Page 14 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

While both knew the Chief Inspector was always “on guard,” it was not bears that worried them, but a much more dangerous creature.

CHAPTER 7

The rain, heavy on the road, barely penetrated the thick forest canopy.

Takacs walked ahead, holding branches back so they didn’t slap the Chief Inspector in the face. Gamache was in his late fifties, and while he was not out of shape, this was still a demanding climb, as he tried to keep up with the younger man. Mud made the ground slippery underfoot. His sense of urgency was propelling him forward, and he had to force himself to slow down. To take in his surroundings. To search the forest floor, covered in rotting leaves and fallen trees. It would be so easy to miss a body. To walk right by it.

Even as he scanned for a body, Armand couldn’t help but marvel at this unspoiled landscape. Here was a forest that had not suffered the indignity of clear-cutting. Here maples, cherry, oaks, pines mingled.

The forest had closed in behind them, and Armand realized there was little chance he could, on his own, find his way back.

Still, he wasn’t worried. He had his phone. Now he checked it.

No signal.

“Of course,” he muttered as he slipped it back into his pocket and realized he was blindly following a stranger into the deep woods. A man who, by his own admission, was “pretty sure” he knew where he was going.

“How much further?” he called. He was perspiring and unzipped his coat.

“You want to rest?”

“Keep going.” Gamache used the stick to indicate they needed to forge ahead.

“Okay.” The chef picked up his pace.

He’s enjoying my discomfort, Gamache thought as he hurried to catch up. Revenge, perhaps, for the butter tart massacre.

A branch whipped back and would have hit Armand in the face had his reaction not been swift. He got his forearm up in time.

“Sorry,” said Takacs, and though he looked sincere, Armand was beginning to wonder.

After a few more minutes, an already difficult climb became steeper still. Even the chef, twenty years his junior, was struggling to get up it.

Armand took a deep breath and started up, sliding back, occasionally slipping to one knee in the mud.

He looked up and realized he’d lost sight of his guide. He glanced quickly around. Nothing. Nobody. And silence, except for the plop, plop, plop … which was now sounding less symphonic and more sinister.

He wiped water off his face. Rainwater? Perspiration? It tasted salty.

Armand knew if he didn’t return, they’d launch a search. He’d be found. Eventually. Unless the forest swallowed him as it had an entire nation. And a body.

With a huge effort, Gamache moved up the steep slope, toward light filtering through the leaves. Finally reaching the top, he bent over. Both hands on both knees, he heaved for breath and felt like retching.

Picking up the stick again, he straightened.

He’d broken out of the forest and now stood in a clearing. In unexpected sunshine.

Peter Takacs stood with his back to him, his arms spread wide like a preacher at a revival.

“There. Lost Nation.”

Hallelujah, thought Armand.

“No answer,” said Lacoste.

“There probably isn’t any reception.” Beauvoir peered into the wall of woods. “We should have gone with him.”

“He’ll be fine.”