The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 1

“We have a problem.”

Now, weeks later, Chief Inspector Armand Gamache could not overstate what a huge understatement that had been. Though at the time, while it was clear something was off, it had seemed only that.

A slight odor. A scent, a sense of something going bad.

A problem.

Not a crisis. Not a looming catastrophe that put the poisoning plot, if not to shame, then into perspective.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Isabelle Lacoste, his dual seconds-in-command at the Sûreté du Québec, had joined him in Three Pines in the small hours of that August morning, and together they’d reread and reread the second notebook, the one they’d underestimated, even dismissed.

The one they’d, he’d, assumed contained preliminary notes. Not the final, the fatal one, that had already killed so many.

When they’d arrived, Armand hadn’t told Jean-Guy and Isabelle what he thought. He wanted to see if they saw what he did. He knew the blast in Montréal’s water-treatment plant had severely affected his hearing. Maybe his other senses had also been jarred. So that he could no longer see and think clearly. Could no longer trust what his eyes, his common sense, his sixth sense, the tingling in his scalp told him.

But both Beauvoir and Lacoste, his best and brightest, had looked up and nodded.

“We have a problem,” they’d agreed.

He couldn’t actually hear the words over the scream of the millions of cicadas nesting in his head since the explosion, but he’d become adept at lip-reading. And if their mouths hadn’t told him, their eyes, their expressions, the sudden tension in their bodies did.

But still it was far from clear what they were now facing. What they’d missed, dismissed.

They only knew they’d been wrong about the order of the books the young biologist had hidden. They’d assumed the one outlining the poisoning plot was the second. The conclusion. The end.

But they were wrong. It was just the beginning.

Even now, weeks later, the exact threat was still concealed inside the words, the notations, the cryptic drawings and numbers that Charles Lang- lois had left behind. Before he’d been murdered. Mowed down within sight, within reach of Armand himself.

He’d died holding Armand’s hand. Clinging to his eyes. A young man, barely more than a boy, about to die.

When Armand had begged him for some clue, some idea, of what was happening, Charles had coughed up one blood-spattered word.

“Family.”

Nothing more.

Charles had been the first of many to die, some colluding in the poisoning plot, some trying to stop it, including the Grey Wolf himself. Giving his life to stop a catastrophe.

Dom Philippe was the one who’d first, years earlier on the shores of a pristine lake, told Armand the tale of the grey and black wolves, engaged in battle. The one advocating for decency, for peace, for civility and the courage to be kind. To forgive.

The other pressing forward with an agenda of hate, of aggression. Of retribution. Of a quest for power and domination, through fear. Through twisting the truth into a great lie, a great grievance.

Which one would win?

The Grey Wolf was gone. Murdered.

They’d thought the Black Wolf had been captured. But now, as Armand stepped out of the shower this early October morning, he was far from sure.

It was still dark outside when the head of homicide for the Sûreté wiped the condensation off the bathroom mirror and a man in his late fifties ap peared, half his face covered in shaving cream. Though it happened each and every morning, the face that looked back could still surprise him.

Away from any reflection, he was in his early forties. But each morning he was reminded that was not actually true. And getting less true by the moment, he thought as he brushed grey hair, damp and askew from the shower, off his forehead, then continued to shave.

The creases that appeared with each stroke of the razor were more pronounced, etching deeper into his face with every year, every month, each day and concern.

He wondered what his father would have looked like, had he reached this age.

Almost every working day Armand Gamache knelt beside people who would grow no older; many would never brush grey hair from their foreheads or see lines down their faces. Would never meet children or grandchildren.

And so he did not begrudge these signs of age, they just slightly surprised him.

Behind him in the reflection, Armand saw their bedroom in the village of Three Pines. Worn oriental rugs were scattered on the wide-plank pine floors. The walls were covered in bookcases and paintings inherited when parents and grandparents died. Eclectic and not, perhaps, great art, but comforting in their familiarity. And the more appreciated for it.

