by Louise Penny
“Yes, I’m sorry I’ve been out of contact,” said Gamache. “Tying up loose ends.”
“Exactly what I’m doing. What can I do for you?”
In the old schoolhouse, Francoeur watched as the agents worked. He pressed the phone to his ear and stood by the window, barely able to get the signal. “You’ll have to speak up. I’m in a village with very poor reception.”
Gamache felt as though he’d swallowed battery acid.
So Sylvain was already in Three Pines. Gamache had miscalculated, thinking it would take Francoeur longer to find the place. But then another dose of acid hit his insides. Francoeur must have found someone who knew the way.
Jean-Guy.
Gamache took a deep breath and steadied his voice. Tried to make it sound casual, polite, slightly bored.
“I’m heading out your way, sir. I was wondering if we could meet.”
Francoeur raised his brows. He’d expected to have to hunt Gamache down. It never occurred to him that Gamache’s hubris was so great it consumed all good sense.
But apparently it did.
“Fine with me,” said Sylvain Francoeur cheerfully. “Shall we meet here? Inspector Tessier tells me there’s an interesting satellite dish set up in the woods. I haven’t seen it yet. He thinks it might have been put there by the Aztecs. Do you know it?”
There was a pause.
“I do.”
“Good. Why don’t we meet there.”
Francoeur hung up. He knew Gamache would never make the rendezvous. Agents were closing in and would pick up the Chief Inspector any moment now.
He turned to his second in command.
“They know what to do?” he indicated the two agents. One was under the desk, the other was at the door into the schoolhouse, working with wires.
Tessier nodded. The agents had been with him when he’d dealt with Pierre Arnot and Audrey Villeneuve, and others. They did as they were told.
“Come with me.”
At the door, Tessier turned to the agents.
“Don’t forget about Beauvoir. We need him here.”
“Yessir.”
Beauvoir was no longer on the bench, but Tessier wasn’t worried. He was probably passed out in the SUV.
* * *
“What do you think it means?” Jérôme whispered as they watched Francoeur and Tessier walk up the hill out of the village. “Are they leaving?”
“On foot?” asked Nichol.
“Maybe not,” conceded Dr. Brunel. “But at least Beauvoir’s gone.”
They looked at the blank spot in the snow where Myrna’s car had been.
Downstairs, Myrna turned to Ruth. “You gave him my car?”
“Well, I couldn’t very well give him mine. I don’t have a car.”
“Where’d you get the keys?”
“They were on the desk where you always keep them.”
Myrna shook her head, but she couldn’t be angry at Ruth. Beauvoir might have taken Myrna’s car, but he’d taken something far more precious from Ruth.
They heard the door to the bookstore close and looked over at it, then out the window. Gabri was walking swiftly along the road, without a coat or hat or boots. He slipped, but righted himself.
“Shit,” said Nichol, racing downstairs, “where’s he going?”
The Brunels were behind her, and Thérèse stopped the young agent before she followed Gabri outside.
“He’s going to the church,” said Clara. She threw on her coat and was almost at the door when Nichol grabbed her arm.
“Oh, no you don’t,” said Nichol.
Clara shook her arm free in a move so sudden and violent it took Nichol by surprise. “Gabri’s my friend and I’m not going to leave him on his own.”
“He’s running away,” said Nichol. “Look at him, he’s scared shitless.”
“I doubt that,” said Ruth. “Gabri will never be shitless. He has an endless supply of it.”
“Was that Gabri?” Olivier hurried through the connecting door from the bistro.
“He’s going to the church,” said Clara. “I’m going too.”
“So’m I,” said Olivier.
“No,” said Thérèse. “You have to look after the bistro.”
“You look after it.” He tossed the tea towel at her and followed Clara out the door.
* * *
Once up the hill and in the woods, Francoeur’s and Tessier’s devices began to buzz. It was as though they’d crossed a membrane from one world to another.
Francoeur paused on the path and scanned his messages.
His orders had been followed, swiftly, effectively. The mess Gamache had created was being contained, cleaned up.
“Merde,” said Tessier. “We thought we had Gamache.”
“You’ve lost him?”
“He threw his cell phone and the tracking device away.”
“And it took your agents this long to figure that out?”
“No, they realized it half an hour ago, but that fucking village stopped the messages from getting through. Besides—”
“Oui?”
“They thought they were following him, but he put the tracking devices on a float in the Christmas parade.”
“Are you telling me the elite of the Sûreté followed Santa Claus through downtown Montréal?”
“Not Santa. It was Snow White.”
“Christ,” Francoeur huffed. “Still, it doesn’t matter. Gamache’s coming to us.”
Before putting his phone back in his pocket, Francoeur noticed a short text, sent to all points almost half an hour earlier, announcing Chief Inspector Gamache’s resignation. So like Gamache, Francoeur thought. Thinking the whole world would care.
* * *
Thérèse Brunel saw one of the Sûreté officers emerge from the old schoolhouse. As she watched, he surveyed the village, then went into Emilie’s home, then over to the B and B. A minute or so later he emerged and opened the passenger doors of the SUV.
Superintendent Brunel heard the car door slam and watched as the agent looked around in frustration.
