“Brian?” asked Beauvoir.
“Okay, he’s no Rottweiler, but it’s better than being alone if you’re that afraid.”
“Why was the door unlocked?” asked Gamache. “She was afraid enough to get her uncle’s things out of the house, but then she gets home and leaves the door unlocked?”
“Habit?” asked Lacoste. But she was unsatisfied with that answer.
“Maybe we have it all wrong,” said Beauvoir, leaning back in his ch
air and crossing his arms in annoyance. “Maybe she wasn’t really afraid. Maybe she wanted Brian out of the way so she could meet someone.”
“A lover?” asked Lacoste, but shook her head and looked at Beauvoir, her eyes gleaming. “No. A buyer. That’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m wondering,” said Jean-Guy. “It fits too, I think. Guillaume Couture tells his niece about Project Babylon and his role in creating it, to warn her. Tells her about the firing mechanism and the plans that he’s hidden. But she’s not really interested, it’s an old gun her elderly uncle is babbling on about. But then, when it’s found, she realizes what she has, and she knows it must be worth something to someone.”
“When she’s approached,” said Lacoste, working her way through this scenario, “she invites him—”
“Or her,” said Beauvoir.
“Or them,” said Gamache.
“Over. And makes it the one night she knows Brian won’t be around.”
“Yes,” said Gamache. “I think that’s important. It’s the one night he was away.”
“Then why did she take the things to the theater?” asked Beauvoir, then held up his hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me. It’s to get them out of the house, so that the buyer can’t find them without her. And she won’t tell, without the money.”
He slammed his hand down on the conference table.
“Solved.”
“Aren’t you leaving out one detail?” asked Armand.
“The name of the killer?” asked Jean-Guy. “I got us this far, I think the Chief Inspector can do the rest, don’t you?”
Isabelle Lacoste was leaning back in her chair, tapping a pen against her lips. No longer listening, which was wise, but thinking.
“The wine,” she said. “Why would Antoinette drink a whole bottle before an important meeting? Wouldn’t she want a clear head?”
“Maybe she needed courage more,” said Beauvoir. “Besides, we don’t know that she drank it all herself. The killer might’ve had a couple of glasses then washed up. Or Antoinette might’ve been nervous and drank more than she meant to. After all, she knew she was meeting someone who’d already killed at least one person.”
Lacoste was nodding. “That could also explain her injury. It doesn’t look deliberate. If she was drunk and got into an argument, a shoving match, let’s say, with the buyer, she might’ve lost her balance.”
“And once she was out of the way, the buyer was free to search the house,” said Gamache. “Not realizing Antoinette had taken everything away.”
“Well, now, there’s another problem,” said Lacoste. “The search of the theater turned up nothing. No firing mechanism, no plans. So where did she put them?”
They stared at each other.
“We seem to have hit a dead end,” said Lacoste. “We obviously need more information.”
She looked over to Adam Cohen, who was sitting at a desk staring at his computer screen. If he’s playing games, she thought, and getting up, she crossed the room.
“We’re ready for your report.”
His hands rested on the keyboard but didn’t move as he stared at what Lacoste was relieved to see was text. Documents, it seemed.
“Almost ready,” he said, distracted. Then he looked up. “Sorry, sir. Ma’am. Chief Inspector.”
He bobbed slightly in what might have been a curtsy had he been standing.
“Come over when you’re finished.”
She’d given him the thankless task of tracking down documents, materials to support their investigation. Dr. Couture’s will. Antoinette’s tax returns.
“He’ll be another few minutes,” she said, returning to the conference table. “Did you ever hear back from your friend at CSIS?”
“I spoke to her just before coming here,” said Gamache. “She doesn’t know Mary Fraser or Sean Delorme personally but she looked up their records and confirmed that they work there. Their area of expertise is the Middle East, and Gerald Bull was indeed one of their dossiers.”
“If their field of expertise was the Middle East,” said Lacoste, “wouldn’t you expect her to know the difference between Arabic and Hebrew? When she saw the writing on the etching she thought it was Arabic.”
“I think she was playing dumb,” said Gamache. “I suspect she does that a lot. She might have also wanted to see if you knew.”
“Well, her act worked,” said Lacoste. “I told her.”
“No harm done,” said Gamache. “I’m sure Mary Fraser speaks Arabic and Hebrew and knew exactly what it said. My source said Fraser and Delorme have been with CSIS since the beginning.”
“When was that?” asked Beauvoir.
“Nineteen eighty-four,” said Gamache, and saw both of them raise their brows.
