Glass Houses

CHAPTER 34

Armand Gamache and Maureen Corriveau sat together in the quiet office.

They could hear time ticking away on the clock on the desk.

It was just after eight in the morning, a week to the day after the events at the border.

A man slightly older than Gamache sat at the desk. Looking first at the judge, then at the head of the Sûreté.

Gamache’s face was beaten and bruised, but the swelling had gone down.

“How is Chief Inspector Lacoste?” the Premier Ministre du Québec asked.

“We’ll know soon,” said Gamache. “They’ve put her in a coma. The bullet damaged her brain, but we don’t know how badly.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Premier. “And the villagers? Three Pines, is it?”

“Oui.”

“Funny, but I’d never heard of it. I’d like to go there, when this is all cleared up.”

“I think they’d like that, sir. They’re—we’re—trying to get back to normal.”

He chose not to mention that there was nothing normal about Three Pines at the best of times, and the recent events did not get it any closer. But he did know that a strange sort of peace had settled over the village. A quietude.

It had never felt more like home than it did now. And the villagers had never felt more like family, than now.

“There were injuries, I know,” said the Premier.

“The owner of the bistro, Olivier Brulé, was shot in the arm, but his partner acted quickly and stemmed the bleeding. Others were hurt by flying glass and shards of wood. Everyone’s out of the hospital now. The gravest injury was to Chief Inspector Lacoste.”

“I asked you a few months ago, Armand, to tell me what was going on. You refused. You asked me to trust you. I did.” He paused to stare at the man. “And I’m glad I did.”

Gamache nodded very slightly, his thanks.

“But it’s time. Tell me what happened.”

When Gamache had finished, the Premier Ministre just stared at him.

He’d read the reports, of course. Those in the media. But also the confidential ones, stacked on his desk.

And he’d seen the video, from Lacoste’s camera attached to her helmet. Her point of view, even as she’d fallen.

The video had left him ashen. He didn’t think he could ever look at this man again without some part of him seeing Armand Gamache leaping forward. Throwing himself at the two men.

And the knife.

It was an image, a knowledge, the Premier could never erase. What this man, this thoughtful, calm, even kindly man, was capable of doing. What he had done.

“I’m sorry I have to ask these questions.”

“I understand.”

“Were you across the border, Armand, when you killed the American?”

“I believe I was. It’s difficult to tell in the forest exactly where the border is. There’s a marker that was put there during Prohibition, though I doubt the rum runners were worried about complete accuracy. But I believe I crossed the line, yes.”

The Premier Ministre du Québec shook his head slightly and gave him a wry smile.

“You choose now to tell the truth?”

He refrained from saying that Gamache had indeed crossed a line. Several, in fact. So many that the politician had stopped counting, or caring, though the Departments of Justice in both countries had not.

“And you did it knowing you had no jurisdiction?”

“I didn’t even think of jurisdiction at that moment, and if I had I’d have done it anyway.”

“You’re not making this easy, Armand.”

Gamache didn’t say anything. Though he did sympathize with the Premier, who was, he suspected, trying to help.

He’d dragged the body of the cartel leader back past the faded old marker. Hauling the dead weight, step by step. His own body leaning forward, toward Québec, toward home.

The firefight up ahead had stopped and he heard Jean-Guy, calling him.

It was over.

But there was no celebration in his heart. He was too shattered.

When he was sure he’d crossed back into Québec, Gamache fell to his knees in exhaustion, so that when Beauvoir found him, he saw a man covered in blood, apparently praying over the body he had created.

With Jean-Guy’s help, they dragged the American back to where Toussaint was turning chaos into order.

Jean-Guy had sustained an injury to his leg, but it was minor and quickly bandaged. His was the only injury among the Sûreté team. Except, of course, for Isabelle.

The cartel members, from both sides, had almost managed to wipe each other out. Those who survived were being handcuffed, while paramedics sorted through the rest.

It looked, in those old-growth forests, like what it was. A battlefield. Sirens, from more ambulances and police, could be heard.

Anton had his hands secured behind his back.

“You did my job for me, Armand,” said Anton, nodding toward the body. “You think you’ve won back the province, don’t you? Just wait for it.”

“I should’ve killed him,” said Jean-Guy, as they’d made their way back to Three Pines.

Gamache wiped blood, now congealing, from his eyes. But said nothing. In that moment, he agreed with Jean-Guy. It would have been better, far better.

