Glass Houses

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 Sûreté 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.

What most couldn’t see was that the words were slightly obscured by blotches, drips, of red.

Isabelle Lacoste carefully opened the internal door connecting the bookstore to the bistro.

Through the crack she saw the chief lean back in his chair, relaxed. A beer in his hand. While off to the side, the head of the American cartel gestured to Anton to sit back down.

This was a different Anton.

No longer the dishwasher. No longer the chef.

He must know now, thought Lacoste, if he didn’t before, that this wasn’t a friendly tête-à-tête, to divide territory. This was a hostile takeover. If nothing else, the red splashes on the boxes of toys would tell him that. They were what was left of his own couriers.

Lacoste carefully took the safety off her assault rifle.

Olivier passed in front of her and stood by the table, in direct line of sight. Direct line of fire. At the edge of her peripheral vision, she noted that Beauvoir had started to get up from the table.

The soldiers looked over at him. Lacoste lifted her rifle. Through the sights she saw the men grin.

Jean-Guy was holding a duck. The guards smiled as they watched him take the duck off his lap and give it to a woman so old she looked mummified.

It was like laying siege to Hooterville.

Ruth, clutching Rosa to her chest, got up.

“Well, fuck you too,” she said to Beauvoir, at the top of her lungs. “Numbnuts.”

That provoked outright laughter from the enforcers, though they stopped laughing when Ruth turned her fuck-you gaze on them.

“For God’s sake,” Lacoste whispered, as the old woman limped toward the two huge men. “Get out.”

Now Ruth was also obscuring any shot she had.

“Oh, come on, Ruth,” said Gamache, getting up and ushering her to the side. “Leave these poor men alone. They’re just trying to have their dinner. And it’s probably time for yours. We’ll take you over.” He pushed her slightly toward the door. “Olivier? The bill, please.”

“Of course, patron.” And Olivier moved to the bar.

“Jean-Guy?” said Gamache, indicating that he should look after Ruth.

The young American was watching this, amusement frozen on his face. Thrown off, slightly, by this strange turn of events. Though clearly not alarmed.

Yogi and Boo-Boo either had no idea what was going on, or the head of the Sûreté knew perfectly well, and was running away. Ceding the floor, the territory, to them.

But the head of the American cartel would have been alarmed, should have been alarmed, had he stopped watching Gamache and noticed the expression on Anton’s face.

It was feral now. Savage. Not the look of an animal cornered. More the look of something that had its claws in some unfortunate creature and was about to gut it.

Lacoste, watching from the bookstore, had a clear shot thanks to the chief. But the expression on Anton’s face disturbed her. How could that be? He was clearly outnumbered. Outmaneuvered. But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe—

She came to it a moment too late.

“Bonjour,” a man’s voice whispered. And she felt the thrust of a gun to the back of her ear.

Anton was not alone. Of course, he’d have his own bodyguard close by.

And now he had his weapon pressed to her head, as he twisted the rifle out of her hands.

The other thing Isabelle Lacoste knew, in that moment, was that she was dead.

There was a slight noise off to Gamache’s left. As he turned to look, Isabelle Lacoste was pushed through the door from Myrna’s bookstore, a man behind her with a gun to her head.

Gamache recognized the man immediately, from the attack on the cobrador. He’d been the one with the fireplace poker. Marchand. Gamache had thought he was just a drunken rowdy, but he saw now he’d been wrong. Marchand was Anton’s man. A cartel soldier.

Gamache took this in in an instant.

The world seemed to stop, and everything grew very clear, very bright and colorful. Very slow.

Before Lacoste was even across the threshold, Gamache moved.

The only advantage, Isabelle realized, to already being dead, was that she had nothing to lose.

As soon as she was pushed through the door, she planted her feet and thrust herself backward, into her captor.

Beauvoir was just a millisecond behind. He could see Gamache launching himself forward toward the guard.

He could see Lacoste and the armed man behind her falling backward, suspended, it seemed to his racing senses, in mid-flight, mid-fall.

Beauvoir lowered his shoulder, and bringing his hand to his holster, he pushed off.

Gamache lunged.

Everyone else in the bistro, including Anton, including the head of the American cartel, was distracted by Lacoste. For just that instant.

That was all Gamache needed.

He couldn’t see what Beauvoir was doing. Or Lacoste, though he had seen her brace, and knew what she was about to do.

All his focus now was on the nearest bodyguard, who was just turning, just noticing what Gamache was doing. A look of surprise just coming onto his face.

