Read Page 35

Chief Inspector Gamache had taken the old telephone receiver off its cradle, unscrewed the lower section, removed the voice disc, and hooked directly into the line.

“You hot-wired the phone?” she’d asked.Advertisement

“Kind of,” he’d said. And then he’d taught her how to do it.

“It must’ve been tough back then,” she’d said. “When this was all you had.”

“It gave us more time to think,” he’d explained.

And then they’d sat by the woodstove, and they’d thought. And by the time the information had chugged its way back down the phone line, they’d all but solved the case.

And now she was the Chief Inspector. And she looked at all the technology being installed, in the absolute certainty it was crucial to solving the case.

But she knew differently. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew differently.

And the man who’d just arrived knew differently.

“Thank you for coming, sir,” she said, walking with them through the boxes and wires.

“Anytime,” said Gamache. “How can I help?”

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She indicated the conference table, set up at the far end of the old railway station.

“It’s time for a think,” she said, and saw him smile.

She hesitated by the chair at the head of the conference table. This was awkward. Every other time they’d sat there, Chief Inspector Gamache had assumed that seat.

This time, though, he walked right by it and sat to her left. Leaving Inspector Beauvoir to sit on her right-hand side.

Armand Gamache knew his place. Had, in fact, chosen it.

“So, this is what we know,” said Lacoste. “We have a massive gun hidden in the forest and a boy who was killed there and then his body moved. You knew Laurent better than we did,” Lacoste said to Gamache. “What do you think happened?”

“Well, he obviously found the gun,” said Gamache. “It looks like someone wanted to stop him from telling anyone about it.”

“But he’d already told lots of people,” said Jean-Guy. “All of us, for a start. Everyone in the bistro that afternoon heard him.”

“Maybe the murderer didn’t realize that,” said Gamache. “Maybe he wasn’t in the bistro when Laurent came running in.”

“So you think after he left us, he told someone else?” asked Lacoste. “Someone who killed him to keep him quiet.”

Gamache nodded. “It’s also possible he went back there on his own and interrupted someone. Though the site seems abandoned.”

“We’ll know more when forensics is done,” said Lacoste. “But that was my impression too.”

“So where does that leave us?” asked Beauvoir.

“I think whoever killed Laurent didn’t know him well,” said Gamache.

“Why do you say that?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Well, for one thing, he believed Laurent. He was a great boy but he was a fantasist. Everyone knew he made up stories, and this one was as far-fetched as all the rest. A giant gun in the woods, bigger than any house.”

“With a monster on it,” said Lacoste.

The boy, like a specter, appeared. Skinny. Covered in mud and leaves and urgency. Eyes bright. His arms stretched as wide as he could make them. Reciting his tall tale. Too tall for any of them to climb.

But someone had heard the story. And believed it.

“The killer must’ve known Laurent was finally telling the truth,” said Beauvoir.

“Exactement,” said Gamache, nodding.

“You think someone knew about the gun and kept it secret for years? Decades?” asked Lacoste.

“Might’ve even been guarding it,” said Beauvoir, warming to the theory. “And then Laurent finds it. Disaster. He had to silence the boy and the only way to do that was to kill him.”

“So who knew it was there?” asked Lacoste.

“Whoever put it there in the first place,” said Gamache.

“You think whoever built that gun is still around?” asked Lacoste.

“Maybe,” said Gamache, leaning forward in his chair.

“So who else did Laurent tell?” asked Lacoste. “Where did he go after he left us?”

“Home,” said Beauvoir, looking at Gamache. “You drove him home.”

“I did. May I?”

Gamache indicated the evidence they’d collected. It was bagged and sitting on the table.

“Oui,” said Lacoste. “It’s been swabbed and fingerprinted.”

Gamache picked up the cassette tape. The Very Best of Pete Seeger. pqdm.com