by Louise Penny
Francoeur knew he should be relieved, but a sick feeling had settled into his stomach. Maybe he was so used to being locked together with Gamache, so used to the struggle, he couldn’t see that the fight was over.
Francoeur wanted to believe it. But Sylvain Francoeur was a cautious man, and while the evidence said one thing, his insides told him something else.
If Armand Gamache went over the edge, it wouldn’t be willingly. There’d be claw marks all the way over. This was a trick, somehow. He just didn’t know how.
It’s too late, he reminded himself. But the worry remained.
“When he was here at headquarters, he went to see Jean-Guy Beauvoir,” said Tessier.
Francoeur sat forward. “And?”
As Tessier described what happened, Francoeur felt himself relax.
There were the claw marks. How perfect this was. Gamache had pushed Beauvoir and Beauvoir had pushed Gamache.
And both men had finally fallen.
“Beauvoir won’t be any trouble,” said Tessier. “He’ll do anything we say now.”
“Good.”
There was one more thing Francoeur needed Beauvoir to do.
“There’s something else, sir.”
“What?”
“Gamache went to the SHU,” said Tessier.
Francoeur’s face went ashen. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that first?”
“Nothing happened,” Tessier rapidly assured him. “He stayed in his car.”
“Are you sure?” Francoeur’s eyes drilled into Tessier.
“Absolutely certain. We have the security tapes. He just sat there and stared. The Ouellets are buried nearby,” Tessier explained. “He was in the area. That’s why he went.”
“He went to the SHU because he knows,” said Francoeur. His eyes, no longer on Tessier, were flicking around, as though moving from thought to thought. Trying to follow a fast-moving foe.
“Merde,” he whispered, then his eyes focused back on Tessier. “Who else knows about this?”
“No one.”
“Tell me the truth, Tessier. No bullshit. Who else did you tell?”
“No one. Look, it doesn’t matter. He didn’t even get out of the car. Didn’t call the warden. Didn’t call anyone. He just sat there. How much could he know?”
“He knows Arnot’s involved,” shouted Francouer, then reined himself in and took a deep breath. “He’s made that connection. I don’t know how, but he has.”
“He might suspect,” said Tessier, “but even if he knows about Arnot, he can’t know it all.”
Francoeur again shifted his eyes from Tessier and looked into the distance. Scanning.
Where are you, Armand? You haven’t given up at all, have you? What’s going on in that head of yours?
But then another thought occurred to Francoeur. Maybe like the failure of the dam plan, and the death of Audrey Villeneuve, and even Tessier’s people missing the river with her body, maybe this was a godsend too.
It meant that while Gamache had figured out the Arnot connection, that was as far as he’d gotten. Tessier was right. Arnot was not enough. Gamache might suspect Arnot was involved, but he didn’t know the full picture.
Gamache was standing in front of the right door, but he hadn’t yet found the key. Time was now on their side. It was Gamache who’d run out of it.
“Find him,” said Francoeur.
When Tessier didn’t answer, Francoeur looked at him. Tessier glanced up from his BlackBerry.
“We can’t.”
“What do you mean?” Francoeur’s voice was now low, completely in control. The panic gone.
“We followed him,” Tessier assured his boss. “But then the signal disappeared. I think that’s a good thing,” he hurriedly said.
“How can losing Chief Inspector Gamache with only hours to go, after he’s clearly connected Arnot to the plan, be a good thing?”
“The signal didn’t die, it just disappeared, which means he’s in an area without satellite coverage. That village.”
So he hadn’t doubled back.
“What’s the village called?” he asked.
“Three Pines.”
“You’re sure Gamache is there?”
Tessier nodded.
“Good. Keep monitoring.”
If he’s there, thought Francoeur, he’s as good as dead. Dead and buried in a village that didn’t even register. Gamache was no threat to them there.
“If he leaves, I need to know immediately.”
“Yessir.”
“And tell no one about the SHU.”
“Yessir.”
