Daylight.
That answered so many questions.
Why the reunion had been changed to late October. And how the cobrador managed to stand there all day.
And the answer was, he could do it because night was closing in.
In the summer, the sun was up for hours and hours. And the heat was relentless and merciless. No one could stand there for long.
But in late October, early November, the days were shorter, and cooler.
The cobrador could slip away when darkness fell.
Daylight. It was so simple.
But then, most crimes were. And they were now closing in on the crime.
“Myrna says she told you about the church and Prohibition,” Beauvoir said to Lea, who nodded.
“She did. That was on my first visit. Before the reunions. She even showed me the little room, the root cellar. I remembered it when we were trying to figure out some of the logistics.”
“That’s where the cobrador stayed,” said Lacoste. “Who is he? Someone you hired? What’s happened to him?”
Her question was again met with confusion on their part.
Lea turned to Jacqueline. “Didn’t you tell them?”
“I told them I was responsible for the cobrador. It’s all my doing.”
“And you didn’t think they’d figure it out?” asked Matheo.
“Figure what out?” asked Lacoste. “Where’s the cobrador?”
“You’re looking at him.”
The Sûreté officers stared at Matheo. Who pointed to Patrick. Then to Lea. Then to himself.
“We were the cobrador,” he said.
Gamache closed his eyes and lowered his head for a moment.
Just as on the island of the diseased and damned and dispossessed, the cobrador of Three Pines was not a single person. It was an idea. A community of conscience.
They were all the cobrador.
“And Katie?” he asked.
“She was it yesterday,” said Lea. “We decided to call it quits, after the near attack last night. It was getting dangerous. So once Katie was done, we’d go home, whether Anton had broken or not. But, of course…”
These friends, Gamache thought, had been naïve. They thought they could threaten without consequence. In bringing the cobrador here, they’d woken up more than a conscience.
And they hadn’t perhaps done quite enough research on the original cobradors.
While they’d publicly accused their tormentors of moral crimes, it hadn’t been the princes of the day who’d finally paid. It was the cobradors who’d been rounded up, and killed.
As Katie had been.
He looked at Lacoste and Beauvoir. They looked at him. All thinking the same thing.
The bat. It had three dominant sets of DNA. Katie Evans’s. A very small, almost certainly incidental, sample of Jacqueline’s. And Anton Boucher’s.
His DNA was all over it.
The bat told essentially the same story as these friends.
Anton Boucher had snapped. He’d followed the cobrador last night, through the sleet and darkness, back to the church, to the root cellar, and beaten her to death. Never removing the mask. Never knowing who he’d just killed.
Though that in itself was curious. Would Anton not want to know who it was who’d so relentlessly tracked him down?
“How did you get in and out of the root cellar?” Gamache asked.
“By the door, of course,” said Matheo.
Gamache nodded. He had to be very careful here. “Were you not afraid of being seen?”
“Who’s looking in that direction after dark?” asked Matheo. “And no one goes into a church anymore. We figured it was the safest place. Far better than having the cobrador book a room at the B&B.”
“We’d undress,” said Lea, “and leave the costume for the next person. And if someone saw us, then we’d just admit everything. Either way, Anton was screwed. And we’d have done nothing illegal.”
“Or even immoral,” said Matheo.
“Until last night,” said Gamache.
“But we didn’t kill Katie,” said Lea. “Surely that’s obvious.”
“But we did,” said Jacqueline. “If we hadn’t done the cobrador thing, she’d be alive. If I hadn’t wanted Anton to pay, she’d be alive. I knew Anton better than anyone. I knew his temper. If he didn’t get his way, he became vicious. But I didn’t think he’d be violent. Not like that.”
She looked at Patrick.
“I’m so sorry. I should’ve known he’d strike out. He killed Katie and it was my fault.”
“Why would he kill her?” asked Gamache.
“Well, he didn’t know he was killing Katie,” said Matheo. “He was killing the cobrador, who obviously knew his secret.”
