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Armand was far from certain having his former adversary see Langlois’s map was wise. But something had to be shaken loose, and this was one way.

Finally, she turned and said, “What’s all this?”

She swept her arm in an arc to indicate the maps, in a movement reminiscent of Isabelle Lacoste’s television meteorologist.

“S’il vous plaît.” Armand again indicated a chair. This time she took it, while both he and Jean-Guy dragged theirs over so that they now formed a tight circle. Of three.

“We have a problem.”

She cocked her head. “How so?”

Jean-Guy wondered how far Armand would go. He had his answer almost immediately.

“Something else is about to happen. Something much worse.”

“Than killing most of the population of Montréal and setting off a global panic?” She seemed almost amused.

As Jean-Guy watched, her amusement slid away and was replaced by something close to pity. It was obvious to him, and probably Armand, exactly what she was thinking, if not saying.

That Chief Inspector Gamache had fabricated some crisis to make himself important. Again. Give himself purpose again.

Did she really think he was that pathetic? Apparently so. Though Jeanne Caron’s opinion of him did not seem to bother Armand one bit. Instead of explaining or defending himself, he persevered.

“Where’s your assistant?” he asked.

There was silence as Caron stared from one to the other, her rapid mind trying to catch up to this change of direction.

“Frederick? Castonguay? Him?”

“Oui.”

“Why in the world would you suddenly be asking about him?”

“Because he’s disappeared,” said Beauvoir.

“So? He’s no longer my assistant. I’m unemployed. Unemployable. Frederick Castonguay is the least of my worries. Who cares where he is?” Though even as she said it, she was examining them. “You care. Which means you’ve been looking for him. Which means…” Now she stopped and stared in open astonishment. “You’re investigating. Still. Good God, you really do believe this isn’t over. Have you lost your minds?”

She seemed to be trying to figure out who was the most unhinged, Gamache or his number two. She settled on the Chief Inspector.

“Okay, let’s say you are investigating.” She did not add, but it was clear she wanted to say, the mythical second plot. “Why would you be looking for Frederick?”

Though she spoke to Gamache, it was Beauvoir who answered, clearly covering for his Chief.

“He was here that night. You were wounded but managed to get into the car with Frederick. What happened then?”

“You know what happened. I’d been shot and needed to stop the bleeding.” By instinct, she brought her left elbow closer to her side, as though protecting it. “I had him pull over at a pharmacy and get painkillers, antiseptic, bandages. When Frederick came back, he tossed the bag into the car and ran away. I got as far as Montréal before I pulled over and passed out. I came to just in time to get to the water-treatment plant.”

It was unsaid but implied, and never forgotten: And save your life, Armand.

“Have you seen Castonguay since?”

“Non. I’ve looked, but not too hard. Honestly, I have nothing to say to him except good luck and goodbye, you cowardly shit.”

Beauvoir barely suppressed a grin. He and Honoré had been watching The Wizard of Oz. Over and over. The Cowardly Shit would make a good character in an alternative production. He’d watch that.

“We’ve looked for him since the events in the plant,” said Beauvoir. “He wasn’t initially a priority, just a loose end. But we can’t find him. It’s actually quite difficult for people to disappear completely. Unless…”

“Unless he’s dead.” Caron studied their faces, remaining on Gamache’s, who’d been silent. “You think he’s dead?” She spoke the words clearly.