Back home after a long day, Rath was too keyed up to sleep.
He took out his .30-06 Springfield 760 rifle and laid it on the kitchen table to disassemble it as he drank a beer or three. Breaking down the weapon was an annual ritual he usually performed in October to prepare for rifle season. He’d not found the time this year, but now, tonight, he needed to take on a task natural to him, to the season. Do something for himself, something that concentrated his focus on the minutiae at hand, and nothing else.
There were seventy separate parts to his Springfield pump action 760 carbine. Rath knew each one by feel, blindfolded, from the action bar lock and the bolt assembly, to the hammer spring trigger pin and rear-sight aperture.
He aligned his tools and rags and snake bore cleaner, solvent and oil.
He had it all set up, ready to go when his phone buzzed. He ignored it.
The first time.
Not the second time.
Not at this late hour. He feared it could not be good, so could not be ignored altogether.
It was a Quebec number by the looks, though unfamiliar.
Rath answered. “Hello?”
“I have something for you, Inspector.”
“Who is this?”
“Pardon, Inspector Hubert. Champine has arranged for you to meet the owner of Chez Darlene.”
For a moment Rath thought he was being played by Grout. Except Grout had no idea of Hubert’s or Champine’s names, nor could he fake a Quebec number.
“What is it?” Rath said, “Why?”
“We have checked deeper. We have learned despite Lucille Forte being from a what you say, good family, she worked at this place. This Chez Darlene.”
“Are you shitting me?” Rath said.
“Excusez-moi?”
“Nothing. Sorry.”
“La mise en place est sur cent trente trois Nord. Champine visited the owner. Alex Poitras. Champine got nothing, but thinks perhaps if it is linked to an American crime, too, one that will make bad news for American customers, well, perhaps a visit from an American inspector. If you want to see this owner a midi, noon, Champine will—”
“I know the place,” Rath said.
“Mais oui. Bon. Bonne nuit.”
As soon as Hubert hung up, Rath realized he was in a jam. He and Test needed to get down to Concord, New Hampshire, and get the jump on that Timothy Glade.
They needed to do it together. Glade was a violent, unhinged sort; Rath did not want Test approaching him alone.
If he had time after Chez Darlene, maybe they could make the run. He texted Test and explained. He knew she’d be miffed about his not making it to Concord, and she’d want to hit Quebec with him. She’d be even more ripped when she read that he wanted her to take shifts out on the road by Preacher’s place. Tail Preacher if he so much as slithered on his belly from the place.
He didn’t look at her text when she shot back an instantaneous response.