Her indifferently dyed hair. Her face without makeup, except some lipstick and slightly clotted mascara. She didn't wear contacts, preferring gla.s.ses in unfashionable frames. She hid nothing. Not wrinkles, not flawed eyesight, not even the hole in her pantyhose. And that was one of Mary Fraser's great advantages, he was beginning to think. Being able to make artifice look genuine. Giving the impression all was revealed, when in fact very little of substance was revealed.

This CSIS woman had appeared like Mary Poppins, descending on the village to make everything all right. Only everything wasn't all right. He knew it. And she knew it.

No, he didn't trust Mary Fraser, but he did find her interesting.

Now she was giving him an equally a.s.sessing look.

"And I'm just wondering why you're so interested," she said. "In the gun."

"Then we're even, madame." He sat back, crossing his legs. Settling in. "You know more about the Supergun than you've told us so far. I'd like to hear it."

"Why should I tell you anything?"

"Because you're afraid, and you need all the allies you can get."

"I'm not afraid." She also sat back, wriggling a bit into the soft corner of the large chair. As a small creature might in a warm den.

"You should be afraid. Someone's found Bull's gun and is almost certainly looking for the plans," said Armand. "You're afraid they've already been found."

"They haven't been."

"How do you know?"

"It's been three days since the gun was found. If the plans had been there, the killer would have started sending out feelers, looking for buyers. Setting up an auction."

"How do you know he hasn't?"

It was just the two of them and the real Mary Fraser was beginning to appear, seeping out from the ladder in the stocking, the undyed roots of her hair, the clotted mascara. The file clerk was receding. But then, the real Armand Gamache was also appearing. The kindly retired cop was receding.

She gave him a patient smile. "We know."

"You don't know everything. You didn't know about the gun." But even as he said it he wondered if that was true.

"We knew Dr. Bull was working on it, of course, but not that he'd actually built it. That came as a surprise."

"An unpleasant one, I'm guessing."

"Well, not necessarily. After all, we now have the world's only Supergun. It might come in handy."

"Until another one's built," said Gamache. "Where are the plans?"

"Nowhere. They were destroyed by Gerald Bull."

"Then why are you so worried?"

"I'm not."

"Then why are you still here?" he asked.

She had nothing to say to that.

"And why are you reading a file on Dr. Bull?"

Her hand splayed further, to better conceal the cover.

"You're not a fool, Madame Fraser, so why are you pretending to be?"

"Am I?"

"Word is spreading about the Supergun. The villagers now know, and while they've been asked to keep it quiet, it's just a matter of time before it breaks out of this valley. And then journalists, gawkers, other scientists will arrive. And who knows who else might come out of the shadows. Come looking. Time is not on your side."

"It wasn't 'someone' who leaked the news, Monsieur Gamache. It was Isabelle Lacoste."

Gamache sat absolutely still. Trying not to give anything away. Not a word, an expression, a twitch.

"That was foolish of her," said Mary Fraser. "She has no idea the world she's entered, and neither do you. You think you do, but you don't. There are no rules, monsieur. No laws. No gravity. Nothing binding us, holding us down or back."

"I thought you were a file clerk."

She looked at the manila folder on her lap. "I am. And what are files? They're information. Knowledge. And what is knowledge?"

He didn't need to answer that, and neither did she.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "Why you?"

"Be careful" was all she would say.

"Did you know Gerald Bull?" Gamache asked. "Did CSIS kill him?"

There was silence. He leaned forward and looked into the bland, unremarkable face.

"Did you?" he asked.

"You have not been careful, Monsieur Gamache."

He got up and bowed slightly. She remained where she was. But as he leaned toward her she whispered, "Don't think it's escaped our notice how strange it is that a senior officer would take early retirement in the middle of nowhere, and shortly afterward Project Babylon is found."

Gamache straightened up, genuinely surprised. But the real surprise came next. Standing up and facing him, Mary Fraser's soft face became rigid.

"And don't think it's escaped our notice that a grown man claims to have been friends with a nine-year-old boy. You are either a pervert or you wanted something from that poor child. And I will find out which. I have my eye on you."

Gamache knew his mouth had just opened slightly, but he couldn't help it.

Was she really threatening him? Was this more artifice? A posture? Or did this woman genuinely believe he might be mixed up in this?

Were they on the same side? He knew what his role was, and wasn't, in this. But he could not figure her out. Mary Fraser appeared socially inept, a little b.u.mbling, maladroit. Soft-spoken and bookish. But she was also fiercely intelligent, and strong.

Armand Gamache never, ever, made the mistake of demonizing strong women. Indeed, he'd been raised by one, married one, promoted one. But he was far from certain he trusted this one.

He took a few steps back and examined her, trying to figure out if she was sincere in her suspicions of him or just trying to toss the rock back.

"What's at Highwater?" he asked.

"Are you threatening me?" she asked. And she looked genuinely alarmed.

