by Louise Penny
“But why?” asked the former President of France.
Claude Dussault concisely, precisely, told them about the mine. The neodymium. The ore secretly shipped back. And used in planes that crashed.
As he listed the tragedies, the Prefect felt his control slipping. His voice rising. Bridges that collapsed. Trains that derailed and elevators that failed.
Until, at the final example, he lost all composure.
“And nuclear power plants.”
Pounding the table with both fists so that the board members startled, he shouted, his voice almost a scream. “For God’s sake,” he pleaded. “What. Were. You. Thinking?”
Tears had sprung to his eyes, and he had to stop himself. Bring himself back under control.
“You knew. Some of you knew.” He looked at Madame Roquebrune, who held his eyes without apology. Then to Alain Pinot. “You piece of shit, you knew. And you’d have let it happen.”
He saw the blood drain from the room. And he wondered how many of them were thinking of those who’d died and might still. Or of themselves.
“Stephen Horowitz came to you with his concerns a few years ago, didn’t he?” Daniel said to the CEO, giving the Prefect a chance to catch his breath. “You promised to look into it, but instead you covered it up. And when he realized that, and collected evidence himself, you began a campaign against him. Ending with an attempt on his life Friday night.”
“That’s a lie,” said Eugénie Roquebrune. “Slander.”
“The truth,” said Claude Dussault. “Monsieur Horowitz sold his entire art collection. Raised hundreds of millions of dollars, and with that money he bought Monsieur Pinot’s seat on this board.”
The CEO was shaking her head and smiling. “You’re misinformed. The places on the board are given freely. They’re not for sale.”
“But the stock options that go with the seat are. They’re not supposed to be, there was an understanding that they’re never sold. Stephen knew he had to approach someone who was especially greedy.”
All eyes turned to Alain Pinot.
He looked at his fellow board members and colored.
“Okay, yes, he approached me. Because we’re old friends. He was like a father, a mentor to me. Most of you know that.”
There were some nods, but most remained stony-faced.
“He wanted on the board, but I refused, of course,” said Pinot. “I’d heard rumors about his Nazi past, and I knew that would tarnish GHS and everyone associated with it.”
The mention of “Nazi” had the desired effect. Daniel and Dussault could feel the tide turn. Could see support for Pinot rising. There were murmurs of agreement.
“Well done.”
“Quite right.”
“Merci.”
“Stephen Horowitz was no Nazi,” snapped Daniel. “Just the opposite. He worked for the Resistance.”
“Right,” said one member. “And so did Pétain.”
The damage had been done. Doubt had entered the room.
“I have proof,” said Pinot, pressing his advantage. “A file on Horowitz you yourself found, Monsieur le Préfet, hidden in the Archives nationales.”
“It wasn’t proof,” said Claude. “Far from it.” He looked at the CEO. “You used it to try to blackmail Stephen Horowitz into stopping his investigation.”
“He came to me with his wild ideas,” said Madame Roquebrune. “Poor man was clearly in the early stages of dementia. I took him for dinner, reassured him, and we parted friends. Or so I thought. But he kept coming back with more and more crazy accusations. I’m sorry you believed, Monsieur le Préfet, what amounts to a sad old man’s delusions.”
Claude Dussault pressed on. “Stephen Horowitz and Alexander Plessner worked for years, and finally had their proof. It’s all there. In that file.”
The CEO glanced down at it, then looked around the table. “I’m afraid the Prefect here might also need to be tested. This is a dossier on the number of handmade nails in Calais in 1523.”
That was met with laughter, and relief.
“Does it not look a little thick to you,” said Dussault. “Must’ve been a lot of nails. No, that was found this morning where Monsieur Horowitz had hidden it. Inside are the internal GHS memos and emails, schematics. External investigations that were suppressed. Internal reports that were suppressed. As well as the notes of the Agence France-Presse reporter murdered in Patagonia.”
“This is ludicrous,” said Madame Roquebrune. “If you have any proof, I’ll be happy to take a look at it. Make an appointment with my assistant. In the meantime, this is a board meeting and we have important business to go over. Guards,” she called. “Remove these people.”
There was no movement.
“No one’s coming,” said Dussault. “And Monsieur Gamache has a perfect right to be here. He now sits on the board.”
“He does not. I never sold him my place,” Pinot repeated.
“Then what’s this?” Daniel put a paper onto the table. “Stephen put this in that file with the rest of the evidence.”
Pinot looked at it and felt light-headed.
Stephen had told him it was a customs and excise form, to allow the transfer of that much money out of Canada and into France.
Alain Pinot had trusted Stephen. Alain Pinot had underestimated Stephen.
The old man had tricked him into signing over his seat after all.
“Even if this was legitimate,” said Pinot, scrambling, “the shares would belong to Horowitz, not you. And he’s in a coma.”
“True. And while he is, my father has power of attorney. And he’s delegated me to take his place. So if you’ll stand up.”
“You idiot,” snarled the CEO as Pinot blanched.
The Prefect of Police faced the head of Agence France-Presse.
