Gamache. “But I’m not the one, the only one, who can lead us to the shipment.”
Jean-Guy tried to keep his civilized face in place, but still, he suspected his feelings showed through.
Chief Superintendent Gamache had asked great sacrifices of his people before. Had placed himself in danger, many times.
But it had always been with knowledge and consent. They knew what they were in for.
This was different. Very different. The man in front of Beauvoir was using a troubled young cadet, without her consent. Placing her in danger. Without her consent.
It showed Beauvoir two things.
Just how desperate the Chief was to stop those drugs from hitting the streets.
And just how far he was willing to go to do it. But Jean-Guy could see something else.
The toll it was taking on this decent man.
Beauvoir wondered if he himself would be able to do something so horrific.
* * *
“David?” said the junkie. “No, no David.”
Amelia pressed on. She didn’t even know if this David was French or English. Was she looking for Day-vid. Or Dah-veed?
It seemed a small point, but in the underbelly of this world small points mattered. Like the tiny tear of the skin a needle made. Yes, this was a universe of small points. And big pricks.
She was pretty sure this David had tagged her because she was asking questions about the new shit. It was a warning. That he could get that close.
But Amelia wasn’t going to be scared off.
In fact, just the opposite. She knew he’d made a mistake. Shown himself. And she now had a focus for the search.
Find David. Find the drug. And then her worries would be over. Then she’d show Gamache exactly what she was capable of.
Her feet, in running shoes, were wet through and caked in slush. Why hadn’t she brought her boots when she left the academy? All she’d grabbed were her books.
She hadn’t been back to the rooming house since leaving the day before, but she’d have to go back later that night. Marc needed his room. For business.
And she had her own business to do.
“I’m looking for David,” she said to a prostitute.
“Unless you’re looking for pussy, I can’t help you, little man.”
Amelia bristled, then realized that in her coat and tuque and jeans she did look a bit like a little man.
She trudged along rue Ste.-Catherine, a street named for the patron saint of illness. Peering into the dark alleyways, she saw the dregs, the detritus, the sick, the addicted, the whores, the near-dead and dying.
All kids. Most younger than herself. What had happened in the two years she’d been gone?
But she knew the answer. Opioids had happened. Fentanyl had happened. And worse was coming.
Amelia stared down a dark alley and thought she saw a child. In a bright red tuque. But it was just a hallucination, she was sure. An echo from the drugs she’d taken the night before.
* * *
Armand turned off all the lights in the house but didn’t go to bed, though he was longing, after that horrible day, to crawl under the warm duvet and hold Reine-Marie close. In the curve of his body.
Instead he settled into an armchair in the living room, with a pillow and blankets.
Just down the dark hallway were the bedrooms where Billy and Benedict slept. Peacefully, he hoped.
But if one should wake up with night terrors, Armand needed to be there.
* * *
Clara turned off the lights in the loft above the bookstore. She’d made sure that Myrna was fast asleep and was about to leave when she paused at the top of the stairs and looked back.
And thought of all the times Myrna had stayed with her. After Peter. To be there when the nightmares began.
Clara put on the kettle, made herself a strong cup of Red Rose tea. And settled into the large armchair by the fireplace.
* * *
Armand sat up with a start. Some sound had awoken him, but as he listened, the house was silent.
And then it came again. A cry.
He threw off the blanket and walked swiftly down the hallway.
“Benedict?” he whispered, knocking on the young man’s door and listening. There was the sound again. More like a whimper now.
Armand went in, and, pulling a chair up to the bed, he found Benedict’s hand. And held it. Repeating, softly, over and over, that he was safe. And when that didn’t work, he began to quietly sing. The first song that came to mind.
“‘Edelweiss, Edelweiss…’” Until the boy stopped crying and his breathing relaxed. And