Amelia could just see, poking out of the darkness, a pair of legs. On the ground. In ripped fishnets. The rest of the body was in darkness. But Amelia had no doubt. It was a body.
She caught the eyes of the girl, who looked to be five or six years old.
Amelia took a step toward the girl but was stopped by a single word.
“David.”
A skinny black kid had come up to her. No more than fifteen, she thought. He was staring at her with eyes far too big for his head.
“What about him?” she said, and felt, more than saw, the junkies and whores and trannies form a semicircle behind her.
“I’d heard you want him. I know where he is. For a tab I’ll tell you.”
“Yeah, right. Get outta my way, shithead,” she said, and shoved past him, heading across the street. To the girl, who was still standing there. Staring.
“David,” he repeated, and pushed the sleeve of his thin coat up. To expose his forearm. “Look.”
And there, written in Magic Marker, was the same word she’d found on her own arm. The word that was still there. Indelible.
David.
Like a calling card.
And beside the name there was a number: 13. No. It was 1/3.
She pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and took a closer look at her forearm. “David,” it said. And the number. Not 14 but 1/4.
Amelia stared at it and felt her heart beating in her throat. “Where is he?”
“I have to show you. Now. Before he leaves.” He put out his hand.
“Give him one,” said Amelia, and Marc handed over a single pill. “You’ll get another when we get to meet David.”
The kid pocketed the currency and without another word turned and walked down the dark street.
Amelia looked behind her. To the mouth of the alley. But the little girl was gone.
“Almost there,” Marc whispered as they followed. “Come up with a name yet?”
“Sweet Pea,” she said. “You started calling me that when I was five years old.”
“That’s what you’re going to name the shit? Sweet Pea?”
“No. I’m going to call it Gamache.”
“After the head of the Sûreté? The guy who got you into the academy?”
“The guy who got me kicked out. The genius who gave us the shit. He deserves to have it named after him. To know that the last thing tens of thousands of kids will say will be his name. It’ll become synonymous with death. Gamache.”
“You hate him that much?”
“He ruined me,” said Amelia. “Now it’s his turn.”
CHAPTER 32
“Oh look,” said Benedict. “I think my truck’s back.”
They’d crested the hill leading down into Three Pines. There were lights at the windows of the homes, and in the bistro they could see figures moving about.
The headlights of Gamache’s car caught the swirl of snow as it fell, and where the beams hit the surrounding forest, the trees were alternately dark and bright as snow rested on the branches.
Armand knew there’d be fires lit in each of the homes, including his own. But before he could join Reine-Marie in front of it, there was something that had to be done.
Benedict pulled up behind his truck, and, getting out, he went to inspect the tires.
“They’re very good,” he said. “The best. Are you sure I can’t pay for them?”
“I’m sure,” said Armand.
Benedict tossed the tail of his tuque around his neck and over his shoulder and looked about him. “I’m going to miss it here. What is it?”
Armand was regarding him in a way that made Benedict uncomfortable.
Isabelle stared at her laptop.
Her husband had returned, and the kids had come in from playing, and all around was pandemonium.
But she was sitting at the kitchen table in her own little bubble. Where all was deadly quiet. There were just the two of them. Isabelle Lacoste and Katie Burke.
“So that’s who you are,” whispered Lacoste. And reached for the phone. While the kids chased each other and the dog barked and her husband called to them to wash up for dinner.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had his feet crossed on the desk. A file on his lap. The information Madame Ogilvy had had her assistant give him on the Kinderoths, and Bernard Shaeffer, and Anthony Baumgartner.
He slowly lowered the file and stared at his own reflection in the window. Then, dropping his legs off the desk with a thud, he muttered, “Gotcha,” as he reached for the phone.
Benedict picked up the keys to his truck from Madame Gamache and thanked her profusely and sincerely for their hospitality.
“I don’t know what I’d have done,” he said. “Without you.”
“You’re welcome back anytime, right, Armand?”
“Let me walk you to your truck,” said Gamache.
As the door closed, he could hear the phone ringing.
“I don’t know how I can ever thank you, sir.”
“You promised me a driving lesson.” Gamache looked around. There was a good four inches of snow on the road. Billy Williams would be by soon to clear it, but right now it was accumulating. “You can thank me by giving me that lesson.”
“Now?”
“Is there a better time?”
“Well, it’s dark, and you must be tired.”
“It’s six thirty. I’m not quite that old.”
“I … I didn’t mean that,” stammered Benedict.
“Get in,” said Gamache, walking around to the passenger side and climbing up. “Let’s drive a few kilometers out of the village. I have a spot in mind.”
He was quiet as they drove, and then Gamache asked, “Who’s Katie Burke?”
“Who?”
Gamache was silent, staring at the snow swirling in the headlights.
“She’s my girlfriend.”
The truck was speeding up, exceeding the limit now.
“My ex.”
They were gathering speed.
“Your ex? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago did you break up?”
“Two months.”
“About the time Bertha Baumgartner died?”
The engine growled as Benedict pressed harder on the gas.
“I guess. I don’t know.”
“Did she know Madame Baumgartner?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you sure? Be more careful with your answers.”
“Maybe you should be more careful with your questions. Leave Katie out of this. You wanted a lesson? Here goes.”
He put his foot to the floor just as they crested a hill.
“Benedict—” Gamache began, but got no further.
Benedict hit the brakes, and the truck spun, veering out of control.
Gamache was thrown against the door, hitting his head on the window. He heard Benedict grunt as he was tossed sideways.
“Let go of the brake,” Gamache shouted.
But Benedict’s foot was jammed onto the pedal as he yanked the steering wheel first one way, then the other. Fighting for control. The snowbank approached, then the truck caught and fishtailed in the other direction. Toward the other bank. And the drop-off.
Gamache released his seat belt and forced himself forward. Grabbing the wheel, he tried to steer into the spin, but Benedict’s grip was too tight, and it was now almost impossible to tell which way was forward. And which would send them into the trees.
Benedict was bucking against Gamache’s body, which was pinning him to the seat. Partly to try to force his foot from the brake and partly to help protect the young man against what now seemed the inevitable crash.
Gamache grabbed Benedict’s pant leg, pulling it as hard as he could. Trying to yank his foot off the brake.
It finally lifted, and Gamache could feel the truck catch and slow, but he knew it was too late. In the headlights he saw the snowbank approaching and, beyond it, the trees.
He closed his eyes and braced himself.
The truck shuddered and then slowed.
Gamache opened his eyes and turned to look out the windshield. And saw not the woods but the road.