The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 15

Isabelle placed a photograph on the worn pine table in front of the open fire.

Both Armand and Jean-Guy leaned forward.

She’d arrived down in Three Pines at about the same time Beauvoir returned from driving Lauzon back to the penitentiary. Chief Inspector Gamache had called ahead and asked that the inmate be placed, once again, in protective custody.

The three now sat on the sofa and comfortable armchairs, warming themselves by the hearth. The bistro was never more inviting than on a cold night as winter approached. The open fires on both ends of the intimate room were lit, sending the subtle scent of maple woodsmoke to join the aroma of rich coffee and coq au vin and boeuf bourguignon and fresh baguette.

Into that pleasant atmosphere Isabelle told her colleagues about breaking the news of Frederick’s murder to his parents. One of the worst parts was that she could not leave them to their grief. She needed information.

“He texted a number of weeks ago to say he was going away for a while. When the news broke about Marcus Lauzon, they understood why, but didn’t understand why he hadn’t been in touch since.”

“So his message to them was before Lauzon was arrested?” Beauvoir asked.

Putting his Coke down, he spread a thick smear of pâté on a slice of baguette and popped the entire thing in his mouth.

“He sent it the night it all came to a head at the church,” she said, and glanced out the window toward St. Thomas’s. “And the water-treatment plant.”

“When he drove Jeanne Caron from here into Montréal and left her there,” said Beauvoir, after managing to swallow. “His family hasn’t heard from him since?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well, that’s what they told me, and I don’t think they’re lying.”

“Do we know when he was killed?” asked Gamache.

“Dr. Harris hasn’t reported yet. I called again and left a message, stressing that we need to know not just when but also where. It seems obvious it must be where he was buried, but we need it confirmed.”

“His killers couldn’t have snuck up on him,” said Beauvoir. “You can only get to that lake by float plane. He’d have heard and seen them arrive. I think they must’ve flown up together.”

“That’s what I think,” said Isabelle. “It’s possible he was kidnapped and taken up there, but if the purpose was to kill him, why not just do it in the Montréal landfill, like they normally do? No, I think he knew and trusted his killers. And if they were mob, he must’ve also been working with Moretti.”

“Do you have that last message he sent his family?” Gamache asked.

After those tense hours with Lauzon, he was finally able to relax. He’d been watching Jean-Guy demolish the cheese and pâté. It was oddly compelling, almost rhythmic. A famished metronome.

Now Armand took a sip of his scotch and, replacing it on the table in front of the fire, he was momentarily mesmerized by the warm amber hue and the dancing light through the cut crystal.

“The text to his…,” he said, then paused. “His what?”

“Mother. They were in almost daily contact, before—”

Before. There would now, for the Castonguays, always be a “before” and “after.”

“I have it here.” Isabelle turned her phone around for them to see.

“Who’s Lapin?” asked Armand. “He says to give her his love and to tell her not to mess with the stuff he left in the closet.”

“His youngest sister. She’s twelve. Rabbit is her nickname. She moved into his old bedroom when he left for Ottawa.”

“So they’re sure it’s from him?” Beauvoir asked. Lacoste nodded. “Why didn’t they report him missing?”

“They didn’t want to get him into trouble. If they hadn’t heard by end of this week, they were going to go to the Ottawa police.”

“Did they approach Jeanne Caron?” asked Beauvoir. “She was his boss after all.”

“I asked. They said they didn’t. I asked why not. They didn’t say it in so many words, but I got the impression they don’t like or trust her. His mother went to his apartment in Ottawa two weeks ago but found nothing.”

“She wouldn’t necessarily know what to look for,” said Jean-Guy, reaching for another slice of baguette. By now Lacoste was also staring.

“True,” she said, watching him put a slab of Brie on the bread, then a delicate dab of red pepper jelly. “I have the address and keys and permission from the Castonguays and local cops to search. I’ve sent a team.”

“ Bon ,” said Gamache.

“But I did find something.” Isabelle reached into the satchel on the floor beside her armchair. It was warmed by the fire. “After some persuasion, the girl brought out the box with the things Frederick left behind. Most of it’s junk. Old trophies. Souvenirs from concerts and family vacations. A few photographs. Including…”

That was when she placed the picture on the pine table. Its corners were curled, and there was a small puncture in the top where it had probably been pinned to a corkboard at one time.

Armand picked it up. “It’s a class photo.”

