The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 14

Reine-Marie dropped Myrna and Clara off, then parked in front of Ruth’s home.

“Have you seen the map?” she asked.

“The one in the basement?” Ruth nodded toward St. Thomas’s Church. “Yes. I was there when Armand put it up. He’s obviously shown you too. I didn’t think he was that bright.”

Reine-Marie smiled. An insult from Ruth was the equivalent of an embrace. A declaration of profound friendship and, perhaps more important for the wizened old poet, trust.

“Well, he bumbles along,” she said, and saw Ruth smile. “I think we should talk.”

“Your place or mine?”

“The church.”

They picked up Rosa, then walked up the hill. For the first time since moving to Three Pines, Reine-Marie did not want to go home. Clearly their “guests” were still there. The last thing she wanted to do was run into “that man.” She’d called him that for years, not wanting to humanize him by saying his name. A name his parents had given him. A name repeated by godparents and the priest at his christening.

Was holy water sprinkled on that head? Did it scald?

It was strange to think of that man having parents. A wife. A daughter. A personal life.

She knew that in refusing to name him, she was giving him more power than he deserved. More power over her. He’d become, inadvertently, not less than human but, in his anonymity, superhuman.

But her heart overruled her head, and she still did not name the man who’d almost killed their son. And who’d almost certainly ordered her husband murdered.

As she walked up the hill toward the church, Reine-Marie wondered how Armand was getting on. Would she return to find fresh-turned soil in their back garden?

If so, she would plant digitalis over it, a perennial that could kill but also heal, and get on with life.

The body of Frederick Castonguay was delivered to the forensic pathologist in Montréal.

“Would you like to stay?” she asked Isabelle.

“ Non. I need to speak to his family. Can you let me know as soon as possible how long ago you think he was killed?

Dr. Harris looked down at the body on the table. “It won’t be easy, but I’ll give you my best guess. Won’t be for a while though.” Now she studied Isabelle. They’d worked together for years, often in the worst of conditions. Rarely had she seen the senior homicide officer so stressed. “Everything all right? I’ve been following the fallout from the poisoning plot. Horrific. Can you imagine—?”

She stopped. Of course Inspector Lacoste could imagine what would have happened if …

“But at least it’s over now.”

“ Oui. ”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just please let me know what you find, as soon as possible.”

“Should I copy Chief Inspector Gamache and Beauvoir?”

Lacoste nodded, distracted by her next task.

The team at Sûreté HQ had reported that Frederick Castonguay’s family lived on rue de Bullion, just off boulevard Saint-Laurent, the long artery that bisected Montréal. Not geographically but culturally. For decades the Anglos lived to the west of what was called “the Main,” and the Francophones lived to the est . And never the twain, on the Main, shall meet.

That was no longer the case, and yet the sensibility was still there, of the Two Solitudes.

Isabelle stood outside the Castonguay home and tilted her head back. It was an old town house, restored. The door, painted a glossy and cheery cherry red, opened right onto the sidewalk. It was attached to other houses on both sides, the homes marching up and down the block, undivided, as though locking arms for support. For company. For security.

Once a neighborhood of immigrants, the homes were now bought up by creatives and academics. Though here and there were still the old working-class families. Homes kept in the same family for generations. You could tell them by their slightly weary but dignified exteriors, and the lace curtains.

The Castonguays’ was not one of those. Their place was immaculately restored and renovated. The stone re-pointed, the windows new, and not a hint of lace at any of them.

Her team had informed her that Frederick was one of four children. Two boys, two girls. He was the second oldest.

His father taught at the Université de Montréal in the economics department. His mother was a senior organizer for the Parti québécois, the separatist political party in Québec, and had a PhD in sociology. Frederick himself was a poli-sci grad from Laval in Québec City.

Isabelle wondered how his souverainistes parents felt about their son working for a federal and federalist party. Though as a civil servant it was possible to harbor different political views from your bosses. Politicians came and went. The civil service was the constant, providing memory and stability.

Unless you worked for Marcus Lauzon.

Frederick came from an intellectual, well-connected, almost certainly comfortable family. Who were about to be exploded.

Isabelle had walked around the block a couple of times, stopping to look in the windows of a few Portuguese bakeries and small restaurants specializing in roast chicken.