A large armchair in the corner held the clothes they’d taken off the night before and tossed there, his on top of hers because he’d crawled into bed later. Though Reine-Marie had remained reading after he’d already fallen asleep, the book splayed on his chest and his reading glasses slipping down his nose.

Each morning he found both placed safely on the bedside table.

A cold breeze through the slightly open windows fluttered the curtains and brought in fresh morning air, lightly scented with pine and musky autumn leaves.

The dogs, Henri and Fred, were asleep at the foot of the queen bed, while Gracie, who might or might not be a chipmunk, or a ferret, had made a nest of their clothes and now lay half buried in them.

But while Armand took all this in, his eyes sought only one thing. They came to rest, like a homing instinct, on Reine-Marie. She was curled under the duvet, asleep. Her grey hair lay on the pillow. Her mouth was open slightly, no doubt snoring softly. A sound he’d never thought about but now missed.

He smiled, and as he did, the lines in his face deepened. His pleasure cut through and broke up those etched there by stress, by worry, by pain and sorrow.

His smile overpowered them. Though one remained. The deep scar at his temple that spoke of a sorrow that would never, could never, should never go away completely. He would carry it, Armand knew, into the next life and the next. Until he could make amends. For that terrible failure.

Now, in early October, the sun was rising later and later, though Armand himself was getting up earlier and earlier, propelled out of bed by the siren in his head and the agonizing feeling, the dread, that he’d made a mistake.

We have a problem.

The words, spoken in unison by Jean-Guy and Isabelle as they’d sat in the living room and read that second notebook weeks ago, were getting louder and louder.

We have a problem.

He shaved off the rest of the stubble and wiped his face with the moist cloth. Then, holding on to the edges of the sink, he leaned in and took a good, hard look in the mirror. He had to be brutally honest with himself.

He’d been over and over Charles Langlois’s second notebook. He’d practically memorized all the strange entries the young biologist had made.

They had a problem, and the problem was that they still didn’t know what the problem was. Only that one existed. Something dreadful was about to happen. Langlois, before he’d been murdered, had stumbled onto something that involved poisoning the drinking water of Montréal but did not stop there. That one terrible act of domestic terrorism was simply a prelude, perhaps even misdirection. Meant to mask what was really happening.

And Armand had fallen for it.

True, he and his team had stopped the poisoning, but they hadn’t seen that there was something else he should have given equal weight to. An other tranche, a deeper, darker level. Now Armand went to bed later and later and was woken up earlier and earlier by the howl in his head and the sickening feeling he’d made another terrible, terrible mistake. In focusing on the one plot, he’d given the other time to grow, to fester, to march toward completion.

Somewhere out there, in the darkness, a black wolf was feeding, being fed. Growing.

The creature was becoming immense, grotesque. Powerful. Looming over them. Perhaps so close it was unrecognizable for what it was.

Watching and waiting.

We wait. We wait.

The problem, Armand was beginning to believe, wasn’t just out there, but in here. In the mirror. The problem was him. But maybe, maybe, so was the solution.

Some malady is coming upon us. We wait. We wait.

“Not a problem.”

“How can you know that? You underestimated him once.”

As she listened to Joseph Moretti’s warm voice down the phone line, she felt the thin ice crack beneath her.

She’d come close, so close, to solid ground. To safety. After years out in the wilderness, she’d finally been able to see the shore. Even smell it. That sweet pine scent that had always signaled happy times. The Christmas tree, with its playful lights and ornaments and presents. That first walk in the forest after the winter melt when the air finally held some warmth, and the evergreen needles released their scent.

Ever green. What a concept. Nature was resilient. Even optimistic.

Humankind less so.

After years of skating, of balancing, of slipping and sliding, she thought she could finally pull herself to safety. Finally.

And then, at the last moment, disaster. Thanks to Gamache. That fucker. She could not afford another mistake. Another misjudgment. Another moment of weakness.

Though they were miles apart on this Saturday morning in early October, she in her office in downtown Montréal and Moretti in the north end of Montréal at the Jean-Talon farmers’ market, she could feel his eyes on her. Intense, penetrating. Strip-searching her. Removing layers, not just of her clothing but of her skin, tearing it off in strips as he searched for any lie she might be hiding in her flesh, in her bones, in her marrow.

