“But if Constance and Hélène saw her kill Virginie, would they have anything to do with her?” Gabri asked.
“Maybe they forgave her,” said Ruth. “Maybe they understood that while they were damaged, their sister was too.”
“And maybe they wanted to keep her close,” said Clara. “The devil you know.”
Myrna nodded. “Annette and her husband Albert were already in the neighborhood when the sisters moved in next door. If Annette was the sister, it suggests either forgiveness”—Myrna looked at Ruth—“or a desire to keep a close eye on her.”
“Or him.”
They looked at Thérèse. She was looking out the window, but had obviously been listening.
“Him?” asked Olivier.
“Albert. The neighbor,” said Thérèse. Her breath fogged the windowpane. “Maybe she wasn’t their sister, but he was their brother.”
“You’re right,” said Myrna, carefully placing Gamache’s letter on the table. “The Sûreté technician was sure the third DNA he’d found belonged to a man. That tuque with the angels was knitted by Marie-Harriette for her son.”
“Albert,” said Ruth.
When Myrna didn’t respond they looked at her.
“If Isidore and Marie-Harriette had a son,” she said, “what would they name him?”
There was silence then. Even Rosa had stopped muttering.
“Old sins have long shadows.” They looked at Agent Nichol. “Where did this all begin? Where did the miracle begin?”
“Frère André,” said Clara.
“André,” said Ruth into the quiet room. “They’d have named him André.”
Myrna nodded. “Gamache believes so. He thinks that was what Constance was trying to tell me, with the tuque. Marie-Harriette knitted it for her son, named after their guardian angel. A DNA test will confirm it, but he thinks André Pineault is their brother.”
“But MA,” asked Gabri. “What does the M stand for?”
“Marc. All the girls in Marie-Harriette’s family were named Marie something and all the boys were named Marc something. Gamache found that out in the churchyard. He’d have been Marc-André, but called André.”
“Brother André,” said Gabri. “Literally.”
“That’s what Constance was trying to tell us,” said Myrna. “What she did tell us. Me. She actually said that hockey was brother André’s favorite sport. I was the one who capitalized the B, not her. Not Brother André, but brother André. The sixth sibling. Named after the saint who’d produced a miracle.”
“He killed Constance so she wouldn’t tell you that he’d killed Virginie,” said Clara. “That was what the sisters had kept secret all those years, what kept them prisoners long after the public stopped prying.”
“But how did he know she’d tell?” Olivier asked.
“He didn’t,” said Myrna. “But Gamache thinks they kept in touch. André Pineault claimed not to know where the girls lived, but he later said he’d written to tell them their father was dead. He knew their address. That suggested they kept in some contact. It was strange that Pineault would lie about that.
“Gamache thinks Constance must have told him what her plans were for Christmas. To visit her friend and former therapist. And Pineault got frightened. He must have suspected that with Marguerite dead, Constance might want to tell someone the truth, before her time came. She wanted the truth about Virginie’s death to be known. She’d kept his secret all those years but now, for her own and Virginie’s sake, she needed to be free of it.”
“So he killed her,” said Ruth.
Jérôme saw Thérèse’s back stiffen, then he heard a sound. He got up and walked swiftly across to the window to join her.
He looked out. A large black SUV followed by a van were driving very slowly down the hill.
“They’re here,” said Thérèse Brunel.
THIRTY-NINE
Armand Gamache drove onto the Champlain Bridge. There was no sign, yet, of any effort to close it but he knew if anyone could do it, it would be Isabelle Lacoste.
The traffic was heavy and the road still snowy. He passed a car and glanced in. A man and a woman sat in the front and behind them an infant was strapped into a car seat. Two lanes over he could see a young woman alone in her car, tapping her steering wheel and nodding to music.
Red brake lights appeared. The traffic was slowing. They were now creeping along. Bumper-to-bumper.
And ahead, the huge steel span rose.
Gamache knew almost nothing about engineering. About load tests and concrete. But he did know that 160,000 cars crossed this bridge every day. It was the busiest span in Canada and it was about to be blown into the St. Lawrence River. Not by some enraged foreign terrorist, but by two of the most trusted people in Québec.
The Premier and the head of the police force.
It had taken Gamache a while, but finally he thought he knew why.
What made this different from the other bridges, the tunnels, the neglected overpasses? Why target this?
There had to be a reason, a purpose. Money, maybe. If a bridge came down, it would have to be rebuilt. And that would put hundreds of millions more dollars in pockets across Québec. But Gamache knew it was more than money. He knew Francoeur, and what drove the man. It was one thing. Had always been one thing.
Power.
How could bringing down the Champlain Bridge give him more than he already had?
One lane over, a young boy looked out his window and stared directly at the Chief Inspector. And smiled.
Gamache smiled back. His own car slowed to a stop, joining the column of stalled cars in the middle of the bridge. Gamache’s right hand trembled a little, and he gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Pierre Arnot had started it, decades ago, on the remote reserve.
While up there he’d met another young man on the rise. Georges Renard.
Arnot was with the Sûreté detachment, Renard was an engineer with Aqueduct, planning the dam.