“It’s a shame,” said the Premier Ministre du Québec, when Armand had finished his account, “that Anton Boucher survived.”

The comment, said so dryly, so matter-of-factly, surprised Gamache. Not that the Premier would think it, but that he would say it out loud.

“There are lines,” said Gamache. “That cannot be crossed. And once crossed, there’s no going back.”

“Like murder,” said the Premier. “Which brings me to my next question.”

Judge Corriveau shifted slightly in her chair, knowing it was her turn now. Knowing what he was about to ask.

“Tell me about the killing of Madame Kathleen Evans.”

It was much the same conversation Chief Superintendent Gamache had had with Judge Corriveau a few days after the attack.

The trial had, of course, been put on hold.

Maureen Corriveau had gone up to the Gamaches’ apartment, along with Barry Zalmanowitz, to discuss the case and what should happen next.

When they knocked on the door of the second-floor walk-up in the Outremont quartier of Montréal, Gamache himself opened it.

“Bonjour,” he said. “Thank you for coming to me.”

He showed them into the living room, while the two people behind him exchanged glances. They’d heard about the grave injuries to Chief Inspector Lacoste. And had read the preliminary reports, written by the senior officers. Including Chief Superintendent Gamache.

They had heard, through the information and misinformation swirling around government buildings, that Gamache himself had sustained some injuries. But they weren’t prepared for the bruised face, his one eye almost swollen shut. The cuts where the boot had scraped flesh off bone.

When he’d opened the door to them, Judge Corriveau had searched his eyes, worried that they’d been hollowed out by the events in the village. In the woods.

That the warmth would be replaced by bitterness. The kindness by cruelty.

And the decency would be gone completely.

The look of pain she saw now wasn’t new, and wasn’t physical. It had always been there, in Gamache’s eyes, like an astigmatism that meant he saw things slightly differently from the rest of them.

He saw the worst of humanity. But he also saw the best. And she was relieved to see that the decency remained. Stronger, even, than the pain. Stronger than ever.

“Thank you for your flowers,” he said, pointing to the arrangement of cheerful cut flowers on the side table.

“You’re welcome,” said Judge Corriveau.

The card had simply read, “Merci.” And had been signed Maureen Corriveau and Joan Blanchette.

Judge Corriveau had never discussed her personal life, but she felt she needed to give him that much. And besides, Joan had insisted.

She took in the room around her. It was a pied-à-terre, she knew, their real home being in that little village. The one-bedroom apartment was in a classic Outremont walk-up. The ceilings were high, the room bright and airy and welcoming, with books on shelves and on side tables. La Presse, Le Devoir and The Gazette newspapers were scattered around. It was casual but not messy.

The sofa and armchairs were inviting, lived in. Upholstered in fresh, warm colors. It was a room she and Joan could happily occupy.

Another man was in the living room, leaning slightly on a cane.

“You know Inspector Beauvoir, I believe,” said Gamache, and they all shook hands.

“You all right?” asked Barry Zalmanowitz.

“This’s for effect,” said Jean-Guy, waving it in front of himself, as he’d seen Ruth do thousands of times. He wondered, briefly, what would happen if he called the Chief Crown numbnuts.

“How’s Chief Inspector Lacoste?” asked the Crown.

“We’re going to the hospital as soon as we’ve finished here,” said Gamache. “I spoke to her husband this morning, and he said that there’s some activity in her brain.”

The other two nodded. When that was the good news, there was nothing more that could be said.

“I don’t think you’ve met my wife,” said Gamache, as Reine-Marie came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with cold drinks.

He took the tray and introduced her to Judge Corriveau.

“We’ve met, of course,” said Monsieur Zalmanowitz. “I interviewed you as part of the witness process. You found the body of Katie Evans.”

“Oui,” said Reine-Marie. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Of course not,” said Judge Corriveau, while all the time wondering if she should mind, and if she should have brought a court reporter, to take down what was said.

But it was too late, and in the morass of unusual events, this departure from the norm would probably be forgiven if not overlooked.

Judge Corriveau turned to Chief Superintendent Gamache and Chief Crown Zalmanowitz.

“This is a meeting that had been scheduled for two days ago, in my office. But of course, it would be foolish not to realize things have changed. And yet, some things have not. A woman is still on trial for the murder of Madame Evans. I need to know if she really is guilty, in your mind, or if it was all part of what was clearly a long and detailed scheme.”

