The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 13

“Delicious,” said Marcus Lauzon. “It’s been a while.”

“No Sunday roast in prison?” asked Evelyn Tardiff.

“ Non ,” he said and smiled, as though her question had been serious. “But I didn’t mean that. It’s been a while since I was treated like a human being.” He carefully folded his linen napkin and placed it beside his clean plate, smoothing it gently. Then he looked at his host. “I know you have an ulterior motive, and I can guess what it is. Still, I’m grateful.”

Armand was trying not to leap across the table and strangle the man who’d almost killed his son. A man who was clearly unrepentant. It was a temptation that had been growing since Lauzon had arrived.

He’d wondered if the former Deputy Prime Minister would take this opportunity to apologize, as Jeanne Caron had done.

Part of him hoped he would, and that it would help sever the ties between them. Gamache knew, better than most, that hate bound a person to the one they hated. They were taken prisoner by that loathing, while the one they despised went merrily about their life, often oblivious.

He was tired of being tied to this man. And yet he was so used to it, part of him did not want to be unbound. And a big part of him did not want to be in the position of having to say, I forgive you. And then work toward making that true.

But it seemed, this sunny Sunday afternoon in October, it would not come to that.

Over warm apple crisp, made from fruit picked in the orchard in their back garden, and Coaticook vanilla ice cream, Armand finally asked the question. The one that had hung over them, creating an almost unbearable tension. Though Lauzon seemed the least tense and Chief Inspector Tardiff appeared the most.

“You’ve claimed all along not to be the one behind the plot to poison Montréal’s water, despite all the evidence against you—” Lauzon had opened his mouth, but Gamache shut him down with a look. “If not you, then who?”

“I’ve waited a long time for you to ask that question.”

The Sûreté officers around the table waited for the answer. Had it been a movie, this would be, Jean-Guy knew, the time when a shot would ring out and Lauzon would slump to the table, face down in his apple crisp.

But nothing happened. Though beside him, Jean-Guy noticed Armand’s hands slip below the table and grip his knees so tightly they would, Jean-Guy knew, leave a mark.

But Chief Inspector Gamache’s face was placid, almost blank.

“I’m tempted to ask you who you think it could be,” Lauzon continued, taunting the man across from him. Teasing him. But Gamache would not rise to it.

Though he did stand up. “Coffee?”

Beauvoir lowered his gaze and fought to suppress a grin at the look of surprise, degenerating into annoyance, on Lauzon’s face.

He thought he was toying with Gamache. Now the Deputy PM looked puzzled, no longer sure what was happening. And who was playing with whom.

When Lauzon didn’t answer, Armand turned to Evelyn. “Café? Or perhaps tea?”

“What the hell is going on, Armand,” she snapped. “What’re we doing here?”

“Oh, dear lady,” said Lauzon, in a purr that made Beauvoir’s skin crawl and brought a flush of outrage so forceful into Tardiff’s face it looked like she might burst into flames after all. “Surely, as head of Organized Crime for the Sûreté…” He paused and studied the woman sitting beside him. “That is what you are, non ? Though, as enjoyable as your company is, I’m not sure why you’re here. Nevertheless, you must recognize what this is. Don Moretti must’ve conducted his fair share, though not, perhaps, in as pleasant an atmosphere. I’m sure your informant within his organization has told you about them. You do have someone close to Joseph Moretti?”

Chief Inspector Tardiff was far too disciplined, too practiced at artifice, to show any reaction. Lauzon’s gaze lingered on her, his nostrils flaring slightly, as though picking up a scent. He turned to Gamache, who was standing beside the dented and gurgling percolator. Coffee vapor rose from it.

“It’s a ‘come to Jesus’ meeting, isn’t it, Armand? You’re offering me redemption. A last chance to save my soul, in exchange for the name of the one you’ve charmingly named the Black Wolf. I suppose you also expect me, as part of my salvation, to apologize for what happened to your son years ago.”

“If you’re not the one behind the plot, as you claim,” Gamache repeated, “then who is?”

Jean-Guy, who had cleared away the dessert plates, could see that while Gamache’s voice was steady, his hands were now gripping the edge of the kitchen island.

“If you knew how power works, Chief Inspector,” said Lauzon, “you would not need to ask.”

“I know how power works, merci .” There was an abruptness in the tone, a rare fraying, Jean-Guy could hear, of that tight control. “And I know what happens to trumped-up little people who abuse what power they have. How the need for more and more hollows them out, eats away at them. Until they appear human but have lost all humanity.”

Beauvoir took a step closer, afraid Armand would lose his grip, in every way. Then Gamache suddenly released the edge of the counter and splayed his hands on top of it.