After all these years, he still did not trust her. Despite all she’d done. He was like some predator that relied on instinct. Sniffing the air for the stench of betrayal, of approaching danger.

She wished she could stop there. Dismiss him as a wild creature, but the fact was, over the years, as she’d watched him closely, she’d seen not just the mafia boss’s cunning, his guile, his charm and brutality, but also his intelligence.

This was no madman, careering from crime to hideous crime. This was a man who could have been anything.

Had Joseph been born into any family other than the Morettis, any other dynasty, his life would have been different.

But now she wondered if that was true.

For all his education and intelligence, something was off. A screw was loose. Whether it was loosened by his upbringing or by genetics, she didn’t know. What she did know was that something rancid, something corrosive, was seeping through that opening.

“You say Gamache isn’t a problem,” said Moretti. “But he and his people managed to fuck up the first part of the plan. Killing six of my soldiers, including two made men, in the process. It would be over by now if he hadn’t interfered. The Five Families are getting worried. How much does he know? He found the notebooks, right?”

“ Oui. He gave them to the prosecutors.”

“Did he read them?”

She was about to snap, How would I know? But pulled herself back.

“I suspect he did.” Her voice was calm. “But so did I. I don’t think he could tell much from that second book, even if he realizes it’s the one that matters.”

“You don’t think? You don’t think?” Moretti’s voice had risen, then suddenly dropped to a growl. “You should’ve had him killed in the church.”

“I wanted him to be the one to sound the alarm. They’d have believed him. He’s trusted.”

“Yeah, well, if he begins to suspect there’s more—”

“He won’t. Look, the investigation’s wrapped. No one is paying any attention. Especially not Gamache. As far as they’re concerned, it’s over.”

She was tired of his paranoia. It was exhausting. She was exhausted. So close to the shore, to the end, she could not afford a mistake now. Another one. Moretti was right. She should have had Gamache killed in the church.

She had to shut this down.

“The biologist is dead—” she began.

“I know that.” He was getting snippy.

You should , she thought. You’re the one who had him killed.

“He’s the only one who came close to figuring out what’s happening,” she continued. “But even he didn’t know it all. If he had, he’d have told Gamache when they met at Open Da Night. And even if Charles Langlois had worked it out, no one would have listened to him. Would you, if someone came to you with that story?”

She waited for the laughter, but none came.

“ Non ,” she answered her own question. “You’d have dismissed what he said as unbelievable, and Charles Langlois as crazy, delusional. Paranoid. He had a history of addiction, of mental illness. He’d be seen as a pathetic young man from a homeless shelter who was clearly out of his mind and had bought into one too many conspiracy theories. Ironically, the truth would have proven how crazy he was. No. He knew nothing of the plan.”

“He knew enough to contact Gamache,” Moretti pointed out. “Gamache listened to him, believed him.”

“True, but only about the lesser target. Voyons , his notebook is pretty much gibberish unless you know what to look for.”

“And Gamache doesn’t?”

“He hasn’t a clue. He’s on leave and recovering in that little village of his. He’s been silent since all this happened.”

“Silent doesn’t mean inactive. You underestimated him once. That can’t happen again.”

She sighed. “If you’re that worried, why not just kill him now? The first snowfall is in the forecast. He probably doesn’t have his snow tires on yet. Just run him off the road. Fini. ”

She waited. We wait. We wait.

Moretti was considering it.

“ Non. If he’d died in the church or the water-treatment plant, that would’ve been fine. Line of duty and all that. But now? Kill a senior Sûreté du Québec officer? Can you imagine the blowback? Even if it looked like an accident, the timing would be suspicious. There’d be questions. His people would never stop digging and God knows what they’d find. Non. We just need to make sure he’s not a problem.”

“He’s not.”

“You keep saying that, but how can you be so sure?”

“Because if he has any suspicions, I’ll be the first one he comes to.”

“He trusts you? Still?”

“Of course. Why not? As far as he knows, I helped end the poison plot.”

