Page 160

“I need a clear head,” Evelyn rasped, wondering if her voice would ever stop sounding like Fats Waller. Her whole body ached. The wounds on her neck, where the rope had torn her skin, stung, but they also acted as a welcome counterirritant, to take her mind off her throbbing head.

But she was alive. Alive. Alive …

As the three of them rejoined the others, they heard Reine-Marie say to Jean-Guy, “You really think they’ll be okay?”

“I do. The RCMP officer pulled back at the last moment. She made it look worse than it is. And with the video out for everyone to see, there’s no way Woodford can do anything more.”

What worried him, and obviously worried the others, was that by now this video was an hour old. Who knew what had happened on Parliament Hill in the meantime.

What was happening now.

In the background the television was providing updates from Washington. The President was safe. A Chief Petty Officer was being questioned, but it appeared the assassins were dead.

There was no word on General Whitehead’s condition.

The National Guard had taken control of the capital, and a state of emergency existed. Rumors were rife that this was the first of a series of planned attacks, hitting at the very heart of American democracy.

The rhetoric was ramping up, even from seasoned reporters and anchors.

Myrna switched to a Canadian station, where there was a shot of Parliament Hill, while commentators analyzed what had been posted on Paul Workman’s site.

“Look.” Clara showed them a feed from a popular social media site. The video had been changed, edited to make it appear Gamache and Lacoste were attacking the PM and the guards were simply defending him.

“No one will believe it,” Beauvoir said. “The original is out there. What is it?”

“They’re saying that the first video is doctored,” said Clara, “and that this is what really happened.”

The edited video from Ottawa was beginning to appear on the major networks in Canada and the US, with analysts now saying that the new video made more sense.

“More sense?” demanded Myrna. “To who?”

There was a tinge of hysteria in the air, the airwaves, now.

“They’re beating plowshares into swords,” said Ruth. “What’s happening to the world? I don’t understand.”

“Believe me now?” said Marcus Lauzon. “There’s your wolf.”

Frozen on the laptop screen was the face of Prime Minister Woodford, distorted. A wild creature unmasked.

The alarm had been sounded.

Not a siren. This was an alert sent only to the men and women guarding Parliament and its perimeter. The three detainees had escaped and needed to be found.

Two of them had left the building and were at large. One was almost certainly still in Parliament. All efforts needed to be focused on recapturing him. There was reason to believe Chief Inspector Gamache was armed and planned to harm the PM.

He should be considered dangerous and stopped at all costs.

Armand pressed himself against the wall, squeezing his large body between two tall filing cabinets. The stomp of boots on concrete was getting closer. Closer.

He held his breath. All senses heightened, tingling.

And then the guards were upon him. He tensed, prepared. Then they raced right by. He waited a few moments, exhaled, and continued on.

He had no idea where he was going.

He’d taken the back stairs down, down, figuring they would lead into some warren of a basement. Which they did.

As he’d led the guards away, he’d searched his memory for anything he knew about the layout of Parliament. Despite what he’d told Isabelle, he actually had very little knowledge of the building beyond what he’d seen over the years when coming to meetings.