“I don’t know. Maybe she hasn’t arrived yet. Maybe that’s why Sylvie needed to be killed now, before she does.”
Maybe, maybe, maybe. But there was one more, and a big one.
“Sylvie asked Myrna to bring a book, even though they were only partway through the one they were reading. I think the book was an excuse to talk to Myrna. As a therapist, perhaps, but maybe it was as Harriet’s aunt. Maybe she recognized Sam from somewhere and wanted to warn Myrna.”
“Maybe,” said Jean-Guy, but Armand could interpret the look, the tone.
He thinks I’m unwilling to accept Fiona’s the one we need to watch, not Sam. And he might be right. Maybe it was Fiona she recognized. But then, why speak to Myrna and not Reine-Marie or me? No, it must be Sam …
He was desperate to believe that the monster in their midst was not the one he had released. Not Fiona.
Not Fiona.
Not Fiona.
But Sam.
Dear God, maybe it’s both.
“Maybe asking to see Myrna has nothing to do with her death,” said Jean-Guy. “She just liked books and wanted her company.”
Gamache nodded. It was the simplest explanation, and the most likely.
“Maybe.”
“Poor Mongeau,” said Jean-Guy.
“Oui.” Armand would try again to see if the grieving man would come over for dinner and stay the night.
He flipped through the file once more, his eyes coming to rest on the list of Fleming’s victims.
Armand, of course, knew them all by heart. Their names. Their families. Their communities and jobs and friends and faiths.
The Hudson’s Bay clerk. The fisherman. The bridge builder.
“Oh, my God,” Gamache whispered.
He stared at the list. Then, getting out of the car, he walked away. In the opposite direction of the Godin house. Jean-Guy was about to go after him, but knew enough to let the man just think. He watched as Gamache turned and walked back. Then turned again and walked away. His hands clasped behind his back, his head bent as though leaning into a whirlwind.
Then he stopped, turned, and stared at Jean-Guy.
“What is it?” asked Beauvoir.
But Gamache was on the phone. It rang and rang, then went to voice mail.
“Nathalie, it’s Armand. Can you send me that list?” When he hung up, he walked quickly over to Jean-Guy, talking as he strode. “Fleming’s fourth victim, Connor McNee. He was a bridge builder.”
“Yes.” Beauvoir’s eyes opened. “Is that why there was the picture of the Québec Bridge in the painting?”
“I think so. Those engineer’s rings are made from the remains of the bridge. I think Connor McNee was an engineer. I think that was his ring.”
“But he’s dead. He couldn’t have left it there.”
“No, but Fleming could have. The bodies were never found. Just the heads.”
“Oh, fuck me,” muttered Beauvoir. They’d gone way past palaver.
Gamache checked his messages in hopes Nathalie had already sent the list of people who’d worn that ring. She had not. But there was one from Jérôme Brunel.
“What is it?” Beauvoir asked, seeing Gamache’s expression.
“Dr. Brunel has decoded the message on the clockface of the real Paston Treasure.”
Armand turned his phone around for Jean-Guy to see.
Time’s up.
“Oh, dear,” whispered Beauvoir.
CHAPTER 34
Myrna was getting more and more worried. She’d texted Harriet and called. Emailed and sent a WhatsApp.
But no reply.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” said Clara. She was on the stool in front of her easel. Myrna was on the sofa, her bum on the floor and her knees up around her ears. “She’s just ignoring you. She’ll calm down eventually. Give her space.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’m going over to the B&B.” She groaned in an unsuccessful effort to get up.
Clara sighed. “Did you hear a word I just said?”
“I did,” said Myrna, finally rolling off the sofa. “I don’t agree.”
“Look, why don’t you call Gabri. Ask if Harriet’s returned. She’s staying there now, right?”
“Yes.” It was a good idea. As the phone rang, she looked at the painting Clara was working on.
It was a swirl of giddy colors. It looked like a hot mess.
After speaking to Gabri, she hung up and sighed. “She’s back. Harriet and Sam returned to the B&B a few minutes ago. They ordered an early dinner from the bistro.”
“Good,” said Clara, turning back to the canvas. “See? Safe and sound.”
Though Myrna was far from certain that was true.
Harriet stirred. And threw up. Her head felt like it had been split in two, and she tasted blood, mixed with the vomit.
She tried to move, but couldn’t. It took her fuzzy brain a moment to realize she was tied up.
That can’t be true, she thought.
Her vision was blurry, but she could see enough to know she was in the forest. Darkness was closing in again.
This can’t be happening, she thought.
Just as she lost consciousness, she saw something on the ground a short distance from her. It looked like a body. It looked like …
“Sam?”
“Got it. The information on McNee,” said Beauvoir, standing outside Gamache’s car. “He worked in northern Québec, building bridges. Married. Two daughters. Born and raised—”
“Yes, yes, I know all that. But his schooling. His training?”
Beauvoir skimmed. Then looked up. “He was a civil engineer.”
Gamache called Nathalie Provost again and this time got through.
“I just sent it off to you,” she said. “Is everything all right? You sounded stressed.”
“Just fine, better now that I have the list. Thank you.”
He hung up, then clicked on the list. And there was the confirmation.
“Conner McNee was the last person to wear the ring,” he told Beauvoir.
The full horror of what Gamache was saying struck Jean-Guy. John Fleming had kept the ring, for years. And dropped it there, like a land mine for Gamache to step on.
It was a message, a warning. He could go anywhere. Do anything. He could get deep in Gamache’s home, into his life, and Armand could not stop him. He moved, seen but unseen, through the community, through their lives, with impunity.
The engineer’s ring, a symbol of what could happen when mistakes were made, was now used to taunt Gamache with his own mistakes. And the deaths that resulted.
“We need to arrest Godin,” said Gamache, striding through the late- afternoon sun toward the old farmhouse. “Take him in for questioning. We can keep him for twenty-four hours before having to charge.”
“You think he’s Fleming?” asked Beauvoir, running to catch up.
“I don’t know, and we don’t have time to find out. We have to get him off the streets.”
But Godin wasn’t there, and neither was his car.
“Damn,” snapped Gamache. “I should have had him under surveillance.” He turned to Beauvoir. “We need to send out a province-wide alert. And get local agents out here. We need a ground search. And, Jean-Guy, get up to the lake house. Make sure they’re safe.”
“You don’t think—”
“I think Fleming has had years to plan this, and I don’t think he’ll stop at me.”
“I can send members of our own team, and I can stay with you.”
“No. Fleming has too much information. I have no idea how he’s getting it. If he bribed the head guard and the warden, it’s possible he also got to someone inside the Sûreté.”
Inside the homicide unit. Gamache was loath to think that, but he had not grasped quickly enough exactly what was happening, who was behind it, the lengths he’d gone to, and the size of the threat. So far at least two people had been murdered, perhaps more.