The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 12

“Frederick Castonguay.”

Armand had taken Jean-Guy aside as soon as they’d entered the house and whispered those words.

Beauvoir, who had not seen the bag being opened by Isabelle, stared, then gave a curt nod. Absorbing the news. They had other priorities at the moment, and Lacoste was more than capable of doing what was necessary with the body.

Still, it was unexpected, and Beauvoir struggled to keep his expression neutral.

He and Gamache were obviously thinking the same thing: How had the young assistant to Jeanne Caron ended up in a green garbage bag in a forest?

At one time, indeed until a few minutes ago, Gamache had wondered if Frederick Castonguay wasn’t deeply involved in the plots. Might he even be the one behind it all? It was unlikely, though wasn’t that often the way?

But Armand now knew he’d been at least partially mistaken. And partly right. Castonguay was not the leader, but he was obviously involved somehow and considered so dangerous that he needed to be silenced.

Frederick Castonguay had had access to all of Jeanne Caron’s documents, and she, in turn, as Lauzon’s Chief of Staff, had access to all the former Deputy Prime Minister’s papers and emails. She had control over his movements and even his finances. Or so she’d thought.

And Castonguay, as her assistant, had access to all of that.

Could he have sidestepped his immediate boss and been working directly with Lauzon? Was he the conduit for the money? Was Frederick Castonguay, that nondescript young man, one of the main conspirators?

By the same token, it would be equally easy for Frederick Castonguay to plant evidence. To plant that money. To set up Marcus Lauzon. To make it look like the Deputy PM was the one behind the plots. And leave the real conspirators free to finish what they started.

So, thought Armand as he slowly removed his coat and put on the old cardigan, so far there was a possibility Marcus Lauzon was, or was not, behind the plots. There was a possibility the dead man was, or was not, work- ing with him. There was a possibility the dead man was, or was not, working against him.

They did not seem further ahead.

What he did know was that there was a direct line from the man now standing in the heart of their home in Three Pines, looking around with interest, and the young man dead and decomposing hundreds of kilometers north. From Lauzon to Caron to Castonguay.

Quite a lineage.

Too many things led back to the former politician for Gamache not to wonder if Lauzon wasn’t the Black Wolf after all. The one who fed people’s fears, paranoia, greed, rage. He fed them and, in turn, was fed on them.

And few knew better than Armand Gamache what a bloated ruin this man was.

So why, why, he wondered as he watched Marcus Lauzon, did he harbor doubts? He was clearly the only one who did. Even his own team thought him mad to think Lauzon might have been wrongly convicted.

He put on the ragged old slippers and was aware everyone was looking at him. Waiting for him to take the lead. He glanced at Beauvoir, who also seemed distracted. Clearly struggling with the questions that emanated from that putrid find at the northern lake.

What was Frederick Castonguay looking for at the lake? How did he know that lake was of interest? Unless … was there some connection between the two young men?

Whose side was Frederick Castonguay on?

Who had followed, found, and killed him?

Who—

Armand’s phone alarm went off, startling everyone in the room. And just like that, the questions retreated, and his attention was brought sharply back home.

He turned to Marcus Lauzon. “That’s the chicken. It’s ready to be taken out. Let’s go into the kitchen.”

Beauvoir and Evelyn Tardiff exchanged glances. Were they mistaken, or did this sound like two friends about to prepare a meal together?

“I’m very good at gravy,” said Lauzon as he followed his host. “Should you need it.”

“As it turns out, that’s my specialty too,” said Armand, “but I’ll hand that duty over to you today. Perhaps best I carve.”

Lauzon actually laughed.

The kitchen smelled of tradition and safety and comfort. Of childhood dinners with family around the table. And yet Jean-Guy found that his stomach had soured. Probably because while the scent was of safety, this reeked of danger.

There was nothing normal, nothing comforting, about it.

The long pine table, worn and patinaed by more than a century of gatherings, was ready for them. Cutlery out, linen napkins folded at each place. Glasses waiting for drinks. A cheery arrangement of late fall flowers sat in a vase in the middle of the table.

The stage was set. Armand and Jean-Guy just had to make sure they did not fall off it.

“Smells good, Armand,” said Lauzon.

The use of Gamache’s first name shocked Jean-Guy. Said so casually, as though the two men were friends, equals, and not enemies. He watched to see how hearing his name come out of the mouth of this vile man had affected the Chief. But he seemed not to notice, or perhaps he hadn’t heard.

Armand put on oven mitts covered in hearts and rainbows, a birthday gift from his granddaughters Florence and Zora, and placed the roasting pan on top of the stove.

“Our friend Rocky gave us the secret. She always puts a couple of sprigs of tarragon and half a lemon in the cavity.”

“I’ll remember that,” said the prisoner.

This was, thought Beauvoir, getting weirder and weirder. Clearly he and Armand weren’t the only ones putting on an act. Only Chief Inspector Tardiff seemed to be without a script. Or apparent role. She was staring openly. More than a little lost.

