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The pilot double-checked the destination, not totally believing they wanted to go to such a remote location.

Once in the air, the two women stared out the windows at the vast expanse of forest and lakes and rivers that stretched on for hours.

“Dear God,” whispered Lacoste. It was beautiful. Majestic.

Though as they headed farther north, she was reminded of flying over the wildfire-ravaged forests, with mile after mile of charcoal stumps. Some still smoldering months later.

Finally, they began their descent.

CHAPTER 6

“Non.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. No. I’m not going to speak to you or anyone else. Only Gamache.”

“That’s not going to happen, Monsieur Lauzon. The Chief Inspector is still recovering from wounds inflicted on your orders—”

Beauvoir held up his hand to forestall Marcus Lauzon’s objections.

“I was wrong. Apologies. You ordered your man to kill the Chief Inspector, not wound him. It was only thanks to the presence of your own Chief of Staff that that didn’t happen.”

“Jeanne Caron is a traitor,” snapped the former Deputy Prime Minister of Canada.

“And lucky for you, for all of us, that she betrayed you.”

“Not me, you piece of shit. She’s a traitor to this country.”

“Right. And you’re the hero.” Though Beauvoir was still smarting from what that officer had said. He apparently did think Lauzon was a hero. And if a Sûreté officer could believe it, how many others did too? What lies were being spread?

Beauvoir studied the man across the table from him. He was almost unrecognizable now. Once composed and dignified, refined and yet managing to also seem a man of the people, Marcus Lauzon had rocketed up the party ladder, from backbencher to cabinet minister, his portfolios and power increasing, until finally he’d been made the second most powerful person in the nation. Behind the Prime Minister. His fetid breath on the PM’s neck.

Now the man’s cheeks were sunken, his eyes bright with what looked like a leering madness. His face was irregularly shaven, with patches of grey stubble.

If met on the street, Marcus Lauzon would be taken for indigent. Destitute.

And in many ways, thought Beauvoir, he was. He was morally bankrupt, bereft of normal human emotions. Missing empathy and any moral guardrails.

“Caron set me up. None of what was said in court was true. All those documents used against me were faked. By her. Who else had access to them?”

“Well, sir, you did. They were in your handwriting, and in your private and protected computer files. You—” Jean-Guy stopped himself and gave a small laugh. He’d almost fallen for it. Fallen down that deep dark hole where this man kept his tangled lies.

Beauvoir stared at the former politician for so long, the man grew uncomfortable.

“Quoi?” What?

“We know.”

“Know what?”

It was hard for Jean-Guy to decide if Lauzon was really interested or was simply trying to prolong this visit, before being returned to the prison within a prison. Within a prison. Where he would almost certainly eventually, despite precautions, be killed.

It was the one thing Beauvoir and that young Sûreté agent agreed on. It was surprising that Marcus Lauzon had lasted this long. The only reason he had was that Gamache had requested that Lauzon be placed in solitary. It appeared to be added punishment. It was actually to protect him.

It was not, Beauvoir knew, compassion on the part of the Chief Inspector that led him to put a cordon around Lauzon. It was realpolitik. He needed the former politician alive until all their questions were answered.

Sitting in front of Jean-Guy Beauvoir was one of the only people who knew what was about to happen. Knew what they’d missed.