“There was only one way”—Armand’s voice became calm once again, his bearing composed, though there was the slightest tremor in his right hand—“that you … sir … were going to get that power, and it was not by being elected.”

“That might be true, my friend. I’m not especially liked. I know that. And your description of power is apt. Between the idea / And the reality / Between the motion / And the act / Falls the Shadow. Or maybe, in your parlance, falls the Black Wolf. Unfortunately for you, it’s not me. You are, Armand, the boy who cried wolf.”

Lauzon was smiling. Quietly mocking Armand with a quote from T. S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men.” Content to hold the floor, his belly full of roast chicken and gravy, of fine white wine and confidence. Of sweet apples and rich ice cream.

And Beauvoir suddenly saw this for what it was.

It had seemed foolish, bordering on insane, to bring this man into this place. Where Armand and his loved ones lived. Surrounded by their private effects.

But now Jean-Guy noticed that the most personal photos had been put away. Even Reine-Marie and Armand’s favorite books had been switched out for some predictable classics. The music in the background was soft jazz, the modern equivalent of Muzak, which Armand and Reine-Marie never played.

There were children’s toys, but they were not ones Jean-Guy, or his children, or Daniel’s daughters had ever touched.

This was a shell around a hollow world, a life in appearance only. They were in the space between idea and reality. Even Armand’s old cardigan and worn slippers were part of the act. Jean-Guy had never seen them before. They were a costume.

Then there was Armand’s slightly perplexed look, trying to keep up with the conversation, though Jean-Guy, who knew him well, could tell the Chief could hear, if not perfectly, then far better than he made out.

Knowing that, and that all this was staged, choreographed, made Jean-Guy almost giddy with relief.

And Marcus Lauzon was falling for it. Under the impression he was deep into Armand Gamache’s home, his real life. Deep into his broken mind. And so, free to mind-fuck a once formidable foe.

The only thing that worried Jean-Guy, as he followed Armand back to the table carrying the coffee mugs and milk jug and sugar, was the very slight tremble in that right hand. A tell. A sign of fatigue, of stress. Of barely contained rage. A warning that Armand was dangerously close to the edge of the stage.

As he once again took his seat beside the Chief, Beauvoir looked across the table at their other guest. Was the head of the Sûreté’s Organized Crime division in on the ruse, or another target?

When Armand had given that out-of-character speech about “trumped-up little people,” was Jean-Guy mistaken, or had Armand glanced at Chief Inspector Tardiff? Was that message about power, and the abuse of it, also meant for her?

“You’ve missed one important thing,” said Marcus Lauzon.

“I don’t think so.” Armand looked at the table. “We have milk and sugar.” He turned to Jean-Guy. “Have I forgotten something? Biscuits maybe?”

It was on the verge of, but not quite spilling over into, pathetic. Armand would have to be careful not to overdo it.

“I don’t mean the lunch,” snapped Lauzon. “We were talking about power. In accusing me of being monomaniacal in my climb to the top, I think you haven’t taken into account one important thing. What happens at a banquet of the power-hungry?”

“I think you mean ‘power-mad,’” said Beauvoir.

“I say what I mean.” Lauzon lashed out, then turned back to Gamache, who was staring across the table into that smug face. But said nothing.

“No one reaches deputy without wanting to be the actual thing,” Lauzon admitted, when faced with that silence. “To grab it all for themselves. To climb that last rung. Including me. Including you, Armand. No use denying it. You know how power works because you yourself had so much. At least for a while. But you discovered ultimate leadership isn’t for everyone. I seem to remember you’re afraid of heights.”

“That’s true,” said Gamache. “It terrifies me.”

Lauzon seemed surprised by this admission and briefly thrown off balance.

“You were Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté for a while. You were even offered the top job at the RCMP but turned it down. I long wondered why, but now I think I have the answer. Power is for the brave. Those who not only want to lead but are not afraid to lead. Who are not afraid of heights.”

Lauzon watched to see how much damage that just did.

Tardiff was trying not to look at Gamache but finally gave in. It was like approaching a car wreck and looking inside. How bad would it be?

There weren’t many things worse than being called a coward. And for a cop, a senior cop? Even if not true, an accusation like that would still sting.

Yes, Armand had led the Sûreté during an especially tumultuous time and been fired. But not for cowardice or incompetence. It was for illegally chasing a drug lord into the United States.

The Chief Inspector Gamache she saw now was not the same man who’d literally dragged the head of the cartel back across the border, to face trial in Québec.

Armand was gazing at Lauzon, perplexed. And what happened next was worse.

