“Too late,” said a woman’s voice from the house.
Armand looked over and saw Evelyn standing on the porch, hands on her wide hips, shaking her head. She was much younger than Al. At least twenty years, which put her in her mid-forties. She too wore a plaid flannel shirt, and a full skirt that fell to her ankles. Her hair was also pulled back, though some wisps had broken free and were falling across her scrubbed face.
“What was it this time?” she asked Laurent with a mixture of amusement and weary tolerance.
“I found a gun in the woods.”
“You did?”
Evelyn looked alarmed and Gamache was once again amazed that this woman still believed her son. Was that love, he wondered, or the same form of delusion Laurent suffered from? A potent combination of wishful thinking and madness.
“It was just the other side of the bridge. In the woods.” Laurent pointed with his stick and almost hit Gamache in the face.
“Where is it now?” she asked. “Al, should we go and see?”
“Wait for it, Evie,” her husband said in his deep, patient voice.
“It’s huge, Mom. Bigger than the house. And there’s a monster on it. With wings.”
“Ahhh,” said Evelyn. “Thanks for bringing him back, Armand. Are you sure you don’t want to keep him for a while?”
“Mom.”
“Go inside and wash up. We’re having squirrel for dinner.”
“Again?”
Gamache smiled. He was never sure if what they claimed to eat was the truth. He actually thought they were vegetarians. He did know they were as self-sufficient as possible, selling their organic produce in panniers to subscribers. He and Reine-Marie among them.
In the winter they made ends meet by teaching courses on how to live a sustainable lifestyle. It was one of the great miracles that these two should find each other. Like Henri and Rosa. And then that Al and Evie should, later in life, have a child. One miracle begetting another. A wild child.
“Why’s it always guns?” Al asked.
“Well, you’re the one who gave him that stick for his birthday,” said Evie. “Now all he does is dive behind furniture shooting at monsters. I can’t tell you how often I’ve been mowed down,” she confided in Armand.
“It’s meant to be a magic wand,” said Al. “At most a sword. Not a gun. I’d never give him a gun. I hate them.”
“You gave him a stick and an imagination,” said Evie. “What did you think a nine-year-old boy was going to do with it?”
“It’s a wand,” said Al to Gamache.
Armand smiled. If he’d given his son, Daniel, a stick for his ninth birthday there’d still be tears twenty years later. What kid not only accepts the stick, but cherishes it?
“Say hi to Reine-Marie,” said Evie. “The next pannier’s almost ready, we’re just finishing the harvest. In the meantime, take this.”
She handed him the sack of McIntosh apples.
“Merci,” he’d said, trying to sound sincere, and surprised.
Evie went inside and Al followed her, turning to Gamache at the door. “Thank you for bringing him home.”
“Always. He’s a great kid.”
“He’s crazy, but we love him.” Al shook his head. “A gun.”
A monster, thought Armand as he got in the car and drove home.
But the monster he was thinking of wasn’t from Laurent’s imagination. This one was very real. And had a name and a pulse, though not, Gamache suspected, a heartbeat.
“Why don’t you like Laurent’s parents, Ruth?” Reine-Marie asked, putting the chicken stew with fresh herb dumplings on the table.
They’d moved into the large country kitchen and taken seats at the pine table. Antoinette cut the bread while Gabri tossed the salad.
“It’s not her, it’s him,” said Ruth, putting her glass on the table and looking at them. “He’s a coward.”
“Al Lepage?” asked Brian. “I’d heard he was a draft dodger, but that doesn’t make him a coward, does it?”
Both Ruth and Rosa glared at him but said nothing.
“They were kids themselves at the time, drafted into a war they didn’t want to fight,” said Armand. “They gave up home and family and friends to come here. Not exactly the easy option. They took a stand. I don’t think they were cowards at all. I like Al.”
“They took a stand by running away?” said Ruth. “Some other kid had to go in his place. Do you think he thinks of that?”
“This whole village was settled by people fleeing a war they didn’t believe in,” Myrna pointed out. “The three pines is an old code for sanctuary.”
“More like asylum,” said Gabri.
“I know the history of the village,” said Ruth.
“Let’s change the subject,” said Brian. He turned to Reine-Marie. “Are you going to join the Estrie Players?”
“Join?” asked Armand, looking at his wife.
“I was thinking it might be fun.”
“It is fun,” said Gabri. “Drop by the rehearsal tomorrow night and see. I’ll leave my script for you to read.”
“Great, I’ll come by. What time?” said Reine-Marie.
“Seven,” said Brian. “Wear something you don’t mind throwing out. We’ll be painting. How about you, Ruth?”
“Yes, you’d be good at it,” said Gabri. “You’ve been pretending to be human for years.”
“Though not very convincingly,” said Myrna. “I never believed it.”
But Ruth had fallen into a stupor, deep in thought.
“Let’s go into the living room,” said Reine-Marie, once dinner was finished. “Leave the dishes. Henri will lick them clean later.”
The guests looked at each other as they left the table, and saw Reine-Marie smiling. In the living room Armand tossed another log onto the fire, putting his hands, palms out, toward the flame.
“Are you cold?” Reine-Marie asked. “Getting sick?”
She put her hand on his forehead.
“No, I just feel a chill,” he explained.
Antoinette came by and nodded toward the fire. “They’re nice in September, aren’t they? Cheerful. In June they’re just depressing.”
Reine-Marie laughed and walked over to join Ruth. Antoinette turned away but Armand called her back.
“The play,” he said quietly.
“Yes?”
“Brian said it was by John Fleming.”
She grew still, her clear eyes studying him. “He shouldn’t have said that.”
“But he did. Why do you want to keep it a secret?”
“Like I said, marketing. It’s a new play, we need to do everything we can to pique interest.”
“A secret playwright is hardly going to get camera crews out.”
“Not at first, maybe. But the play’s not your run-of-the-mill work by an unknown, Armand. It’s brilliant. I’ve done professional and amateur theatrics for years and this is among the best.”
“For an amateur,” said Gamache.
“For anyone. Wait until you see it. I’d put it beside Miller and Stoppard and Tremblay. It’s Our Town meets The Crucible.”
Gamache was used to hyperbole, especially from people in the theater, so this didn’t surprise him.
“I’m not questioning the quality of the work,” he said, lowering his voice so that it was barely audible above the crackle of the fire as it caught the dry wood. “I’m wondering about the playwright.”
“I can’t tell you anything about him.”
“Have you met him?” Gamache asked.
Antoinette hesitated. “No. Brian found the script among my uncle’s papers after he died.”
“Why did you white out the playwright’s name?”
“I told you. I wanted to create a buzz. Once the play opens everyone’s going to want to know who wrote it.”
“And what’ll you tell them?”