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Armand was beside her in the back seat, studying a map, while the chef sat up front.

Armand looked over his reading glasses in time to catch the sign.

Murder Road.

“It’s actually the name of a person,” said Takacs. “Not an act.” He paused. “I think. Pull in here.” The chef indicated a small white church. “We’re close.”

Gamache looked at his watch. It was now 7:15. Four hours since the call, and for all he knew, they were no closer to Lost Nation and the body now than he had been in his bed.

Getting out of the car, they jogged to the shelter of a large oak. As they stood under its spreading branches, they heard around them the tap-tap-tap-plop of raindrops hitting the leaves, then the ground. A sound that would normally be comforting was now ominous. Armand could imagine any DNA, any prints, all the evidence dropping away.

Isabelle looked up and down the road. “There’s nothing here, patron. No break in the trees. No path.”

“Check out the church,” he said.

It was possible whoever had called them had taken shelter there. To be here when the cops arrived. To watch.

It was the sort of thing a murderer often did.

Gamache jogged back to the car. Takacs had just gotten out.

“Okay, I know where we are now. Been a while and the trees have grown up. Hope you’re good at climbing.”

“All clear,” Lacoste reported.

“Church is empty,” agreed Beauvoir.

“Aren’t they all?” said Takacs, a little sadly. He shoved a cap onto his head and looked toward the rugged mountain range to the south, where Canada met the USA.

Where Québec met Vermont.

“I guess we’re the front line.”

“Pardon?”

“For when they finally run out of resources and need ours.” He turned back to Gamache. “Thank you.”

Gamache gave one curt nod. There was a question he should have asked before. “Has anyone else asked you about Lost Nation recently?”

“No. Why would they? They ask what the special of the day is, not about some long-gone community.”

“And when was the last time you were here?” asked Isabelle.

“Couple of years. There’s nothing there.” Now the chef studied the three in front of him. “Or is there?”

Armand hunched deeper in his wax coat and hunched his shoulders as rain dribbled off his baseball cap, behind his collar, and down his back.

“Let the forensics team know where we are,” he said to Beauvoir, ignoring the chef’s question. “And call the coroner. We might need her.”

“Already done, patron. They should be here in a few minutes. Dr. Harris will be a little longer.”

“Bon.” He turned to look at the wall of woods. “Inspector Lacoste, we’ll need agents from the local detachment to help search for the body.”

She nodded and placed a call.

“Body?” asked Takacs. “You didn’t say anything about a body. Dead?”

“Presumably.”