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“He’s not your brother,” said Jean-Guy.
“Non, that’s true. And Vivienne isn’t Annie. But still, I’d want someone to do this for me, to watch over me, if…”
If Annie … If Reine-Marie …
Beauvoir considered and realized that if anything happened to Annie.… To Honoré …
Someone would have to do the same for him.
“Agreed, patron,” he said. “By the way, who were you talking to in the store room?”
“The Montreal Alouettes.”
“What did they say about Cameron? Why’d they let him go?”
“Too many penalties. He was a good player but was costing them yards.”
“Roughing?” asked Beauvoir.
“I’d have thought so, but no. Holding. Apparently it was almost a reflex of his, to grab hold of something and not let go. They couldn’t break him of it.”
As Gamache walked to the car, listening to Agent Cloutier go on excitedly about continuing to string Pauline Vachon along in hopes of getting more evidence, he felt some anxiety stir.
It wasn’t the slight sour feeling he’d had in his gut earlier. The worry they wouldn’t be able to nail Tracey. That was still there, but less and less as the evidence mounted and now threatened to bury Carl Tracey.
This was something else. A prickling at the back of his neck.
Something was wrong. A mistake had been made, or was about to be made.
“Who’s that?” asked Myrna, nodding toward a car just arriving in Three Pines as Armand’s vehicle left.
“Probably more Sûreté,” said Clara. “They’ve set up in the old railway station again.”
“Huh,” said Myrna. “It’s stopped in front of your house.”
“Really?” said Clara, turning to take a closer look.
“Is that who you’ve been looking for?” Reine-Marie asked Ruth. The elderly poet had been glancing out the bistro window all morning.
Now Ruth was smiling as she, too, watched the car arrive.
“What’ve you done?” asked Myrna.
“You’ll see.” Ruth turned to Clara. “You might want to go say hello.”
A young woman was just getting out of the car.
“Why?” asked Clara, not at all liking the satisfied expression on the old woman’s face.
“All that most maddens and torments,” said Ruth. “All that stirs up the lees of things. Moby-Dick.”
“Have you stirred up the lees of things?” Myrna asked.
Ruth was so pleased with herself she was almost exploding with pleasure. It was not an attractive sight.
As they watched, the stranger knocked on Clara’s door and, getting no answer, turned to look around.
And Clara recognized her. “Oh, God, Ruth. What’ve you done?”