“From fourth grade,” said Jean-Guy, reading the sign at the sneakered feet of those in the first row.

He looked up at Isabelle, his brows raised in a So?

“I didn’t get it either, until I turned it over.” She did so now and handed it back to the Chief.

It took just a moment for his own brows to rise. He passed the picture to Jean-Guy.

There in the back row was nine-year-old Frederick, grinning mischievously. Unrecognizable as the arrogant young man Jean-Guy had met. Frederick’s arm was slung lazily over the shoulder of the boy next to him.

Buddies.

It was, according to the chart on the back—

“Charles Langlois,” said Armand.

“Fucking hell,” Jean-Guy whispered into the mound of Saint André cheese almost at his lips.

“As soon as I saw this, I asked the Castonguays about Langlois. They looked blank at first, but when I showed them the photo, Frederick’s mother remembered him, but not his name. The boys were best friends for a while, but there was a falling-out over something when they were still kids. But then the daughter—”

“Lapin,” said Beauvoir.

His daughter had her own nickname. When she was born, Honoré couldn’t get his mouth around “Idola” so had taken to calling her “Lala.”

Idola did not yet speak, though they had hopes that with her therapy she would one day. And maybe even, one day, be able to correct her epically lazy brother.

Most children with Down syndrome, he and Annie had learned from doctors and other parents, did eventually speak. Though the older Idola got, the less they worried or noticed. The little girl communicated clearly in every other way. Mostly through laughter.

“ Oui , Lapin,” confirmed Isabelle. “She remembered that over Sunday dinner a while ago Frederick mentioned he’d run into an old friend from school. One who wasn’t doing so well.”

“He didn’t give a name?” Beauvoir asked. Incredibly he held another piece of bread, this one with a crumbly Bleu bénédictin cheese on it.

“If he did, none of them could remember. It didn’t seem a big deal, just a passing comment.”

The class photo was back on the pine table, the flickering light of the wood fire playing over the children’s faces. Almost animating them. Armand was reminded of the stained-glass young men in the church window. Also frozen in time. Forever young.

But each year, on a precise day, as the very first rays of the sun hit the window just so, the boys appeared to move, for a moment. It was, of course, an optical illusion. One not many had witnessed. But Armand had.

He’d woken early that day, troubled by a homicide that he could not seem to get a handle on. He’d gone to the church, not to pray, but to commune with his thoughts.

It had been September 18 of that first year he and Reine-Marie had moved to Three Pines. A day that was no longer summer. Not yet fall.

He’d walked up to the church in darkness, past the homes with sleeping friends and new neighbors. Past the three tall pines. As he climbed the wooden steps and reached for the door of the white clapboard church, he turned and looked over the village. There was a softening of the sky just at the tree line.

As he watched, the elderly poet was making her way to the bench, to help in the birthing of a new day.

Then he went into the church. Soon he’d drive into Montréal and meet again with the parents of Katie Vaslov, the young girl who’d been killed. He’d listen to their pain. He’d absorb, again, their sorrow. Their rage, now directed at him. And he’d have to admit he and his team were still searching for her killer. He’d reassure them he would find whoever had done it. However long it took.

But for that moment he’d sat in the pew beneath the boys and closed his eyes. Hoping for clarity. Hoping to see what had so far eluded him.

A movement, a slight shimmering of light across his lids, made him open his eyes. The blues and greens and bright brittle reds were undulating across the polished wood, moving toward him. And when the light reached him, it rested warm and bright on his hands. As though holding them.

He looked up and could have sworn the boys were watching him. Just for an instant. And then they’d frozen again.

It was then that he’d read the plaque. Learned their names. Learned they were brothers who’d died on the same day in the infamous slaughter of the Somme.

They’d perished on September 18, 1916. Three among twenty-four thousand Canadians who were killed in that one battle. A number hauntingly imprecise.

He’d gone back the next morning, just before dawn, but it didn’t happen again until the next year, on September 18.

Armand was there. To greet them. Each and every September 18 since.

He thought of that now as he looked at the school photo. Here were two more dead boys. But unlike the stained-glass brothers, there was no fear in these faces. No indication they knew their lives would be limited. Their fates intertwined.

Where little Frederick looked like the class cutup, young Charles looked almost painfully earnest.

It was, Armand knew, often the way. His own best friend growing up, Michel, had been the class clown, clever but a mischief-maker. He loved to get the uber-earnest little Armand into all sorts of trouble.