She never got used to the task ahead. If she ever did, that would be the day to quit. The Chief mostly took it upon himself to tell families their loved one was not just dead but murdered. But today it fell to her.

It was getting late in the day. A Sunday. She hoped they were home. She hoped they were not.

She rang the bell and heard a buzzing. A cheerful voice sang out, “I’ll get it.”

The door opened, and a girl no more than twelve stood there, her face friendly and curious. “ Oui? ”

All four strolled, two by two, in silence for some minutes along the path through the leaf-strewn forest, instinctively kicking the musky leaves ahead of them.

Armand held his hands loosely behind his back. His head was bowed in thought, lifting now and then to gaze at the familiar surroundings. Beside him, Evelyn Tardiff was in his peripheral vision. Where he’d had her for a number of years.

They’d left the sunshine of the village and entered twilight in the forest. It was peaceful. Calm. Not day, not yet night.

Beside Beauvoir, Marcus Lauzon was taking everything in. He stopped once to pick up a particularly perfect red maple leaf, placing it in his pocket.

They finally emerged onto the dirt road that led down into Three Pines.

“ S’il vous plaît .” Armand indicated the bench on the hill overlooking the village.

Lauzon sat on the warm wooden slats and closed his eyes, instinctively turning his face toward the sun, now just touching the horizon.

“Do you not think it’s too obvious?” asked Armand, taking a seat and staring out across the valley, to the Green Mountains of Vermont.

“What do you mean?”

“That Prime Minister Woodford is the Black Wolf.”

“I never said that.”

“True, but you’ve been hinting at it all afternoon. If not you, then who? There’s only one answer to that.”

“Isn’t the obvious often the answer?”

“You were, and still are, the most obvious answer, Monsieur Lauzon,” said Gamache, turning to look at him. “All evidence points to you. It’s a firehose of damnation.”

Lauzon laughed at that last word. “Are you still offering me salvation?”

“ Non. I’m not the one who damned you. I’m not the one who can save you. But I am the one offering you a path forward. You’ve been convicted of leading a terrorist plot to murder tens of thousands. You’ve been convicted of ordering the killing of Charles Langlois.” Armand faced the only person in the world he actually, actively hated. “If you really aren’t guilty of all those things, why won’t you save yourself? All you have to do is tell me who is really behind all this. You know.”

Even at his trial, while protesting his innocence but putting up a feeble defense, Lauzon had refused to say who, if not him, was behind the terrorist plot.

Lauzon’s eyes were still closed, his face turned away from Gamache. “But I’ve told you.”

Gamache shook his head in frustration. There was only one answer to Lauzon’s question. What was worse than not getting what you most want?

Losing what you had.

In this case, tasting power, holding it. Finally possessing it. Wielding it.

Then having it taken away. Or facing that possibility.

Who held the most power in the nation? And therefore had the most to lose?

The Prime Minister of Canada.

Marcus Lauzon had all but named James Woodford as the Black Wolf.

Raised in poverty, working menial jobs to support a mentally unstable single mother and two siblings, Woodford had left school early and grown into an angry, disenfranchised young man. To escape the grinding poverty, he’d enlisted, rising through the ranks, getting an education, becoming an officer. Leading troops in conflict and peacekeeping, which had proved much more difficult than war.

Once a civilian again, he’d found an outlet for his skills in community organizing, which led, naturally, to politics. All this was widely known.

Smart, inspirational, charismatic. A natural leader. Woodford spoke perfect French and English and was, by his own admission, left of center in a party that itself leaned left.

Elected on a platform of social justice, of human rights and reform, promising to increase environmental protection and refugee targets, to bring big industry to heel, he’d shot up the ladder, quickly surpassing more seasoned colleagues.

Including Marcus Lauzon.

When they stood side by side, Lauzon looked sallow, shifty, old. The poster boy for a decaying establishment.

Woodford had won the party leadership in a landslide that had effectively, and permanently, buried Lauzon’s chances of getting the top job. Though not, it seemed, his ambitions.

There was one other thing Prime Minister Woodford was. An accomplished strategist. Something he learned on the backstreets of Montréal and honed as a peacekeeper. He was certainly canny enough to give his scheming Deputy PM the job hitting those net-zero environmental targets, while also making him head of the committee assigned to oversee international investments.