“Alain Pinot, you’re under arrest for the murder of Alexander Plessner and the attempted murders of Stephen Horowitz, Allida Lenoir, Judith de la Granger, and Séverine Arbour.”
Then he turned to Eugénie Roquebrune. And slowly, carefully, listed the charges against her.
CHAPTER 43
Armand and Reine-Marie sat on either side of Stephen’s bed, each holding one of his thin hands.
The monitors beeped. The ventilator rose and fell with soft whooshes for every breath. Lights blinked with medical messages the Gamaches didn’t understand and didn’t try to.
They understood only one thing.
It was time.
For all humane reasons, it was time.
“We found the evidence you hid in the file,” Armand told him. “Daniel’s at the board meeting right now.”
Armand paused, as though he expected a reply. Then went on.
“Nails in Calais,” he said, with a small laugh. “Very clever. Joseph Migneret. The Agence France-Presse notes by the murdered reporter. The links you and Monsieur Plessner made from the neodymium mine, to GHS’s manufacturing plants, to supermagnets and those accidents. It’s all there. And the final evidence. The hard evidence. I almost missed it. You were almost too clever for me.”
“You have it, Armand?” asked Reine-Marie.
He shook his head. “But I’m pretty sure I know where it is. You got them, Stephen. You and Monsieur Plessner did it.”
Finding the truth had cost Stephen his fortune. It had cost him his life. To save the lives of strangers. But it was done. If the seat on the board didn’t sink those giants, the hostile takeover of those two GHS subsidiaries would.
It had fallen to Armand to release that torpedo. Which, as Stephen’s guardian, he had done just before entering the hospital room.
At the start of trading on the Paris Bourse, Stephen’s buyout of the refinery and the tool and die manufacturer would go through. Giving him, or his heirs, the right to examine GHS’s books.
And then it would all become public.
Stephen had sunk everything he had into taking over those companies. Knowing in doing that, he himself would be sunk.
The
doctor hovered behind Reine-Marie and caught Armand’s eye.
“Monsieur Gamache?”
“Just another minute, please,” said Armand. “We’re waiting for someone. Oh, here she is.”
Jean-Guy entered, holding the baby.
“This is your great-granddaughter,” said Armand.
Jean-Guy stood beside Armand. His mentor. In many ways, his own father. And wondered if he’d be able to do what Armand was about to.
Armand stood up, still holding Stephen’s hand, and said, “It’s time. Let him go.”
Then he sat back down, his legs weak.
If this was the right thing to do, why did it feel so wrong?
But no, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt wretched. Horrific. A nightmare.
But sometimes “right” felt like that.
* * *
When the ventilator was removed, and all the IVs and tubing and equipment taken away, the room grew very quiet.
What remained was Stephen.
Jean-Guy bent down and placed the child in the crook of Stephen’s arm.
“Her name’s Idola,” Armand whispered. “Named after Idola Saint-Jean, who fought for equal rights. She never gave up. She never gave in.”
“Her name means ‘inner truth,’” said Jean-Guy.
He looked into the irregular eyes and the flat facial features of their daughter with Down syndrome.
They’d known since early in the pregnancy. And had made a choice. For life. Just as Armand had just made a choice. To end a life.
* * *
There was, at that moment across Paris, a chorus of pings as, one after the other, board members received urgent messages.
Daniel looked at Claude Dussault, who nodded.
It was done.
The buy order Daniel had discovered at the bank had gone through.
The pings were the sound of a torpedo rapidly approaching the great conglomerate.
Armand brought out Stephen’s favorite book of poetry and began reading.
I just sit where I’m put, composed
of stone and wishful thinking …
* * *
In order to save their skins, if not their souls, the board members voted to kill GHS Engineering themselves.
They had to be seen to be on the side of right. The side of the angels.
It would have to be made clear, to the regulators, to the public, that as soon as they found out what GHS Engineering had been doing—the murders, the cover-up, the thousands of people killed in accidents that could have been prevented—the board members had themselves acted swiftly and decisively.
They voted to contact the authorities and regulators.
To shut down the nuclear power plants.
To ground affected aircraft and stop affected trains.
To inspect bridges and elevators.
While the CEO, Eugénie Roquebrune, was led away, they voted to set up a genuine compensation fund for the victims and their families.
And to make Carole Gossette the acting head of GHS, to oversee its demise.
* * *
“That in the midst of your nightmare,” Armand read, softly. “The final one, a kind lion will come with bandages in her mouth—”
* * *
Outside the boardroom, Xavier Loiselle approached Daniel.
“That was incredibly brave of you, to come out of hiding for your father.”
“Brave? I was scared shitless.”
“But you did it.”
“I can’t believe my father let me think he was dead.”
“He wasn’t playing dead. Being hit at close range, even by cartridges, is no joke. He was knocked out. I know the difference between someone pretending and someone who’s actually out cold. And just so you know, he couldn’t have known Girard had picked up his gun. When he jumped in to save you, he had no idea the bullets were the fake ones. He expected to die.”