“You aren’t lying to me, are you?”

“I wouldn’t do that, Don Moretti. If nothing else, it wouldn’t be prudent.”

There was a pause, and then soft laughter. “You are many things, but prudent isn’t one.”

He was probably right, she thought. Otherwise she’d never have found herself this far from shore.

“ Bon ,” he finally said. Good. “It’ll be over soon.”

The thing about psychopaths, and she’d met her fair share, was that they knew they were the sun around which everything moved. They were the light, the dark, the gravity, the rational. The reason and the reason why. Joseph Moretti knew he was the sun, the son, the grandson. The grand sun. That nothing happened without his approval. He was all-seeing, all-knowing.

He was wrong.

This was bigger than even he knew. There was another celestial body that eclipsed even the boss of bosses. She just had to keep skating, keep her equilibrium. Keep him happy and onside. And looking in one direction, and not the other.

“ C’est vrai ,” she laughed. “We’re safe. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, I’m not the one who should be worried.”

There was a pause, and in that moment she saw her mistake. She’d dared think that she might yet make it to safety.

That was how mistakes were made, how cracks formed. Hope lured people closer to the edge, to the shore. Not realizing that was where the ice melted first. Just feet from solid ground, it gave way, and they plunged into the icy water, their breaths taken away, their hearts spasming, their last view that of the pine trees overhead, almost within reach as they sank.

“And the map?” he asked. Down the phone line she could hear voices raised, calling to each other. Friendly voices.

“We don’t know for sure there is one. If Charles Langlois had a map, it’s well hidden. If it exists at all, we’ll find it. No one else has it, otherwise I’d have heard.”

“I think it would be a good idea if you joined me here, Evelyn.”

“Now, today? At the market?” She felt her anxiety rise along with the hairs on her forearms.

Was he serious? Was this a test? Or had she already flunked the test? Was it a trap? “But we might be seen together.”

“I’m sure you can come up with a believable explanation. You’re allowed to shop for dinner.”

Into the silence, she sighed. “I’m on my way.”

She hung up and looked at the small, slightly disheveled young woman standing at the door to her office.

“You’re not going, are you, patron ?”

“No choice.” She put on her fall coat and large hat. “Besides, I do need Brussels sprouts.”

“Can’t you get them at the grocery store?”

“I was kidding.”

They were walking briskly down the long, deserted corridor toward the elevators.

“Stop!”

“What is it?”

Her assistant now hesitated. “I heard what Moretti said. He’s right. You should have had Gamache killed.”

She nodded. They both knew that was true. That was her mistake, the chink in her armor through which Joseph Moretti was peering. And did he see the big lie?

“Should I get you a car?”

“ Non. I’ll take the Métro.”

Just as the elevator doors closed, she heard, “ Fais attention. ”

Be careful.

As she searched her handbag for her subway pass, Chief Inspector Evelyn Tardiff knew they were well beyond careful. It was now just degrees of reckless. Her skates had slid out from under her. Her arms were pinwheeling. She was suspended in midair, and the only question was how bad, how hard, would the fall be? How much would this hurt?

On the station platform, her back pressed against the tile wall, she heard the singsong of an approaching subway train. And sighed. She’d been at this too long. She was getting too old, too tired, too sloppy. She had no idea how to regain her balance, never mind get to the shore.

Survival was not guaranteed.

You should have had Gamache killed.

There was nothing vindictive in it. It was simply true. And might still be necessary. Her only way to shore might be over his body.

Don Moretti slid his phone into his pocket. Picking a plump beefsteak tomato off a neat pile, he caressed its flesh for firmness in a gesture that managed to be sensual. Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled and smiled as he caught his wife’s eye, one aisle over. Then he cocked his arm and pretended to throw the tomato at his young daughter, who squealed with laughter and ducked.

Moretti then carefully replaced the tomato. Its thin skin undamaged.

It was a few minutes to seven on this autumn morning, the market not yet open. The farmers still putting out their produce.

The sky was a deep velvety blue at the horizon. The day would dawn bright and fresh and filled with promise. Anything might happen.