“He couldn’t have,” said Evie. “Al hates guns, hates violence. He came here to get away from all that. There’s no way he’d have had anything to do with whatever is in those woods. Not Al.”

The Sûreté agents did not tell her what they knew about her husband. That he was not only capable of violence, he’d been involved in one of the great atrocities of the past century.

“Where is your husband?” Lacoste asked.

“In the field,” said Evie. “He spends all of his time out there now.”

Through Laurent’s bedroom window, past Spider-man and Superman and Batman on the sill, they could see the large man bending over, pulling his crop from the ground.

A minute later Clara and Evie watched as the Sûreté officers approached him. He stood up and wiped his large forearm across his forehead, then dropped his arms to his sides.

Then the Sûreté agents shepherded Al Lepage to the car.

CHAPTER 33

“I knew,” Ruth admitted.

“And Monsieur Béliveau knew,” said Gamache. “That’s why he’s been visiting you so early in the morning when he thought no one would see.”

“He’s a good man, Armand,” said Ruth, warning in her voice. “Too good perhaps.”

“He’s certainly good at keeping secrets.”

“Look, none of us knew what they were actually doing in the woods.”

“You must have suspected.”

“That they were building the biggest goddamned missile launcher this side of the River Jordan? Even I’m not that nuts. Who thinks that?”

“What did you think?” he asked.

She exhaled heavily, but didn’t speak.

Gamache got up, and walked away.

“Where’re you going, shithead?”

He kept walking.

“Asshat,” she called.

He didn’t turn around.

“Armand?”

But by then it was too late. She saw the screen door of the general store swinging and heard the thwack, as it passed the threshold. Thwack as it came back.

And she heard the familiar squeak of the hinges.

Squeak. Thwack.

She picked up Rosa, holding the duck to her chest. Standing up, she turned to face the door.

The door opened again, squeak, thwack, and the two men walked toward her.

“I’m sorry, Clément, I didn’t mean—”

The grocer held up his hand and smiled. “It’s all right, Ruth. We should’ve said something sooner. It’s time.”

They took their seats, Monsieur Béliveau on one side of her and Armand on the other. The three of them stared ahead, as though waiting for a bus.

“I can’t remember the exact date,” Monsieur Béliveau began without Armand prompting. “Or even the year. Can you, Ruth?”

“All I remember is that it was spring. It must’ve been in the early eighties. I was working on my first collection of poetry.”

“Early eighties?” asked Gamache. “As long ago as that?”

The grocer nodded. “I think so. During a bridge game at Ruth’s home, Guillaume Couture said he’d heard that some rich Anglo was going to build a home in the woods behind Three Pines.”

“And what did you think?”

“We thought nothing,” said Ruth. “Why would we? If someone mentioned to you that they were building a home in the forest, what would you think?”

“I guess I’d just hope it wouldn’t be too disruptive,” said Armand. “That was why Dr. Couture mentioned it to you, of course. To explain any noise and strangers. And no one noticed it wasn’t a woodstove and a kitchen sink being taken into the woods?”

“We weren’t paying attention,” said Ruth. “It was off over there.” She waved behind her, toward the forest. “At most we might’ve heard machinery, but if someone was building a home, you would.”

It would have seemed implausible, incredible. Impossible. How could they have missed a massive missile launcher being hauled into the forest right behind the village? But Gamache remembered what Professor Rosenblatt had said. Gerald Bull had the gun made in pieces, by different factories around the world. The final result was massive, but each piece might not be. It would be taken in a bit at a time and assembled there.

“Did you ever meet this rich Anglo?” asked Armand.

“Once,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “In the hardware store.”

“Where the bistro is now,” said Ruth. “Used to be a hardware store.”