Prime Minister Woodford had, in effect, placed Marcus Lauzon not just on a hot seat, but on a political electric chair.

“Woodford isn’t behind the plots,” said Gamache.

“How do you know?” Lauzon’s eyes were closed, his face turned toward the setting sun.

“Because he has all the power he needs. Not just the support of his party, but the overwhelming support of the electorate. His approval numbers remain the highest of any Prime Minister in a generation. Of all the politicians in Canada, he’s the least likely to enter into a devil’s bargain. His power is not threatened, and there’s no more to be had.”

“Are you so sure?” Lauzon opened his eyes and locked onto Armand’s. The village below was bathed in golden light, precious for being the last of the day. In this light, the former Deputy PM’s face looked almost angelic.

It was fleeting.

After a long moment, as the shadows reached toward them, Gamache asked, “What do you know?”

“I know what you’ve missed. I know that there’re no boundaries when it comes to greed. To those addicted to power, there are no borders. There’s always more to grab. There are new territories, new worlds, to conquer. Look at the Caesars. Alexander. Look at Genghis Khan. Napoleon. Look at Hitler and Putin. Wolves know no boundaries, respect no borders.”

Lauzon’s stare was so intense, Armand could feel cold creeping over him, and though he knew it was almost certainly the approaching night, he sensed it was far more than that.

Between the motion / And the act / Falls the Shadow.

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying, you’re just refusing to hear it.”

Behind them Beauvoir and Tardiff exchanged glances. They too had heard the accusation against Prime Minister Woodford. Jean-Guy did not believe it. He knew this was more misdirection by a man desperate to throw blame elsewhere. And crafty enough to make them beg for the lie.

It was, at least, a relief to see that Gamache clearly did not believe Lauzon either. And he was, with luck, beginning to see what was all too obvious. That the man greedily grabbing the last of the light was the Black Wolf.

“You’re saying that Prime Minister Woodford is planning to, what? Make himself into a dictator? Rule Canada as a despot?”

“Isn’t that what I’ve been accused of wanting to do? Why me and not him?”

“Because he’s a decent man?” said Gamache.

Behind them there was a small snort of amusement. Lauzon turned and glared, unsure if it was Beauvoir or Tardiff. Then turned back to Gamache.

“You’re thinking too small, Armand. Far too parochially.” He moved his hands to indicate more. More.

“This’s ridiculous.” Gamache stood up. “There’s no way Woodford, or any Prime Minister, could make a power grab. Even if his party would stand for it, the premiers would never allow it. Neither would the electorate. You don’t give the people enough credit.”

“You don’t give fear enough credit.”

“You’re desperate. Making up conspiracies, throwing a good man—”

“To the wolves?” said Lauzon with a smile.

“You’re wasting our time. When I invited you down here, I actually thought you might’ve been telling the truth. That you were set up. That the person behind the plots is still out there and active. But now I see I was wrong. Get up. You’re going back. And this time not into solitary.”

They all knew what that meant. Gamache might as well have pulled out a gun and shot Lauzon between those steady eyes.

The former politician paled, though it might’ve just been the dying of the light. Getting to his feet, Lauzon stepped toward Gamache but stumbled over a rock. Instinctively Gamache reached out and grabbed him to keep him from falling. As he did, Lauzon whispered directly into his ear, “FEDS.”

Armand righted the man, but before he let him go, he said, quietly, “What does that mean?”

But instead of answering, Lauzon simply straightened his clothing and said, audibly, “ Merci, Armand. I think you know the truth when you hear it.”

He gave Gamache a warning look.

“If it’s the truth, and you’ve apparently known it all along,” said Gamache, taking that warning onboard, “why not say something before now? Why suddenly tell us that Prime Minister Woodford is the Black Wolf?”

“Did I say that?”

Gamache turned and began walking away.

“I was waiting for you to ask, Armand,” Lauzon called after him, a very slight whiff of desperation in his voice.

It was such an extraordinary thing to say, such an unlikely thing to say, that it arrested Armand. He turned and for a moment the two men, the two combatants, stared at each other.

“Why me?”

“Because you hate me, and with reason. Just as I hate you, with reason. Still, in the face of all my attacks, you wouldn’t yield. You held your ground. You’re the only one I can trust with the information. To do what’s necessary. To not yield.”

