And so they didn’t.
When her husband came back on the line, she told him she had to work late, but would be home before he knew it.
“Do we still have Pinocchio?” she asked.
“The book? Maybe. Why?”
“Do you think the kids would like to read it tonight?”
“Our children? They’re a little old, aren’t they? They want to watch The Walking Dead.”
“Don’t let them,” she said, and heard him laugh.
“I’ll wait up,” he said. And even though she always told him not to, he always did.
“Love you,” he said.
“I love you,” she replied. Her words clear, deliberate.
Then she hung up and locked that phone in her glove compartment, slipping her Sûreté phone into one of the Velcro pockets.
It had buzzed as soon as she’d driven over the hill, out of Three Pines.
There was a single text. From Toussaint.
They were in position.
Lacoste texted back.
G&B in bistro. Am getting in position.
As she made her way through the forest, Lacoste felt another vibration.
package left church on way to village.
Lacoste quickly typed, village? confirm
village
She turned and looked toward Three Pines, but all she saw were trees.
“Christ,” she whispered and stood still for a moment, her mind flashing through the options open to her.
Then Isabelle Lacoste turned and ran away. Away from the church. Away from the border.
And toward the village.
At the dirt road she paused, to make sure it was clear, then she crossed and reentered the forest. Down the hill she sprinted, clutching the assault rifle across her chest.
She slipped past the old schoolhouse. Crouched low, she passed behind Ruth’s home. At the Gamaches’ back garden, she heard conversation. Madame Gamache, Myrna and Clara were talking. Someone said something, and they laughed.
And then Lacoste was gone. Running across the Old Stage Road and reentering the woods on the other side. Behind the B&B now, she rounded the corner and stopped, catching her breath and trying to catch sight of any cartel member, patrolling.
Her eyes rapidly took in the homes. The road. The village green. The children playing.
Go home, she pleaded, though no one heard. Go home.
She saw the door to the bistro swing shut.
Gamache watched as two large men entered the bistro, each carrying a packing crate. They lowered them to the floor next to the head of the American cartel.
Anton stood up abruptly as the American nodded to the two men.
One moved beside Anton, the other stationed himself beside the head of the American cartel.
Others in the bistro were openly watching. The boxes were stamped Matryoshka Dolls in English and Cyrillic. Interesting, but not interesting enough to derail drinks and conversation, which started up again.
What most couldn’t see was that the words were slightly obscured by blotches, drips, of red.
Isabelle Lacoste carefully opened the internal door connecting the bookstore to the bistro.
Through the crack she saw the chief lean back in his chair, relaxed. A beer in his hand. While off to the side, the head of the American cartel gestured to Anton to sit back down.
This was a different Anton.
No longer the dishwasher. No longer the chef.
He must know now, thought Lacoste, if he didn’t before, that this wasn’t a friendly tête-à-tête, to divide territory. This was a hostile takeover. If nothing else, the red splashes on the boxes of toys would tell him that. They were what was left of his own couriers.
Lacoste carefully took the safety off her assault rifle.
Olivier passed in front of her and stood by the table, in direct line of sight. Direct line of fire. At the edge of her peripheral vision, she noted that Beauvoir had started to get up from the table.
The soldiers looked over at him. Lacoste lifted her rifle. Through the sights she saw the men grin.
Jean-Guy was holding a duck. The guards smiled as they watched him take the duck off his lap and give it to a woman so old she looked mummified.
It was like laying siege to Hooterville.
Ruth, clutching Rosa to her chest, got up.
“Well, fuck you too,” she said to Beauvoir, at the top of her lungs. “Numbnuts.”
That provoked outright laughter from the enforcers, though they stopped laughing when Ruth turned her fuck-you gaze on them.
“For God’s sake,” Lacoste whispered, as the old woman limped toward the two huge men. “Get out.”
Now Ruth was also obscuring any shot she had.
“Oh, come on, Ruth,” said Gamache, getting up and ushering her to the side. “Leave these poor men alone. They’re just trying to have their dinner. And it’s probably time for yours. We’ll take you over.” He pushed her slightly toward the door. “Olivier? The bill, please.”
“Of course, patron.” And Olivier moved to the bar.
“Jean-Guy?” said Gamache, indicating that he should look after Ruth.
The young American was watching this, amusement frozen on his face. Thrown off, slightly, by this strange turn of events. Though clearly not alarmed.
Yogi and Boo-Boo either had no idea what was going on, or the head of the Sûreté knew perfectly well, and was running away. Ceding the floor, the territory, to them.
But the head of the American cartel would have been alarmed, should have been alarmed, had he stopped watching Gamache and noticed the expression on Anton’s face.
It was feral now. Savage. Not the look of an animal cornered. More the look of something that had its claws in some unfortunate creature and was about to gut it.
Lacoste, watching from the bookstore, had a clear shot thanks to the chief. But the expression on Anton’s face disturbed her. How could that be? He was clearly outnumbered. Outmaneuvered. But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe—
She came to it a moment too late.
“Bonjour,” a man’s voice whispered. And she felt the thrust of a gun to the back of her ear.
Anton was not alone. Of course, he’d have his own bodyguard close by.
And now he had his weapon pressed to her head, as he twisted the rifle out of her hands.
The other thing Isabelle Lacoste knew, in that moment, was that she was dead.
There was a slight noise off to Gamache’s left. As he turned to look, Isabelle Lacoste was pushed through the door from Myrna’s bookstore, a man behind her with a gun to her head.
Gamache recognized the man immediately, from the attack on the cobrador. He’d been the one with the fireplace poker. Marchand. Gamache had thought he was just a drunken rowdy, but he saw now he’d been wrong. Marchand was Anton’s man. A cartel soldier.
Gamache took this in in an instant.
The world seemed to stop, and everything grew very clear, very bright and colorful. Very slow.
Before Lacoste was even across the threshold, Gamache moved.
The only advantage, Isabelle realized, to already being dead, was that she had nothing to lose.
As soon as she was pushed through the door, she planted her feet and thrust herself backward, into her captor.
Beauvoir was just a millisecond behind. He could see Gamache launching himself forward toward the guard.
He could see Lacoste and the armed man behind her falling backward, suspended, it seemed to his racing senses, in mid-flight, mid-fall.
Beauvoir lowered his shoulder, and bringing his hand to his holster, he pushed off.