Chernin shook her head. “But…” She looked at the thick forest and the lake.
It was, for the homicide detectives tasked with investigating murders outside of Québec cities, the perpetual problem. In a city, losing a body or a weapon might be a challenge.
Out here? You could lose a tank.
A loon gave another call, and over Beauvoir’s shoulder Gamache saw a formation of Canada geese heading south. Hurry, he thought. Winter’s closing in.
“I’d like a chart of the currents in this lake,” he said. “The local bureau de protection de l’environnement should have it. If not, try the Fish and Game Club.”
“Will do,” said Chernin. She waved toward the man and woman in the car. “If they were poachers, that might explain why they’re here, but it doesn’t make them murderers.”
“Unless they were her dealers,” said Beauvoir, pivoting. “Meeting out here where no one could see.”
“They’re from Montréal,” said Chernin. “Are you saying they came all the way up here to make a five-and-dime sale? Then killed her? Two days ago. Then returned to the body, and reported it?”
“They knew their DNA would be found,” said Beauvoir. The pivot had turned into a scramble. “This way they could explain it.”
They all looked over to the car, where the hikers were now leaning forward, aware they were being discussed.
Gamache shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why not?” asked Beauvoir, peeved at being doubted.
“For one, she wasn’t killed here.”
“How do you know?”
“You told me yourself. Think about it,” said Gamache, before turning back to Chernin. “Why not just leave her in the forest where she’d never have been found.”
Clotilde Arsenault would have then joined the long, and growing, list of missing women.
She was a known prostitute. A junkie. The local cops wouldn’t try too hard.
Her children would spend the rest of their lives wondering. Looking into the faces of pale women with blond stringy hair. In restaurants, shops, walking toward them on the street.
Even when they themselves were elderly, they would still be looking. Wondering if that young woman sitting over there could be their mother.
Could that possibly be the reason Clotilde had been left where she might be found? To spare her children?
Was a person capable of murder also, in that same moment, capable of kindness?
Gamache took a deep breath, his exhale coming out in a stream of vapor as the temperature dropped still further.
He turned toward his car.
“I’ll come with you,” said Chernin, knowing what he had to do now.
“No, you stay here and coordinate the scene of crime. I’ll meet you at the station after I’ve broken the news to the children.”
Though Armand Gamache knew it would be more than news he’d be breaking. Fortunately, he supposed, Captain Dagenais would have found someone to stay with Clotilde’s children for the past few days. Someone who could now comfort them.
Armand Gamache needed to get to them quickly before word leaked out, though news of a body was probably already spreading through the community.
He looked across the lake, past the relative protection of the cove, past the whitecaps roiling farther out, until his gaze stopped at the thick old-growth forest. It had seen its share of violent death.
Most wild animals did not die of old age. They were killed but not murdered. There was premeditation, yes. One animal stalking another, with intent to kill. But no mens rea. No malice aforethought. No evil intent.
He was reminded again what Abbie Hoffman had said: We must eat what we kill. That would put an end to war. And, thought Gamache, an end to murder. Or most.
Inspector Chernin accompanied him as he walked toward his car. Their heads together, they discussed the practicalities of the investigation, including where to set up a command center and where to stay.
“What do you think of him?” Gamache asked as they neared the vehicle.
“Beauvoir? Well, patron, you sure know how to find the biggest piece of shit around.”
“It’s a gift, and”—he stopped and smiled at her—“my track record is unbroken. He should fit right in.”
“You’re not—”
“I haven’t yet, but I’m considering it. There’s something about him.”
“It’s called insubordination. He hasn’t got a chip on his shoulder, he’s got a boulder. With those anger issues, he becomes unpredictable, and that could be dangerous.”
“His station chief agrees with you.”
“And yet—” said Chernin.
Gamache studied the woman who’d been his second-in-command for several years. He said nothing. Just watched her. Inviting her to consider.
This habit of his of just waiting, quietly, she’d found unnerving for the first few years of her posting in homicide. But now she was used to it. Kind of. Most senior officers could not wait to impose their ideas. Gamache insisted his agents think for themselves.
“And yet,” she continued, “he saw the shape of the wound and recognized the murder weapon. I saw it too. You saw it. But none of the other agents, not even the coroner, realized the significance and knew a brick had killed her. Knew it was murder.”
“He not just saw that, he spoke up. To a senior officer. He’s not afraid to speak his mind.”
“The trick is getting him to shut up.”
Gamache smiled. “True. That might take some work. But the point is, he put the truth ahead of his career.”
“The truth or his ego?” she asked. Linda Chernin too was not afraid to challenge her boss.
“Good question.” They looked over at Agent Beauvoir, who was pretending not to be watching them. “I guess we’ll find out. When you’re done here, have them taken to the station.” Gamache nodded toward the two hikers. “Let them stew for a while. There’s something, maybe quite a lot, they aren’t telling us. Have you applied for a warrant?”
“To search their vehicle? Yes. I’ve also applied for one for Madame Arsenault’s home. Both should come through soon. I’ll let you know.” She looked again at the hikers. “You think they did it?”
“I don’t know.”
Chernin returned to the shore and Gamache returned to his car. He could hear a vehicle approaching over the rutted road. No doubt the ambulance to take the body to the morgue and the news back to the community.
He’d have to hurry. And yet, his hand on the car door, the Chief Inspector hesitated. He stood very still and listened to the rustle and scramble of small creatures in the forest.
Then he closed his eyes, escaping into the peace of the moment. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the cool, fresh air and with it the scent of pine needles and musky earth and rotting leaves. It was somehow comforting. Familiar. Natural.
He paused. Paused. Even as the sound of the ambulance got louder and louder, Armand Gamache held on to the peace and quietude for as long as he could. Before …
But it had to be done.
Opening his eyes, Gamache caught sight of a chipmunk racing up a tree trunk. Was it running or fleeing? Hunter or prey? Was another death imminent?
What must it be like to run for your life through a forest, knowing your pursuer was getting closer, closer? It was the stuff of nightmares.
He looked away and saw Agent Beauvoir still watching him.
Making up his mind, Gamache called out, “Come with me, please.”
“Moi?” said Jean-Guy Beauvoir, touching his chest and looking around.
“Oui. Vous.”
The fact this superior officer had just used the formal, respectful “vous” surprised him.
“Well,” said Gamache, as Beauvoir got into the driver’s seat.