Page 83 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

Lacoste, on the video call with the botanist Dr. Lagacé, clocked the information but ignored it. Jean-Guy, on the other hand, did not.

He read the text as he parked the car in front of the B&B in Three Pines.

“Nope. Stay where you are, you little shit.”

Comeau heard the familiar clunk as the doors were locked. His hand froze on the now useless handle. “What?”

Jean-Guy was smiling at him. The way the Grinch smiled at little Cindy Lou Who. Whatever had just happened, it was not, Comeau knew immediately, good news.

“What?” he repeated.

“Why did you lie to us?”

“I haven’t. I’ve told you the truth.”

“You told me you’re an investigator at Réunion. In fact, you’re a janitor.”

“I didn’t lie. I never said I was an investigator. You assumed.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, this isn’t kindergarten. That’s a child’s excuse.”

Now Comeau turned to him, turned on him. “And what job do you think I could get after what you did to me?”

As soon as he said it, he realized his mistake. It was the story he’d told his family and friends, to good effect. How he was the victim. Hard done by. It was the story he’d told himself so often he’d almost come to believe it. Except in the small hours. In the dark.

The door handle pressed into his back as Comeau pushed himself as far away from Beauvoir as possible. It was not far enough. It never would be.

“What we did to you?” Jean-Guy spoke slowly.

His rage boiling up, Beauvoir clenched his fists so tight his nails bit into his palms. But he didn’t feel a thing. At least nothing physical.

“The Chief trusted you, we all trusted you—”

Comeau did not need to be told. He relived it almost every day, every night.

The bullets. The explosions. The smell. The shouts. The cries. The Chief’s voice in their headphones, urging them forward, adjusting the plan. Never panicked, always, always calm, in control.

Comeau heard that voice in his dreams. And he heard his own voice, in his nightmares.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck! More explosions. Bullets pounding in the concrete beside him. How is this possible?

Bang, bang, bang!!

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Agent Comeau clutched his cold weapon to his chest. He could feel his heart pounding, trying to escape through the Kevlar vest. To get out, get out, get out! And take the rest of his body with him.

His breathing was rapid. He was, he knew, hyperventilating.

He was, he knew, going to pass out.

He was, he knew, going to die. They all were.

The men they were up against were not just criminals, these were monsters. Who went into fast-food restaurants and opened fire. At random. Killing or wounding everyone there. Parents, grandparents, children.

For fun. They didn’t even steal anything, though the leader made a point of eating fries from a dead patron’s tray. A kind of signature.

This was a nest of psychopaths. And he was in the middle of it.