Page 165

Paul Robinson had one hand resting casually on the back of Maria’s wheelchair, the other on Abigail’s shoulder. Protectively.

Three of the four people in the photograph were now dead. One apparently accidental death, one perhaps by his own hand, and one had been murdered not two days ago.

One thing Inspector Lacoste did not doubt was that everything had begun with two people not in this picture.

The tragedies had started with the mind control, the mind-boggling experiments conducted in full view at one of the continent’s great universities. By a prominent madman. And by an intern who’d go on to become one of the nation’s leading academics. A healer. A humanitarian.

And when she found among her father’s things the old letter from the Allan Memorial signed by Vincent Gilbert, Abigail Robinson knew it too. And while she couldn’t get at Cameron, she could get at Gilbert.

And had he, with one swing of his arm, attempted to rid himself of that threat?

Isabelle got up and started to pace.

Jean-Guy was at his desk, tipping back in his chair, so that its two front legs were off the concrete floor.

He balanced there, absently pulsing back and forth. Back and forth. Rocking himself and staring at his blank screen.

Why was Debbie Schneider murdered?

Why not Abigail Robinson, or the Asshole Saint? Why kill Debbie?

That must’ve been a mistake. Robinson must have been the target.

But suppose she wasn’t? Suppose Madame Schneider was the intended victim? Suppose she knew something? Saw something? Possessed something?

The only viable theory so far was that Vincent Gilbert, desperate to get back the letter proving his connection to Ewen Cameron, had killed Madame Schneider, then burned it along with the weapon.

But that didn’t make sense to Jean-Guy. There were other letters out there. They’d already found one, among Enid Horton’s things. More would probably come to light as victims died of old age and attics were cleared out.

Besides, Debbie wasn’t the only one who knew the connection. Abigail Robinson did too. She was the driving force. Killing Debbie would solve nothing.

No. Vincent Gilbert might be a little eccentric, but the man was far too smart, far too cunning, had far too great a survival instinct, to go killing someone for that reason. For essentially no reason.

If Debbie Schneider was the intended victim, it would be for a whole other reason. One they hadn’t yet thought of.

Beauvoir stood up and started to pace.

Abby Maria. Abby Maria.

The words haunted Gamache, breaking into his thoughts as he went back over the murder of Debbie Schneider.

He pushed the words away and refocused, studying what they knew. What they had.

Abby Maria. There it was again. There she was again. The little girl.

Finally, in frustration, he took off his reading glasses and admitted defeat. Getting up from his desk, he started to pace the room, his hands behind his back.

Abby Maria. Ave Maria. Hail Mary. What am I missing?

There was, he realized, one person in the case that he hadn’t fully considered. In passing, yes, but not seriously. Now it was time.

Colette Roberge.

She was the unlikely linchpin. The person around whom all this moved.

She’d known Abigail’s father well enough to be entrusted with his daughter.

She’d acted as more than a mentor, she was a surrogate parent to the girl so far from home. And had offered comfort when news of her father’s death arrived.