She looked from one to the other, then settled on Gamache.

The architect. The leader, who had led them all into this.

“Tell me,” said the judge, “about the murder of Katie Evans.”

“It began,” began Gamache, “as most murders do. Long ago. Though not far away.”

He looked to his left.

“Just a few blocks from here. At the Université de Montréal. When one of the students killed himself. Doped up, out of his mind, on drugs supplied to him by a third-year political science student. Anton Boucher.”

Judge Corriveau was very familiar with the name.

In the pretrial reports, Anton Boucher had been the dishwasher at the bistro.

In the reports she’d just read, Anton Boucher was the head of the Québec syndicate.

“His uncle is Maurice Boucher,” said Corriveau, wanting to show she’d done some homework. “He was the head of the Hell’s Angels here. In prison now for murder and trafficking.”

Beauvoir nodded. “Right. When he was sent up, his nephew took over. He did what Mom Boucher couldn’t.”

Beauvoir had used the nickname the elder Boucher went by. Apparently because he “mothered” the members of his gang. Though that didn’t stop him from slaughtering other people’s children.

“Anton moved quickly,” said Jean-Guy. “He was named after his uncle’s best friend, Antonio Ruiz, who guided him in consolidating the three cartels. Anton could see where organized crime was heading.”

“And where was that?” asked Corriveau.

“It was on the verge of becoming far bigger, far wealthier, more powerful than anything anyone had known in the past,” said Gamache. “And the catalyst was the opioids.”

“Like fentanyl,” said Zalmanowitz. “I know all about them. My daughter was addicted. We got her treatment, but…”

He lifted his hands, then dropped them.

“This isn’t parents overreacting to a recreational drug,” he continued. “This’s something else. It’s brutal. It changes them. It changed her. And she’s one of the lucky ones. She’s still alive.”

“Fentanyl was the first to really explode onto the streets,” said Gamache. “But there were others. And now they’re coming in, being created faster than we can stop them. Faster than we can even get the opioids onto the banned list. A tweak of the formula, and it reads differently. It’s no longer illegal. Until we catch up with it.”

“A hole in the law,” said the judge. “The chemical compounds need to be clearly described. Even a slight change means there’s nothing we can do. We have to release the traffickers.”

“It’s a modern-day Black Death,” said Zalmanowitz. “And the syndicates are the plague rats.”

“Anton Boucher saw it coming,” said Gamache. “And he moved quickly, viciously, to take control.”

“A new generation of criminal,” said Corriveau. “For a new generation of drug.”

“Oui,” said Gamache.

“Was Katie Evans part of the cartel?” asked Corriveau.

“Non. Her crime was that she was at school with the young man who killed himself. She was his lover for a few months, before breaking it off. His name was Edouard Valcourt. He was Jacqueline’s brother.”

“I remember his name from the pretrial reports.”

“Madame Evans, her husband, Patrick, along with Matheo Bissonette and Lea Roux, were all friends with Edouard. Classmates,” said Beauvoir. “Lea and Matheo were at the rooftop party when he jumped.”

Maureen Corriveau didn’t react, but Barry Zalmanowitz looked down at his hands.

It was his nightmare. Maybe they hadn’t saved his daughter in time. Maybe they hadn’t saved her at all. Maybe this chemical was in deeper than even a father could reach.

“Anton was their dealer, but he made a mistake,” said Beauvoir. “And it was a big one. He decided to try the drugs himself. He got hooked, and then, like most addicts, he got sloppy. When Edouard killed himself and questions started to be asked, he took off. Eventually went into treatment. There he got clean, but he also met a group of other men. Some who genuinely wanted to start fresh, but some who did not. They became Anton’s lieutenants. They, like him, had the advantage now of being clean. And of knowing what the drugs were capable of.”

“That was a few years ago,” said Gamache. “As the drugs got stronger, crueler, so did the cartels.”

“So how does Madame Evans come into it?” asked Judge Corriveau. “She knew this Edouard back at university, and presumably knew Anton Boucher.”

“She did,” said Gamache. “They all did. He was a couple of years ahead of them. They all bought drugs off him. Mostly grass, some cocaine. Not the pharmaceuticals. Only Edouard did that.”