Francoeur watched Tessier leave. Gamache had been close. So close. Within meters of finding out the truth. But had stopped short. And now they had Gamache cornered, in some forgotten little village.
* * *
“That must’ve smarted,” said Jérôme Brunel, stepping back from an examination of Gamache’s face and eyes. “There’s no concussion.”
“Shame,” said Thérèse, sitting at the kitchen table watching. “Might’ve knocked some sense into him. Why in the world would you confront Inspector Beauvoir? Especially now?”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
“Try.”
“Honestly, Thérèse, can it matter at this stage?”
“Does he know what you’re doing? What we’re doing?”
“He doesn’t even know what he’s doing,” Gamache said. “He’s no threat.”
Thérèse Brunel was about to say something, but seeing his face, the bruise and the expression, she decided not to.
Nichol was upstairs, sleeping. They’d already eaten, but saved some for Gamache. He carried a tray with soup and a fresh baguette, pâté and cheeses into the living room and set it in front of the fire. Jérôme and Thérèse joined him there.
“Should we wake her up?” Gamache asked.
“Agent Nichol?” asked Jérôme, with some alarm. “We only just got her down. Let’s enjoy the peace.”
It was odd, thought Gamache as he ate the lentil soup, that no one thought to call Nichol by her first name. Yvette. She was Nichol or Agent Nichol.
Not a person, certainly not a woman. An agent, and that was all.
When dinner and the dishes were done, they took their tea back to the living room. Where normally they’d have had a glass of wine with their dinner, or a cognac after, none of them considered it.
Not that night.
Jérôme looked at his watch. “Almost nine. I think I’ll try to get some sleep. Thérèse?”
“I’ll be up in a moment.”
They watched Jérôme haul himself up the stairs, then Thérèse turned to Armand.
“Why did you go to Beauvoir?”
Gamache sighed. “I had to try, one more time.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “You mean one last time. You think you won’t get another chance.”
They sat quietly for a moment. Thérèse kneaded Henri’s ears while the shepherd moaned and grinned.
“You did the right thing,” she said. “No regrets.”
“And you? Any regrets?”
“I regret bringing Jérôme into this.”
“I brought him in,” said Gamache. “Not you.”
“But I could’ve said no.”
“I don’t think any of us believed it would come to this.”
Superintendent Brunel looked around the living room, with its faded slipcovers and comfortable armchairs and sofas. The books and vinyl records and old magazines. The fireplace, and the windows looking to the dark back garden in one direction and the village green in the other.
She could see the three huge pine trees, Christmas lights bobbing in the slight breeze.
“If it had to come to this, this’s a pretty good place to wait for it.”
Gamache smiled. “True. But of course, we’re not waiting. We’re taking the fight to them. Or Jérôme is. I’m just the muscle.”
“Of course you are, mon beau,” she sai
Gamache watched her for a moment. “Is Jérôme all right?”
“You mean, is he ready?” asked Thérèse.
“Oui.”
“He won’t let us down. He knows it all depends on him.”
“And on Agent Nichol,” Gamache pointed out.
“Oui.” But it was said without conviction.
Even drowning people, Gamache realized, when tossed a life preserver by Nichol, hesitated. He couldn’t blame them. He did too.
He hadn’t forgotten seeing her in the B and B when she had no business being there. No business, that is, of theirs. But there was clearly another agenda she was following.
No. Armand Gamache had not forgotten that.
After Thérèse Brunel had gone upstairs, Gamache put another log on the fire, made a fresh pot of coffee, and took Henri for a walk.
Henri bounced ahead, trying to catch the snowballs Gamache was throwing to him. It was a perfect winter night. Not too cold. No wind. The snow was still falling, but more gently now. It would stop before midnight, Gamache thought.
He tipped his head back, opened his mouth, and felt the huge flakes hit his tongue. Not too hard. Not too soft.
Just right.