“ Désolé ,” he said. “But could you repeat that? You were talking too fast.”

It was Jean-Guy Beauvoir’s turn to grip his knees. He could almost feel the blood vessels bursting under his fingers. Would Lauzon see through the ruse? And was it part of the act, or was Armand serious?

Marcus Lauzon opened his mouth, then shut it again in frustration.

“You were talking about power, I believe,” said Gamache. “And heights. Then something about leadership. I caught that much. You would’ve given a lot, I think, to be Prime Minister. But you knew you could never be elected, so your only route to the top was in a coup. Though it couldn’t be seen to be that.”

“Yes, I heard that said at my trial.” Lauzon was still smarting from having his coup de grâce , his thrust into Gamache’s heart, miss. Worse, ignored. “Your own testimony, in fact, Armand. That I plotted to poison the drinking water, creating a national catastrophe that would be blamed on the incompetence of the current Prime Minister. He’d be ousted, and I would rise, heroically, selflessly even, taking charge in the face of great personal danger. I’d bring in the Emergencies Act, to head off future attacks, thereby giving myself unlimited power. All approved and even applauded by a terrified and cowed citizenry.”

Gamache lifted his hands in an eloquent That’s it .

“You despise me”—Lauzon leaned forward slightly—“and yet you have doubts.”

“If not you,” Gamache repeated for the third time, “then who?”

Lauzon leaned back again and studied the large, contained man before him. A man he’d rarely met in person—both had avoided it—but whom he’d hated from a distance. For decades. Far from diminishing the hate, time had only deepened that loathing.

It was all he could do now not to leap across the table and strangle the man who’d arrested his daughter for manslaughter. Who’d tried to ruin her young life.

That hit-and-run years ago had been an accident. Nothing more. She was his only child. Young and foolish, certainly, but she did not deserve to pay for one mistake for the rest of her life. The fact she’d left that grocery clerk to die alone in a ditch was a shame, but the boy probably would have died anyway.

Getting his daughter off had cost the newly elected MP decades of IOUs.

When the charges had been dropped, Gamache had lodged a complaint and requested an investigation. Nothing came of it except a mutual vendetta.

In return for Gamache’s actions against his daughter, Lauzon had gone after Daniel Gamache. An eye for an eye. A child for a child.

The Chief Inspector had brought it on himself. Was solely responsible, including for his son’s suicide attempt. Lauzon did not feel the least bit guilty, was not the least bit sorry. Not then. Not now.

Over the years, over the distance from Ottawa to Québec City, he’d studied Gamache, watching his career and influence grow. Every time he appeared on television, in interviews and news conferences, Lauzon had watched. Smiling with satisfaction when that young journalist had appeared on the scene and begun harassing Gamache, hurling insulting accusations at him in the form of questions.

It would have been more satisfying had she managed to land a few blows. If Gamache had lost his temper and shown his true self. A large, powerful, older white cop lashing out at a young woman of color. How perfect that would have been. But instead, he’d answered each insult with a calm and reasoned explanation. Meeting rudeness with the same courtesy he showed all the journalists.

But while others might’ve been fooled, the former Deputy Prime Minister was not.

Lauzon had even recorded some of Gamache’s appearances, sitting in his study at night after dinner, hearing his wife and daughter and grandchildren talking and laughing in the next room. He drank cognac and played and replayed the recordings. Over the years he’d watched the man age. Seen his hair turn grey. Seen that deep scar appear at his temple. Seen that familiar face become heavier, weatherworn. Careworn. Seen the lines appear. Surely more than a man his age should have.

But what struck Lauzon now, and what he’d missed from the television and the courtroom, was the look in Chief Inspector Gamache’s eyes. Intelligence, yes. You’d expect that. Even now, through the slightly perplexed look, they were thoughtful. Determined even.

Despite the fact Gamache was clearly diminished, it was best, Lauzon warned himself, not to underestimate this man. There was still, in those eyes, a cunning. And yet. And yet. He narrowed his own eyes, and as he did, he saw what Gamache was clearly trying to keep secret.

Most people, Lauzon knew, hid their cruel thoughts below the surface. But if you had the wherewithal to look, and he did, then deep down, you could see. There lived, there lurked, the worst of them. Lauzon had used what he saw against friends, colleagues, competitors. It was how he got ahead, by not being afraid to step in the piles of merde other people made and tried to hide. By understanding their true nature.

But today, on this sunny autumn afternoon, in this cheerful home, what Lauzon saw deep in Armand Gamache’s eyes wasn’t shit. It was worse than that.

It was decency.

Even, God help Gamache, kindness.