“The secret being?” asked Gamache.
“Edouard, of course,” said Lea.
Gamache nodded. Then began shaking his head.
“It doesn’t make sense. He recognized you all, you know. He knew you were Edouard’s friends. Even if he suspected you were behind the cobrador costume, he must’ve known that killing one still left three others.”
“Besides,” said Beauvoir, “he told me everything.”
“Everything?” asked Lea.
“Oui. About selling drugs, and Edouard’s death. If Anton was willing to admit it, why kill to keep it quiet?”
Gamache turned to Jacqueline.
“The only person he didn’t recognize was you. But then, he’d never met you. Not at university anyway. Your brother would never take you with him to buy drugs. He knew how you felt.”
Jacqueline, Edouard’s sister, nodded.
“I’m going to have to arrest you,” he said to her, and she nodded.
“For the cobrador thing,” she said.
“For the murder of Katie Evans.”
“But that’s insane,” said Lea. “Anton killed her. You know that. If he told you all that this afternoon, it was just to cover his ass. He probably only recognized us after the murder. This afternoon, when we were all waiting in the bistro. And he only admitted the Edouard thing because he knew you’d find out anyway.”
“Manipulation?” asked Gamache, his sharp eyes on her.
“He’s smart,” said Matheo. “For God’s sake, don’t be fooled. You have no idea what he’s like. He’s not what he appears.”
“And you are?” said Gamache.
Lea Roux stared at Gamache, holding his eyes. She didn’t like what she saw there.
“I’m sorry,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think you meant well. This started off fairly innocently. No one would be hurt, not even Anton. You just wanted justice for Edouard. You wanted the drug dealer to know that you knew. But you didn’t realize you were being used. Didn’t see what was really happening.”
“And you do?” demanded Lea.
“What’s happening?” asked Patrick, as the Sûreté officers led Jacqueline away. “What does it mean? Did she kill Katie? I don’t understand.”
Once outside, Chief Superintendent Gamache turned to Jacqueline.
“You need to put up a strong defense.”
“What’re you saying? You’re not really going to arrest me.”
“I am. For the murder of Katie Evans.”
Even Lacoste and Beauvoir looked surprised, but not nearly as shocked as Jacqueline.
“But you know Anton did it. You know I didn’t kill Katie, but you’re arresting me anyway?” she said. “Why?”
And then her panic seemed to clear.
“I know why. Because you don’t have enough to convict him. You want Anton to think he got away with it. It’s my turn to be the cobrador. To stand up for what I believe in, no matter the risk. Is that what you’re asking of me?”
“Is your conscience clear?” he asked.
“It is.”
And he believed her. But he wasn’t so sure about his own.
* * *
Chief Inspector Isabelle Lacoste sat in the bistro, her back to Mat
heo Bissonette and Lea Roux. Avoiding their stares. Partly because of the accusation their glare contained. That an innocent woman was being tried for a murder she hadn’t committed. And that Lacoste knew it.
Yes, there was no mistaking the ire in their eyes.
But also because she needed to concentrate on the American and his lieutenant. Sitting there so confidently, in full view.
Was he there for a friendly parlez? Dividing territory with his Québec counterpart, now that the Sûreté was out of the equation? Celebrating the launch of their new commodity, krokodil?
Or was he staking his claim? Why share, when he could have it all?
Was this a meeting of confrères, or the start of a brutal, short-lived, bloody turf war?
And they were sitting in the middle of the turf, the middle of the war.
Isabelle looked at Madame Gamache, and Annie, and Honoré. And she knew something that Chief Superintendent Gamache must’ve realized as soon as she’d told him the head of the American cartel was in Three Pines.
If the battle was fought in this little border village, whoever won would make an example of the villagers. And mostly of Monsieur Gamache and his family.
They would lay waste to Three Pines, so that the population of other border villages would be in no doubt what would happen to them if they didn’t play along. The cartels would never rule by loyalty and affection. It would always be terror.
