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.
Gamache and Billy got into the backseat, with Tracey between them.
“She isn’t dead, you know. She’s messing with you all. Trying to get me into trouble. I bet she threw that fucking bag into the river herself. You wait. When she shows up, after a bender with some guy, I’ll be suing your ass.”
“Let’s hope,” said Gamache.
Beauvoir drove while Billy pointed the way to the old logging road.
They came to little more than a break in the trees. Turning in, Beauvoir felt the tires begin to sink. “We have to walk from here.”
The five of them followed the flashlight beams down the narrow lane through the trees.
The limbs of the trees loomed overhead, a tunnel of dead branches. Their flashlights created shadows so macabre that even Beauvoir, not given to fantasy, felt his skin crawl. This was how horror films began. Or ended.
And then it got worse.
Beauvoir’s stronger beam landed on something up ahead. Blocking the way. A car.
“Stay here,” Gamache said to the others while he and Jean-Guy approached.
It was Vivienne’s.
Gamache nodded to Beauvoir, who carefully walked around to the other side and shone his light through the rear window while Gamache looked in the front.
Nothing.
Opening the driver’s door, careful not to touch too much, Gamache played his light over the seat. The wheel. The footwells. There were assorted wrappers, some change. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke. He checked the ashtray and found stubs.
The same brand Tracey smoked.
There was a smear of blood on the steering wheel and another in the shift. The hair on the back of Gamache’s neck was standing on end. Something awful had happened here.
He pulled a lever and popped the trunk.
“Nothing,” Beauvoir reported.
Gamache closed the car door, and both investigators made for the wooden bridge.
“Don’t worry,” shouted Tracey. “It’s safe.”
“No it’s not,” called Billy. “It’s probably rotten.”
Beauvoir reached out and stopped Gamache, who was just about to step on the wooden boards. Armand had heard Billy but hadn’t understood.
Beauvoir turned and glared at Tracey, who was smiling.
“Worth a try,” Tracey said, his eyes cold. Calculating.
Reine-Marie took a step away from this creature while Beauvoir wondered if all five of them would make it out of the woods.
From the safety of solid ground, Gamache