“Heights.”
“Holes.”
“Okay, I give,” laughed Harriet. “Was I really afraid of peppermint toothpaste?”
Monsieur Béliveau nodded. “And Ivory soap. You thought it was made from elephants.”
“You thought guacamole was made from lawyers,” said Myrna.
“Well, that’s just sensible,” said Harriet. “Avocado. Avocats. I’m still not convinced…”
“And yet, you still order it,” said Olivier.
“Meh,” she said. “It’s tasty. What can I tell you.”
“I also have eaten my share of—” began Gabri before Olivier snapped.
“Stop it!”
“I felt safe here, for the first time in my life. Not physically. I knew that bad things can happen, do happen, anywhere.” She looked at the bouquet of white roses on the banquet table. Then she looked around at the homes and shops. At the three huge pines. “Bad things can happen even here.”
“She got that right,” said Ruth, and Rosa nodded. Though ducks often did.
“But I knew if something did happen, I’d be okay. Because I wasn’t alone.”
She approached her aunt and handed her the towel. Myrna unwrapped it, then stared at the object in her hands.
“Is it a sculpture?” asked Clara. “A work of art?”
“Is it a cake?” asked Gabri. It was hard to see in the demi-light.
“A book?” asked Sylvie Mongeau.
“Is it a joke?” asked Ruth. “For fuck’s sake, the woman paid for four years of university, and you give her that?”
Everyone was so focused on the gift, no one noticed the expression on Armand’s face.
Well, that was not totally true. Two people did. The brother and sister standing across the festive village green were watching him.
While he stared at the brick in Myrna’s hands.
It wasn’t over yet, Gamache knew.
They had the weapons. The cell phones. They had Dagenais. They’d regained control of the building. But it was temporary. There were off-duty agents, Dagenais’s officers, out there. Once they got wind of what was happening, things might change. And not for the better.
The Chief Inspector knew the only reason Dagenais had called off his people was to buy time. To regroup and give them another chance to attack.
It wasn’t a surrender, it was a tactical retreat.
He could, of course, go back on his promise to let the agents go. That seemed a pledge it would be insane to keep.
But. But.
Gamache knew there were holes in their case. A clever lawyer might get these agents off, claiming they were just defending their captain. Their detachment. That it was reasonable for them to assume they were under attack from Gamache and his people.
There were two pieces of crucial evidence they had to find if they were going to build a solid case.
Clotilde’s records and the weapon Dagenais or one of his agents had used to kill her. The brick.
There was work to be done and done quickly. He took Chernin aside. “Get a search warrant for Dagenais’s house. Fast.”
“Oui, patron.”
To Beauvoir he said, “Lock him in a cell.”
“Oui. What about them?” Beauvoir looked at the agents glaring back through the window in Dagenais’s office.
Gamache considered. “Lock them in, and bring the hikers to me.”
Then he got on the phone to Agent Moel.
“Hardye, get the children and all the evidence and go to the airport. Fly back to Montréal. Send the rest of the team here to the detachment. Let me know when you’re in the air. Hurry.”
“The forensics team isn’t—”
“Just do it.”
“Yessir.”
He had to get the children out before another attack was mounted. And, if possible, get the rest of them out too. But they could not leave until all the evidence was collected.
While he waited for word that Moel and the children were on the plane and in the air, the forensics team had arrived at the detachment and been brought up to speed. They started the investigation into wrongdoing at the detachment, while Gamache and Chernin interviewed the man and woman.
Turned out they were who they said they were. At least as far as it went.
Longtime activists with the environmental group Assez, they’d volunteered to drive up to begin organizing the protest to protect the old-growth forest.
No, they’d never been there before. They’d arrived that morning. What was happening?
Well, yes, they smoked weed, but nothing more. No, they didn’t deal. What was happening?
Did they know the dead woman? No. And, by the way, what was happening?
“Can we leave? We’re not under arrest, are we?” the man asked.
“No,” said Gamache. “But for your own safety, you need to stay here with us.”
It was possible that the off-duty agents were already outside the station. Waiting for someone to leave. Waiting to take someone hostage, or worse.
“Safety?” asked the woman. “What’s happening?”
“Some officers have been found to be involved in criminal activity.” Gamache figured they had a right to know something, if not everything. “We need to get the situation under control. Then you can leave.”
They stared at him, barely believing what they were hearing.
Taking Chernin aside, he said, “Check their records. I want to know more about them.”
“You’re not convinced?”
Gamache told her his thoughts about the children’s father. And what he might do if he found out what his ex had done to their children.
“You think he’s”—Chernin glanced behind her at the male hiker—“the father?” She considered. “He’s the right age. I’ll see what I can find out. I’m also looking into Clotilde’s history. Where she lived before coming here. Where the children were born.”
“Bon.”
Gamache looked at his watch. Still no word from Agent Moel.
He occupied himself by studying photos of the house. The children’s rooms seemed unexpectedly typical. Not unlike his son Daniel’s and daughter Annie’s rooms at home.
That, not surprisingly, made this worse.
Fiona had put up wallpaper with butterflies, as well as posters of boy bands. Sam seemed interested in puzzles and model planes and cars. He’d taken a crayon and drawn on the walls.
Daniel had done the same thing. No doubt testing his parents. But it was his room, and they had decided as long as it wasn’t offensive, Daniel could do what he wanted.
Clotilde had either come to the same conclusion or, more likely, simply didn’t care. Or notice. Gamache looked more closely at the drawings on Sam’s walls, but it was difficult to make out the images.
“They’re in the air, Chief,” said Chernin.
“Excellent. The warrant?”
“I’ll check.”
Gamache could wait no longer. He walked over to Agent Beauvoir, who was guarding the door to Dagenais’s office. “Unlock it, please.”
When Beauvoir did, the Chief Inspector stepped inside and, without preamble, said, “You three are staying here. You three”—he pointed to the most aggressive, including the one who’d almost killed him—“can leave.”
Beauvoir looked at the agents, then at Gamache. Had the man lost his mind? Was his brain oxygen-starved?
“Chief—” he began.
“You have their Sûreté ID?” Gamache said. Beauvoir nodded. “You’ve searched their vehicles?”
“Oui. We found assault rifles.” Illegal, Gamache knew, for ordinary Sûreté agents.
“We’re sure they’re now unarmed?”
“Absolutely, but in their homes there might—”
“Good.” Gamache waved at the agents. “Leave. Now. Just you three. Before I change my mind.”