“Are you saying that Madame Evans was killed because of something that happened that long ago?”

“Yes,” said Gamache. “Most murders are simple. The motive clear, though what makes them difficult to see is that they’re often very old. Katie Evans was killed because of what happened at university. Because of a debt owed. And that’s where the cobrador came in. Jacqueline, Edouard’s sister, had the idea, but it was his friends who actually did it.”

“They took turns being the Conscience,” said Beauvoir. “Standing on the village green. Accusing Anton. But that’s as far as it was supposed to go. They’d stand there for a few days, scare the shit out of the dishwasher, then go home.”

“So what went wrong?” Maureen Corriveau asked.

She needed all the details, not simply because it was her case, but because it was her career.

She’d received a phone call that morning, summoning her to the office of the Premier Ministre in Québec City next week. It was not, she knew, to congratulate her on her role in this.

Before she went, she needed to know what “this” was.

“Wait,” she said. “Let me guess. They didn’t realize Anton wasn’t there to wash dishes. He was in Three Pines to monitor the movement of drugs.”

“They had no idea who they were dealing with,” said Zalmanowitz.

“They were focused on the suicide of their friend. Nothing more,” said Gamache. “The private investigator hired by the family worked on it off and on for years, finally tracking him down at the home of Antonio Ruiz.”

“And this Ruiz, he’s also involved in organized crime?” asked Judge Corriveau.

“In Europe. He’s based in Spain,” said Gamache. “Though the courts can’t seem to convict him.”

“Another job for the cobrador,” said Zalmanowitz.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Judge Corriveau. “But the investigator didn’t know that Anton was related to Mom Boucher? Doesn’t seem possible to miss that.”

“It’s a common name,” said Gamache. “And the records had been deliberately obscured. We knew there had been corruption in the Sûreté. Officials at all levels of the police, of government, were compromised. There was a reason we couldn’t get traction on fighting organized crime.”

“They were better organized,” said Beauvoir.

Corriveau smiled, then grew serious. “How did you know I wasn’t bought?”

“We didn’t. Frankly, we had to assume everyone was.”

They stared at each other, his eyes not quite so kindly.

“And the Crown?” she asked, turning to Monsieur Zalmanowitz.

“Our investigation showed the Crown’s office could have been compromised,” said Gamache.

Zalmanowitz turned to him. “You investigated me?”

“Of course we did. I had to be sure before approaching you.”

Now they were getting to it, Corriveau knew. The center, the core, of the issue.

“How did this”—she waved a finger between the two men—“come about?”

“I needed help,” said Gamache. “So I asked the Chief Crown for a meeting.”

“In Halifax,” said Zalmanowitz.

It took a lot to surprise Maureen Corriveau, but that did. “Nova Scotia?”

“Yes. We took separate flights and met at some dive on the waterfront,” said Zalmanowitz. “Though it did have great lemon meringue pie.”

“Really?” said Corriveau. “That’s what you remember?”

“It was very good,” said the Crown, smiling slightly at her annoyance. “I’ve never liked Monsieur Gamache. It’s not professional. It’s personal.”

“And it’s mutual,” said Gamache. “I considered him a preening coward—”

“And I think he’s an arrogant shithead. Désolé,” he said to Madame Gamache.

“But you both liked the pie,” she pointed out.

“As a matter of fact, it was the first thing we agreed on,” said Gamache, with a smile that threatened to split open his lip again. “I outlined what I was considering, and what would be necessary, and what I would need from him.”

“What did he need from you?” the judge asked the Crown.

“I think you know,” said Zalmanowitz.

“And I think you know that I need to hear it from you.”

“He asked that I suppress vital evidence that would compromise their investigation into the cartel. He needed the time and the distraction. He needed Anton Boucher to believe he was free and clear, and that the Sûreté under Gamache’s leadership was incompetent.”

Barry Zalmanowitz sat back and placed his hands on the soft arms of the chair, much like Lincoln at the stone memorial.

“And I agreed.”

There. But unlike Abraham Lincoln, his was a self-assassination. And there would be no statues commemorating his service.

Barry Zalmanowitz knew that in cataloguing so clearly what he’d done, he was possibly placing himself in prison. Definitely ruining his career. Hurting his family.

But his actions had helped bring down the cartel. They’d finally broken the back of the traffickers. There was mopping up to be done, but the war on drugs had been won.