He had not expected an older, complacent, beer-swilling man to act so quickly. And so decisively.

The guard had just time enough to move his hand to his weapon when Gamache smashed into him, pushing him on top of Anton. Knocking them off their feet.

All three fell to the floor, a grunt escaping Anton as they landed on top of him.

Gamache brought his forearm to the throat of the first man, pushing his head back, and without hesitation he pulled the hunting knife from his pocket. Flicked it open. And plunged it in.

Gunshots were going off.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Deafening. Not the pops of a handgun but the explosions of an assault rifle. And automatic weapons. Wood was splintering, people were screaming. Chairs and tables overturned. Glass shattered.

Gamache scrambled over the dying guard trying to get at his gun, still in the holster beneath the man. Anton was struggling, writhing, trying to get out from under the heavy body.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir crashed into the table, scattering glass and china, krokodil and traffickers.

Within moments there was chaos. Screaming, shouting. Gunfire.

He couldn’t see Gamache anymore, but he did see, as though in the flash of a strobe light, Lacoste crumple.

And then everything moved so quickly, it was as though frames were skipping. Unlike the chief, Beauvoir wasn’t a large man, but like the chief, he had the momentary element of surprise. And he used it.

He hit and rolled, and bringing out his weapon, he shot the second guard in the chest just as the man leveled his own gun at Beauvoir.

“What’s that?” asked Annie, her face white.

“Gunshots,” said Myrna. “From the bistro.”

They looked at each other for a moment, an eternity. And then Reine-Marie got up and hustled Annie, who was feeding Honoré, from the back terrace into the house.

Myrna and Clara ran in with them.

“Call 911,” Reine-Marie said to her daughter. “Lock the door after us.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You’re looking after Ray-Ray,” said her mother.

“Does Armand have a gun?” asked Clara, her eyes wide and hands trembling, but her voice strong.

“Non.” Reine-Marie looked around and grabbed the fireplace poker. Myrna and Clara did the same thing. Myrna came away with a hatchet-like thing, and Clara was left with a fireplace brush.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.

The gunfire was continuing, and the dogs were barking. Annie was shouting into the phone to the 911 dispatcher. And their hearts were pounding as they left the house and ran down the path to the road.

“Oh, Christ,” said Myrna.

Half a dozen children were lying on the ground. Apparently dead.

But then they started to stir, to stand. Staring at the bistro. Arms at their sides, mouths open.

“Come here,” Clara screamed at them, waving for them to come to her. She ran over as they began to run to her. Some crying, some confused. All understanding that the safest place in the world was not safe after all.

Clara herded them down the path to where Annie was standing at the open door, frantically waving them in, just as the windows of the bistro shattered with gunfire.

Without hesitation, Reine-Marie, Myrna and Clara ran all out. Toward it.

Ruth crawled across the floor to Rosa, who was sitting, looking more stunned than usual, under an overturned table.

The air was almost unbreathable, with fieldstone and brick and plaster exploded into dust.

She reached Rosa and curled her body around the duck.

Only then did she see Isabelle Lacoste, lying on the ground, her eyes open and staring.

Gamache gripped the handle of the gun in the dying man’s holster, but before he could yank it out, a boot landed in his face, stunning him.

The world went white and his vision blurred. Another blow landed.

Anton was striking out wildly. Viciously, desperately, kicking Gamache’s head, his shoulders, his arms.

Anton writhed and twisted and kicked with his one free leg. Hammering away at Gamache, who hunched his shoulders against the blows, his only focus the gun in the holster.

Then his grip tightened around the handle and he yanked the gun free.

Bringing it around, he rolled and fired, bang, bang, bang. Point-blank into Marchand, who was steps away, Lacoste’s assault rifle raised. Marchand looked shocked. And then was propelled backward, hitting the floor. Dead.

Gamache swung back around just in time to see Anton disappearing out the back door of the bistro.

“Patron,” said Jean-Guy as Gamache gripped his arm and hauled himself to his feet.

“Anton got away,” said Gamache, staggering a bit as he moved toward the open back door of the bistro.

“Oui. The American and his lieutenant took off after him,” said Beauvoir.

The turmoil in the bistro burst over Gamache.

Lacoste was on the floor, Ruth by her side. Holding her hand. Whispering.

Gabri was kneeling over Olivier.

Patrons, sipping drinks moments earlier, were crying and huddling and hugging and shouting. For help.

But he couldn’t stop.

“Armand,” Reine-Marie shouted, as she and Myrna and Clara arrived in the mayhem.