In a word, weakness. And perhaps a slight gullibility, a desire to believe the best.

Lauzon saw within that deep brown stare an Achilles’ heel in the form of a desire to believe that people really could be saved, salvaged from the wreckage of their lives.

Perhaps even a belief that Lauzon himself could be saved. That this come-to-Jesus meeting over roast chicken would work.

Had that belief always been there, or had it appeared to the head of homicide as he’d knelt on that cold concrete floor, the gun to the back of his skull? As he’d prayed. For what? Salvation.

And it had come. He’d been saved. And now did he feel his contract with God was to try to save others? It wasn’t just an Achilles’ heel. This was a superhighway of folly that led in only one direction.

“What could be worse, Armand, than a person not getting what they most want?”

The float plane had landed, and the forensics team had paddled ashore lugging their equipment, including a body bag.

While they got to work on the corpse and surrounding area, Isabelle and Vivienne packed up their campsite, remembering at the last minute to take the food and garbage out of the tree where it had been hung the night before.

“Do we still need to explore the rest of this lake?” asked Vivienne, telegraphing what she hoped and prayed would be the answer. She was wet and cold and would sell her firstborn for a coffee.

“ Non. We’ll fly back to Montréal with the body.”

The first thing Isabelle needed to do was tell Frederick Castonguay’s family. She knew from their initial research into the young man that while he’d worked in Ottawa as assistant to Jeanne Caron, he was originally from Montréal.

The plane took off and circled the site where the team was searching the undergrowth for evidence. Perhaps the gun, though they all knew it would be at the bottom of the lake. Still, they needed to look.

The plane rose higher, and the three of them, and Frederick Castonguay, headed for home.

Marcus Lauzon had asked to use the washroom, and while Jean-Guy accompanied him, Evelyn Tardiff saw her chance for a quiet word.

But Gamache got there first.

Taking her quickly aside, he said, “We’ve found the body of Frederick Castonguay.”

He was looking at her with an intensity she found disconcerting. If she didn’t know it was because he needed to read her lips, she’d have thought there was another reason for that scrutiny.

“Jeanne Caron’s assistant? You’re kidding. What’s he doing dead?”

It was such a strange way of putting it that Armand almost smiled, though the situation was far from humorous.

“I take it it was not an accident,” she continued.

“ Non. Bullet to the back of the head. Hands tied.”

“Moretti.” She looked puzzled. “Now why would the mafia want Caron’s assistant dead? Where was he found?”

“That’s also strange.” Gamache glanced at the kitchen door to make sure Lauzon wasn’t returning. “Castonguay’s body was found at the last lake that Charles Langlois investigated before his own murder. Up north.”

“What was he doing there?” When Gamache gave her a look, she shook her head. “Sorry. I know you don’t yet know. So, Jeanne Caron’s assistant is dead. I’ve told you all along, Armand, that the Caron woman can’t be trusted. Yes, she saved your life, but probably because she knew the plot had failed and they’d been exposed. She needed to do something dramatic to make herself look heroic. To place herself on the right side of the law. Saving you was that grand gesture.”

That had also occurred to him. But unlike everyone else involved, Jeanne Caron hadn’t tried to hide her complicity, at least in some of Marcus Lauzon’s illegal activities. But there was no evidence that she was involved in the poisoning plot. Just the opposite. It all pointed to her working with her uncle the Abbot to stop it. Even approaching Gamache himself for help.

“Why didn’t you know about this, Evelyn?”

“What? That Moretti put out a hit on that kid? How’m I supposed to know?”

“Your informant?”

“You think Moretti tells my informant everything?”

“I think Moretti tells you everything.”

That sucked the air out of the room.

“What do you mean?” she finally managed to say.

He dropped his voice. “I know you’re the informant. You infiltrated Moretti’s organization during that arson investigation.”

She glared at him, suddenly afraid. She’d spent years hiding, and now she stood in this country kitchen, exposed.

“As Lauzon just reminded us, I was, briefly, the head of the Sûreté,” he explained. “I’d already guessed that you must have placed someone in the Moretti organization, but I wanted it confirmed. Being the Superintendent gave me access to certain files. I found the evidence.”

“There’s evidence?” she asked, forgetting to dodge the question.

“I destroyed it.”

Now she heaved a deep sigh. “Is that why I’m here?”

“I need to know what you know about what’s happening next. Moretti’s involved. You met him yesterday morning at the Jean-Talon market. What did he tell you?”

“Nothing. I haven’t heard anything. And why in the world would you think anything else is happening? It’s been wrapped up. Lauzon’s in prison.” She looked toward the doorway. “Or should be.”