He closed his eyes and felt them hit his nose, his eyelids, his wounded cheek. Like tiny kisses. Like the ones Annie and Daniel used to give him, when they were babies. And the ones he gave them.
He opened his eyes and continued his walk slowly around and around the pretty little village. As he passed homes, he looked through the windows throwing honey light onto the snow. He saw Ruth bent over a white plastic table. Writing. Rosa sat on the table, watching. Maybe even dictating.
He walked around the curve of the green and saw Clara reading by her fireplace. Curled into a corner of her sofa, a blanket over her legs.
He saw Myrna, moving back and forth in front of her window in the loft, pouring herself a cup of tea.
From the bistro he heard laughter and could see the Christmas tree, lit and cheerful in the corner, and patrons finishing late dinners, enjoying drinks. Talking about their days.
He saw Gabri in the B and B, wrapping Christmas gifts. The window must have been open slightly, because he heard Gabri’s clear tenor singing “The Huron Carol.” Rehearsing for the Christmas Eve service in the little church.
As Gamache walked, he hummed it to himself.
Every now and then a thought about the Ouellet murder entered his head. But he chased it out. Ideas came to mind about Arnot, and Francoeur. But he chased those away too.
Instead he thought about Reine-Marie. And Annie. And Daniel. And his grandchildren. About what a very fortunate man he was.
And then he and Henri returned to Emilie’s home.
* * *
While everyone slept, Armand stared into the fire, thinking. Going over and over the Ouellet case in his mind.
Then, just before eleven, he started making notes. Pages and pages.
The fire died in the hearth, but he didn’t notice.
Finally, he placed what he’d written into envelopes and put on his coat and boots and hat and mitts. He tried to wake Henri, but the shepherd was snoring and muttering and catching snowballs in his dreams.
And so he’d gone out alone. The homes of Three Pines were dark now. Everyone sound asleep. The lights on the huge trees were off and the snow had stopped. The sky was again filled with stars. He dropped two envelopes through a mail slot and returned to Emilie’s home with one regret. That he hadn’t had the chance to get Christmas gifts for the villagers. But he thought they’d understand.
* * *
An hour later, when Jérôme and Thérèse came downstairs, they found Gamache asleep in the armchair, Henri snoring at his feet. A pen in his hand and an envelope, addressed to Reine-Marie, on the floor where it had slid off the arm of the chair.
“Armand?” Thérèse touched his arm. “Wake up.”
Gamache snapped awake, almost hitting Thérèse with his head as he sat up straight. It took him just a moment to gather his wits.
Nichol came clomping down the stairs, not really disheveled since she was rarely “sheveled.”
“It’s time,” said Thérèse. She seemed almost jubilant. Certainly relieved.
The wait was over.
THIRTY-THREE
Agent Nichol crawled under the desk, her hands and knees on the dusty floor. Picking up the cable, she guided it to the metal box.
“Ready?”
Up above, Thérèse Brunel looked at Armand Gamache. Armand Gamache looked at Jérôme Brunel. And Dr. Brunel did not hesitate.
“Ready,” he said.
“Are you sure this time?” came the petulant voice. “Maybe you want to think about it over a nice hot chocolate.”
“Just do it, for chrissake,” snapped Jérôme.
And she did. There was a click, then her head appeared from beneath the desk. “Done.”
She crawled out and took her seat beside Dr. Brunel. In front of them was equipment Jane Neal, the last teacher to sit at that desk, could not have imagined. Monitors, terminals, keyboards.
Once again Gamache gave Jérôme the access code, and he typed, and typed until there was just one more key to hit.
“There’s no going back after this, Armand.”
“I know. Do it.”
And Jérôme Brunel did. He hit enter.
And … nothing happened.
“This’s an old setup,” said Nichol, a little nervously. “It might take a moment.”
“I thought you said it would be ultra fast,” said Jérôme, a touch of panic creeping around the edges of his words. “It needs to be fast.”
“It will be.” Nichol was rapidly hitting keys on her terminal. Like clog dancing on the computer.
