been six deaths here in Montréal in the last three days. Four since this morning. All homeless. All junkies. All the same drug. What is this stuff?”
But Gamache didn’t answer. It was rhetorical anyway. The coroner knew exactly what it was. A nightmare.
Gamache felt his chest tighten.
He was too late. It was being released. Six deaths already. He looked over at Anita. Seven.
But still, he hadn’t heard from the undercover cops. Amelia hadn’t found any. So maybe this was the forerunner, a sort of foretaste.
The main body of the drug would be on the streets soon. Perhaps within hours. But not quite yet.
“Can you bring up the autopsy pictures?” Gamache asked, stepping over to the terminal.
They did.
“Zoom in on the left forearms.”
First one, then another. Then another.
“Shit,” said the technician. “We missed that.”
Gamache didn’t respond. He was staring at the images on the screen. They had several things in common.
All junkies. All dead by carfentanil.
All with David written carefully on each left forearm. Though the numbers were, for the most part, different.
“What does it mean?” asked the coroner.
“I have no idea what this means,” said Gamache, still studying the screen.
“So if a kid overdoses on this carfentanil,” the coroner asked, “is there an antagonist? A rescue medication?”
“Naloxone,” said Gamache. “The Sûreté and local forces are being given it. But—”
But if all the carfentanil was released onto the streets, there wouldn’t be nearly enough rescue drug out there. And not enough time to administer it. Carfentanil killed too fast for much hope of rescue, unless you got there immediately.
Gamache returned to the body of Anita Facial. And heard her soft voice on the message she’d left for him that afternoon.
She’d found the little girl. She’d keep her safe until he came to get her. But he hadn’t. And she hadn’t. And now the girl was still out there. Alone.
In the midnight and the snow!
“‘Christ save us all from a death like this,’” he muttered under his breath as he left the mortuary and returned to his car.
But he knew Christ wasn’t responsible. He was. And prayer, no matter how fervent, wouldn’t stop it.
Once in the privacy of his car, he placed a call.
“What the fuck is it?” came the gravelly voice.
“It’s Gamache.”
“Oh, shit, sorry sir,” the young man whispered. “I shouldn’t be talking.”
“Have you seen any sign of the carfentanil? Any sign at all that it’s hit the streets?”
“No, none. But there’s lots of anticipation.”
“There’s a little girl,” Gamache said. “Red tuque. Five, six years old. I want you to find her.”
“I can’t.”
“This isn’t a request, it’s an order.”
“But, sir, Choquet’s on the move. I think this’s it. I think she’s found him.”
“David?”
“Yes. I can’t talk. If anyone sees…”
Gamache knew it was a terrible risk, calling. No homeless man should be shuffling along and talking on a phone. But now he faced a choice.
The girl or the drug.
But there really was no choice to be made.
“Stay with her,” he said. “We’ll be tracking you. You have the naloxone?”
“Oui.”
“Good luck,” said Gamache.
He called his counterpart at the Montréal police and alerted him.
“We have the cell signal,” said the assault-team commander. “We’re ready to move as soon as we get the word.”
“You’ll need masks.”
“Got them. You’re there now?”
“Close.”
“God, let’s hope this’s it.”
The commander hung up, and Gamache drove toward the rotten core of the city he loved.
* * *
Agent Cloutier was still at her desk past midnight when Beauvoir arrived at Sûreté headquarters.
Ruth, leaning against the wall and clutching the thin, torn blue material at her throat, glared at him as he walked into the homicide department.
“Sorry,” he said to Ruth, and turned her around.
“I have it here,” said Cloutier, of the number he saw written there. “But waited for you to come before putting it in.”
“Thanks for waiting,” said Beauvoir as he pulled up a chair and nodded to her.
* * *
“Where is he?” asked Amelia, looking around.
This was an alley off an alley off a back lane. Impossible to find, except by those who were lost. She was pretty sure it wouldn’t be on any map.
But once found it was never forgotten. And probably never left.
All her senses were alert, her eyes sharp, her hearing acute.
“Who?”
The voice was deep. Calm. Amused.
Not the kid anymore but someone else, speaking from a doorway.
Amelia turned and saw a figure. Arms crossed. Legs apart. Watching her.
He was young, she could tell. There was about him something that was missing from everyone else in the alley.
Except her.
Meat on his bones. And life in his voice. This