The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 8

Vivienne LaPierre held the litmus paper up against the sky. The color matched the fading blue to the east.

“Anything?” called Isabelle from the clearing where she was setting up their tent. When there was silence, she looked over. “Vivienne?”

It was a perfect early evening. Any breeze had disappeared, as often happened as the sun began to set. The air and water became perfectly still except where the biologist had dipped another vial into the shallows. This time, instead of the litmus paper, she brought out an eyedropper with solution.

“What is it?” asked Isabelle. “Did you find something?”

“I’m not sure.”

Though her fingers were numb from the frigid water, she continued to work, trembling slightly as she tried to squeeze liquid from the dropper into the small tube. She missed a couple of times before finally getting a few drops in.

After some moments the testing agent reacted, and the water changed color. Vivienne sat back on her haunches. “It seems to be at acceptable levels, but borderline.”

“Levels of what?”

Isabelle had just noticed the shifting colors of the evening sky, undulating shades of soft pink, reflected in the mirror-calm lake.

Red sky at night , she automatically thought. Sailor’s delight .

It wasn’t quite red, nor was it quite night. It was more like late afternoon, but the sun was going down earlier and earlier, especially there in the north. While the sun would still be up in Three Pines, here the light was already fading.

Two birds flew over the water, their wingtips just touching the surface, and far offshore Isabelle heard a plop as a fish leaped for an insect.

Vivienne showed Isabelle the litmus paper and the second vial. “In a healthy, pristine freshwater lake these would stay purple and the pH level should be at seven. This lake is at nine point five, perhaps ten.”

“Which means?”

“Something’s caused an increase in alkaline. Not dangerous.” She looked around. “At least not yet. Still looks like a healthy ecosystem. Of course that’s how it happens.”

Almost afraid to ask, Isabelle did anyway. “What happens?”

“The sudden collapse. A system looks just fine, and then, almost overnight…”

“But we’re not there yet.” Isabelle tried to keep her voice neutral, though even she could hear the disquiet. She looked past the biologist, across the water to the far shore.

“I don’t think so. But the lake is more out of balance than I’d have expected this far north. If it continues…” Vivienne pondered, then spoke almost to herself: “If anything, I’d have expected this”—she looked down at her tests—“to either stay the same or turn pink.”

“Why? What would that mean?”

“Acid rain. We know most lakes are at least slightly affected by it. But this shows the opposite.”

“What could be causing it?”

Now Vivienne spoke to herself. “I don’t know how enough of it could get into this lake.”

“Enough of what?”

“Phosphorous could upset the balance, raise the pH. Or maybe potassium. But still…”

“And this is a big lake,” said Isabelle. “It would take a lot to affect it. Are you worried?”

“Worried? No, not really. Perplexed.”

While Isabelle lit the fire, Vivienne retreated to their small tent, emerging a minute or so later wearing a tuque and gloves. And carrying a nice Pinot Noir and two tumblers.

“Please tell me you remembered the corkscrew,” said Isabelle.

“I did.” She fished it out of her coat pocket. “Only forgot it once.” She poured them both liberal quantities. “Fortunately, I know how to open a wine bottle without one.”

“You unscrew the top?” Isabelle heard Vivienne’s full-throated laugh.

“ Non. A cork. I’ll show you sometime.”

“When needs must…,” said Isabelle, tipping her tumbler toward Vivienne.

“… the devil drives.” Vivienne touched the plastic cups and finished the old saying. The second half of which Lacoste had never heard.

They sat quietly on the stones warmed by the fire. Embers drifted lazily into the darkening sky before dying and landing in the lake. They’d been careful to build their fire by the shore and not risk a forest fire. There had been more than enough of those.

The two women watched the sunset, drank red wine, and huddled close to the crackling campfire on the shores of the remote lake, their faces illuminated by the burning logs.

“Are you okay?”

Armand and Reine-Marie were at the basement door. He’d taken both her hands in his and could feel her tremble. It wasn’t from the cold, it was barely contained rage.

She nodded and looked behind him at the woman standing beside the map. It was all she could do not to scream at her.

For her part, Jeanne Caron was smart enough to just say, “I am sorry, Madame Gamache, for what I did. But I won’t ask forgiveness.”

Then she accepted the cookie and mug of tea Reine-Marie held out to her. Almost as though Daniel’s mother were offering her a wafer and chalice. If Jeanne Caron noticed that Madame Gamache’s hands shook, she didn’t show it.

Now Armand and Reine-Marie stood at the exit. He stroked her hands with his thumb.

Reine-Marie brought her gaze back to her husband’s face. She could not imagine, though she’d tried, what those minutes that must’ve felt like hours and nanoseconds were like as he’d knelt on the floor, waiting to be killed. And then to be saved. By this woman. By that woman.