He’s lost something, Thérèse Brunel thought, and she could guess at what. Or whom. They were looking for Beauvoir. Then he looked in her direction, his sharp eyes just glancing past hers before she jerked back against the wall.
“What is it?” Jérôme asked.
“He’s headed over here,” said Thérèse, and brought out her gun.
* * *
The agent started toward the line of businesses. The bistro and bookstore and bakery. It was possible Beauvoir had gone in one of them, to rest. Or pass out.
This would be easy, the agent knew.
He could feel his gun on his belt, but he knew what would be most effective was in his pocket. The baggie of pills Tessier had given him, each a little bullet to the brain.
The other agent was making the final arrangements in the schoolhouse, and all they needed now was Beauvoir.
But the officer hesitated. A few minutes earlier he’d noticed a large black woman and an old woman with a cane heading to the church.
The same old woman who’d been talking to Beauvoir on the bench.
If Beauvoir was missing, she might know where he was.
He changed course and made for the church.
* * *
Armand Gamache parked beside the path into the woods. The one he and Gilles had forged just a few days earlier. It was freshly trodden, he could see.
He walked down the path, deeper and deeper into the forest. Toward the blind.
He saw Sylvain Francoeur first, standing at the base of the white pine. Then he looked up. Standing on the old wooden blind, beside the satellite dish, was Martin Tessier. Inspector Tessier, of the Serious Crimes division, was about to commit a very serious crime. He had an automatic trained on Chief Inspector Gamache.
Gamache stopped on the track, and wondered, fleetingly, if this was how the deer felt. He looked straight at Tessier and turned slightly toward him. Showing the m
If there was ever a time for that damned thing to collapse, thought Gamache, now was it.
But the blind held, and Tessier held him in his sights.
Gamache shifted his eyes to Francoeur and put his arms out at his sides.
The Chief Superintendent gestured and Tessier climbed rapidly and easily down the rickety ladder.
* * *
The agent entered the church and looked around. It appeared empty. Then he noticed the old woman, still in her gray cloth coat and tuque. She sat in a back pew. The large black woman sat in a front pew.
He stared into the corners but couldn’t see anyone.
“You there,” he said. “Who else is here?”
“If you’re talking to Ruth, you’re wasting your time,” said the woman at the front. She stood up and smiled at him. “She doesn’t speak French.”
She herself spoke to him in very good, though slightly accented, French.
“Can I help you?”
The agent walked down the aisle. “I’m looking for Inspector Beauvoir. You know him?”
“I do,” she said. “He’s been here before, with Chief Inspector Gamache.”
“Where is he now?”
“Beauvoir? I thought he was with you,” said Myrna.
“Why would I—”
But he didn’t get to finish his sentence. The muzzle of a Glock was thrust into the base of his skull and an expert hand reached in and took his gun from its holster.
He turned around. The elderly woman in the cloth coat and knitted tuque was holding a service revolver on him.
And she wasn’t old at all.
“Sûreté,” said Agent Nichol. “You’re under arrest.”
* * *
Jean-Guy Beauvoir was on the highway heading toward Montréal. Rosa sat beside him, and hadn’t made a sound. Nor had she stopped staring at him.
But Beauvoir kept his eyes forward. Moving further and further away from the village. He didn’t know what Francoeur and Tessier and the others had planned, and he didn’t want to know.
When he’d emerged from Three Pines his device had blipped, a few times. All messages from Lacoste. Wondering where he was.
Beauvoir knew what that meant. It meant Gamache was looking for him, probably to finish what he’d started the day before. But then he’d read her last message, sent across the system.
Gamache had resigned. He was out of the Sûreté.
It was over.
He glanced at the duck. Why in the world had he agreed to take her? Though he knew the answer to that. It wasn’t that he’d agreed to take her, but that he hadn’t the energy or willpower to fight.
Beauvoir wondered, though, why Ruth had given her to him. He knew how much she loved Rosa, and how much Rosa loved her.
I love you, Ruth had whispered to the duck.
I love you. But this time the voice didn’t belong to the demented old poet, but to Gamache. In the factory. Bullets slamming into the concrete floor, into the walls. Bam, bam, bam. The clouds of choking, blinding dust. The deafening sounds. The shouts, the shots, the screams.
And Gamache dragging him to safety, and staunching his wound. Even as the bullets hit around them.
The Chief had stared into his eyes and bent over and kissed him on his forehead and whispered, “I love you.”
As Gamache had the day before, when he thought Beauvoir was about to shoot him. Instead of struggling, of fighting back, as he could have, he’d said, I love you.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew then that he and Rosa hadn’t been abandoned, they’d been saved.
FORTY-ONE
“Now what?” Gabri asked.
He, Olivier, and Clara had come out from behind the altar, where they’d watched. Clara and Olivier each held one of the simple candlestick holders, and Gabri gripped the crucifix, ready to brain the gunman if he got away from Nichol and Myrna.
But there was no need. The gunman was now gagged and handcuffed to a long wooden pew.
“There’s one more,” said Myrna. “In the schoolhouse.”
