And now Mary felt like bringing up too.
“It’s all over the village,” he’d said as he put the cup of strong, rich coffee on the bedside table and fluffed up her pillows. “About the gun. Crème?”
“What gun?” Mary Fraser had asked, hauling herself upright and pulling the warm duvet over her flannel nightgown, for modesty.
The large, friendly man had walked to the door and now he turned and gave her an astute look. Then a quick and forgiving smile.
“You know which gun. The one in the woods. The one you’re here to see.”
“Oh. That one.” She could think of nothing more intelligent to say.
“Yes, that one. They’re calling it a Supergun.”
“Who’re ‘they’?” she asked.
“Oh, you know. ‘Them.’”
He left to deliver the morning coffee and spread the word. The word being “Supergun.”
“Oh, dear,” she whispered. And then amended that to “Merde.”
* * *
“Merci,” said Sean Delorme, coming out of the bathroom, razor in hand, foam on his face, to thank the innkeeper for the coffee. And the news.
Once the door had swung shut, he sank down on the side of the bed and stared at the closed door. Then out the window, where fresh air was blowing in from the mist-covered forest and across the village green. Below, he saw villagers stopping to talk. Hands were waving, gesturing. He could almost hear them.
Huge, one was saying, spreading his arms wide.
The other nodded. And pointed. Into the woods.
Despite the fresh, slightly pine-scented air, the CSIS agent smelt a foul odor.
“Fuck, fuck, shit.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Oh, dear.”
* * *
“Well.”
Michael Rosenblatt sat in bed and sipped coffee and watched the commotion on the village green.
“Well, well, well.”
He reached for his iPhone, then remembered it didn’t work in this funny little village. Still, it wasn’t the worst thing.
The worst thing was on the lips of everyone in Three Pines.
Professor Rosenblatt almost felt sorry for the CSIS agents. Almost.
* * *
Armand Gamache came out of the washroom in his bathrobe, a towel in hand, rubbing his hair dry. Then he stopped. And stood motionless in the middle of their bedroom.
A word had drifted in through the wide-open window, fluttering the curtains as it went by. And that word was “Supergun.”
He shifted his gaze to Reine-Marie, whose eyes were wide with surprise.
“Did you hear that, Armand?”
He nodded and, looking out the window, he saw two villagers walking their dogs and talking, animatedly.
He thought he must have misheard. Surely they said Superman. Or Superglue.
One gestured toward the forest.
Or Supergun.
* * *
Clara Morrow was woken up by the phone. She answered, dazed, on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Did you hear?” Myrna asked.
“Hear what? The phone waking me up?”
“No, what people are saying. Meet me in the bistro.”
“Wait, what’s this about?”
“The Supergun. Hurry.”
“The what?” But Myrna had hung up.
Clara showered and dressed quickly, her curiosity and imagination fueling each other. But as wild as her imagination could be, it could never have conceived of what she was about to hear.
* * *
Isabelle Lacoste sat on the edge of her bed in the B and B. She thought about what she’d heard. And what it meant.
Then she gave one curt nod and went into the bathroom to shower and prepare for the day.
There was going to be hell to pay.
* * *
Ruth Zardo heard the soft knock on the back door.
She was in the kitchen. The coffee was perked on the old stove and she had the toast and jam out.
The knock did not startle her. She’d been expecting it. Rosa, however, looked up from her feed with some surprise. Though ducks often looked surprised.
Ruth opened the kitchen door, nodded and stepped back.
“You heard, Clément?” she asked.
“Oui,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “Worse than we feared.”
“It’s called Project Babylon, of course. What else would it be called?”
“How do you know that?” the old grocer asked the old poet as he sat at her kitchen table. “No one else is saying that.”