How that moment must have bonded them, bound them. In some strange connection.

“Are you sure about her, Armand?”

He smiled. “She didn’t have to do what she did. Do I think she’s suddenly an exemplary human? No. I know her for what she is. But we also need her.”

“When needs must?” Reine-Marie kissed him on the lips and left.

He watched her walk down the hill toward Myrna’s bookshop. One of Reine-Marie’s many havens.

Once there she helped Myrna shelve the latest consignment of used books, picking out a few for herself. Reine-Marie suspected they were ones she and Armand had donated to the library sale. And would again. And buy them again. The life cycle of a book.

Armand turned back to the room and Jeanne Caron.

When needs must, the devil drives …

“You have an extraordinary wife, Armand.”

“ Oui ,” he said, though the less time Caron spent thinking about his family, the better. He needed this woman. He was grateful to her for saving his life. But he did not like her.

And he suspected it was mutual.

“Okay, out with it. Why did you bring me down here? Why do you think there’s more going on? Not because of some numbers on an old map, and the fact my shit of an assistant has run away and is probably making piña coladas for tourists in Saint Lucia.”

“Do you know the code we used to describe the poisoning plot?” Armand asked.

“The Grey Wolf and the Black Wolf. Oui ,” said Jeanne Caron.

“Well, the Grey Wolf is dead. And I’m afraid the Black Wolf is still out there.”

That was met with stony silence.

Finally, her voice patient, kindly even, she said, “He’s in Archambault, Armand. Your testimony helped put him there.”

“I don’t think so.”

Caron’s expressive face changed again. She was no longer amused. And no longer sympathetic. “What’re you saying?”

“Isn’t it clear? I’m saying that I don’t think Marcus Lauzon is the Black Wolf.”

“Are you sick? You’re certainly delusional. He’s been tried and convicted. You yourself made sure of that.”

“I’m not saying he’s innocent.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That it’s possible he’s not guilty of this particular crime. It’s possible he was a pawn in the poisoning plot.”

Now it was Beauvoir’s turn to stare at Gamache. It was the first he’d heard of this. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Though he remained silent.

Caron did not. “Why in the world would you suddenly think that?”

“Has it occurred to you that the evidence against him, once we began to look, was too perfect. Too much? It was an avalanche of damnation.”

“Are you kidding me?” Her voice had risen in disbelief. “You’re worried about too much evidence? I was the one who helped you find it. I can guarantee you it’s real.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know the man. I know his handwriting. I know his methods and his thinking. I know what propels him. What the fuck are you thinking? Wait a minute. You haven’t been reading that crazy conspiracy shit.”

“You’ve seen it?” said Beauvoir.

“Of course I’ve seen it. People keep sending me links. Like I want to see it. So far the posts are all in the fetid swamp of the internet, those marginal sites. But they’re seeping out.” She looked at the two officers. “You can’t tell me you believe that crap. That Lauzon’s been railroaded, is some sort of martyr for the people.”

“Is it so unbelievable?” asked Gamache.

“Yes, yes, it is. In the same posts they say the poisoning plot never happened. Do you believe that too?”

Now Gamache smiled. “No. We all know the truth.”

“So, one statement is true, the other a lie?”

“Isn’t that the best way to misdirect? To hide the lie inside a truth?”

Her eyes were wide, certain she was in a basement with at least one lunatic. And his apprentice.

“The trail back to Lauzon is just too direct,” said Armand. “It’s like a superhighway of damning evidence. Is he really that stupid?”

Beauvoir was looking from one to the other, barely believing the conversation had taken this turn.

“Listen, I worked for the guy for decades, since his first election to town council. He’s not stupid, but he’s driven by ego and insecurity, and a need to prove something to the world. Which makes him unpredictable at times. It was my job to keep the guardrails up.”

“The lane was pretty wide,” said Beauvoir.

“The guardrails were to keep other people out,” she said, glaring at him. “To keep him safe. Marcus Lauzon is, in many ways, quite extraordinary. A real tactician. Smart, he sees many steps ahead. He just doesn’t always choose the best way to get there.”

That did not sound like much of a tactician to Gamache. Surely the best way forward was an integral part of tactics.

“That’s where you came in,” said Beauvoir.

She ignored him. “He has something very rare in my experience. A well-honed animal instinct. He can always find the weak spot. He can smell fear.”

Beauvoir knew that to be true.

“Do you mean a killer instinct?” Armand asked.

“Of sorts. He will go for the jugular.” Too late she remembered whose jugular Lauzon had gripped. Daniel Gamache’s.