“And the other two who went into the woods,” said Clara. She looked at the gun in Myrna’s hand, and the one in Nichol’s. They were terrifying and repulsive, and Clara wanted one.
“So what do we do?” Gabri turned to Nichol, who managed to look both in charge and out of control at the same time.
* * *
Martin Tessier stripped the coat from Gamache and took his weapon, leaving him in his shirtsleeves.
Tessier placed Gamache’s gun in Francoeur’s outstretched hand.
“Where’s Beauvoir?” Gamache demanded.
“He’s in the village with the others,” said Tessier. “Working.”
“Let him be,” said Gamache. “I’m the one you want.”
Francoeur smiled. “‘I’m the one you want,’ as though this begins and ends with the great Armand Gamache. You really haven’t grasped what’s happening, have you? You even had your resignation broadcast, as though it was important. As though we might care.”
“And you don’t?” asked Gamache. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” said Tessier, pointing his weapon at Gamache’s chest.
Gamache ignored him and continued to watch Francoeur.
There was more buzzing and Francoeur checked his texts.
“We’ve picked up Isabelle Lacoste and her family. And Villeneuve and the neighbor. You’re like the plague, Armand. Everyone you’ve come in contact with is either dead or soon will be. Including Beauvoir. He’ll be found among the remains of the schoolhouse, trying to dismantle the bomb you connected to all those computers.”
Gamache looked from Francoeur to Tessier and back to Francoeur.
“You’re trying to decide whether to believe me,” said Francoeur.
“For chrissake,” said Tessier. “Let’s get this over with.”
Francoeur turned to his second in command. “You’re right. Get that satellite dish down. I’ll finish up here. Walk with me, Armand. I’ll let you go ahead, for once.”
Francoeur pointed down the path, and Gamache started to walk, slipping slightly in the snow. It was the trail that he and Nichol had made when they’d lugged the cable through the woods, back to Three Pines. It was, in effect, a shortcut to the old schoolhouse.
“Are they still alive?” Gamache asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” said Francoeur.
“Beauvoir? Is he still alive?”
“Well, I haven’t heard an explosion yet, so yes. For now.”
Gamache took another few steps.
“And the bridge? Shouldn’t you have heard about the bridge by now?” Gamache asked, breathing heavily and grabbing a branch to catch his balance. “Something’s wrong, Sylvain. You can feel it.”
“Stop,” said Francoeur, and Gamache did. He turned around and saw Francoeur bring out his cell phone. He touched it with his finger, then beamed.
“It’s done.”
“What’s done?”
“The bridge is down.”
* * *
At St. Thomas’s Church the celebrations were short-lived.
“Look,” said Myrna. She and Clara were peering through the stained-glass window.
The other gunman had come out the door of the old schoolhouse. His back was to them and he seemed to be working on the handle.
Locking it? Clara wondered.
Then he stood on the stoop and looked around, as his colleague had done a few minutes ago.
“He’s looking for him.” Olivier pointed to their handcuffed and gagged prisoner, guarded by Nichol.
As they watched, the gunman walked over to the van. He slung a large canvas bag into the back and slammed the door closed. Then he surveyed the village again. Perplexed.
At that moment, Thérèse Brunel left the bookstore. She wore a heavy coat, and a large tuque pulled down over her hair and forehead. Her arms were full of books and she walked slowly toward the Sûreté agent, as though infirm.
“What’s she doing?” Clara asked.
“Twas in the moon of wintertime,” Gabri sang loudly. They turned to look at him. “When all the birds had fled.”
The gunman turned toward the singing coming from the church.
This village was giving him the creeps. It seemed so pretty, and yet was deserted. There was a menace about the place. The sooner he found Beauvoir and his partner and got out, the better.
He started toward the church. Clearly there were people in there. People who, with some persuasion, might tell him where Beauvoir was. Where his colleague was. Where everyone was.
An old woman with books was walking toward him, but he ignored her and made for the small clapboard chapel on the hill.
The gunman followed the sound of the singing, up the steps.
He didn’t notice that the woman with the books had also changed direction, and was following him.
He opened the door and looked in. At the front of the church a bunch of people stood in a semi-circle singing.
An old woman in a cloth coat sat in a pew a few rows back. The singing stopped and the large man who seemed to lead the choir waved to him.
“Close the door,” he called. “You’re letting the cold in.”
But the gunman didn’t move. He stood on the threshold, taking in the scene. There was something wrong. They were looking at him strangely, except the hunched old woman, still wearing her tuque. She hadn’t turned around.
He reached for his gun.
“Sûreté.”
He heard the word. Heard the metallic click. Felt the muzzle against the base of his skull. He heard the books drop and saw them scattered at his feet.
“Lift your hands where I can see them.”
He did as he was told.
He turned to see the old woman who’d followed him. The books she’d been carrying had been replaced by a service revolver. It was Superintendent Thérèse Brunel.
She was pointing her gun at him, and she meant business.
* * *
“The bridge is down?” Gamache gaped at Francoeur.
“Right on time,” said the Chief Superintendent.
A voice drifted to them from the village below, singing an old Québécois carol. It sounded like a lament.
“I don’t believe it,” said Gamache. “You’re lying.”
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