“You’re kidding. In 1984 Canada created a Big Brother?” asked Lacoste. “I hope at least one person appreciated the irony.”
But Beauvoir was looking less amused. “They’ve been there that long and they’re still file clerks?”
“That was the crux of our conversation. When my contact saw that, she also wondered, but it seems to be the truth.”
“I guess some people get lost in the system,” said Lacoste.
But Gamache knew the Mary Fraser he’d met the night before in the B and B might be the type to hide, but not the type to get lost.
“My friend did have one thought,” said Gamache.
“They aren’t really file clerks?” asked Beauvoir.
“Oh, they are who they say they are,” said Gamache. “My friend made sure of that. They’re file clerks, but with, perhaps, some added value.”
“Meaning?”
“CSIS has a mandate to collect and analyze intelligence both domestic and international. That’s why Fraser and Delorme were able to collect so much information on Gerald Bull’s activities here and in South Africa and Iraq and Belgium. But to do that effectively, to know what information is real and what is, in Mary Fraser’s word, misdirection, you need a field agent who knows what to look for.”
“A file clerk?” asked Lacoste, and Gamache smiled. “Who can also be sent out on assignment.”
“It appears that’s a possibility. My contact said it was something instituted early on, but then bureaucracy and civil service unions got in the way. Multitasking was out and jobs became more compartmentalized. Delineated. There was support staff and there were field agents. Two distinct areas.”
“But some of the originals might’ve quietly stayed on,” said Lacoste. “Doing both jobs. Genuine file clerks part of the time, researching, analyzing, but going into the field too, to collect intelligence.”
“You have no idea of the world you’ve entered,” said Gamache. “Remember Mary Fraser saying that, Jean-Guy?”
Beauvoir nodded. He’d never forget the chill in the room and had been surprised the words hadn’t come out in a cloud of vapor.
“I don’t think she meant the world of sorting and filing,” said Gamache. “Now, my contact was quick to point out that there’s no evidence to support this. It’s all a bit of CSIS mythology, that these deeply covert agents exist. In fact, all the evidence points to Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme being exactly who they say they are. File clerks approaching retirement.”
“Finally being sent into the field,” said Lacoste. “And being given one last chance to distinguish themselves. That’s how they struck me when they first arrived. Two slightly bumbling, likable, but not very effective low-level bureaucrats, sent because they’re the only ones who still know something about a long-dead arms dealer and his long-abandoned project. They were playacting at being real agents.”
“And do they still strike you that way?” asked Beauvoir.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Will your contact at CSIS dig some more?” asked Lacoste.
“She said she would, but I could tell it was getting more delicate,” said Gamache. “And if Fraser and Delorme really are field agents, then it might be best left as is.”
>
They heard the sound of a printer in the background.
“Isn’t the deputy head of CSIS a woman?” Beauvoir asked. “She’s not your…?”
“There are a lot of women who work for CSIS,” said Gamache.
“Right,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “As file clerks. But there is one high up enough to get this information. You said you’d been speaking with her recently.”
“This afternoon,” said Gamache.
“No, I mean before that. Did she offer you a job? Her job maybe, once she moves up?”
“We had a pleasant catch-up, that’s all. We’ve known each other for years. Worked a few cases together.”
“Of course,” said Lacoste.
Beauvoir had been listening closely, watching his old boss. He’d make a very good intelligence officer, Jean-Guy realized. He suspected Gamache had been approached, maybe even for the top job, and was considering it.
Welcome to CSIS.
Gamache was just about to tell them what he’d found in Highwater, when Adam Cohen interrupted.
“I have information on Al Lepage,” he said, sitting down. “Do you want me to give it to you now?”
Lacoste looked over at Gamache, who gestured to the young man to continue. Cohen seemed so anxious, any delay might make him combust.
“Laurent’s father is not Al Lepage.”
“Quoi?” asked Beauvoir, rocking forward in his chair and leaning across the table toward Agent Cohen. “Then who is Laurent’s father?”
“No, sorry, I put that badly. I didn’t mean biologically…”
He could see he’d already confused them.
“Let me start again. Al Lepage is not his real name. We sent his fingerprints to police across Canada and into the U.S., and since he was a draft dodger, we also sent them to the Department of Defense in Washington.”
“Right,” said Lacoste. “It turned up nothing.”
“Which was strange,” said Cohen. “He admits he’s American, a draft dodger. There should have been something. But then I tried the Judge Advocate General’s office. It’s the legal part of the U.S. Army, based in Washington, and look what I found.”