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Isabelle wondered how his souverainistes parents felt about their son working for a federal and federalist party. Though as a civil servant it was possible to harbor different political views from your bosses. Politicians came and went. The civil service was the constant, providing memory and stability.
Unless you worked for Marcus Lauzon.
Frederick came from an intellectual, well-connected, almost certainly comfortable family. Who were about to be exploded.
Isabelle had walked around the block a couple of times, stopping to look in the windows of a few Portuguese bakeries and small restaurants specializing in roast chicken.
She never got used to the task ahead. If she ever did, that would be the day to quit. The Chief mostly took it upon himself to tell families their loved one was not just dead but murdered. But today it fell to her.
It was getting late in the day. A Sunday. She hoped they were home. She hoped they were not.
She rang the bell and heard a buzzing. A cheerful voice sang out, “I’ll get it.”
The door opened, and a girl no more than twelve stood there, her face friendly and curious. “Oui?”
All four strolled, two by two, in silence for some minutes along the path through the leaf-strewn forest, instinctively kicking the musky leaves ahead of them.
Armand held his hands loosely behind his back. His head was bowed in thought, lifting now and then to gaze at the familiar surroundings. Beside him, Evelyn Tardiff was in his peripheral vision. Where he’d had her for a number of years.
They’d left the sunshine of the village and entered twilight in the forest. It was peaceful. Calm. Not day, not yet night.
Beside Beauvoir, Marcus Lauzon was taking everything in. He stopped once to pick up a particularly perfect red maple leaf, placing it in his pocket.
They finally emerged onto the dirt road that led down into Three Pines.
“S’il vous plaît.” Armand indicated the bench on the hill overlooking the village.
Lauzon sat on the warm wooden slats and closed his eyes, instinctively turning his face toward the sun, now just touching the horizon.
“Do you not think it’s too obvious?” asked Armand, taking a seat and staring out across the valley, to the Green Mountains of Vermont.
“What do you mean?”
“That Prime Minister Woodford is the Black Wolf.”
“I never said that.”
“True, but you’ve been hinting at it all afternoon. If not you, then who? There’s only one answer to that.”
“Isn’t the obvious often the answer?”
“You were, and still are, the most obvious answer, Monsieur Lauzon,” said Gamache, turning to look at him. “All evidence points to you. It’s a firehose of damnation.”
Lauzon laughed at that last word. “Are you still offering me salvation?”
“Non. I’m not the one who damned you. I’m not the one who can save you. But I am the one offering you a path forward. You’ve been convicted of leading a terrorist plot to murder tens of thousands. You’ve been convicted of ordering the killing of Charles Langlois.” Armand faced the only person in the world he actually, actively hated. “If you really aren’t guilty of all those things, why won’t you save yourself? All you have to do is tell me who is really behind all this. You know.”
Even at his trial, while protesting his innocence but putting up a feeble defense, Lauzon had refused to say who, if not him, was behind the terrorist plot.
Lauzon’s eyes were still closed, his face turned away from Gamache. “But I’ve told you.”
Gamache shook his head in frustration. There was only one answer to Lauzon’s question. What was worse than not getting what you most want?
Losing what you had.
In this case, tasting power, holding it. Finally possessing it. Wielding it.
Then having it taken away. Or facing that possibility.