But it was too late. He was gone.

“You get Anton,” said Gamache. “I’ll get the American.”

“There’re two of them,” Beauvoir shouted after him.

He didn’t know if Gamache had heard, and there was no time to make sure.

The cartels had the advantage of a head start. But Gamache and Beauvoir had the advantage of familiarity.

They knew the woods, and the paths, and the route to the border. Partly because they’d walked the trails, in preparation. Partly because they’d spent hours and hours, in the Gamache home, poring over the detailed topographical maps.

They’d talked to hunters and hikers. To geologists and campers. To those who cut wood, and those who fished in the rivers.

In the past eight months, since finding the hidden door in the root cellar, and the oiled hinge, and understanding the significance, they’d been sure to learn every inch of the terrain.

The drug smugglers had not. They’d found the most direct route through the forest, from the Prohibition bolt-hole to the border. And they’d stuck to it.

“We’re studying the situation,” Gamache would reply with equanimity bordering on the dim-witted when microphones and cameras were thrust in his face. And sharp questions were asked about the rising level of crime.

Oddly enough, it was the truth. Though not the entirety of it.

He was studying the situation, just not the one the reporters were talking about.

Gamache had ordered a quiet investigation into all the cabins, barns, schools, and churches used by bootleggers almost a hundred years earlier along the long border with the United States.

There were holes that had never been plugged. All along the watchtower. His tower now. His watch now.

And then he’d ordered surveillance on them all.

And what they saw was that one by one, the Québec syndicate had used all the bolt-holes. But none more than St. Thomas’s, in the quiet, pretty, forgotten little village of Three Pines.

Where they could get across the border easily. And where the boss could monitor it all, from the kitchen where he worked, first as a dishwasher, then as a chef.

Anton had learned from his father, and his uncle, and apprenticed with his father’s best friend and confidant. Antonio Ruiz. Whom he was named after.

Until he’d been ready to take over himself.

They could hear the others, up ahead. They were gaining on them, since the drug dealers were essentially running wildly. One chasing the other. The Americans needing to kill the Canadian cartel head. To take over the territory.

And Anton needing to escape, and regroup, and defend his territory.

And Gamache and Beauvoir needing to stop them both. If they failed, there would be a bloodbath.

They could not fail.

Gamache saw Jean-Guy, just up ahead, split off and head east, and Gamache, understanding what he was doing, turned west.

They were driving their quarry, herding them, toward where Toussaint and the assault team were waiting.

Madeleine Toussaint arrived at the bistro with her team, weapons drawn. They approached rapidly but carefully, not sure what they’d meet.

The krokodil heading to the village had been a surprise, but she realized that even if the exchange took place there, they’d still have to get it across the border. And so she’d ordered her team to sit tight. To stick to the plan.

Until she’d heard the shots. Then she’d changed the plan and ordered her people into the village. To help the officers down there.

Even at a run, it took precious time to get there.

They skidded and scrambled down the hills, crashing through the forest, the gunfire getting louder and longer.

And then it stopped. And there was silence.

And then they heard it. The screams. The shrieking. The cries for help.

And then even that went quiet.

Superintendent Toussaint led her team into the village. Her sharp eyes taking in everything. Her assault team in formation behind her, they crouched and swung their weapons, scanning the homes, the windows, the gardens.

Bikes were lying on the side of the village green. A ball sat there.

But there were no people. No dogs. Not cats. Not even birds.

And then a woman came out of the bistro, a fireplace poker in her hand. Behind her, Toussaint heard the familiar and unmistakable sound of assault rifles leveled.

She raised her fist. Stop.

It was Madame Gamache. Running toward them. Calling for help.

Toussaint gestured to a squad to patrol, while she went to Madame Gamache.

“Are there any targets inside?” she demanded.

“Targets? I don’t know,” said Reine-Marie. “There’re people hurt. Some dead, I think. We’ve called for help.”

“Stay here,” said Toussaint, and led her team into the bistro, guns at the ready.

Reine-Marie did not stay there. She ran in behind them.

Toussaint saw tables and chairs overturned. She smelled the putrid scent of recently fired weapons.

But it was what she heard that she would never forget.

Nothing.

There was near total silence. As eyes, wide, turned to her.

“You have to help Armand,” Madame Gamache broke the silence.

“Where is he?”

She scanned the place and saw Lacoste on the ground, an elderly woman and two others kneeling beside her. One of the women, Toussaint noticed, was clutching a fireplace brush. Another, a duck.