If he, and his career, and his name were casualties, well, people had suffered worse. And the fuckers who’d sold the drugs to his daughter wouldn’t ruin another young life.

Across from him, Gamache nodded, then did something that Zalmanowitz found unsettling.

He looked down at his hands, also bruised. A mark that looked like the sole of a boot clearly stamped across the swollen knuckles.

And Gamache sighed. Then he raised his eyes to Zalmanowitz and said, “Désolé.”

In the silence, the Crown could feel his cheeks tingling as they flushed, then went pale. As the blood rushed forward, then ran away.

“For what?” he asked quietly.

“I haven’t told you everything.”

Now Barry Zalmanowitz turned to stone. “What?”

“Anton Boucher did not kill Katie Evans.”

Zalmanowitz gripped the arms of the chair, in a sort of spasm.

“What’re you saying?”

“I lied to you. I’m very sorry.”

“Tell me what you’re saying.”

“You’re prosecuting the right person. Jacqueline killed Katie Evans.”

Zalmanowitz’s mind both froze and raced. Like a car chained to the wall. Spinning its wheels.

He was trying to understand these words. And trying to work out if this was good news, or a further disaster.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally got out. Not sure if that was the most pressing question, but it was the first out of the gate.

“Because I only completely trusted a small group of my own officers,” said Gamache. “Though I’d never have approached you if I’d had serious doubts.”

“But you did have doubts,” said Zalmanowitz.

“Yes. I had no proof that you were corrupt. But neither did I have proof that you weren’t.”

“So what made you approach me?”

“Beyond desperation? Your daughter.”

“What about her?” he asked, his voice, and his expression, filled with warning.

“Our son, Daniel, has had experience with hard drugs,” said Gamache, and Zalmanowitz’s eyes narrowed. This was news to him.

“So have I,” said Beauvoir. “Almost killed me. Almost destroyed the people I care most about.”

“We know what it does to a family,” said Gamache quietly. “And I thought if anyone would do anything to stop the trafficking, it would be you. So I took the chance, and approached you. But I knew that even if you were clean, that didn’t mean your department was.”

“You arrogant shithead.”

Gamache held his glare.

“If it helps, I didn’t trust my own service either. That’s why only a handful of officers knew what I was doing. The entire Sûreté was involved, but each department, each detachment had a very small role. So small, none could see clearly what was happening. To the extent, as you know, that there was eventually open revolt. They also felt I was incompetent and didn’t flinch from saying it. But only a few saw the whole picture.”

Like Clara’s paintings, thought Beauvoir. Tiny dabs that in themselves were nothing. But when combined added up to something completely unexpected.

“You think that excuses it?” said Zalmanowitz. “Do you know what you’ve done? You made me betray all my training, all my beliefs. You made me lie and suppress evidence. You made me believe I was trying the wrong person for a capital crime. You know what that does to a person? To me?”

His clenched fist hit his breastbone so hard they heard the thump across the room.

“Do you regret what you did?” Gamache asked.

“That’s not the issue.”

“It’s the only issue, today,” said Gamache. “Yes, I led you to believe all those things, and yes, you did it. And because you did, we have the cartels across the nation on the run. Not just here, but across the country. The head of the largest syndicate in North America is dead, the other is in prison.”

“You played me for a fool.”

“No. I realized I’d been wrong about you, and that you’re not a coward. Far from it. You were and are a very brave man.”

“You think I care what you think of me?” demanded Zalmanowitz.

“No. Nor do I care, really, what you think of me. What I care about today are the results. I don’t regret what I did. I wish with all my heart it hadn’t been necessary. I wish there’d been another way. But if there was one, I couldn’t think of it. Do you regret it?” Chief Superintendent Gamache asked again. “Burning our ships?”

Chief Crown Prosecutor Zalmanowitz took a deep breath, and regained control of himself.

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

“That doesn’t excuse you,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I forgive you. You could have told me.”

“You’re right. I know that now. I made mistakes. You were brave and selfless and I treated you like an outsider. I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

“Shithead,” Zalmanowitz muttered, but his heart didn’t seem in it. “What were you keeping from me? What was so important?”

“The bat.”

“The murder weapon?” asked the judge.

“Yes. Do you remember in the testimony, in Reine-Marie’s statement, she said she hadn’t seen the bat when she found the body?”

