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“Perfect.”
“Have fun,” said Reine-Marie. “I’m going over to Clara’s. She’s finished a new painting and invited me to see it. Her solo show’s coming up next month.”
“It’s called Just before something happens,” said Armand, and saw Isabelle nod. Something was just about to happen.
Finally.
A kilometer into the trail through the quiet woods, their thin skis in the tracks made by previous treks, they paused. Armand had unzipped his coat partway, having worked up a sweat.
“Water?” Jean-Guy offered. Snow had accumulated on his tuque, and Armand had an idea what the younger man would look like as an elderly man.
“I have my own, merci,” said the Chief, and looked around. “This way.”
Now they broke trail through the deep snow. It was hard work, and when, ten minutes later, they arrived at the hermit’s empty cabin, all three opened their thick coats and took off their hats, their hair plastered to their heads with perspiration.
Sticking their skis in a snowbank, they knocked their boots against the veranda posts and went inside.
It was cold, like a fridge. And dusty. There were cobwebs and mouse droppings. And yet, and yet, it still felt like a home. A place that had been happy once.
They sat at the wooden table, and Armand brought out the thermos of hot chocolate and three cups. Now the cold was penetrating again. He wrapped his flannel scarf around his neck and turned to Isabelle.
“What have you got?” For it had been clear since Friday, when she’d invited herself down, that she had something. But they couldn’t risk talking about it until they were definitely alone.
They’d left their phones at home and had been careful what they’d said all weekend.
Isabelle unzipped a large pocket in her parka and placed a printout on the table.
“You remember my search of Margaux Chalifoux’s home? When we first suspected something wasn’t right with Action Québec Bleu?”
“Back when this all began, last August? Yes, of course,” said Beauvoir. “You found nothing.”
“I thought there was nothing, but I was going back over my notes again and this time I spotted something. I remembered that map in her basement. The one with all the pins.”
The two men leaned forward but said nothing.
“I had the map brought to headquarters and the pins put back in. Chalifoux said they corresponded to where the various researchers had been. Each volunteer represented by a colored pin.”
She looked at her colleagues, her friends. They were listening, closely.
“I went to look for the map in our evidence locker and it was gone.”
Beauvoir leaned back, and Armand rotated his shoulders, in an effort to alleviate the tension.
Still they said nothing.
“I didn’t look further, and didn’t ask about it, of course.”
Armand gave a small nod of approval. Evidence didn’t just disappear. Someone had taken the map. Someone didn’t want them to find it.
“Fortunately, while in Chalifoux’s basement, I took a picture of the map to re-create where the pins were placed.”
She nodded down at the paper.
“What are we looking at?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Not the pins. Those really do show where the researchers went. It’s this.”
Isabelle placed her finger on the map.
