The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 10

“This isn’t the Ritz, you fuck-wit.”

Rosa might as well have said it, given the expression on her duck face. But it was, of course, Ruth who was glaring at Armand.

“Did I say the Ritz? I meant this—”

“Shithole?”

Ruth and Rosa peered through the grimy window into the empty diner. Though it was not totally empty. A thin, almost emaciated older woman was leaning against a Formica counter next to a stand of doughnuts. Even from a distance they could see the fuzz on them.

“I’m not going in there.”

“Suit yourself, but remember, I’ve seen your kitchen.”

Now Rosa nodded, though ducks often did.

“It’s cleaner than that,” said Ruth, jerking her head toward the restaurant. “Sewers are cleaner than that. I was looking forward to eggs Benedict, not Legionnaires’ disease.”

“I’m sorry. Look, I’ll take you to the Ritz when we’ve finished here. You can have whatever you like.”

“Too right.” Now her rheumy eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘when we’ve finished here’? Why’re we here?”

Rosa’s beady eyes were on Armand. He and the duck never really saw eye to eye and today was no exception.

“We’re meeting someone.” He opened the door. Reluctantly, and not without a touch of drama, the woman and duck walked in. Ruth’s feet made a Velcro sound on the linoleum floor.

“Charming.”

“Again, I’ve been in your kitchen.”

“That happened only once, when someone flew onto the table and knocked a can of maple syrup onto the floor.”

Rosa looked at Armand as though he were the one who’d flown into the syrup.

They had their choice of tables, and Armand indicated one far from the window.

“Close to the bathrooms,” said Ruth. “Wise.”

“What do you want?” the server demanded.

Armand recognized her from the last time he’d been there. She did not recognize him. Of course, to do that, she’d have to actually look at him.

“A bottled water, please.”

“And your date?”

She’d turned to Ruth, who clearly thought she’d died and been gifted that question. But her delight changed with the next thing the server said.

“Ducks aren’t allowed. Health hazard.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ruth. “Ducks are a health hazard, but the E. coli you use as condiments isn’t?”

“Not my policy. The duck leaves.”

Armand handed her a twenty-dollar bill and said something he never thought would come out of his mouth.

“The duck stays.”

“Fine.” She squeaked away.

They were still waiting fifteen, twenty, twenty-five minutes later. But there was no bottled water and no Shona.

“This is the worst date ever,” said Ruth.

“Not a date,” muttered Armand as he checked his phone again.

He was getting worried that maybe “the Ritz” wasn’t code. Wasn’t an in-joke after their last meeting here. That Shona really did mean the Ritz.

He’d messaged her but got no answer.

Now he was worried that she had meant to meet him here, but something had happened to her.

Isabelle lay face up, staring at the peak of the tent not that far above her runny nose.

She had to go to the bathroom, a.k.a. the log, badly, but was loath to get out of her toasty warm sleeping bag. And, to make matters worse, she could hear the rapid tapping of something against the canvas.

Ever since her grandparents had taken her camping as a child, Isabelle had loved the smell of a canvas tent. But that soothing scent did not outweigh the sound, and her dread of what she’d find when she opened the flap.

“Red sky at night, my ass,” she muttered.

Beside her, Vivienne was still asleep. Clearly she’d chosen, intentionally or not, the side that did not have a tree root sticking up.

Desperately trying to get out of her sleeping bag without touching the sides of the tent and breaking the seal that would allow whatever was hitting the outside in, Isabelle twisted and turned and finally kicked the sleeping bag away. Unzipping the tent flap, she looked out.

It was worse than she thought. Rain wasn’t hitting the canvas. It was snow. Sleet. Ice.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” she muttered as she ran barefoot across the campsite, to the designated log. “Fuck.”

But finally the relief was so great, she didn’t even feel the ice and snow on her legs and under her feet.

“May I?” Vivienne plunked down beside her, not waiting for permission.

After her own deep sigh, Vivienne asked, “Okay, what do we do first?”

It reminded Isabelle of Jean-Guy’s claim that he and the Chief had once, in desperation, used a two-holer outhouse as a situation room. She had never believed him. But this topped even that.

“We go into the woods, see if we can find what Charles was pointing to. I’m really hoping he left other signs.”

Isabelle looked at the snow and sleet, the leaden sky and lake. Even the woods seemed drained.

And yet, for all that, what she felt was glee. They were close. Today was the day they’d break this open and stop whatever was going to happen. Or at least find out what it was. Then they’d have a fighting chance.

She looked at Vivienne, who was also staring at the lake.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that next summer I’d like to bring my grandchildren here.”

“I’ll bring my kids and we can camp together. This time we won’t forget the s’mores.”

Neither said, as they ran back to the tent, that they hoped “here” would still be there next summer.

A few minutes later they were wearing every piece of clothing they’d brought with them. By mutual agreement they skipped breakfast. Though they ate the chocolate bars that had been intended for the s’mores.

Isabelle walked to the base of the tree and replaced the stone exactly where and how she’d found it.

“Why did you do that?” asked Vivienne.

