Page 113

But Charles Langlois’s notes and notations and drawings and maps had been written for himself, in a sort of shorthand. He’d expected he’d have time to marshal his arguments, his evidence, and make it at least understandable and maybe even convincing. But time ran out. He’d made one last trip into the wilderness. To hide his laptop. Then he’d told Frederick that if something happened to him, to go there. To find it.

But Frederick had hesitated. Waited too long, and then asked the wrong person to accompany him.

“Is your President involved?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Our Prime Minister?”

“Not that I know of.”

Armand Gamache stared at Bert Whitehead and remembered what Reine-Marie had said, about how Animal Farm ended. Eventually, inevitably, the oppressed and the oppressors become indistinguishable. If not all of the oppressed, then enough.

Was Whitehead one of them? Was this meeting and everything Whitehead said part of the plan?

Am I making the same mistake Frederick Castonguay made, trusting the wrong person? Confiding in the wrong person?

Who better to be the Black Wolf than the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the one who controlled the hounds?

Armand had a decision to make. His days were filled with them, many of them life-and-death, but never had he been faced with one with such consequences.

“We need to figure out how to stop this, Bert.”

He’d come to his decision. And he really had no choice. If what Whitehead was saying was real, and it seemed to be, he had to trust him.

And if he was the Black Wolf? Well, that die was already cast.

“Agreed. That’s what I’ve been trying to do, but the bad actors aren’t just on my side of this border, Armand.”

“Agreed. You need to speak to your President, and I need to be clearer with Prime Minister Woodford.”

While Beauvoir and Lacoste made for the exit, General Whitehead and Chief Inspector Gamache shook hands over a line that should not be crossed.

Then they parted ways.

“Damn Americans,” said Beauvoir as they drove back to Three Pines.

“Why do you say that?” asked Armand.

“You heard what General Whitehead said.” He was astonished that the Chief would question his statement. “They plan to attack us, supposedly to defend the homeland.”

“It’s already happening,” said Lacoste. “Those posts. The news reports. Those are the first shots.”

“And you don’t think Canada would do the same thing?” said Gamache. “Don’t kid yourselves. If our lives were threatened? Do you think we’d just watch our children and grandchildren die of thirst, of starvation? We’d cross the border in no time. We’d fight tooth and nail for survival.”

I’m dreamin’ of the trees in Canada, Northern Lights are dancing in my head.

If I die, then let me die in Canada, where there’s a chance I’ll die in bed.

Once home, while Isabelle and Jean-Guy joined Nichol in the study to do more digging, Armand grabbed a book from their library, then called Henri, Fred, and Gracie and took them for a walk. Reine-Marie was still in the bistro. He stood outside in the darkness and saw her in the light, talking earnestly with Clara and Myrna and Ruth. With Gabri and Olivier. He tried to guess what they were saying. To read their lips, their bodies. But he couldn’t. It was chilly, and he was about to join her, to sit by the fire with a scotch and read, but he changed his mind and, pulling his coat more tightly around him, he whistled and heard the panting behind him. Up the hill they walked in procession to the church.

Half an hour later he sensed a presence and turned. Reine-Marie was sitting at the end of the pew.

“How long have you been there?”

“Not long.” She slid over and handed him a scotch and a wedge of lemon meringue pie.

“Merci.”