“My wife and I used to host colleagues,” Lauzon continued, “from both sides of the aisle, for Sunday lunch. It was a good way to establish a rapport and put people at their ease.” He paused and held Armand’s eyes. “And perhaps even make them say more than they intended, or was wise.” The former politician looked down at the handcuffs. “Tough to make gravy like this.”

“ Désolé. ” Armand turned to Jean-Guy. “Would you please take the restraints off our guest?”

As Lauzon held his hands out, he dropped his eyes to the angry red scars around Armand’s wrists, from the zip ties.

“How often in Parliament I’ve felt unnecessarily restrained from being able to pass legislation, especially on the environment. But I had no idea what real restraint felt like.”

He smiled slightly and rubbed his wrists. Somehow that smile, the action, those words, the surprisingly wistful tone snuck past Armand’s defenses and touched him. It was so unexpected, he wondered if the monthslong battle with the swarms of cicadas hadn’t drained him. Lowered his defenses.

If so, he’d better rebuild them fast. He could not allow this contemptable man, Black Wolf or not, into his head, and certainly nowhere near his heart. Bad enough he was in his home.

While the roast chicken rested under a tent of foil, Jean-Guy was put to work mashing the potatoes and Evelyn was asked to watch the Brussels sprouts, roasting in the oven amid sliced garlic and Parmesan and small dabs of red currant jelly.

“And maybe stir them a couple of times,” Armand suggested.

Raising her brows and picking up a wooden spoon, she bent over and looked through the oven window, her reflection superimposed on the caramelizing Brussels sprouts.

Really? What is happening?

Lauzon was making gravy, using the potato water and pan drippings and flour, while Armand opened a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. Once done, he picked up a sharp carving knife and balanced it in his open palm. Then he closed his fingers around the handle.

Only Jean-Guy noticed the momentary white knuckles and thinning lips, and the sound, low and deep in his throat. Almost a snarl.

Armand claimed, believed, that Dom Philippe, the murdered Abbot of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, had been the Grey Wolf. The benign presence. The one you wanted on your side. The one who could defeat the other. But anyone who knew the fable knew that the Grey Wolf was standing in the kitchen, clutching a carving knife. Struggling to feed decency and not rage.

The familiar scents, the comfortable room, the jubilant sunshine streaming in only seemed to heighten the contrast between the physical world and the private thoughts. Between the apparent calm of the guests for Sunday lunch, and the inner turmoil.

“Jericho?” said Clara. “I know it well. I go down at least once a year. It’s where Snowflake Bentley lived.”

“Oh, of course,” said Reine-Marie. She metaphorically slapped her forehead. “That’s why it sounded familiar.”

“Who the hell was Snowflake Bentley?” demanded Ruth. She was into her second helping of the pasta traybake that Myrna had brought over, with roast tomatoes, the ubiquitous eggplant, and melted cheese.

Clara tore off another hunk of the crispy baguette. “Snowflake Bentley? You don’t know him?”

“Would I ask if I did? Okay, never mind. I’m already bored.”

“We should go down,” said Clara. “I haven’t been yet this year, and the museum shuts soon for the winter.”

“Ironic, for a place celebrating a man named Snowflake,” said Myrna. “But I’m game. When?”

“Why not now?” said Reine-Marie, suddenly curious to go deeper into Jericho. Where that young biologist might have been. Where the line he drew almost certainly passed through. Doing it with friends, visiting a museum, would not arouse suspicion should anyone be watching.

She felt ridiculous even thinking that. As though visiting a museum dedicated to a man named “Snowflake” could be dangerous. Still, Reine-Marie knew there was a difference between what things appeared to be and what they actually were. Best to be careful.

She sent off a quick text to Armand, letting him know; then they headed off.

Despite her predictable protests, Ruth joined them, though she left Rosa at home in case the Customs people decided ducks could fly into the country but not be driven.

They were through the border with Reine-Marie driving when Myrna looked up from her phone. “Seems Jericho excels at odd names. Snowflake isn’t the only one. It was founded by a guy named Remember.”

“You’re kidding.” Clara sat forward from the back seat.

“No, look.” Myrna passed her phone over.

Sure enough, one of the first European surveyors back in 1773 was named Remember Baker. Clara scanned the rest of the history. There was a guffaw next to her.

“What’s so funny?” she asked Ruth, who was leaning on her shoulder and reading the entry.

“Look at that passage. Seems the good folks of Jericho lived in terror of invasion from Canada.”

“How times have changed,” said Reine-Marie.

“Well, you say that, but…”

“But what?” said Reine-Marie as they turned off the main road and reached the outskirts of the town.

“You haven’t seen the posts?” asked Ruth.

Of everyone in Three Pines, Ruth Zardo was the most connected on social media. It was, they figured, one of the reasons her wits were addled.

“Some people on social media are crazy,” said Ruth.

“Some people in this car are crazy,” murmured Clara, and got no argument.

“Here we are.” Reine-Marie turned into the Old Red Mill.

Even Ruth was reduced to silence as the four women, the only people in the museum, moved from photograph to tiny photograph, marveling at the images of snowflakes that Wilson Bentley managed to capture using an old, though state-of-the-art in the 1880s, camera and microscope. At a time when photography was in its infancy, this rugged farmer, with almost no education, had developed a fascination bordering on, and occasionally crossing into, obsession with capturing the image of a single flake.