“It’s not working,” said Jérôme.
“Fuck,” said Nichol, pushing herself away from the desk. “Piece of crap.”
“You brought it,” said Jérôme.
“Yeah, and you refused to test it last night.”
“Stop,” said Gamache, holding up his hand. “Just think. Why isn’t it working?”
Ducking under the desk again, Nichol removed and reattached the satellite cable.
“Anything?” she called.
“Nothing,” Jérôme replied, and Nichol returned to her chair. They both stared at their screens.
“What could be the problem?” Gamache repeated.
“Tabarnac,” said Nichol, “it could be anything. This isn’t a potato peeler, you know.”
“Calm down and walk me through this.”
“All right.” She tossed her pen onto the desk. “It could be a bad connection. Some fault in the cable. A squirrel could’ve chewed through a wire—”
“The likely reasons,” said Gamache. He turned to Jérôme. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s probably the satellite dish. Everything else is working fine. If you want to play FreeCell, knock yourself out. The problem only occurs when we try to connect.”
Gamache nodded. “Do we need a new dish?”
He hoped, prayed, the answer was …
“No. I don’t think so,” said Jérôme. “I think it has snow on it.”
“You’re kidding, right?” said Thérèse.
“He might be right,” Nichol conceded. “A blizzard could pack snow into the dish and screw up the reception.”
“But the snow we had yesterday wasn’t a blizzard,” said the Chief.
“True,” said Jérôme. “But there was a lot of it, and if Gilles tilted the dish almost straight up, it would be a perfect bowl, to catch what fell.”
Gamache shook his head. It would be poetic, that state-of-the-art technology could be paralyzed by snowflakes, if it wasn’t so serious.
“Call Gilles,” he said to Thérèse. “Have him meet me at the dish.”
He threw on his outdoor gear, grabbed a flashlight, and headed into the darkness.
It was more difficult to find the path through the woods than he’d expected—it was dark and the trail had all but filled in with snow. He pointed his flashlight here and there, hoping he was at the right spot. Eventually he found what were now simply soft contours in an otherwise flat blanket of snow. The trail. He hoped. He plunged in.
Yet again he felt snow tumble down his boots and begin to soak his socks. He shoved his legs forward through the deep snow, the light he carried bouncing off trees and lumps that would be bushes in the spring.
He finally reached the sturdy old white pine, with the wooden rungs nailed into her trunk. He caught his breath, but only for a moment. Each minute counted now.
Being thieves in the night depended on the night. And it was slipping away. In just a few hours people would wake up. Go in to work. Sit at monitors. Turn them on. There’d be more eyes to see what they were doing.
The Chief looked up. The platform seemed to twirl away from him, lifting higher and higher into the tree. He looked down at the snow and steadied himself against the rough bark.
Turning the flashlight off, he stuck it in his pocket, and with one last deep breath he grabbed the first rung. Up, up he climbed. Quickly. Trying to outrun his thoughts. Faster, faster, before he lost his nerve and the fear he’d exhaled found him again in the cold, dark night.
He’d climbed this tree once before, a few years earlier. It had horrified him even then, and that had been on a sunny autumn day. Never would he have dreamed he’d have to go back up those rickety rungs, when they were covered in ice and snow. At night.
Grip, pull up, step up. Grab the next rung. Pull himself up.
But the fear had found him and was clawing at his back. At his brain.
Breathe, breathe, he commanded himself. And he gasped in a deep breath.
He didn’t dare stop. He didn’t dare look up. But finally he knew he had to. Surely he was almost there. He paused for a moment and tilted his head back.
The wooden platform was still a half dozen rungs away. He almost sobbed. He could feel himself growing light-headed, and the blood draining from his feet and hands.
“Keep going, keep going,” he whispered into the rough bark.
The sound of his own voice comforted him, and he reached for the next wooden slat, barely believing he was doing it. He began to hum to himself, the last song he’d heard. “The Huron Carol.”
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