“Yes. But it was there when Chief Inspector Lacoste arrived,” said Zalmanowitz. “You testified that Madame Gamache must’ve made a mistake.”

“I lied.”

He looked at Reine-Marie, who nodded.

Maureen Corriveau wished she’d chosen that moment to use the bathroom, but it was too late. She’d heard.

And, to be fair, while the specific lie was news, she already knew this trial was rife with half-truths and outright perjury.

“Well then, what did happen?” asked the Crown, slipping naturally into prosecutor mode. Cross-examining a possibly hostile witness.

“I knew Reine-Marie was describing exactly what was there when she found the body. And what was not. So how did the bat return, without anyone seeing?”

“I’d locked the church door. The only way in,” she said.

“So.” Zalmanowitz lifted his hands. “How do you explain it?”

“I couldn’t. Until a casual conversation later that day with friends. One mentioned that the root cellar already had a criminal past. It’d been used by bootleggers during Prohibition.”

Both the Crown and the judge were nodding now. It was quite a famous chapter in Québec history, one many prominent families wished would go away.

“That’s when it began to come together,” said Gamache. “The smugglers would never have hauled the contraband liquor out the front door of the church. There must be, I realized, another door. A hidden door, in the root cellar.”

“That’s how the murder weapon reappeared,” said the judge. “The murderer used the hidden door. But how did she even know about it?”

“Jacqueline followed Anton to the Ruiz home,” said Beauvoir. “And got a job there to be close to him, to watch him. Then, when Ruiz went back to Spain, she followed Anton to Three Pines. She was watching him closely, and one night she saw him use the door.”

“But then, how did he know about it?”

“Anton grew up in a household where old war stories meant turf wars, speakeasies, bootlegging,” said Gamache. “Stories of getting booze across the border. How they did it. Where they did it. His father, his uncle, his uncle’s best friend, all saw these as part of the lore, their history, almost mythology, but not pertinent today. What separated Anton from the rest of his family, from the rest of the leadership of the cartels, is that he dismissed nothing. If something was history, it didn’t make it less useful. He took everything in. Some he discarded, some he kept in his mind for later use. And some he repurposed. To others, the Prohibition stories were a way to pass cold winter nights. For Anton, they were a revelation.”

“He did his homework,” said Beauvoir. “And discovered where all the crossing points, all the hidden rooms and passages used by the bootleggers were. He used them all, but as his main crossing point he chose a hidden room in a hidden village.”

“It was perfect,” said Gamache.

“So you discovered how the bat, the murder weapon, got in and out, or out and in,” said Judge Corriveau. “But how did you know it was being used for drug smuggling?”

“The hinges,” said Beauvoir. “They’d been oiled. And not recently. The room, and the door, had been used far longer than the cobrador had been in residence.”

“And when asked, none of the friends admitted using the door. They had no idea it was there,” said Gamache. “So the hinges must’ve been oiled for another purpose. I didn’t know right away, of course. But I began to think maybe the smugglers were back. It had perplexed us for a while, how so many drugs were getting across the border. The traditional routes we knew about, but far more was crossing than we could account for.”

“But wait a minute,” said the Crown. “Everything you’re saying still points to Anton being the murderer. How did you figure out it was Jacqueline?”

“If Anton Boucher wanted someone killed, do you think he’d do it himself?” asked Beauvoir. “And even if he did, would he panic, and take, then replace the murder weapon? Why not just burn it? That’s when Jacqueline came to us and confessed about the cobrador.”

Jean-Guy remembered the bitterly cold November night when Gamache and Lacoste, along with the dogs, had blown back into the house, as he’d gotten off the phone with Myrna and Ruth.

Both admitted knowing about the little room. Ruth had told Myrna, and Myrna, after some thought, remembered telling Lea. Though while he’d gently probed, neither seemed to know about the hidden door.

“She didn’t confess to the murder of Katie Evans,” said Gamache. “Her confession was about the cobrador. But the bat continued to worry us. I knew the bat’s only purpose, after it had killed Madame Evans, was to point to the murderer. But not, of course, the real one.”

“She wanted Anton Boucher charged with the crime,” said Zalmanowitz.

