“Three Pines isn’t on any map,” he said. “That would be an advantage when trying to hide something, but at the same time the village would provide services and workers when needed.”
“Except according to all our interviews, no local worked on the site,” she said.
“No one willing to admit it.”
“Oui,” said Lacoste.
Armand Gamache returned his gaze to the forest. He wasn’t sitting there with Henri simply marveling at the wildlife it contained. He was also scanning it. For new growth among the old. For holes in the canopy.
For evidence of one reference in the redacted notes the censors had failed to find. And black out.
“Professor Rosenblatt read the notes Reine-Marie printed out,” said Gamache.
“Did he find them interesting?” asked Lacoste.
“He didn’t seem to. And he either missed, or chose not to mention, the plural.”
The one letter among hundreds, thousands. Like a single tree in a forest. But one that changed everything.
“The s,” said Lacoste. “Superguns.”
Then she too looked across at mile after mile of forest.
“We told the Lepages about the gun,” she said. “Today, when we searched their place again.”
“Did you find anything?”
“No, though they admitted the Pete Seeger cassette was theirs but didn’t know how it got near the gun. But that’s another interesting thing. When we told them about the Supergun, they seemed surprised but neither of them asked any questions about it. Not one.”
“They might be absorbed in grief,” he said. “People don’t behave normally when there’s been a death, especially a violent one. Especially a child.”
“True.” After a few moments she spoke, under her breath. “Why here?”
“The gun?” he asked.
“No, the man. I asked Al Lepage that question. Why did he come to Three Pines, when he was dodging the draft.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he’d walked across the border from Vermont and saw the lights of the village.”
Now she turned to look at her former boss. His brows were raised, but he said nothing.
“But he couldn’t have, could he?” she said. “The forest is too thick. No one would just walk across the border, unless they wanted to get lost in the woods. He’d have to have known where he was going.”
Gamache nodded.
“He’d have to have had a guide. Someone who brought him here.”
They looked again at the old village. And the tall pine trees planted for one purpose. To signal to those seeking sanctuary that they were safe.
They’d made it to Three Pines.
CHAPTER 21
Reine-Marie and Armand knocked first, then let themselves into Clara’s home. Some of the other guests had already arrived, though “guests” made it sound too formal. They’d received a call late that afternoon from Clara inviting them for a potluck.
“And the luck,” said Clara, “is that Olivier and Gabri are taking the night away from the bistro and are providing a main course and hors d’oeuvre.”
“We’ll bring a salad,” said Reine-Marie.
“Salad?” Clara had said. “What’s that?”
They arrived with an apple crumble and a container of Coaticook vanilla ice cream.
Olivier and Gabri showed up at the same time, with Ruth and Rosa.
“Here’s our casserole,” said Gabri, putting it on the counter as though he himself had made it.
“Looks delicious,” said Reine-Marie. “What is it?”
“Rock Cornish game hens,” said Olivier, when it appeared Gabri was about to fabricate the ingredients. “With wild cranberry and”—he looked at the crumble on the counter—“apple stuffing.”
“Exactly,” said Gabri.
“Well, if you’re the luck, I suppose she’s the ‘pot,’” said Myrna, coming into the kitchen from the living room and pointing to Ruth.
“That would make you the kettle,” said Ruth.
“She’s calling the kettle black,” said Gabri.
“I know, I got it,” said Myrna.
“What’s that?” asked Ruth, turning around and listening to the strange sound.
“Something you’ve never used,” said Clara. “The doorbell.”
“A doorbell?” Ruth asked. “I thought they were a myth, like Pegasus.”
“And boundaries,” said Gabri.
Clara reappeared a moment later with Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme.
“I think you know some of the people here,” said Clara.
They nodded to Gamache and Jean-Guy, then Clara introduced them to Reine-Marie and Ruth, who said, “They don’t look like spies.”
“And you don’t look like an invited guest,” said Clara. “Yet here you are.”
“We didn’t know what to bring,” said Mary Fraser. “We picked this up at the general store.”
Clara took the bottle of apple cider.
“Thank you,” she said, putting it in the fridge alongside the clinking row of other cider bottles.
“So, what were you up to today?” asked Armand, as he and Reine-Marie walked with the newcomers into Clara’s living room. “I didn’t see you in the village.”
“Oh, we were about,” said Sean Delorme. He lowered his voice. “Doing some legwork on the you-know-what.”
“The gun?” asked Ruth. “That great big goddamned thing in the forest where Laurent was murdered?”
That fell like a brain aneurysm on the gathering. Everyone in the living room stopped moving, talking, breathing.
“Yes,” said Delorme. “That would be the one. Nice duck.”
Rosa, in Ruth’s arms, thrust her beak toward the CSIS agent, who stepped back.
“What have you found out about it?” asked Myrna. She’d returned to the sofa and was sitting beside Professor Rosenblatt.
“We can’t say much,” said Mary Fraser, who obviously wished she didn’t have to say anything. She shot a withering look at Rosenblatt, who refused to wither. He sat contentedly holding a glass of Scotch, like a benign grandfather among precocious children.
“Don’t worry,” said Delorme. “We’re on it.”
“Don’t worry?” asked Ruth. “There’s a huge fucking missile launcher in our backyard and apparently the only thing between us and Armageddon is some guy who’s afraid of a duck.”
Sean Delorme gave a strained smile and squirmed slightly. But Gamache thought his discomfort stemmed as much from the social situation as Ruth’s caustic comment. Delorme seemed more at home with people on paper than in person. And Mary Fraser, while perhaps better at covering it up, looked like she was searching for someplace to hide. Or a file to read.
She drifted, naturally, over to the bookcases and read the spines.
The phone rang and Clara left to answer it.
“Don’t mind Ruth,” said Olivier, taking Delorme’s arm with one hand and Mary Fraser’s with the other and steering them to the drinks table. “She’s one sneeze away from the asylum.”
“We’re already there,” shouted Ruth.
Armand turned his attention to the old poet.
Ruth had said “Armageddon.” Not “catastrophe,” not “disaster,” but the one word associated with the gun. With the etching. With the Whore of Babylon, marching toward the end of the world.
But no one had been told about the etching. Was it a coincidence, or did she know something? It was the sort of word she’d use, and certainly the sort of event she evoked.
“Speaking of asylum,” Beauvoir said to Ruth. “Do you have a record player at home?”
“Is that a non sequitur?”
“No. I have Al Lepage’s record and I’d like to hear it, but it’s only on LP.”
“Come over if you must after dinner,” she said. “I have a record player somewhere.”