She could feel the long, slow progress of perspiration down her spine.
CHAPTER 32
“What’re you doing?” asked Beauvoir.
Though it was obvious what Gamache was doing. The question Jean-Guy was really asking was why.
As the car slowed down to a reasonable, even leisurely, pace and descended into the village of Three Pines, Gamache twisted in his seat and came away with the automatic pistol in its leather holster, taken off his belt. Opening the glove compartment, he put it in, first removing the bullets.
“You can be seen with a gun,” said Gamache, as he locked it and put the key in the pocket of his slacks. “I can’t. Reine-Marie and Annie will notice, and ask. We can’t have that.”
The sun was still up, though the unrelenting sheen of the summer day had softened. The village had never looked more beautiful. More at peace with itself. The gardens in full bloom. The children, having eaten dinner, were playing on the village green. Squeezing out every last moment of a perfect summer day.
“And what happens if the exchange is made in the bistro and you’re standing there with a spoon in your hand?”
“I hope I’d at least grab a fork,” said Gamache, but Beauvoir didn’t smile.
“I have this,” he said, his face serious again as he showed Jean-Guy what he’d taken out of the glove compartment, in exchange for the gun.
In his palm was what appeared to be a piece of wood. But Beauvoir knew it wasn’t. It was a Swiss Army knife, for hunters. Its hidden blade designed to gut animals.
Jean-Guy looked from Gamache’s steady hand into his steady eyes.
It was one thing to shoot a person. A horrific act that could never be forgotten. Nor should it be. As Beauvoir knew all too well. But it was something else altogether to stab someone. To drive the blade in.
Jean-Guy had never considered it.
But Gamache had. And was. And would. If necessary.
* * *
“Great,” said Ruth, as Gamache and Beauvoir strolled into the bistro. “It’s Rocky and Boo-Boo.”
Gamache looked at Beauvoir and shook his head in despair.
“Isn’t that Rocky and Bullwinkle?” asked Gabri, putting a beer down in front of Clara, as Beauvoir kissed Annie and took Honoré in his arms.
“Moose and squirrel.” Clara nodded and took a long sip of the cold Farnham Blonde Ale.
“It’s Yogi and Boo-Boo,” said Reine-Marie, greeting Armand with a hug.
“Et tu, Brute?” asked Gamache, and Reine-Marie laughed.
“Honoré,” Jean-Guy whispered in the little boy’s ear, and smelled the scent of him. A combination of baby powder and Annie.
And Jean-Guy understood why the Chief Superintendent had asked that Ruth be there when they arrived. So she could publicly mock them. It was a tiny, telling detail. Like Clara’s portraits, made up of small strokes, and dabs. Deliberately placed. For effect.
To those who knew them, Ruth’s insults were simply a ritual. A kind of calling card. But to strangers it would sound like the derisive mocking of two people so incompetent even an old woman could see it. And felt free to say it.
It added to the picture of Gamache as friendly, warm, easygoing. Soft. A man more suited to insults in a country inn than the cold, serrated edges of police work.
Beauvoir could see Matheo Bissonette and Lea Roux sitting in a corner. Listening. Lea’s smile so tight her lips had disappeared. She looked like a viper.
The American visitors were staring at them openly. Not even bothering to pretend not to be interested.
They would know who Gamache was, of course.
This was a critical moment.
Would they get up and leave, afraid the Sûreté had bumbled onto their plans?
Would they pull out their weapons and open fire on the Sûreté officers and everyone else in the bistro? It would be far from the first time the cartel had done something like that.
But the two men just sat there, as though watching a not very interesting talk show.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Jean-Guy said to Annie, surprised and relieved that his voice sounded so normal.
“I left a text on your phone,” said Annie. “We decided to come down, to get out of the heat of the city.”
Though it wasn’t much better in the country. The air was ripe with humidity. It felt one degree short of becoming water. There was no breeze and no letup in sight. People scrambled for shade, and prayed for the sun to go down.