It was, Armand and Jean-Guy both knew, exactly the same reasoning Jeanne Caron had given for approaching Gamache about the poisoning plot.

It proved true then. Could this also be true? Could this rancid man be telling the truth about the Prime Minister?

“Why the code ‘Black Wolf’?” asked Lauzon. “What’s it supposed to mean?”

Gamache considered not telling him, but thought it would be interesting to see Lauzon’s reaction to the story.

“It’s an old Cree legend about a chief who had two wolves fighting inside him, tearing him apart. The grey wolf wanted the chief to be compassionate, to lead with fairness and be forgiving of his enemies. To strive for peace. For reconciliation. The other, the black wolf, warned him that he’d lose everything, would be slaughtered, if he did that. It would be weakness. He needed to make examples of his enemies, to exact revenge. To make examples of anyone who crossed, who even questioned him. To forgive nothing. To be brutal and rule with terror.”

Armand stared at Lauzon, who seemed to have lost interest. It was Evelyn Tardiff who spoke, quietly asking Beauvoir, “Which one won?”

When he was silent, she answered it herself. “The black wolf.”

“Not necessarily.” Lauzon was listening after all. “It’s not over yet, is it. No one has won. Yet.”

At the car, the cuffs were put back on Lauzon, and Armand held the back door open.

“ Merci. ” He held Armand’s eyes, and in them he still saw kindness. And knew who he was actually seeing. “Maybe this meeting did serve its purpose. I wonder if salvation is possible.”

“That wasn’t the purpose of the meeting.”

“Are you so sure? What other purpose could there possibly be? If not for me, then maybe for you.”

Before getting into the vehicle that would return him to prison, Marcus Lauzon had stopped to look around, buying precious moments of freedom. Though he knew, as did Armand, that no one was completely free. There were always limits.

The former Deputy Prime Minister, the second most powerful man in the nation, stared at the modest homes and shops of Three Pines; then his gaze went further.

“We’re very close to the United States here, aren’t we? We could probably walk right across. And vice versa.”

Just as the door was swinging shut, he said, “The one that’s fed. That’s the wolf that wins, isn’t it.”

And then the door closed, and automatically locked. He was on his way back to prison, and Armand was on his way back home.

“You mentioned social media.”

“Did I?”

“You know you did, Ruth,” said Reine-Marie. The three of them, including Rosa, were in the church basement. “You said we obviously hadn’t seen the posts. What posts?”

“About Canada invading the States.”

“Yes, you said the people of Jericho were afraid that would happen. Back in 1812, I’m assuming. You read that on some site on American-Canadian history?”

Reine-Marie, as a librarian but especially from her work in the Archives nationales du Québec, was very aware of that history. The two nations had not always been close allies. That was fairly recent. Most of the relationship in the early years had been acrimonious at best, often combative. And much of the fighting had been along the Québec-Vermont border.

In fact, Three Pines was created as a place of refuge for those Americans fleeing the fighting.

That was a long time ago.

“No,” said Ruth. “These people who are posting have no idea of the history, and probably don’t care about the past any more than they care about facts.”

“What do they care about?”

“Hard to tell. Most are shit disturbers.”

“Your people,” said Reine-Marie and expected to hear the elderly poet cackle. But there was silence.

“No. There’s crazy and then there’s crazy. These people are crazy.”

“Then why are you reading it?”

“Because if you pile up enough shit and leave it long enough, it has a way of combusting. And then you’re in trouble.”

Reine-Marie wanted to get away from that analogy. “What’re they saying?”

“Among other things, that during the pandemic Canada sent infected vaccines to the US that, when triggered, will turn the person into a zombie—”

“Oh, come on.” Reine-Marie laughed. “No one would believe that.”

“There are millions who believe the vaccines contained tracking devices.”

“Still, that’s pretty marginal stuff. And to what end? Why would we want zombies on our doorstep?”

“To finish what was started.”

“And that is?” Even as she asked it, she regretted the question. The answer would be crazy, and they had more important things to talk about.

The overhead florescent lights not only illuminated the map on the wall, they made both women look sallow.

“Canada’s plan to attack the US.”

“Of course. Our long-range plan, begun on July 5, 1776.” Reine-Marie actually snorted with laughter. “Even you can’t believe that.”