Both were clever, dynamic, ambitious and they triggered something in the other. So that over time, clever became cunning. Dynamic became obsessed. Ambitious became ruthless.
It was as though, in that fateful meeting, something had changed in each man’s DNA. Up until then, both had been driven, but ultimately decent. There was a limit to how far they were willing to go. But when Arnot met Renard, and Renard met Arnot, that limit, that line, had vanished.
Gamache had known Pierre Arnot, had even admired parts of the man. And now, as he inched along the bridge toward the highest point of the span, Gamache wondered what might have become of Arnot, had he not met Renard.
And what might have become of Renard, had he not met Arnot?
He’d seen it in others, the consequences of failing to choose companions wisely. One slightly immoral person was a problem. Two together was a catastrophe. All it took was a fateful meeting. A person who told you your meanest desires, your basest thoughts, weren’t so bad. In fact, he shared them.
Then the unthinkable was thought. And planned for. And put into action.
Georges Renard had put up the great La Grande hydroelectric dam. He could bring it down. With Pierre Arnot’s help.
Arnot’s part was simple and painfully easy. Recruiters, for terrorist cells and police forces and armies, relied on this simple truth: if you got people young enough, they could be made to do just about anything.
And that was what Arnot did. He’d left the Cree reserve years earlier and had risen to Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté du Québec. But he still had influence in the north. He was respected. His voice heard and often heeded.
Arnot put key officers in place on the reserve. Their task was to find, and if necessary create, the angriest, most disenfranchised native kids. To nurture that hatred. Reinforce it. Reward it.
Kids who didn’t buy into it, or threatened to expose them, had “accidents.” Committed “suicide.” Disappeared into the bush forever.
Two abused and de
sperate children, nurtured into violent, glue-sniffing young men, were chosen. They were the angriest. The emptiest.
They were given two trucks loaded with explosives and told where to hit the dam. They would die, but they would die heroes, they were told. Celebrities. Songs would be written. Their brave stories told and retold. They would become legend. Myth.
Renard had provided the information on where to hit the dam. Where it was vulnerable. Information only someone who’d actually worked on the dam would know.
That had been the first plan, but Gamache had stopped it. Barely. And lost many young officers doing it. Had almost lost Jean-Guy.
Perhaps he had lost Jean-Guy, Gamache thought.
They were almost at the very top of the bridge now. The massive steel girders rose on either side of him. The boy in the next car had fallen asleep, his blond hair pressed against the window. His head lolling. In the front seat, Gamache could see Dad driving and Mom holding a large wrapped gift on her lap.
Yes, he’d stopped the dam from being brought down, but he’d failed to get at the rot. The dark core was still there and spreading. Recovering from the setback, it had grown darker and stronger.
Arnot had gone to prison and his second in command had taken over. In Sylvain Francoeur, Georges Renard had found his true muse. A man so like him they were two halves of a whole. And when put together, the results were catastrophic.
The target had shifted but not the goal.
What made the Champlain Bridge such a perfect target was finally very simple.
It was a federal bridge.
And when it came down, with a shattering loss of life, the government of Canada would be blamed for years of mismanagement, neglect, substandard materials, corruption.
All documented by the provincial Ministry of Transportation.
Audrey Villeneuve’s department.
Footage of the dreadful event would run day and night on screens around the world. Photos of the parents, the children, the families who perished would stare out from newspapers and magazines.
Gamache’s eyes swept the vehicles around him, and rested, again, on the boy in the car beside him. He was awake now. Staring out. Eyes glazed with boredom. Then he noticed his breath on the cold window. The boy brought his finger up, and wrote.
ynnaD, Gamache read.
His name was Danny.
This boy had the same name as his own son. Daniel.
If death came right now, would it be swift? Would Danny know?
Yes, their photographs would be on endless rotation on the news. Their names etched on monuments. Martyrs in the cause.
And the people responsible for the bridge, the Canadian government, would be villainized, demonized.
Je me souviens, Gamache read on the slushy license plate of the car ahead. The motto of Québec. I remember. They would never, ever forget the day the Champlain Bridge fell.
This was never about money, except as a means to corrupt. To buy silence and complicity.
This was about power. Political power. Georges Renard was not satisfied with being the Premier of a province. He wanted to be the father of a new country. He’d rather rule in hell than serve in heaven.
And to do that all he needed to do was to manufacture rage, then direct it at the federal government. He’d convince the population that the reason the bridge had come down was that Canada had willfully used substandard material. That the federal government did not care for the citizens of Québec.
And his words would carry great weight, not because he was himself a Québec separatist, but because he wasn’t. Georges Renard was a lifelong Federalist. He’d built a political career as a supporter of Québec staying in Canada. How much stronger the argument for separation would be when coming from a man who’d never espoused it, until this hideous event.
By the New Year Québec would have declared its independence. The day the Champlain Bridge fell would be their Bastille Day. And the victims would pass into legend.
* * *
“Where’re they going?” Jérôme whispered.
As he, Thérèse and Agent Nichol watched from Myrna’s window, the unmarked SUV drove slowly around the village green and over the stone bridge.
“To the old train station,” said Nichol. “It’s where Chief Inspector Gamache set up his Incident Room in the past.”
