‘She told him her son was missing. She told him he wasn’t the only one. She told him about her village on the shores of James Bay, which until a year earlier had been dry. No alcohol, by decision of the band council. But the chief had been killed, the elders intimidated, the council of women disbanded. And then the alcohol had arrived, flown in by float plane. Within months their peaceful village was in ruins. But that wasn’t the worst.’
‘She told him about the murders,’ said Lacoste. ‘Did he believe her?’
Beauvoir nodded. Not for the first time he wondered what he’d do in the same situation. And not for the first time the ugly little answer came. He’d have been one of the ones snickering at her. And assuming he’d had the decency to approach, would he have believed her tale of intimidation and betrayal and murder?
Probably not. Or worse, he might have, but would have turned his back on her anyway. Pretended he hadn’t heard. Hadn’t understood.
He hoped that was no longer true, but he didn’t know. All he knew for sure was that the elderly Cree woman’s luck had turned.
At first Gamache had told no one about this encounter, not even Beauvoir.
He’d spent weeks flying from reserve to reserve across Northern Quebec. The snow was beginning to fall by the time he had his answers.
From the moment he’d looked into her eyes, sitting in that park in Old Quebec, he’d believed her. He was sickened and appalled, but he was in no doubt she was telling the truth.
Policemen had done this. She’d watched as these men had led the boys into the woods. The men had returned but the boys hadn’t. Her son, Michael, was one of them. Named for the Archangel, he’d fallen in the woods and she’d searched and searched but couldn’t find him.
Instead she’d found Armand Gamache.
‘Who’s there?’ Gamache stood stock-still. His eyes had adjusted and his ears were attuned.
The creaking increased and grew closer. He tried not to think about what Reine-Marie had just told him, but to focus on the sound which seemed to be all around him.
Finally, something slightly darker appeared from behind one of the basement doors. The black toe of a black shoe. Then a leg swung slowly into view. He saw with complete clarity the leg, the hand, the gun.
Gamache didn’t move. He stood in the very middle of the room and waited.