Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(118)

Anton had come out of the kitchen and was talking to the Americans.

He put something on the table. A piece of paper with writing.

“To tell me they’re making me a Chevalier in the Ordre du Québec.”

“That’s wonderful, Ruth,” said Armand. “Félicitations.”

The young head of the cartel was gesturing to Anton to join them. The chef looked surprised and shook his head, indicating that he had work to do in the kitchen. But a look from the American made the chef reconsider. And he sat.

“A Chevalier?” said Jean-Guy. “The knight or the horse? Are you sure they didn’t say cheval? Because you’re halfway there already.”

In the back of the bistro, Gamache could see Matheo and Lea also watching the table with Anton and the Americans. Lea turned to Matheo and said something. Matheo shook his head.

Then Lea looked directly at Gamache. It was so swift he didn’t have time to drop his eyes. He knew if he did it now, it would look like what it was. An effort to hide something.

Instead, he held her gaze and smiled.

She did not return his smile.

Jean-Guy and Ruth were exchanging insults, though the old poet’s rheumy eyes were not on Beauvoir, but on Gamache.

Armand had settled into his chair, crossing his legs, the voices around him heard and half-heard. Nursing a cold beer after a tough day on the witness stand. Apparently at ease with himself and the world. But Beauvoir could feel what Ruth was sensing.

Something was radiating off Gamache.

Was it rage he felt from the chief? Jean-Guy wondered. It certainly wasn’t fear.

It was actually, Beauvoir realized with some surprise, extreme calm.

He was like the center of gravity in the room.

Whatever the outcome, the bombing would stop, that night. The war would end, that night.





CHAPTER 33

Lacoste pulled her car onto the old logging road about a kilometer from the village. The road hadn’t been used in years, and the undergrowth had become overgrowth. The branches of trees scraping and scratching and hiding her car.

Lacoste popped the trunk and put on her assault gear. The heavy boots and helmet with camera. She strapped the automatic pistols into their Velcro tabs and attached the belt with the cartridges. Her hands flew over the familiar gear, clicking, strapping, checking. Double-checking.

She’d called her husband in Montréal, and spoken to the children. Saying good night and telling them she loved them.

They were of an age where they were too embarrassed to say it back.

And so they didn’t.

When her husband came back on the line, she told him she had to work late, but would be home before he knew it.

“Do we still have Pinocchio?” she asked.

“The book? Maybe. Why?”

“Do you think the kids would like to read it tonight?”

“Our children? They’re a little old, aren’t they? They want to watch The Walking Dead.”

“Don’t let them,” she said, and heard him laugh.

“I’ll wait up,” he said. And even though she always told him not to, he always did.

“Love you,” he said.

“I love you,” she replied. Her words clear, deliberate.

Then she hung up and locked that phone in her glove compartment, slipping her S?reté phone into one of the Velcro pockets.

It had buzzed as soon as she’d driven over the hill, out of Three Pines.

There was a single text. From Toussaint.

They were in position.

Lacoste texted back.

G&B in bistro. Am getting in position.

As she made her way through the forest, Lacoste felt another vibration.

package left church on way to village.

Lacoste quickly typed, village? confirm

village

She turned and looked toward Three Pines, but all she saw were trees.

“Christ,” she whispered and stood still for a moment, her mind flashing through the options open to her.

Then Isabelle Lacoste turned and ran away. Away from the church. Away from the border.

And toward the village.

At the dirt road she paused, to make sure it was clear, then she crossed and reentered the forest. Down the hill she sprinted, clutching the assault rifle across her chest.

She slipped past the old schoolhouse. Crouched low, she passed behind Ruth’s home. At the Gamaches’ back garden, she heard conversation. Madame Gamache, Myrna and Clara were talking. Someone said something, and they laughed.

And then Lacoste was gone. Running across the Old Stage Road and reentering the woods on the other side. Behind the B&B now, she rounded the corner and stopped, catching her breath and trying to catch sight of any cartel member, patrolling.

Her eyes rapidly took in the homes. The road. The village green. The children playing.

Go home, she pleaded, though no one heard. Go home.

She saw the door to the bistro swing shut.

*

Gamache watched as two large men entered the bistro, each carrying a packing crate. They lowered them to the floor next to the head of the American cartel.

Anton stood up abruptly as the American nodded to the two men.

One moved beside Anton, the other stationed himself beside the head of the American cartel.

Others in the bistro were openly watching. The boxes were stamped Matryoshka Dolls in English and Cyrillic. Interesting, but not interesting enough to derail drinks and conversation, which started up again.