The rain was coming down in torrents, hitting them sideways. Everyone was anonymous in the orange covers, slick with rain.

“Colleen?” he shouted, knowing with their hoods up all they’d hear was the din of the rain pelting their heads. “Colleen!”

He grabbed a promising shoulder. A young man Gamache recognized as a porter turned round. He looked frightened and uncertain. Water dribbled down Gamache’s face, into his eyes and down his cheeks. He smiled reassuringly at the young man.

“You’ll do fine,” he shouted. “Just stick close to them.” Gamache pointed to two large orange coats with bold duct tape X’s on their backs. “And if you get tired, tell them. You’re not to hurt yourself, d’accord?”

The young man nodded. “Are you coming with us, sir?”

“I can’t. I’m needed somewhere else.”

“I understand.”

But Gamache saw the disappointment. And he saw fear lick the boy. And he felt horrible. But he was needed elsewhere, though he needed to find the young gardener first. “Is Colleen in your group?”

The young man shook his head then ran off to catch up with the others.

“Sacré,” whispered Gamache, standing alone now on the soaked lawn, his own clothes unprotected and wet through. “Idiot.”

He spent the next few minutes striding into the woods, asking each group he found whether the gardener was with them. He knew the standard search pattern, had coordinated enough searches himself not to be worried about losing the searchers. He was worried about something else. About Elliot, missing. About Elliot, whose clothing was still in his modest wooden cupboard in the small bunkroom.

“Colleen?” He touched another orange shoulder and saw another little leap as some poor kid’s movie nightmare came momentarily true. As they turned he knew they expected to see Freddy Krueger or Hannibal Lecter or the Blair Witch. Huge, terrified eyes met his.

“Colleen?”

She nodded, relieved.

“Come with me.” He shouted to the team leader he was taking the young gardener from the search, and while the others trudged deeper into the woods Gamache and Colleen emerged onto the lawn and jogged toward the refuge of the lodge.

Once inside with towels to dry off Gamache spoke.

“I need to know a few things, and I need you to be honest.”

Colleen looked well beyond being able to lie.

“Who do you have the crush on?”

“Elliot.”

“And who do you believe he had feelings for?”

“Her. The woman who was killed.”

“Julia Martin? Why do you say that?”

“Because he was always hovering around her, asking questions.”

She brought the soft towel to her wet face and gave a good scrub.

“Like what, Colleen? What did he want to know?”

“Stupid things. Things like what her husband did and where they lived and whether she sailed or hiked. Whether she knew Stanley Park and the yacht club. He’d worked there once.”

“Did he know her, do you think, from Vancouver?”

“I heard them laughing once that he probably served her a martini there, just as he was serving her one in Quebec.”

Colleen clearly didn’t see the humor.

“You talked about ants,” he said more gently. “The ones that gave you nightmares. Where were they?”

“All over.” She shivered at the memory of ants crawling all over her.

“No, I mean in real life, not your dream. Where did you see the ants?” He tried not to let his anxiety show, and deliberately kept his voice even and calm.

“They were all over the statue. When I was trying to transplant the sick flowers I looked up and the statue was covered with ants.”

“Now, think carefully.” He smiled and took his time, even though he knew time was fleeing before him, racing away. “Were they really all over the statue?”

She thought.

After what seemed hours she spoke. “No, they were at the bottom, all over his feet, and the white block. Right where my head was.”

And he could see the young gardener kneeling down, trying to save the dying plants, and coming face to face with a colony of scampering, frenzied ants.

“Was there anything else there?”

“Like what?”

“Think, Colleen, just think.” He was dying to tell her, to quickly lead her to it, but he knew he couldn’t. Instead he waited.

“Wasps,” she said finally. And Gamache exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. “Which was funny because there wasn’t a nest. Just wasps. That kid, Bean, said it was a bee sting, but I’m sure it was a wasp.”