Eventually, on January 15, 1885, he did it.

Wilson Bentley became the first person in the world to photograph a snowflake. But that wasn’t the only surprise. The biggest was yet to come. Bentley discovered that no two were exactly alike.

When he announced his findings in the local paper, he was ignored. Those who did pay attention roundly mocked him. But when he showed them hundreds, then thousands of images of the stunning crystalline shapes, all different, he was finally believed.

Then forgotten.

Like his subjects, Snowflake Bentley melted away, disappearing as though he’d never existed. Until, decades later, his work was rediscovered. And now, more than a century on, four Canadian women stood in his former home, and marveled.

“They’re beautiful,” whispered Ruth. “I wish Rosa could see them.”

“He captured a moment, a split second, before the flake melted,” said Myrna. “My God, it’s incredible. He essentially froze the snowflakes in time.”

“Huh,” said Clara. “That’s true.”

It was a museum dedicated not just to the remarkable man’s life’s work, but to that moment just before something happened.

They each bought a poster reproducing the flakes. When it was Reine-Marie’s turn to pay, she casually asked the cashier if a young man, Québécois, had visited sometime in the summer.

“Kaybek?”

“French.”

“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “Don’t know. Maybe.”

As they walked to the car, Myrna used her rolled-up poster to point to a metal sign, dented by buckshot. “Look, Ethan Allen Camp. I wonder if that’s where the furniture comes from.”

Clara laughed. “Can you imagine sending your kid to furniture camp?”

“Can you imagine being that kid?” asked Myrna. “Maybe they have a showroom. Let’s look.”

A few minutes later the car stopped in front of a gate with a high fence, and barbed wire, and a sign that shouted, Restricted. Stay Out.

“Wow, those Ethan Allen people are a little paranoid,” said Clara. “Do you think they’re afraid Ikea will come snooping?”

“I think it’s Camp Ethan Allen,” said Myrna, looking out the car window. “Not Ethan Allen Camp. It’s a military base.”

“Not just any military base.” Reine-Marie had her phone out and was looking it up. “Listen to this: Camp Ethan Allen provides elite training unlike anywhere else in the nation. ” She lowered the phone. “It’s a commando base.”

“Jeez,” said Clara. “I hope the Swedes know that.”

Reine-Marie now pulled up Charles’s map and was going between it and the GPS. If continued, his line would go straight through Camp Ethan Allen.

Ruth, who could see what she was doing and was familiar with the original map hanging in the basement of the Three Pines church, brought out her own phone, then said, “Go further.”

“Who are you talking to?” said Clara. “We can’t go further, there’s a gate, and barbed wire.”

But Ruth didn’t answer. Instead, she held Reine-Marie’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

Reine-Marie dropped her gaze back to her phone and widened the GPS map, and continued to draw the imaginary line, the one Charles Langlois might have drawn, might have followed. From Québec, into Vermont, and …

“Further,” said Ruth.

Reine-Marie followed it down, down, down until it could go no further. Until it hit the Atlantic Ocean. But just before it did, the young biologist’s line went straight through the heart of Washington, DC.

Then back up. From DC, to the commando camp, and into Québec.

“ From the Public school to the private hell / of the family masquerade ,” whis pered Ruth as she stared at the line. “ Where could a boy on a bicycle go / when the straight road splayed? ”

“Oh, shit,” muttered Lacoste.

“What now?” asked Vivienne.

The biologist had left Inspector Lacoste behind. Recoiling from the find, she’d slipped and slid through the muck and slush and made it to the lake, where she’d splashed cold, fresh water on her face and brushed her teeth. Then, after taking a few deep breaths and steeling herself, she’d returned to the kneeling homicide officer and the poor boy in the bag.

“His hands are zip-tied behind his back,” said Isabelle.

“Which means?”

There was silence, and a squelching sound that Vivienne tried not to think about. She blocked it out by humming, Hooray for Captain Spaulding, the African explorer …

Isabelle, breathing through her mouth, sat up straight and turned to Vivienne. “He’s been executed. Single bullet to the back of the head. Then another to be sure.”

This was what they’d planned for Gamache.

What those last few moments must have been like … for both of them. The terror …

Armand had survived. This young man had no one to save him.

“This was a mob hit,” she said.

“Here? In the middle of nowhere?” The biologist looked around. She’d always thought of organized crime as an urban scourge, when she thought of it at all. Though she now remembered that gruesome scene from Goodfellas where De Niro and Pesci dig up the body in the woods.

When she’d agreed to Armand’s request to accompany Inspector Lacoste, she thought she’d be testing lakes, not re-creating that scene. And playing the part of Ray Liotta.

Isabelle went through Castonguay’s pockets without expecting to find anything. And sure enough, there was nothing. No ID. No phone. No money. Nothing.

She sat back on her heels and looked around.

Why was he here? How would Frederick Castonguay even know about this lake?

Why are you here?

Why are you here?

Why were you killed, here?

Then there was the most important question. Not Who did this to you? but—

“Who were you working for?” she asked, looking into that wretched face.