Jean-Guy saw the color rise so quickly in Armand’s face he feared the man might pass out. But he stood stock-still, fighting to regain control. He needed Caron. But Daniel’s father had clearly not forgiven her.

Beauvoir remained silent but watchful, in case that rage broke free. As a father now, he completely understood. What wouldn’t he do to someone who’d tried to kill Honoré and little Idola? He suspected his own restraints would be breached in no time.

Standing close to Armand, he saw something Caron probably could not. His lips were moving very, very slightly. In prayer? Armand was repeating some phrase that was helping to keep him from lashing out.

“The current Prime Minister is young and popular,” said Caron. “Marcus Lauzon is neither. People admired, even respected, him, but they did not like him. A successful politician must be liked. He knew he’d never get to the top job legitimately.”

“And so he planned to wipe out hundreds of thousands of his own citizens?” asked Gamache, having regained control of himself.

“Well, someone did,” she said. “Why not a man driven mad by insecurity and thwarted ambition?

“All those damning documents you found,” said Beauvoir. “His trips to Sainte-Émiline. His links with the Moretti family. His accepting bribes to sell off Canada’s resources and allow clear-cut catastrophic pollution—”

“But he actually did all those things,” said Caron, trying to make them see reason.

“Did he? All of that could be faked.” Beauvoir was beginning to see Gamache’s reasoning. “Or at least planted.”

Caron’s eyes widened. She looked at Gamache, who was peering at her closely.

“Frederick Castonguay?” She said it slowly, enunciating clearly so he could not mistake what she said. “That’s what you’re thinking?”

Gamache nodded. “ Oui. It’s a possibility. He had access not just to your computer and office and files, but Lauzon’s.”

“You think he planted the evidence? Wait.” She put up her hand and studied the large, quiet man in front of her. “You think my assistant was, is, behind whatever is happening?”

“Not necessarily. But I do think he knows who it is. Is, in fact, working for him. Or her.”

His last words seemed lost on Jeanne Caron as she put down her mug of tea and stared at the map, then turned back to the two senior officers.

“So what’s this all about? What’s going to happen?”

“We don’t know,” admitted Gamache.

Caron looked at her phone. “It’s getting late. If you don’t have anything else you need from me, I’ll head home.”

“You’ll keep this to yourself,” said Gamache as they walked to the door.

“You really think I want a butterfly net over my head? Believe me, this is going no further. But you’ll keep me posted?”

“ Oui. Let us know if Castonguay gets in touch.”

“I will. You think he’s either dead or the one in charge. Seems quite a difference.”

“And we’re either brilliant or crazy,” said Gamache.

Caron stared at him, not expecting humor. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure you’ve lost your minds.” She looked around. “I need a bathroom.”

While she was away, Armand turned to Jean-Guy and whispered, “I need to speak to Marcus Lauzon. We’ll invite him to Sunday lunch.”

“You are crazy. Who’s going to tell Reine-Marie?”

“I’ll give you five dollars to do it.”

“Not even for ten.” He glanced at the bathroom door, still closed. “What were you saying?”

Armand raised his brows. “What do you mean? I thought I was the one with the hearing problem.”

“No, I mean when Caron talked about…” Jean-Guy didn’t want to bring it up again, so he ended up just waving his hand. “You know.”

“Daniel.”

“ Oui. You were repeating something to yourself. What was it?”

Armand paused and lowered his eyes to the worn linoleum floor before raising them again. “Do you remember the Vaslov case?”

“Of course. The girl murdered by her classmates for being transgender.”

It had been a horrific crime. A hate crime by a gang of teenagers. It was a shock, and a wake-up.

Armand and Isabelle had spent a lot of time with Katie’s parents. Trying to answer questions. Preparing them for the onslaught of press, and the court cases. And the online bile and hate. Aimed, incredibly, at their daughter, and them.

“Her parents are staunch Christians. Born-again. They couldn’t accept Katie as transgender. After she was killed, they went to the trial every day, then in the evenings they volunteered at the LGBTQIA+ help line.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“ Non. Not many do. They wanted to turn their ignorance into understanding. To help others like Katie. To help other parents, like themselves. To turn hate into love.”

“So that was what you were repeating? ‘Hate into love.’”

“ Non. I was saying, ‘Katie Vaslov. Katie Vaslov.’ It’s what I always say when tempted to put more hate into the world.”

“Is there no one you hate?”

Again, the smile, though now without the tinge of sadness. “I wouldn’t say that. If you took the last éclair…”

“I would never dare, patron . Now, off to let Reine-Marie know who else is coming for Sunday lunch.” Jean-Guy motioned to the door. “You first.”