It was not the reaction he'd expected.

He'd hoped to speak to Lacoste and Beauvoir first, but when he saw them leaving Three Pines that morning, he'd made the call himself to Agent Yvette Nichol, a former colleague in the Srete. He asked her to track the movements of the CSIS investigators the day before through their cell phones. She reported back half an hour ago.

Instead of spending the day examining Gerald Bull's Supergun, or searching for the plans, the pings from their cell phones indicated Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme had driven twenty miles away, to the village of Highwater, right on the Vermont border.

"Is what I said threatening?" Gamache asked. "I had no idea. My apologies."

He left, feeling her eyes on his back until he was out the door of the small library.

He knew where he was going next.

He didn't get there.

Armand Gamache got as far as the front porch of the bed and breakfast when he saw Lacoste and Beauvoir return. Their car slowed, pulled over, and Jean-Guy leaned.

"We need to talk," both men said at once.

"I'll come over to the Incident Room," said Gamache. He could tell by their faces that something had happened.

As the car pulled away, he noticed a copy of Fleming's play on the backseat, its cover covered with scribbled notes.

Lacoste and Beauvoir were waiting for him beside the car as he walked across the bridge to the old railway station.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"You first," said Lacoste as they went inside and took seats at the conference table.

"I know where the CSIS agents went yesterday," said Gamache. "I asked Agent Nichol to track their cell phones. I realize I was overstepping-"

Lacoste smiled and held up a hand to stop the apology. "Please, don't. We want your help."

Gamache gave a curt nod. "They went to a place called Highwater. It's in Quebec, close to the border with Vermont, about thirty kilometers from here."

"Do you know it?" Jean-Guy asked, getting up to consult the huge map tacked to the wall.

"No," he said, joining Beauvoir along with Lacoste. He pointed it out, having already looked it up. "I've never been there. I gather it's pretty small."

"Hmmm," said Lacoste. "Any idea what they were doing there? Meeting someone?"

"Could be," said Gamache, as they returned to their chairs. "They stayed in one place for most of the day, then came straight back. Your turn."

"Antoinette Lemaitre's been murdered," said Isabelle Lacoste, and saw the shock on Gamache's face. "I know she was a friend of yours."

He sat back in his chair and stared at them. Taking it in. "What happened?"

"The place was ransacked," said Beauvoir. "Looks like she interrupted a robbery, or it was made to look like that. She seems to have fallen and hit her head on the corner of the fireplace. Dr. Harris says it happened last night between nine thirty and two thirty in the morning."

"She was supposed to be at Clara's," said Armand. "But she called to cancel. I wonder if the killer-"

"-also thought she'd be at Clara's and the place would be empty?" asked Lacoste. "Could be."

Beauvoir excused himself to make some calls while Lacoste told Gamache, succinctly, the story as they understood it so far. Gamache was quiet, focused. Not taking notes, but taking it all in.

"We asked the neighbors if they saw anything but they were all watching Les Filles de Caleb."

"Maybe Antoinette asked her guests to come at that time for that very reason. She wanted to make sure no one saw them arrive," said Beauvoir, returning.

"But why would it be a secret if it was just members of the theater company?" asked Gamache.

"Because it wasn't," said Beauvoir. "I called them just now. Neither has heard from Antoinette since they quit. So either Antoinette lied to Brian or he lied to us."

"But he must've known we'd find out," said Lacoste. She thought for a moment. "It's more likely Antoinette lied to him about who was coming over."

"And why?" said Gamache. "Who could her visitors have been?"

"And did they kill her?" said Beauvoir. "It seems likely. But they were running a risk. Suppose Antoinette told Brian who was really coming over?"

"They must've known she wouldn't tell him the truth," said Lacoste. "Which means it was something she wanted to keep secret."

"Something shameful?" suggested Beauvoir, tossing out ideas. "Something illegal or unethical? An affair?"

They stared at each other. Then Gamache's eyes were drawn to the script. So much seemed to circle back to it. The G.o.dd.a.m.ned play.

Beauvoir followed the glance. "Yes, we were wondering the same thing. Could her death have something to do with the Fleming play? Were they looking for it? Does that explain the mess in their home? Brian had taken it to Montreal, but they couldn't have known that."

Gamache got up. "I've almost finished reading it. There's nothing hidden in the plot that I can see. Do you need me for anything? I was going to drive to Highwater, but it's getting late, and with this news, I think I'll stay here. Do you mind if I tell Reine-Marie?"

"No. In fact, we might as well tell everyone," said Lacoste, joining him. "I'll come with you and start the interviews."

"There's something else you need to know, Isabelle."

He stopped, and she turned to him. "I asked Mary Fraser about Highwater. They know that we know they were there."

"And her reaction?"

"She asked if I was threatening her."

"Huh," said Lacoste. "That's strange. I wonder what she meant."

"I wonder what's in Highwater."