Armand Gamache strolled through the early-morning sunshine, past the three soaring pines. Past the bench, where Ruth raised her middle finger in greeting.
He smiled at the elderly woman and continued on, past his grandson, already caked in mud. Past Monsieur Béliveau’s General Store and Sarah’s Boulangerie. Past Olivier’s Bistro.
The door to the bookshop opened, and Armand turned to greet his friend and neighbor Myrna Landers.
“Big day,” Armand said to her as they continued the walk together. “Can we give you a lift?”
“Thanks, but I’ll take my own car. I’m driving Harriet in.”
Myrna studied her companion. His hair, curling slightly around his ears, was almost all gray, though he wasn’t yet sixty. The lines down his face were accentuated in the morning light. Creases and furrows made from worry, and sorrow, and pain. One, a deep scar by his temple, was made from something else entirely.
Not for the first time the retired psychologist wondered who’d decided to name that part of the body the temple. No doubt some man who worshipped information. Thinking that the brain was the temple where knowledge was housed.
But she knew, as did her companion, as did the dogs, and Gracie, trotting beside them, that anything worth knowing was kept in the heart.
Armand turned to her. “How’re you feeling?”
“About today? Nervous for Harriet. She’s almost sick with anxiety. Panic attacks.”
Armand nodded. He was nervous too, though not for Harriet. He told himself it was ridiculous. Nothing bad could happen.
Reine-Marie came out onto their front porch and waved. Breakfast was ready.
As he smiled, Myrna was reminded that the deepest creases down his face were made by laughter.
“Will you join us?” he asked.
“Already had mine, but merci.”
She accompanied him to his front path.
It was promising to be not just warm but hot. Perennials were well along, the lupines and vibrant red poppies and irises were in bloom. Peonies that had survived the winter kill were budding out. The maples and wild cherry trees in the surrounding forest were in bright green leaf.
“Fiona will be there today,” Armand said casually. “I had confirmation last night.”
Myrna’s lips compressed and she took a deep breath. “I see. You asked the families? The survivors?” Though she knew he had.
“Yes. I met with them ten days ago. Walked them through it and left the final decision up to them. It’s been many years since it happened.”
“Yesterday,” said Myrna, and Armand knew she was right.
If it had been Annie, it would still feel like yesterday. Like today. Like this minute.
“I spoke with Nathalie Provost last night,” he said.
She was, Myrna knew, the spokesperson for the victims and families. The public face of a national tragedy.
“They’ve agreed.”
“I’m not sure I would have. Still, you must be pleased.” Myrna’s voice was flat, noncommittal.
Armand hesitated and stared out at the village green. “There’s more.”
Myrna gave a small, unamused laugh. “Of course. There’s always more. Let me guess. He’ll be there too. The brother.”
“We can’t stop him. She wants him there.”
Myrna nodded. They’d known that was a risk. Still, how bad could it be?
Upstairs, Jean-Guy was wondering the same thing as his mind went back to that November day.
News of the discovery of a body in the frigid waters of Lac Plongeon had filtered down to the basement of the remote Sûreté detachment. Agent Beauvoir guessed it was probably the missing woman.
A real case. A real body. And the incompetent, jealous fuck-faces upstairs were keeping him out of it.
Agent Beauvoir sat on the stool, guarding bits and pieces of evidence from petty crimes that would never get to trial. He consoled himself by once again mentally composing his letter of resignation from the Sûreté and in the process telling them what he really thought. Not that he hadn’t already.
That’s what had landed him in the dim basement.
And yet, and yet, despite repeated mental drafts, Agent Jean-Guy Beauvoir hadn’t yet taken that last, irrevocable step.
As for Captain Dagenais, Beauvoir composed, a more stupid, incompetent asshole, dumb-as-fuck commander would be impossible to find—
Steps. Someone was coming down. He was used to the captain’s heavy footfalls, but these were different.
And then the man had appeared.
Chief Inspector Gamache stood in the doorway. Like some apparition. Beauvoir rose from his stool and felt his cheeks begin to color, as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
Here was the head of homicide, in the middle of nowhere. In fact, he was in the basement of nowhere.
How could this be?
Of course. The body in the lake. Gamache had come up himself to investigate. No doubt having heard what an incompetent, shit-for-brains, dumb-as-fuck officer was in charge.
The man in the doorway was in his late forties, tall, not heavy but sturdy. His Sûreté-issue coat was open, and Beauvoir saw he was wearing a shirt and tie. A tweed jacket. Gray flannel slacks. No gun.
He looked, Beauvoir thought, more like a college professor than a man who chased killers.
The Chief Inspector cocked his head and smiled. Very slightly.
“Bonjour. My name,” he said, coming forward and holding out his hand, “is Armand Gamache. And you are?”
“Beauvoir. Jean-Guy. Agent.” He had no idea why he’d suddenly started talking backward.
“I’m here to investigate the death of the woman whose body was found by hikers. I presume you know the lake?”
“Moi?” said Beauvoir. Jean-Guy. Agent.
“Answer the man, you cretin,” said Dagenais. Gamache turned and must’ve given the captain a look because he backed up a step and remained quiet, though his expression spoke volumes as he glared at his junior officer.
Don’t embarrass me. Don’t fuck this up.
“Oui. I know it.”
“Bon. If your captain has no objections, perhaps you can drive me there and help with the investigation. It’s good to have a local officer.”
Dagenais’s brows shot up. “Are you sure, sir? We have other—”
“No, this agent will do. Merci.”
Agent Beauvoir smirked at his captain as he followed the Chief Inspector up the stairs, through the small station, and out the door. For Gamache to have chosen him meant only one thing, Beauvoir realized. His brilliance must be known even at headquarters.
At the car, Dagenais took Gamache aside.
The wind was picking up, causing a swishing sound in the thick pine forest. The captain hunched his shoulders as he spoke.
“Be careful of him. He’s trouble. I was just writing an evaluation, recommending he be fired.”
“Why?”
“Insolence. But it’s more than that. He’s angry. Discontented. And that sort of thing spreads.”
Gamache agreed. Infighting among men and women with guns was a disaster, especially if their anger and resentments spilled out onto a defenseless population.
He’d seen it happen. And yes, it often started with a single malcontent.
Gamache had heard rumors of irregularities at this detachment, which was why, when the report of a possible homicide came in, the Chief Inspector chose to investigate it himself.
He glanced at the young cop getting into the driver’s seat. Then at Captain Dagenais.
This Agent Beauvoir had been banished to the basement for a reason. It was where the malcontents were placed. And yet, and yet …
He looked into the car just in time to see Beauvoir give the finger to his fellow officers. Gamache sighed. And yet, and yet …