“To hide Charles’s markings We might not be the only ones looking.”

They hitched their backpacks further up and headed into the woods.

“ Bonjour , Julian—”

“Is that you, Chief Inspector?”

“ Oui. ” Armand had put on the auto-transcription function so he could read what was being said. “I’m wondering if a young woman is there, perhaps waiting for me?”

“No one has asked for you. Can you describe her?”

“Twenty-three years old, a woman of color. Probably looks annoyed.”

The maître d’ at the Ritz laughed. “Most young women these days seem to—”

“Oh, it’s okay, Julian. Merci. She’s just arrived.”

“Who the fuck’s this?” was the first thing out of Shona’s mouth. She stood across the diner, glaring at Ruth, then at Rosa. Then she turned to Gamache, who’d stood up. “You brought a date?”

Armand hoped to God he’d misheard, but the laugh of delight from Ruth said differently.

What he did realize was that he’d actually heard. While the cicadas were still screaming in his ears, the noise had dropped. This was no delusion, no wishful thinking.

He’d heard Shona. And, better still, he’d heard Ruth’s laugh.

How he missed laughter.

“Really, who the fuck is this?” Shona demanded. “You brought a vagrant? And a duck?”

“I heard you the first time,” he said.

Ruth caught his eye, her smile widening, before she looked at Shona and demanded, “Who the fuck is this?”

Armand began to grasp what might be the enormity of his misjudgment in having these two women in the same room. Then something happened.

“ And in my heart, her anger smolders still ,” Shona quoted. “ Amid the ashes of residual guilt. ”

“Forest fires,” said Vivienne.

They’d walked half a kilometer into the woods, marking the trail, then fanned out. But had found nothing. There was no evidence of anything buried or hidden.

They were now sitting on a fallen tree, resting. It had been a slog, and they still had to get back to the shore. The snow was accumulating. On the trees, the ground. Them. It tap-tap-tippity-tapped onto their rain gear, dripping under their collars and down their backs.

“What about the fires?” asked Isabelle, pulling her jacket tighter.

“Maybe that’s what Charles meant by the arrow. Not something he’d hidden close by, in these woods, but something further north. Maybe he wanted to bring our attention to the wildfires.”

“But the fires were news around the world. Hardly secret. And hardly a reason to be murdered.”

They were now retracing their steps. Both had come to the realization that if Charles Langlois did hide something in these woods, their chances of finding it were tiny.

They were almost back at the clearing when Isabelle stopped. She put her arm across Vivienne’s body to also stop her.

“What is it?”

“My God,” said Shona. “You’re Ruth Zardo.”

“And you are?”

“Shona Dorion.”

“You’re not…” Ruth raised her middle finger, and so did Shona. “Ha. You’re the one who’s always taking a run at Armand.”

“You follow her?” he said.

“Not just follow, I think I love her.” Ruth, forgetting to be ornery, turned back to Shona. “No one ever quotes the middle of my poems.”

“No.” Shona’s eyes were bright, her voice light as she leaned across the sticky table toward Ruth. “It’s only the beginning and end that most people remember. I do too, but the guts, the heart of your works, that’s what I love best. From the Public school to the private hell / of the family masquerade / where could a boy on a bicycle go— ”

“ When the straight road splayed. ” Ruth finished the quote from her own poem, stroking the feathers on Rosa’s small head as she spoke.

“How do you know him?” Shona jerked her head toward Armand.

“He’s a neighbor.” Ruth looked at him to make sure he understood what she said next, suspecting rightly that while his hearing had improved, it was far from perfect. “And a friend. How do you know him?”

“He killed my mother.”

Ruth’s brows shot up. It took her a moment to realize this young woman was not kidding. And Armand was not denying it.

“Well, that explains most of your posts,” said Ruth.

“I’ve spent my adult life trying to get back at him.”

“Choosing to meet here is a good step,” said Ruth.

Shona smiled.

Armand realized he’d never seen her smile. Well, that was not totally true. The very first time he’d laid eyes on her, when he’d entered their squalid home with a warrant, the little girl was holding her mother’s hand. And smiling up at him.

Her face, her whole being, radiated happiness and trust. This was a child raised in a crack house, by a prostitute who’d murdered her dealer. But, more than that, this was a child raised with love. Profound, all-encompassing love. And, with it, trust. She knew if she was holding her mother’s hand, she was safe.

Until …

In that moment, when he’d arrested her mother for murder and gently broken that grip, the smile had been wiped off Shona’s face, to be replaced by confusion. Then fear. And then, later, rage. And hatred. And finally contempt.

Shona Dorion had become a journalist. And a very good one. An investigative journalist, she was relentless in pursuit of the entitled, the bullies, those who took advantage of the vulnerable and broken. She had her own site, with hundreds of thousands of followers. Her emblem was the raised finger. And her main targets were those in power. Her favorite target was the man who’d arrested her mother. The senior Sûreté officer she held responsible for her mother’s suicide in detention just days later.

