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He barely registered that behind him, Billy Williams was speaking.

“There’s no sign of her,” called Beauvoir. “Billy says he thinks the duffel bag came from farther upriver.”

“There’s an old logging road about a kilometer from here.” Billy waved behind him. “A bridge goes over the Bella Bella. It’s been closed for a while now, but hunters sometimes use it in the fall.”

Jean-Guy translated what was said.

Gamache turned and looked at the .22 leaning against the backhoe. A hunting rifle.

“Can you show us?” he asked.

“Yurz.”

“What about the bag?” Reine-Marie asked.

“We’ll take it with us,” said Gamache.

“You can’t,” said Tracey.

“Then we’ll open it here,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache asked Reine-Marie to use her phone to record the search of Vivienne’s bag while Billy took his place beside Tracey.

“No,” said Tracey. “Stop. It doesn’t belong to you. It’s on my property. It belongs to me.”

“It belongs to your wife,” said Beauvoir, unzipping it.

The duffel bag contained all the things you’d expect someone to pack who was going away for a few days. T-shirts, a pair of jeans. Some shorts. Pajamas. Underwear. Toiletries.

“What are these?” Gamache held up a bottle of pills and read off the label, “Mifegymiso.”

When the others shook their heads, Gamache held them out for Tracey to see.

“How should I know? Probably some street drug she picked up, the—”

“Enough.” Beauvoir got to his feet and took a step toward Tracey.

“Jean-Guy,” snapped Gamache.

The cold, the exhaustion, the find, the growing certainty of what had happened to this young woman and who’d made it happen, were all fraying their nerves.

Beauvoir glared at Tracey but managed to contain himself.

“We’re done,” said Gamache, zipping the duffel bag shut. “We’ll take this with us and give you a receipt.”

“I don’t want a receipt. I want the bag.”

“You’re coming with us,” said Beauvoir, and shoved him toward the car as they all trudged across the field. Leaving the backhoe to sink further into the mire.

When they reached the car, Beauvoir placed the duffel bag in the trunk, and Gamache, having removed the bullets, put the .22 back there, too.

Tracey stood beside the car.

“Get in,” said Gamache.

When Beauvoir went to get in beside him, Gamache held out the keys.

“Why don’t you drive? Can you get in the front seat?” he asked Reine-Marie, who’d stopped recording and slipped the phone into her pocket.