Chief Superintendent Gamache wasn’t there. Neither was Beauvoir.

They weren’t dead. But neither were the cartel heads.

“They went through there. Into the woods.” Madame Gamache pointed toward the back of the bistro.

“How many were there?” Toussaint asked Madame Gamache, her voice urgent.

“I don’t know.”

“Three.”

A slender blond man, a dishtowel tied tightly around his arm and propped against a heavyset man, spoke. His voice weak but his words clear.

“Anton and two others,” said Olivier.

Toussaint ordered her team out of the bistro.

Instead of going out the back, Toussaint led her assault team the way they came.

Past the church, up the hill, and into the woods.

If she were Gamache, she thought as she ran, she’d try to herd the cartel members toward the border. Where the Sûreté assault team would be waiting and could finish the job.

Except they were no longer there. They’d veered from the plan.

Shit, shit, shit.

Gamache’s lungs were burning and he could taste blood in his mouth, but he didn’t slow down. Willing his legs forward, faster.

He could see the American and his lieutenant through the trees, up ahead.

Good, good, he thought. They’d be there soon. Right into Toussaint, who’d be waiting.

But as he ran, another thought occurred to him.

What would he do, if he knew the opioid was heading to the village? And then heard shots?

Christ, he thought. He’d change the plan. Would have to. He’d take his team into the village. To help.

He’d leave the border.

Toussaint wouldn’t be there. But the syndicates would. They were running right into the arms of both cartels.

But it was too late. Far too late to stop. They had to see this through, to the end.

Anton recognized this part of the forest.

The border, he knew, was just ahead. And waiting there were his people. Armed and ready.

Gamache had shocked him. The Chief Superintendent had obviously known for a long time who he was. And what he was doing. He almost certainly knew about the root cellar and the hidden door.

The Americans were gaining on him. He could hear them, like a stampede through the forest. Anton picked up speed.

But then he slowed down.

Something had occurred to him.

He wasn’t running to the border. He was being herded.

The border was just up ahead, he knew. He couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see his men, though he knew they were there. But whether Gamache was alive or dead, he almost certainly would have positioned a Sûreté assault team by the border. And the Americans would have their own people there.

He was running into a trap.

He stopped. He’d have to fight it out there. He turned and leveled his gun at the sound coming at him through the forest.

He fired.

A bullet grazed Jean-Guy’s leg and he fell.

He lay there for a moment, taking in what had happened. What was happening.

For some reason, Anton had stopped and decided to take a stand. The bullets from his gun moved in an arc, away from Beauvoir, as Anton sprayed the forest.

Beauvoir edged forward, the burning in his leg ignored.

The goal had not changed. To win the war, they had to do one thing.

Get the leaders.

Anton was behind a tree, sighting on the Americans. He fired again, his automatic weapon pumping out rounds.

Jean-Guy moved to the side, any noise he made masked by the weapons fire. Then he brought his gun up, and placed it behind Anton’s ear.

The syndicate soldiers, waiting at the border for their chiefs, heard the gunfire and quickly raised their weapons.

The Canadians pointing, unflinching, at the Americans.

The Americans, equally determined, held their weapons on the Canadians.

It was a standoff. Until one of the younger members panicked.

And then it was bedlam.

Toussaint, realizing what was happening, ordered her squad to get between the syndicates fighting it out, where she suspected Gamache and Beauvoir were running down the cartel heads.

She might not be able to help them, but at the very least she could stop whoever survived from the syndicates from going to the aid of their leaders.

The head of the American cartel heard the gunfire up ahead and guessed what it meant.

His own guard was dead. Cut down in the initial shots.

There would be no help. He’d have to find his own way across the border. Taking off like a man on fire, he ran. Racing, racing. Through the woods toward Vermont. And safety.

He could hear a noise behind him. Someone chasing him.

He could see the post marking the border just up ahead. Closer. Closer.

And then he was across.

The American was putting more and more distance between him and Gamache. Younger, swifter, the head of the cartel was getting away.

And then they were across the border. Gamache didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. He raced after the man. Then he saw the man stop. Turn. And lift his weapon, even as Gamache tried to stop his own forward momentum.

He felt himself skidding, trying to stop.

He was losing his balance. Lost his balance. His feet came out from underneath him. He was falling.

The American stopped, turned, and saw the dark figure coming toward him out of the forest. He couldn’t make out features. It was just an outline.

He raised his gun and fired.

Gamache found himself on one knee as bullets ripped into the trees millimeters over his head.

Bringing up his gun, he aimed. And fired.