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 chair 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.”