Sitting in the bistro, between Jean-Guy and Isabelle, Armand smiled and chose not to pull up the memory of what happened later in their lives.

But another memory floated into his mind. Of Frederick Castonguay in the nest of green garbage bags.

“We were wondering how Castonguay knew about the lake. Charles must’ve been the old friend—” Gamache stopped and looked at Isabelle, his eyes widening. “The homeless shelter, The Mission. That’s where they must’ve met up. When Charles was either a resident there or volunteering, and Frederick was on an official visit with Jeanne Caron.”

“I think so,” said Lacoste, not able to hide her excitement. “I’ve asked them to bring up the security tapes, to see if I can find the two together.”

Armand nodded approval. “ Bon. Bon. ”

“Frederick must’ve introduced him to Jeanne Caron, who saw that, as a biologist, Charles could be helpful,” said Jean-Guy.

“Right,” said Isabelle. “Caron got him to look into her suspicions about some vague plot against the drinking water. References she’d found hidden in Lauzon’s files.”

“And when Charles realized he was in danger, he must’ve told Frederick that if anything happened to him, he should go to the lake. To look there,” said Jean-Guy.

“But for what? Why tell him where to look, but not what for?” asked Gamache.

“Maybe he did. And maybe Frederick found it,” said Lacoste. “And was killed.”

“Which means whoever he was with now has it,” said Jean-Guy.

The sudden excitement had just as suddenly evaporated.

Armand gazed once more into the dancing fire. Thinking. Thinking. Did this make sense? Did it track? And if so, where did it lead?

“We don’t know that whatever Charles left behind was found,” he said. “We need to go back up to the lake. Look again. We have to be sure, one way or another.”

“Do you think it’s the laptop?” asked Isabelle. When Gamache gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, she added, “I’ll head back first thing in the morning.”

“ Bon. ”

“How did it go with Lauzon?” she asked.

She listened, not interrupting until the end. Only then did she ask, “Do you believe him, patron ? About the Prime Minister?”

It was obvious that she did not.

“I think since Lauzon can’t actually murder the Prime Minister, he’s doing the next best thing.”

“Character assassination,” said Jean-Guy. It was his read as well.

“There is one more thing,” said Armand. “You remember when he tripped over that rock—”

“And you caught him, oui ,” said Jean-Guy.

“I don’t think he actually stumbled. I think he did it on purpose.”

“Why?” asked Lacoste.

“To whisper something to me. He said, ‘Feds.’”

“What does that mean?” asked Lacoste.

Armand raised his hands to indicate he didn’t know. “But this’s the second time it’s been mentioned today. Shona Dorion ran into references to ‘FEDS’ as well.”

“It must mean the federal government,” said Isabelle.

“Or when people say ‘the Fed,’ don’t they mean the Federal Reserve in the States?” said Beauvoir.

“Or the FBI,” said Isabelle. “The Feds.”

“But it’s not ‘ the Feds,’” said Armand. “Both Shona and Lauzon said simply ‘Feds.’ And Shona said it was in all caps.”

“An acronym.” Beauvoir brought out his phone to look it up. “Nope, nothing. Why…?” he began, then stopped. They gave him the space and time he needed to marshal his thoughts.

Just then Ruth arrived, but at a look from Isabelle she veered off to the bar.

“Why,” Jean-Guy began again, “would he need to whisper?”

Gamache had been wondering the same thing. Why not just say it out loud?

There was only one answer.

“He didn’t want Chief Inspector Tardiff to hear,” said Beauvoir.

“But why not?” asked Lacoste.

“He doesn’t trust her,” said Beauvoir. “Between us? I know she’s a friend and a senior officer, patron , but I’m not sure I trust her either.”

“Why not?”

“Chief Inspector Tardiff’s the head of Organized Crime for the Sûreté. She had one job in the investigations. And yet Moretti was the only one who got off.”

“And isn’t she supposed to have an informant on the inside, close to him?” asked Isabelle.

“Evelyn Tardiff is the informant.”

They stared at him as though he’d just produced a camel from under the table. Something recognizable but highly unlikely.

“What?” said Jean-Guy.

“Chief Inspector Tardiff has spent years gaining the trust of Joe Moretti, getting close to him. He thinks she’s working for him. That’s how he got off on the charges. I can’t prove it, but I think she buried the evidence.”