“Why would they murder Frederick Castonguay unless it was to shut him up?” asked Gamache, choosing not to directly answer her question.

“They’re just cleaning up. Moretti’s a tidy man, hates loose ends. You do too, obviously. Castonguay must’ve been a loose end.”

“Exactly. But what did he know?”

“It can’t matter now. It’s over, Armand.” She looked at him more closely. “How did you know about my visit to the market?” When he didn’t answer, her eyes opened wide. “My own assistant? Nichol? She’s spying on me? For you?”

“I assigned her there, yes.”

“You say that like it’s reasonable to spy on a colleague, a friend.” She was staring at him in disbelief.

“If the murder of thousands of citizens was a prelude, what the hell’s next? I’ll do whatever’s necessary, including placing my own people in your department, to find out.”

“Fuck you, Armand. How dare you lecture me about duty. I’ve risked my life every day for decades to get close to that psychopath Moretti, and you’re on the verge of blowing it and getting me killed. Over some self-aggrandizing fantasy.”

Gamache glanced again at the door. They didn’t have much more time.

“Look, I’ll protect you any way I can—”

“I don’t need you to protect me, Armand. Just back off.”

“—and for what it’s worth, Nichol seems devoted to you. I think she instinctively trusts you.”

“You say she’s your agent?”

“Yes.”

“That didn’t stop her from saying you should’ve been killed in the treatment plant.” It was vindictive of her to tell him that. But she was angry and frightened and needed to spread the pain.

To her surprise he gave a gruff laugh. She wondered if he’d heard her right.

“Well, she’s not wrong. I think there’ve been times she would’ve happily pulled the trigger. But I suspect she said it to gauge your reaction. And that was…?”

“I agreed with her, of course. If anyone is playing by a rule book, they’ll be dead and buried with it.”

There was a pause as both took deep breaths, literally and figuratively.

“Okay, Armand. I’ll look into Moretti’s connection to Castonguay and see what I can find out.”

“Find out what?”

Lauzon was at the kitchen door, watching them. Beauvoir, standing behind him, had tried to make enough noise to warn Gamache and Tardiff, but they were too deep in conversation.

“The recipe for the apple crisp,” said Evelyn, without missing a beat. “Armand won’t tell me.”

“It’s an old family secret,” said Armand, making for the door. “Reine-Marie would kill me if I told you.”

“She’d have to take a number,” said Evelyn.

“Are we leaving?” asked Lauzon, stepping aside to let Gamache pass.

Gamache could hear the fear in his voice. For all his haughtiness, Lauzon was afraid to go back to prison. And once again, against his will, Gamache found he sympathized.

“Not quite yet. I suggest we get some fresh air. Walk off some of our lunch. Perhaps through the woods.”

“Where no one can see us, Armand?”

“Do you want the world to know you’re out of prison and here?” Beauvoir asked.

“It would be more damaging to you than me. Imagine what the papers would say. What that young journalist whose purpose in life seems to be harassing you would say?”

Armand immediately felt alarms go off. What did this man know about Shona Dorion? Did he know that they’d met? That Shona was gathering information for him?

Having had Marcus Lauzon closer than ever before, having had a chance to study him, Armand Gamache found he was beginning to lean toward believing that Evelyn Tardiff was right. Beauvoir was right. Everyone he knew was right. Marcus Lauzon really was the Black Wolf.

Of course that would be good news. It would mean that maybe nothing else was planned. That he could go back to picking apples with Reine-Marie. To watching her tilt her head back and stretch her hand out and go up on tippy-toes for that perfect rosy apple, always just out of reach.

They could stroll around the village green, or go into Montréal and have dinner with the LaPierres. Or a quiet meal just the two of them. Talking about … nothing, as they walked back to their small apartment in the Outremont quartier .

He could feel her hand in his, even now. But then he always did.

If it was all over, he could exhale. For an instant he let himself believe it.

And yet, and yet …

As he hung up his father’s old cardigan and took off his godfather Stephen’s ratty old slippers, he glanced at Evelyn Tardiff.

Her insistence that nothing else was happening, even in the face of the murder of Frederick Castonguay, was worrisome. She did not seem willing to even entertain the other possibility.

He’d placed Agent Yvette Nichol in Chief Inspector Tardiff’s department to watch and report. To effectively spy on a fellow senior officer. And he’d just told Tardiff why Nichol was there.

How big a mistake that was, he wasn’t sure, but suspected he’d soon find out.

He scanned his messages, then put on his field coat, called the dogs and Gracie to his side, and headed out with the others into the autumn day.