“I didn’t say I believe it. Of course I don’t. But many do. You should look at the site. And there are more like it appearing every day, the shit is spreading, not helped by AI and fabricated ‘evidence.’”

They were back there. In the merde .

“I have better things to do than listen to this nonsense, and honestly, Ruth, I’d have thought you’d have better things to do than read it.”

She stepped closer to the map Charles Langlois had marked up and hidden and that was now tacked to the wall of the church basement. A pretty good hiding place too since few entered the church and fewer still went into the basement. Those who did would not look twice at a tattered map of the province.

Churches and maps had one thing in common. Both were becoming obsolete.

After a moment, Reine-Marie turned back to Ruth, bothered, despite herself, by what she’d heard. Mostly bothered that Ruth felt it was important enough to mention.

“Who’s going to believe that nonsense? Just a few marginal people. Why are you talking about it?”

“And why are you so upset?” Ruth glared at her. “I know why. It’s because you’re an archivist, which makes you an historian. Which means you are very aware of what’s happened in the past. The power of words. All wars start with words. All conflicts start with early warnings that are ignored.” She glared at Reine-Marie before continuing. “What happened on Kristallnacht to the Jews? What happened on St. Bartholomew’s Day in Paris to the Protestants? What happened to the Tutsis in Rwanda? What happened to wisewomen, healers, in the witch hunts? Ask yourself, how did that happen? How did perfectly peaceful people come in for slaughter? How did perfectly reasonable people a short time earlier take part in those atrocities?”

“Wait a minute. You’ve just gone from a marginal internet site to war and slaughter? Come on.”

“What was in your canvas shopping bag two days ago at the market?”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you choose what to buy? Past experience, yes, but originally? It’s advertising, and what’s that? Propaganda, often spread through word of mouth. Someone you know tells you it’s good. This’s no different. How did hundreds of millions of people believe Iraq was behind the 9/11 attacks when it patently was not? How did millions believe a perfectly legitimate election was stolen and almost cause a coup? The power of persuasion. And few places are more persuasive, more influential, than the internet. Social media. Eventually a critical mass is hit. A tipping point. Shit catches fire.”

Reine-Marie held up her hand. “Enough. You’re not saying that people actually believe Canada is on the verge of invading the US. And has a chance of winning? It’s ludicrous.”

“The ludicrous happens every day. The unthinkable is made real not through rational thought, but feelings. We’ll follow a charismatic leader if they tell us that we have a legitimate grievance. That they’ll give us back our dignity. Our threatened way of life. If we follow them, our enemies will be vanquished and we will be heroes. Who doesn’t want to be part of something bigger than ourselves? Who doesn’t want to be a hero? Even if it’s all fabricated. When was the last time you read Animal Farm ?”

“Never.”

“What? Not even at school?” Reine-Marie could see she’d slipped a rung, or ten, in the elderly poet’s estimation.

“Right, and did you read La Peau de chagrin , by Balzac, or L’Étranger , by Camus, in school?”

“No, but I did later.” Ruth closed her eyes and quoted, “ I often thought that if I had had to live in the trunk of a dead tree, little by little I would have gotten used to it. ” Then she looked straight at Reine-Marie. “We can normalize anything. Surely that much is obvious.”

Then, in an instant, Ruth’s face broke into a smile. “ Désolée. I didn’t mean to upset you. You’re probably right. We have more important things to do.” She pointed to the wall, and with that a delicate peace was restored.

Both turned to study the map. Still, it worried Reine-Marie that Ruth had given up so easily.

“We don’t know that the line Charles drew was straight,” said Ruth. “It could go anywhere from here. Down into Vermont, yes, but from there? It could veer into Connecticut. Or head over here, into Upstate New York.”

She pointed to the perforated line Charles Langlois had drawn across the Québec-Vermont border. “It could also be completely meaningless.”

“You don’t believe that,” said Reine-Marie. “Nothing on this map is meaningless. And we do know where it’s going. Not down into New England but up into Québec. What we don’t know is where it starts.”

Before they left, Reine-Marie peered out the door of the church to make sure the vehicles were gone.

Sure enough, no more Lauzon. Even Evelyn Tardiff’s car was gone.

As they separated on the village green, Ruth said, “Remember, Napoleon is always right. ”

Even for Ruth it was cryptic.