Page 206 of The Grey Wolf
Armand asked her to repeat it, staring intently at her mouth. Then he shrugged.
“He must’ve followed him there. How else could he have known?”
His voice was louder than it should have been, though he was obviously unaware of it.
“I’m not sure if you noticed, Armand, but when we spread my uncle’s ashes in Blanc-Sablon, we found a small statue on his favorite rock. No one seemed to know where it came from.”
Armand had smiled, in a vague manner. As though he’d only partly understood.
But he’d understood perfectly and had simply chosen not to tell her that Clara Morrow had created two sculptures at his request.
Armand had given them to Jean-Guy and asked him to place one on Yves’s favorite rock in Blanc-Sablon, and the other on the peninsula at Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, where the Cree Chief had told the first Abbot about the two wolves.
Jean-Guy took photos, which Armand kept framed on his desk. Of the grey wolf, staring out across the water. Ever watchful.
And he’d understood something else. That her question about Parisi was far more important than he let on.
That night, after lying awake for hours trying to settle the cicadas, Armand had finally given up and got up.
He made a pot of tea and lit the fire. Henri trudged downstairs and slowly crawled onto the sofa, placing his head on Armand’s lap. Little by little Armand’s eyelids grew heavy. He put down the mug of tea, and his head fell back as he drifted off to sleep.
He woke up with a start, to find Henri bolt upright, staring at him. He’d had another nightmare. Again, about the damned notebooks.
Lavigne threatening him with the slaughter of his family and more if he didn’t give them up. It was obvious why he needed them. Charles Langlois had documented, in a way that was complete and utterly damning, the whole plot. Not by foreign terrorists at all, but domestic. By the Deputy Prime Minister.
If their scheme to put Lauzon in power was to succeed, David Lavigne needed to destroy those notebooks.
Once again, in his dream, he told Lavigne where to find them. Once again, he woke up screaming.
Armand dropped his face into his hands and rubbed. If this was the easiest of the nightmares, he was in big trouble.
He sat in the dark and peaceful living room in Three Pines and stared into the embers of the fire. And forced himself back to the treatment plant.
The gun was pressing hard to his head. He knew he was going to die. But it wasn’t just his own murder he was facing. Lavigne was hissing threats. Give up the notebooks or he’d come here and…
And there it was. What had been bothering him.
Notebooks.Plural. Not just the one that documented the planned attack on Montréal’s water. Lavigne wanted, demanded, needed both.
But why?
And why had Charles Langlois hidden both? Why not just the one to do with poisoning the drinking water?
Armand sat upright and shifted his stare from the fire to Henri, who’d been Clara’s model for the grey wolf, and whose immense ears now moved fully forward.
They stared at each other for a moment before Armand got up and went to his study, where he sat in front of his laptop.
He’d given the notebooks to the prosecutors, but not before making copies.
He brought them up on his screen. Then, knowing it would be a long night, he made a pot of coffee, toasted some brioche, and returned to his study.
Smelly old Fred and tiny Gracie joined Henri, and the three were now curled at his feet.
Charles Langlois had two notebooks. The second chronicled what he’d found in his investigation at the LaSalle treatment plant. That was the one he and Beauvoir had focused on. The one the prosecutors were poring over. The one many of the charges were based on.
But…
Suppose. Suppose…
