He shoved the gear into neutral, and the truck glided to a stop, pointing straight ahead.
Both men stared straight ahead, gathering themselves.
Gamache took a deep breath and exhaled while, beside him, Benedict was hyperventilating. His breaths coming out in short puffs.
“Katie Burke,” said Gamache. “Tell—”
“Leave her out of this.”
“Are you really prepared to kill us both? To protect her?”
“Leave her alone,” said Benedict.
“Was it her idea or yours?”
“Enough.”
“Or what? You’ll run us off a cliff? More death? Does it get easier, Benedict, the more you do? I’m giving you a chance to tell me yourself.”
Benedict was staring at him, wild-eyed, desperate.
“No?” said Gamache. “Then I’ll tell you. Katie knew Madame Baumgartner. She was her first contact in the nursing home. That’s how you got onto the will, isn’t it?”
Benedict continued to glare at Gamache, but now with more surprise than hostility.
“Murder, Benedict. Is that what you wanted? Was it planned?”
But Benedict seemed too stunned to answer.
“Tell me. The truth now.”
As soon as they walked back into the house, Reine-Marie said, “Both Jean-Guy and Isabelle have been calling. They’d like a callback.”
It sounded to Armand that they would more than just “like” a call.
“You’re back,” said Reine-Marie to Benedict. “Everything okay? You look pale.”
“He’s just going to rest for a bit,” said Armand, making for the study. “We’ve been testing the tires. We gave each other little lessons on driving in dangerous conditions.”
Benedict collapsed into an armchair facing the fire.
“What did you do to him, Armand?” Reine-Marie whispered at the door to the study.
“Taught him a lesson,” said her husband. “If he tries to leave, let me know. But I don’t think he will.”
Armand held up the keys to the truck.
Then, picking up the phone to return the calls, he noticed there was a message. A soft, now-familiar voice told him that she’d found the girl. And Armand could come get her anytime. She’d be safe.
Now it was Armand’s turn to sit, almost collapse, into a chair. He closed his eyes briefly, and exhaled, whispering, “Merci.”
Then he called Jean-Guy, who was in his car. “On my way down, patron. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Great, but why?”
He explained. Then Gamache called Isabelle.
When he left the study, he found Benedict still in the armchair, a mug of hot chocolate, untouched, on the table beside him.
He was staring blankly into the cheerful fire. Reine-Marie had just put a fresh log on, and Henri was lying in front of it, while Gracie slept on the sofa. It was, to all appearances, a tranquil domestic scene.
But, as he’d just heard from Isabelle and Jean-Guy, there was delusion at work. And a certain madness.
After he’d hung up, he called Myrna and asked her to come over.
She had to hear this.
“Would you like me to leave, Armand?” Reine-Marie asked. She recognized his manner and knew this was no longer a social occasion.
“Non, stay if you’d like.”
Just then Myrna arrived, shaking snow from her tuque and kicking off her boots. “This’d better be good. I left a bowl of soup and a glass of wine to come here.”
But, taking a seat by the fire, Myrna could see that whatever was happening, it wasn’t good. It was bad.
“What is it?” she asked, looking at Benedict, who seemed almost comatose. “What’s happened?”
“In a moment,” said Armand as he went to the window. He’d seen headlights flash by.
A minute later Jean-Guy walked in.
“This,” said Beauvoir as he stepped aside, “is Katie Burke.”
“Katie?” said Benedict, getting up.
CHAPTER 33
“Are you fucking with me?” Amelia shouted after the boy, who stopped and turned.
They’d been wandering the back alleys for an hour. Marc was beginning to tremble, not from the cold, or fear, but from withdrawal. His mumbles had become a plaintive whine.
“I need something. Anything.”
He’d already taken a tab of acid, but he was used to stronger. Needed stronger. And was getting weaker and weaker.
They all were.
The junkies and trannies and whores who straggled along after Amelia as she followed the boy from alley to tenement to empty lot. Some had broken off, desperate now for a hit. Preferring to go it alone.
Those who had stayed, the junkies and trannies and whores, were too far gone to make a decision. They just trudged after her, afraid of being left behind. Again.
“No, no, he was here an hour ago,” said the kid, looking around. “He told me to come find you. It’s ready.”
“What is?”
“Dinner. He’s made dinner for you. What the fuck do you think I mean? The shit’s ready.”
“Then why does he need me?” asked Amelia, feeling a surge of adrenaline.
“How should I know?”
Amelia looked over at Marc. Wanting to ask him, to ask anyone, for advice. She was tingling and wasn’t sure if it was excitement or a warning. This wasn’t right. Every instinct told her she was being set up. That she should stop. Turn around. Go back. Go home.
But she had no home. There was no “back” back there. Only forward.
The stud in her tongue knocked against her teeth as she considered her options.
The kid was on the move again, slipping and sliding through the slush in his running shoes.
“He must’ve left,” he was muttering, looking this way and that. But it was night, and hardly any light from the street penetrated down these back lanes. David could’ve been standing feet away and they wouldn’t see him.
Making up her mind, Amelia grabbed Marc’s hand and dragged him, staggering, forward.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of her stud joined the chattering of his teeth.
Katie and Benedict sat side by side on the sofa in front of the fireplace.
A platter of roast beef, chicken, and peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches had been put out on the coffee table, along with drinks.
Katie wore a long boiled-wool skirt over bright pink jeans and a sweater made up of what looked like meatballs but were actually brown pom-poms. They hoped.
Henri was looking at her in a way that demanded monitoring.
She had the same haircut as Benedict. Almost shaved on top, and from just above the ears down it was long.
They held hands and looked very young as Katie stared at the adults surrounding them and Benedict stared at the sandwiches. And Armand stared at Henri. In warning.
Once again Armand noticed a resemblance between the shepherd and the carpenter.
“I hope you know,” he began, lifting his eyes to the young couple, “that it’s far too late for lies. And there’ve been far too many already.”
While his words were firm, his voice was gentle. Encouraging. Like coaxing fawns from the forest.
Katie nodded, and Benedict’s eyes met Armand’s.
“How did this begin?” Gamache asked. There was no doubt that the question was aimed at Katie.
“Well, I guess it started before I was born—”
“Maybe the more recent events,” said Armand. “How did Benedict get onto Madame Baumgartner’s will?”
“She knows?” asked Myrna.
“And she knows why you’re on too,” said Beauvoir. “Don’t you?”
Katie nodded again. She might look like a lunatic, but her eyes were sharp and bright and glowed with intelligence.
She was, Gamache suspected, a remarkable young woman. Certainly a one-off.
“I met Madame Baumgartner in the seniors’ home,” said Katie Burke. “I don’t know if you know, but there aren’t all that many Anglo homes around.”
“Why would it matter?” asked Jean-Guy.