“Why would she do that?” asked Isabelle.

“I think she knew that if Moretti was tried, never mind convicted, we’d lose that line of investigation. We’d lose the connection. Though she denies it, I think she does know that something bigger’s about to happen and needs Moretti to tell her. But now I’m worried that Moretti’s on to her. Keeping information from her. Maybe feeding her misinformation.”

“Is it possible, patron ”—now Isabelle spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully—“that Chief Inspector Tardiff has turned? Is infiltrating the Sûreté, not the Montréal mafia? She’s informing on us. Is it possible she knows what’s going to happen next and is part of it?”

“And,” said Beauvoir, hating to pile on, but needing to, “if Castonguay’s murder was an execution, a hit, then Moretti’s people were behind it. Shouldn’t she have known?”

Instead of answering, Armand picked up the class picture. He looked down at the bright-eyed boys and girls. And the two buddies in the back row.

“Was this the only class photo in Frederick’s box?”

“ Oui. ”

“Why?”

“ Pardon? ”

“Where are all the others? Why would he keep only this one? Especially if there’d been a falling-out and they hadn’t seen each other in years?”

Isabelle and Jean-Guy considered the question, then Isabelle’s eyes opened. “He got rid of them because he wanted us to focus on only this one. He wanted us to see him and Charles together and to let us know they knew each other. Were once friends—”

“Best friends,” murmured Gamache.

“And make the connection. He told his sister in his last communication to essentially guard the box.”

“He wanted to warn us, and to tell us whose side he really was on,” said Jean-Guy. “But when you first met him, patron , on Parliament Hill, when you went to confront Caron, why didn’t he say something then?”

Gamache nodded, remembering that encounter. “It’s possible he didn’t know whose side we were on. We now know there were plotters inside the Sûreté. High up. Castonguay must’ve been terrified when we showed up and pretty much kidnapped him. Put him in the car and drove him out into the country.”

He looked down at that mischievous face.

Frederick Castonguay was caught up in something far beyond his understanding. And yet he’d persevered, long after he could have just walked away and gotten on with his life. Done nothing.

Instead, he’d done something. Frederick had gone to that remote lake, almost certainly because his friend Charles had directed him there. And, like his friend, Frederick had been murdered.

Before or after he’d found what Charles had hidden?

“ Animal House ?” asked Myrna.

“ Oui , that’s what Ruth suggested. She seemed amazed I hadn’t yet read it.”

“ Animal House ?” Myrna repeated.

“Yes. Why? You seem surprised too.”

“For a whole other reason. I’m not at all surprised you haven’t read Animal House . Ruth must’ve been pulling your leg.”

“She seemed in earnest, even annoyed I didn’t know it.”

“How can you tell if Ruth’s annoyed?” Myrna picked up the phone to call the cranky old poet, but had barely hit the icon when she hung up, with a hearty laugh, having figured it out.

A minute later, after disappearing down one of the aisles of her bookshop, she reappeared and handed a slim worn volume, essentially a novella, to Reine-Marie.

“You’ve never read this? I guess when it comes to literature there really are Two Solitudes.”

Reine-Marie looked at the title and let out a roar of laughter. “Damn it, of course this’s what Ruth said. Am I blushing?”

“You are and should be.”

She paid for the used book and went into the bistro, catching Armand’s eyes but not joining them. Instead, she found a comfortable armchair, ordered a white wine, and began to read about Snowball and Boxer, Old Major and—she put it on her lap and stared out the window—Napoleon.

Then, once again, Reine-Marie picked it up and lost herself in the story of revolution and tyranny and the creation of a common enemy.

“What’re you reading?”

Reine-Marie looked over her glasses at her husband as he took the chair opposite her in the bistro.

“ Animal House .”

“ Animal House ? Are all students created equal, but some more equal than others?”

Reine-Marie, who hadn’t quite gotten that far in the book, looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

Armand laughed. “You said Animal House .”

Now she looked appalled. “Argh. I have that lodged in my brain. Animal Farm , Animal Farm . Have you read it?”

“Years ago, in Cambridge. It was a question in the debating society. ‘Are all animals created equal?’ Why’re you reading it now?”

“Ruth suggested it. We were talking about…” Reine-Marie paused to remember their conversation. It had been so wide-ranging. “Oh, I know. Propaganda. Napoleon is always right. ”

Armand nodded, recognizing another famous and chilling quote from the book.