Here was an old white cop who held so much power she felt in her bones he must be corrupt, though she hadn’t been able to find anything on Chief Inspector Gamache. But that hadn’t stopped her from hurling insulting, bordering-on-abusive questions at him in news conferences. Ones that always had some margin of truth. Like calling him a coward because he’d survived the hit-and-run, and Charles Langlois had not.

“You saved yourself,” she’d shouted from the back of the hastily called conference. “How can we trust the Sûreté when its senior officers protect themselves first?”

It was in that moment, when Armand had seen the rage and satisfaction in Shona Dorion’s eyes, and the discomfort of his colleagues and even the other journalists, that he’d made up his mind.

He needed an ally outside the Sûreté. Someone smart, connected, courageous, unrelenting, who could dig into things without setting off alarms. He needed someone no one would suspect could possibly be working with him.

He needed Shona Dorion.

And so, months ago, before the events in the water-treatment plant, he’d invited her to this very café to ask for her help. She’d agreed, volunteering at Action Québec Bleu, the organization where Charles Langlois had worked, to find out what she could.

Though she made it clear it was a limited truce. Once their work together was over, he was again in her crosshairs.

“So, what’re you doing here?” Ruth asked. “Why did you agree to meet him?”

The old poet looked from one to the other. It was clear that if there was an entente between them, it was not exactly cordiale . Once it was over, they would return to where they had been.

Hunter and hunted.

“What do you know about FEDS?” Shona asked.

“Feds?” said Ruth. “Can’t say—”

“I was asking him.”

“Right.”

“I take it you mean the federal government,” said Gamache.

“I think so, but I’m not sure. And if so, which one?”

“What do you mean?”

“In the Action Québec Bleu files, the ones in Madame Chalifoux’s office, I’ve found repeated references to FEDS and DC.”

“Washington?”

“I don’t think it’s the comics, do you?”

Both Ruth and Rosa snorted.

“It didn’t make sense since AQB never got money from the federal government,” Shona continued. “And certainly not from the Americans.”

“When Americans say ‘Feds,’” said Armand, “don’t they mean the FBI?”

“That’s my understanding,” said Ruth.

“I was talking to her.”

“Right.”

“Or the Federal Reserve,” added Armand. He leaned across the table, forgetting how filthy it was. Until his hand touched it.

But it was too late.

“The thing is, it’s not ‘ the Feds,’ just ‘FEDS,’” said Shona. “And every reference to it is spelled with all caps.”

“You’ve obviously looked it up online,” said Armand.

“Obviously. Just what we’ve already said, but nothing with all caps.”

Armand sat back and, deep in thought, he reached for a thin paper napkin. As he tried to wipe the sticky stuff off his hands, all he managed to do was glue the paper to his palms.

“Are you done? Can we go to the Ritz?” asked Ruth.

“ Non ,” said Armand, studying the young woman across from him. “I think there’s more. Why did you want to meet?”

“Because of this.”

Shona placed a piece of paper in front of Gamache. He put on his reading glasses.

“What am I looking at?”

“Bank accounts. I said I wanted to write a piece on the lack of funding for AQB. Chalifoux gave me access to her applications for government funding and requests for private donations. I don’t think she realized that from there I could get deeper.”

“To see the funding and donations themselves,” said Gamache.

“Exactly. Look at the amounts. They’re huge. I can guarantee you none of this ever came to AQB. I think the organization is being used to launder money.”

Armand shook his head and gave one gruff laugh, though there was little actual amusement. Removing his glasses, he rubbed his eyes. “Incredible. I think you’ve found it. We’ve been looking into this.”

“What?” said Shona and Ruth in unison.

“How the bribes got to Marcus Lauzon. This must be it. They were funneled through AQB. And Charles Langlois found out.”

“And ‘DC’? What does that mean?” asked Shona.

“It must mean where the money came from. Washington, DC,” said Ruth. “And ‘FEDS’ means the Federal Reserve.”

“Which means not just American corporations, but the American government’s involved,” said Shona.

“Which means the American government’s involved,” Armand said, not realizing he was repeating what Shona had just said. But neither woman pointed that out.

It seemed to bear repeating.

“What is it?” whispered Vivienne, edging closer.

Isabelle Lacoste had spotted a lump, a bit of ground higher than it naturally would be, should be.

“Maybe nothing,” she said, kneeling beside it. From her knapsack she took out gloves and a small shovel.

“Please,” she muttered to herself, “let it be Langlois’s laptop. Please…”

Several inches down she found something promising. A heavy-duty green bag. The type you’d wrap something in to keep it safe from the elements.

But as she worked the earth around it, Isabelle Lacoste grew wary. It was much larger than a normal garbage bag, and certainly larger than a laptop would be, should be. Could be.

Completely oblivious now to the sleet hitting her face and the rivulets of cold water dribbling through her scalp as she bent over, Isabelle carefully dug around the edges of the plastic. Then stopped.

“What?” asked Vivienne, sensing the change. She was no longer with Isabelle. Her companion had become Inspector Lacoste.

Vivienne leaned in to get a closer look, then took a step back. The green garbage bag was outlining what could only be a boot.

For the first time in decades, Vivienne LaPierre crossed herself.