shouted after the boy, who stopped and turned.
They’d been wandering the back alleys for an hour. Marc was beginning to tremble, not from the cold, or fear, but from withdrawal. His mumbles had become a plaintive whine.
“I need something. Anything.”
He’d already taken a tab of acid, but he was used to stronger. Needed stronger. And was getting weaker and weaker.
They all were.
The junkies and trannies and whores who straggled along after Amelia as she followed the boy from alley to tenement to empty lot. Some had broken off, desperate now for a hit. Preferring to go it alone.
Those who had stayed, the junkies and trannies and whores, were too far gone to make a decision. They just trudged after her, afraid of being left behind. Again.
“No, no, he was here an hour ago,” said the kid, looking around. “He told me to come find you. It’s ready.”
“What is?”
“Dinner. He’s made dinner for you. What the fuck do you think I mean? The shit’s ready.”
“Then why does he need me?” asked Amelia, feeling a surge of adrenaline.
“How should I know?”
Amelia looked over at Marc. Wanting to ask him, to ask anyone, for advice. She was tingling and wasn’t sure if it was excitement or a warning. This wasn’t right. Every instinct told her she was being set up. That she should stop. Turn around. Go back. Go home.
But she had no home. There was no “back” back there. Only forward.
The stud in her tongue knocked against her teeth as she considered her options.
The kid was on the move again, slipping and sliding through the slush in his running shoes.
“He must’ve left,” he was muttering, looking this way and that. But it was night, and hardly any light from the street penetrated down these back lanes. David could’ve been standing feet away and they wouldn’t see him.
Making up her mind, Amelia grabbed Marc’s hand and dragged him, staggering, forward.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of her stud joined the chattering of his teeth.
* * *
Katie and Benedict sat side by side on the sofa in front of the fireplace.
A platter of roast beef, chicken, and peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches had been put out on the coffee table, along with drinks.
Katie wore a long boiled-wool skirt over bright pink jeans and a sweater made up of what looked like meatballs but were actually brown pom-poms. They hoped.
Henri was looking at her in a way that demanded monitoring.
She had the same haircut as Benedict. Almost shaved on top, and from just above the ears down it was long.
They held hands and looked very young as Katie stared at the adults surrounding them and Benedict stared at the sandwiches. And Armand stared at Henri. In warning.
Once again Armand noticed a resemblance between the shepherd and the carpenter.
“I hope you know,” he began, lifting his eyes to the young couple, “that it’s far too late for lies. And there’ve been far too many already.”
While his words were firm, his voice was gentle. Encouraging. Like coaxing fawns from the forest.
Katie nodded, and Benedict’s eyes met Armand’s.
“How did this begin?” Gamache asked. There was no doubt that the question was aimed at Katie.
“Well, I guess it started before I was born—”
“Maybe the more recent events,” said Armand. “How did Benedict get onto Madame Baumgartner’s will?”
“She knows?” asked Myrna.
“And she knows why you’re on too,” said Beauvoir. “Don’t you?”
Katie nodded again. She might look like a lunatic, but her eyes were sharp and bright and glowed with intelligence.
She was, Gamache suspected, a remarkable young woman. Certainly a one-off.
“I met Madame Baumgartner in the seniors’ home,” said Katie Burke. “I don’t know if you know, but there aren’t all that many Anglo homes around.”
“Why would it matter?” asked Jean-Guy.
Katie looked at him with a weary patience, as though she were the adult and he was very, very young.
“What language would you choose to die in? It matters. We were lucky to get my grandfather into this one. I was visiting him and noticed that this one old woman hardly ever had visitors. Her family came when they could, and they seemed to care, but the days are long when you’re sitting all alone. She always smiled at me and had the nicest face. A little eccentric, you know?”
The adults, as one, nodded. They could see that this young woman would be drawn to the eccentric.
“So one day I took her a tin of homemade cookies.”
“Those cookies with a hole on the top filled with jam,” said Benedict. “Except Katie’s holes are different shapes—”
Katie patted