“A tyrant posing as a strong leader, manipulating public opinion,” he said. “But why were you talking about that? When last I heard, you and the others were heading to Jericho to the Snowflake Bentley museum.”

Knowing he was preoccupied with Marcus Lauzon and Evelyn Tardiff, she hadn’t updated him. It would have been, she knew, a long email. Now she told him about their outing. Including Camp Ethan Allen.

“A commando training center?” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “And you say Charles’s line goes right through it?”

“Well, if it doesn’t turn anywhere,” she said. “It seems far-fetched. Why would a biologist be concerned about a commando camp?”

Armand shook his head.

“How was lunch?” she asked.

“Chicken was delicious, merci .”

“And the rest?”

He took a deep breath, moving his body as though to express uncertainty. Then he sat forward.

“Lauzon still maintains his innocence. Says he wasn’t involved in the poisoning plot. Even denies knowing about the payoffs. Claims the money was planted.”

“Nothing we didn’t hear in his trial. Did he say anything new? Give you any evidence?” But even as she asked, she knew this was far too public a place to discuss it.

Jean-Guy and Isabelle had both returned to Montréal and their families. Jean-Guy to have a shower and wash off the slime from too-close contact with Marcus Lauzon. Isabelle to finally have that long, hot bubble bath she’d dreamed of since the night before in that tent. On that root. She hated that root.

Armand and Reine-Marie ordered dinner at the bistro, arctic char for him with a mild orange sauce, while she ordered the pasta in herb butter, grated Romano, and lemon zest. A particular favorite.

They were eventually joined by Clara and Myrna, who both had the grilled shrimp. Ruth came over to report that there wasn’t enough roast chicken in their fridge for her dinner. They were about to order her the pasta too when Armand noticed she’d eaten half his arctic char.

Finally, Olivier and Gabri sat down with an exhausted plunk. “Dinner service is almost over. The kids can look after the rest.”

Armand looked up and saw Frère Simon helping the youngsters, even though he was off shift.

“Would you like anything more?” Gabri asked.

They all wanted the crème brûlée, but no one except Ruth had the heart to ask them to get up again. The guys ignored her, and eventually she satisfied herself by taking Myrna’s half-drunk glass of red wine.

Armand excused himself, and once back home in his study, he placed a call.

“Bert?”

“Armand, good to hear from you. How’s Reine-Marie?”

“Knitting sweaters for winter.”

It was, of course, not true. “Knitting” was the code the two old comrades had created to tell the other that what they had to say was confidential.

“Oh, someone’s at the door,” said General Whitehead. “I’ll call you back.”

He’d obviously understood, and a minute later Armand’s phone rang again. This time the head of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff had used the secure line.

“How can I help, Armand?” When he didn’t answer, the General’s tone changed. “What is it? Something’s wrong. It’s not over?”

“I don’t think so. I think the poisoning plot you helped us with was the first volley, maybe even meant to distract.”

“A Napoleonic strategy,” said Whitehead, a student of tactics.

“And Napoleon is always right .” Even as he said it, Armand was taken aback. Where had that come from? And just as quickly he remembered. His conversation with Reine-Marie about Animal Farm .

“Not always,” said the General. “In an effort to strangle the British, Napoleon brought in the Continental—” On hearing Armand clear his throat, he stopped and even chuckled. “Sorry. You didn’t call to talk about a long-dead French emperor.”

“ Non , riveting as the Continental System is. Bert, a phrase, really a single word, keeps appearing, but I don’t know what it means. What does ‘FEDS’ say to you?”

“‘Feds’? As in federal government? Or the Feds? The FBI? Or—”

“No, we thought of all that. It’s not ‘the Feds,’ just ‘FEDS.’ And seems to be in caps. Maybe an acronym.”

There was a pause. “Nope, Armand. Sorry. It means nothing to me. Please give my love to Reine-Marie. Ask her to bring her knitting pattern down next time you visit. Soon, I hope, old friend.”

“I’ll pass it along. We both know what an enthusiastic knitter you are. One of Napoleon’s hobbies too, to relieve stress, I believe.”

“Really?”

“ Non. ”

And with that, both men hung up. And both, unseen by the other, leaned back in their chairs and stared ahead.

Armand thought for a moment, then put in a call to Jean-Guy.

In Washington, Bert Whitehead was placing his own call.