“But how would they know that?” Jérôme asked.
“Could they have got the Chief Inspector?” Nichol asked.
“He’d never lead them here,” said Thérèse.
“Someone needs to go down,” said Clara.
They looked around the room at each other.
“I’ll go,” said Nichol.
“No, it needs to be one of us,” said Clara. “A villager. When they find nothing at the old train station they’ll come back to ask questions. Someone needs to answer them, or they’ll take the place apart.”
“I think we should vote,” said Gabri.
They all, slowly, turned to look at Ruth.
“Oh, no you don’t. I’m not going to be voted off the island,” she snapped, then turned to Rosa, stroking her head. “They’re all shits, aren’t they? Yes they are, yes they are.”
“I know who gets my vote,” said Gabri.
“I’ll go.”
Olivier had spoken, and now he walked decisively toward the stairs down from Myrna’s loft.
“Wait.” Gabri ran after him. “Let Ruth.”
“You need to go.”
Superintendent Thérèse Brunel had spoken. Clearly, decisively. She’d taken charge, and everyone in the loft now turned to her. She’d spoken to Olivier.
“Go to the bistro and if they come in, act as though you don’t know who they are. They’re just tourists, nothing more. If they identify themselves as Sûreté, ask if they’re looking for the Chief Inspector—”
She was cut off by their protests, but Thérèse held up her hand.
“They already know he was here, for the Ouellet case. No use denying it. In fact, you need to appear as helpful as possible. Three Pines has to look like it has nothing to hide. Got it?”
“Let me come too,” said Gabri, his eyes wide.
“Yes, we vote he goes,” said Ruth, putting up her hand.
“You’re my best friend,” said Olivier, looking at his partner. “My greatest love, but you couldn’t lie to save your life. Fortunately, I can, and have.” He looked at his friends. “You all know that.”
There was a feeble attempt at denial, but it was true.
“Of course I was just practicing, for today,” said Olivier.
“The dickhead’s lying now,” said Ruth, almost wistfully, and walked over to join him. “You’ll need customers. Besides, I could use a Scotch.”
Thérèse Brunel turned to Myrna and said, apologetically, “You need to go down too.”
Myrna nodded. “I’ll open the store.”
Clara went to join them, but Superintendent Brunel stopped her.
“I’m sorry, Clara, but I’ve seen your paintings. I don’t think you’d be a very good liar either. We can’t risk it.”
Clara stared at the older woman, then walked over to her friends at the top of the stairs.
“Myrna needs a customer too in her bookstore,” said Clara. “I’m going.”
“Call it a library, dear,” said Ruth, “or they’ll know you’re just pretending.”
Ruth looked at Jérôme and made a circular motion with her finger at her temple, and rolled her eyes.
“Release the kraken,” said Gabri as he watched them leave.
“I think you mean crackers,” said Jérôme, then he turned to Thérèse. “We’re doomed.”
* * *
“Break it down.”
Chief Superintendent Francoeur nodded at the door to the old train station.
Beauvoir strolled up, turned the handle and swung the door open. “No one locks their doors around here.”
“They should pay more attention to the news,” said Franco
eur. The two large Sûreté officers followed Tessier into the building.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir stepped aside. Disengaged. He watched as though it was a film and nothing to do with him.
“Just a fire truck and some equipment,” said Tessier, coming out a minute or two later. “No sign of anything else.”
Francoeur examined Beauvoir closely. Was he screwing with them? “Where else could they be?”
“The bistro, I suppose.”
They drove back over the stone bridge and parked outside the bistro.
“You know these people,” Francoeur said to Beauvoir. “Come with me.”
The place was all but empty. Billy Williams sat by the window, sipping a beer and eating pie. Ruth and Rosa were in a corner, reading.
Fireplaces at both ends of the bistro were lit, and maple and birch logs were burning and snapping.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir took in the familiar room, and felt nothing.
He met Olivier’s eyes, and saw them widen in surprise.
And Olivier was indeed surprised. Shocked to see Beauvoir, in such company and in such condition. He looked hollowed out, as though a breeze or nasty word would knock him over.
Olivier put a smile on his face but his heart was pounding furiously.
“Inspector Beauvoir,” he said, coming around the long polished bar. “The Chief Inspector didn’t mention you were coming down.”
Olivier spoke heartily and warned himself to dial it back.
“Chief Inspector Gamache?” The other man spoke and, despite himself, Olivier felt the attraction of the man, the immense charisma that came with confidence and authority. “Have you seen him?”
Here was a man used to commanding. He was in his early sixties, with gray hair and an athletic build. His eyes were searching, sharp, and he moved with casual grace, like a carnivore.
Beside this vibrant man, Beauvoir seemed to diminish even further. He became carrion. A carcass, that hadn’t yet been devoured but soon would be.
“Sure,” said Olivier. “The Chief Inspector’s been here for…” he thought, “… almost a week, I guess. Myrna called him when her friend Constance went missing.”
Olivier lowered his voice and looked around, leaning closer to Beauvoir. “Don’t know if you heard, but Constance was one of the Ouellet Quints. The last one. She was murdered.”