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“What is it, Armand?”

In the car ahead of him, Jean-Guy had put on the brakes and swerved, taking a dirt road off to the right.

They were almost at Three Pines. But now Jean-Guy was heading away from the village. At speed. Recklessly bumping along the washboard road.

The agent guarding Tracey had just reported that instead of going straight home, as he’d been advised to do after being discharged, Tracey had headed to his local bar.

To celebrate.

“What do you want me to do, patron?” the agent asked. “Should I go in?”

“No, stay where you are. I’m coming to you.”

Jean-Guy knew he shouldn’t, but still he did. He turned the car and now was gunning it toward Carl Tracey.

Beauvoir pulled in to the parking lot of the dive bar and parked beside the very well-marked Sûreté vehicle.

Normally, when doing surveillance, they wanted to be discreet.

But Beauvoir had specifically asked for a vehicle with “Sûreté du Québec” clearly marked. “In neon if possible,” he’d said. “And I want the agent in uniform.”

Tracey needed to be in no doubt that he was being not just guarded but watched.

As Beauvoir walked toward the bar, his hands flexed into tight fists, then opened. Then closed again. Into weapons.

Jean-Guy knew this was a mistake. The issue wasn’t whether he was about to step into a pile of something soft and smelly. That much was obvious. The only question was, how big would it be? How deep would he go?

And could he stop himself before…?

Chief Inspector Beauvoir walked right past the agent sitting in the car and said only two words.

“Stay here.”

He heard a car pull in to the parking lot. As he reached the door to the bar, his hand on the knob, he heard the familiar voice behind him.

“Jean-Guy.”

But for one of the few times in his life, Beauvoir chose to ignore Gamache.

“Stay here,” said Chief Inspector Gamache as he strode by the agent who was beginning to get out of the car.

She stayed.

Beauvoir stepped into the bar.

It was dark. Smelled of stale cigarettes and fresh urine and flat beer.

A television was on, showing an Andy Griffith rerun. Opie had questions for his father. Again. But the answers were drowned out by the burst of laughter from a group of grubby men at the bar.

Four of them, Beauvoir saw immediately. No, five.

Two bottles of rye on the bar. Beer bottles clasped in hands, the men turned and squinted into the unexpected and unwanted light through the open door before it swung shut.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of them demanded.

Beauvoir didn’t answer. He just stood there. Staring.

At Carl Tracey.