Everyone except the children, now holding hands and dancing in a circle on the green. Two boys were wrestling over a ball.
The bistro was filling up, many of the seats already taken.
Gamache walked over to the table with the two Americans. There was a slight scraping of wood on wood as the older man pushed his chair away from the table and dropped his hand to his lap.
Every hair on Jean-Guy’s arms and the back of his neck stood on end, his skin tingling. As though a November breeze had come through the room. But he had Honoré in his arms and couldn’t do anything, even if the man pulled a gun. And shot the chief.
Beauvoir forced himself to turn away. Shielding Honoré with his body, he stepped in front of Annie.
While the others had resumed their conversation, about Clara’s show at the Musée des beaux-arts in Montréal, now just a week away, Ruth was watching Jean-Guy. A curious look in her curious eyes.
Gamache smiled at the two men. “Do you mind?” he asked in French. When there was no answer, he said, “Anglais? English?”
“Yes.”
“Are these chairs taken?”
“No, help yourself.”
Gamache put his hands on the back of the two empty pine chairs at the table, then hesitated, staring at the men.
“You look familiar. Have we met?”
Across the room, Beauvoir thought he’d faint. He’d given Honoré to Annie, and was prepared to draw his weapon if need be.
Conversation swirled around him, words without meaning, though he did his best to appear to be following the conversation.
Jean-Guy didn’t dare look at Gamache chatting amiably with the head of the drug cartel. But he could hear them.
If they don’t kill him, thought Beauvoir, I will.
Isabelle Lacoste was seated next to Clara, a smile fixed onto her rictus face, though he could see her right hand had dropped below the level of the table.
Jean-Guy’s heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear what they were saying.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” said the younger man. “We’re just visiting.”<
br />
“Ah,” said Gamache. His English had a soft British accent. “You’re lucky. Not many people find this village, or this bistro. New chef. Try his grilled trout, it’s delicious.”
“We just ate,” said the young man. “Amazing. We’ll definitely be back.”
“I hope so,” said Gamache. “Thanks for the chairs.”
Chief Superintendent Gamache nodded to them, picked up the chairs and plunked one down for Beauvoir, then placed the other beside Reine-Marie.
“They seem nice,” said Jean-Guy, glaring at Gamache as he sat.
“Americans. Always nice.”
Armand took off his jacket and folded it carefully over the back of his chair. Showing, for anyone interested, that he had no weapon. The Chief Superintendent was unarmed, and unaware, apparently, of who he’d just given a dinner suggestion to. And what was about to happen.
Another dab for the portrait.
“What would you like, patron?” asked Olivier. “A scotch?”
“Oh, too hot, mon vieux.” He loosened his tie. “I’ll have a beer. Whatever’s on tap.”
“We have some freshly made lemonade,” Olivier said to Jean-Guy.
“Perfect, merci.”
“So, how’s the trial going?” asked Ruth. “Have you lied yet?”
“Every word,” said Gamache.
The problem with Ruth, he remembered too late, was the inability to control her. Fortunately, most people thought she was either kidding or demented.
It was like playing with a jack-in-the-box. It looked like a normal box, until the crazy person popped out.
Behind Ruth, out the window, he noticed that the children had stopped their dancing and were falling to the ground. Laughing and rolling.
Ashes. Ashes.
The fight for the ball was over. One boy was bouncing it on his knee, while the other, tears staining his dirty cheeks, grabbed his bike and peddled off.
Where could a boy on a bicycle go
When the straight road splayed?
In the reflection of the window, he saw the Americans. The younger man’s ghostly image superimposed on the wobbly boy. Like before and after pictures.
This was where the boy on a bicycle went, Gamache knew.
Then he refocused on the children. Go away, he begged them. Go home.
But the children continued to play, and the boy on the bike continued to pump his thin legs until he’d disappeared. Leaving the ghostly man behind.