“Oui. That was Jacqueline’s plan all along. Again, very simple. Kill Katie, and blame Anton. The two people she considered responsible for her brother’s death. The Conscience had more than one debt to collect. Edouard jumped while out of his mind on drugs sold to him by Anton. But what sent him over the edge was his breakup with Katie. It broke his heart, and the drugs warped his mind. He was, by all reports, a gentle, sensitive young man, who loved her too much. And Katie Evans was a gentle, kind woman whose crime was that she didn’t love him back.”

“Edouard told his sister all about it,” said Beauvoir. “He was enraged. He painted Katie as cruel. Heartless. He didn’t mean it, of course. He was insane with jealousy and the drugs had warped his thinking. I know what they can do. How we turn on the very people who care for us the most.”

“And then, having placed all his bile in his sister’s head, he killed himself,” said Gamache. “Leaving Jacqueline to despise Katie. Neither Katie, nor the drug dealer, had paid any price for her brother’s death. But she would see to that.”

Barry Zalmanowitz was nodding. While others might not understand that obsession, he did. If his daughter had died, he’d have spent his lifetime getting justice. In whatever form it took.

The Premier Ministre du Québec listened to the explanation, without comment, without question.

Then he turned to Judge Corriveau.

“How much of this did you know?”

It was time. To link arms with Gamache and cross the bridge at Selma.

To stand in front of a home, and refuse entry to those who would deport, who would hang, who would beat and bully.

The knock was at the door. The Jews in the attic.

It was her time, her turn. To stand up.

“I knew none of it,” she heard herself say.

Beside her in the Premier’s office, Gamache was silent.

“This was all you, Armand?” the Premier asked.

“Oui.”

“But your people went along with it. The Chief Crown went along with it.”

“Yes.”

It was no use saying they were just following his orders, Gamache knew. That was no defense, nor should it be.

“You know what I have to do,” said the Premier. “Breaking the law, perjuring yourself, crossing the border and killing a citizen of another country, no matter how deserving that person was, cannot go unanswered.”

“I understand.”

“You will, of course, be—”

“I knew,” said Maureen Corriveau. She turned to Gamache. “Forgive me, I should’ve admitted it earlier.”

“I understand,” he said. And then, under his breath he said to her, “You’re not alone.”

“Explain,” said the Premier Ministre.

“I didn’t know the specifics, but I did know that something was happening in the trial. Something unusual. I suspected perjury and called Messieurs Gamache and Zalmanowitz into my chambers. They all but admitted it. Enough to have had them arrested, certainly detained. But I let them go.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew there must have been a very good reason. And if they were willing to risk so much, it seemed the least I could do.”

The Premier nodded. “Thank you for that. You do know that if you had detained Monsieur Gamache, all this would have fallen apart. His plan would’ve collapsed, and the cartel would have really and truly won.”

“I do.”

He turned to Gamache.

“You will be relieved of duty. You’ll be on suspension, pending an investigation. As will your second-in-command, Inspector Jean-Guy Beauvoir. I believe you were the leaders?”

“Yes.”

“Superintendent Madeleine Toussaint will be promoted to acting head of the Sûreté. She’s certainly been implicated and will be investigated, but someone has to take over, and thanks to you, Armand, all the senior officers are now compromised. That means I either appoint Toussaint, or the janitor.”

“And Chief Inspector Lacoste?” asked Gamache.

“She will stay as head of homicide.”

Armand nodded his thanks. It was a battle he was prepared to fight, but relieved he didn’t have to.

“And me?” asked Judge Corriveau.

“You’re the judge,” he said. “What do you think I should do?”

Maureen Corriveau appeared to think for a moment, then said, “Nothing.”

The Premier lifted his hands. “Sounds reasonable to me. Nothing it is.”

“Pardon?” asked Corriveau. She’d been kidding when she said “nothing.”

“I spoke to the Chief Justice yesterday and told him what I thought might have happened. He agreed that while technically improper, you acted in the best interest of the province. Of the people. You used great judgment.”

The Premier Ministre du Québec stood up and put out his hand.

Judge Corriveau stood and shook it.

“Merci,” he said.

Then he turned to Gamache, also on his feet now.

“I’m sorry, my dear friend, that any punishment should come your way. We should be giving you a medal—”

Gamache leaned away from that suggestion.

“—but I can’t,” continued the Premier. “I can, though, promise you and Inspector Beauvoir a fair investigation.”

He walked them out, then the Premier Ministre closed the door, and closed his eyes. And saw again the charming bistro, and the kindly man with the knife.