Loiselle shifted his gaze to the Prefect, supervising the arrests, before returning to Daniel. “Don’t shy away from the truth. It’s an amazing thing, to be willing to die for each other.”
Claude Dussault came over and, patting Loiselle on his arm, said, “Come see me later in the week. We can discuss your future.”
“Oui, patron.”
* * *
“—And lick you clean of fever,” said Armand. No longer reading. He’d memorized the poem, by their neighbor Ruth, long ago. One of his favorites, too.
Stephen was still and silent.
Armand leaned close to his godfather, reciting so softly no one else heard, “And pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck, and caress you into darkness and paradise.”
He kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “Thank you. Safe travels, dear man. I love you.”
“Excusez-moi,” said the doctor and, bending over Stephen, he used his stethoscope to listen for a heartbeat.
Then he straightened up.
CHAPTER 44
It did seem appropriate that a garden named for a man who hid Jews in the war should itself be almost hidden.
But the Gamaches knew how to find it, just off rue des Rosiers.
The jardin Joseph-Migneret was quiet this Thursday morning in mid-October, and they had it almost all to themselves.
The girls ate crêpes, bought from Omar, and now ran like dervishes between the trees and benches, chasing each other and shrieking with laughter.
Annie rocked Idola in her arms, while Honoré tugged at his father’s hand, trying to break free. Eventually, Jean-Guy let go and watched him race into the walled garden, to play with his cousins.
The adults had paused in the passageway, between the busy street and the garden. Standing in a semicircle before the plaque, they read each name. Noting the ages of those Monsieur Migneret had not managed to save.
The children of the Marais, sent away. Who never came home.
Then the Gamaches joined their children.
Armand and Reine-Marie stopped, by habit, at the exact spot where he’d proposed, and she’d accepted, more than thirty years earlier. And watched their grandchildren play.
There was a chill in the air this October morning, and Armand adjusted the blanket around the knees of the elderly man in the wheelchair and got a “Fuck off, I’m fine” from Stephen for his trouble.
Smiling, Armand straightened up in time to see a woman, about his own age, approach.
“Excusez-moi,” she said, pulling a sweater tighter around her. “I live in that apartment”—she pointed to a series of tall windows on the second floor—“and saw you here.”
“Désolé,” said Daniel. “Are the children disturbing you?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Just the opposite. This garden was created with children in mind.”
She knelt down and, bringing a photograph from her pocket, she placed it on Stephen’s knees.
After examining it, Stephen lowered it to his lap and looked into the woman’s eyes.
“Arlette?”
“Arlette’s daughter. She died four years ago, but kept this by her bed. My father never minded. He knew he owed all he had to the man in the photo. And so do I.”
The cracked and faded picture showed a young woman, in coat and slacks, smiling. But her eyes were grave. And beside her was a young man. Arm across her shoulder.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” said the woman. “You’re Armand?”
“Non,” Annie began, but Stephen interrupted her.
“Oui. That was the name I used in the war.”
Reine-Marie looked at her Armand, who was staring at Stephen, dumbfounded. He never knew that he’d been named after him.
“My mother told me that ‘Armand’ means ‘warrior,’” said the woman. “And she said you were.”
“We both were. My real name is Stephen. And your mother? I only knew her as Arlette.”
“Hélène,” she said. “She looked for you after the war, but you’d gone.”
“Oui. To Canada. This’s my family.”
“Your
son?” she asked, turning to Armand.
Stephen began to explain, but this time Armand cut him off and said, “Oui. And these are his grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.”
“You’ve done well with the life you were given,” she said and, kissing his cheek, she left them.
* * *
The next day they boarded the flight to Canada.
Daniel and Roslyn’s furnishings were being shipped back to Montréal.
They were going home.
As was Stephen. But his home was now with Armand and Reine-Marie, by choice but also necessity. He’d lost everything.
Stephen was ruined. Stephen was happy.
After the doctor had removed the life support, Armand had sat with him for hours as color returned to the old man’s face and his breathing became deeper and steadier.
Then he and Reine-Marie had gone to Stephen’s apartment, where Irena Fontaine was directing the forensics.
“My God,” she said on seeing him. “What a mess. The Prefect’s gone home to change, but he told me what’s been going on. It’s going to take months, maybe years, to sort it all out.”
She looked around. The body of the guard had been taken away and the scene-of-crime team was again doing its job.
“I’m sorry, Chief Inspector,” she said. “For not believing you.”
“Did you know what the Prefect was doing?”
“Not at all. He kept it close to his chest. Had to, I guess. I just wish he’d trusted me.”
“Oh, I trust you, Irena,” said the Prefect, just arriving back. “But I couldn’t bring anyone in. Just as my predecessor couldn’t bring me in.” He turned to Gamache. “Monsieur Horowitz?”
“We removed the life support.”
“Armand, I’m sorry,” Claude began.
“He’s alive,” said Armand. “The doctors say he seems to actually be gaining strength.”
“My God,” said Dussault. “He’s indestructible.”
“Maybe even inhuman,” said Reine-Marie, and Armand laughed.