“Gamache didn’t go to headquarters,” Tessier whispered, checking his device. “He was tracked to east-end Montréal. The Villeneuve place. Should we pick him up?”
“Why bother?” Francoeur had a smile on his face. This was perfect. “We searched it. He won’t find anything there. He’s wasting what little time’s left. He thinks we’ll follow him. Let him think that.”
Tessier hadn’t been able to find Three Pines on any map, but it didn’t matter. They knew approximately where it was, from where Gamache’s signal always disappeared. But “approximately” wasn’t good enough for the careful Francoeur. He needed no delays, no unknowns. So he’d found a certainty. Someone who did know where the village could be found.
Francoeur looked over at the haggard man behind the wheel.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir held tight to the steering wheel, his face blank, as he drove them straight to Three Pines.
*
Olivier looked out the window. From Myrna’s loft they had a panoramic view over the village, past the three huge pine trees and up the main road out of Three Pines.
“Nothing,” he said, and returned to sit beside Gabri, who put his large hand on Olivier’s slender knee.
“I canceled choir practice,” said Gabri. “Probably shouldn’t have. Best to keep everything normal.” He looked at Olivier. “I might’ve blown it.”
“It?” asked Nichol.
After a surprised and strained pause, Gabri laughed.
“Atta girl,” said Ruth.
And then the quiet descended again. The weight of waiting.
“Let me tell you a story,” said Myrna, pulling her chair closer to the woodstove.
“We’re not four-year-olds,” said Ruth, but she put Rosa on her lap and turned to Myrna.
Olivier and Gabri, Clara, Gilles and Agent Nichol, all moved their chairs closer, forming a circle in front of the warm fire. Jér?me Brunel wandered over, but Thérèse stayed by the window, looking out. Henri lay beside Ruth and gazed up at Rosa.
“Is it a ghost story?” asked Gabri.
“Of sorts,” said Myrna. She picked up a thick envelope from the coffee table. Written in a careful hand were the words: For Myrna.
An identical envelope lay on the table. It said, For Inspector Isabelle Lacoste. Please Deliver by Hand.
Myrna had found them dropped through her mailbox early that morning. Over coffee, she’d read the one addressed to her. But the envelope for Isabelle Lacoste remained sealed, though she suspected it said almost exactly the same thing.
“Once upon a time, a poor farmer and his wife prayed for children,” said Myrna. “Their land was barren, and so, apparently was she. So desperate was the farmer’s wife for children that she traveled all the way to Montréal, to the Oratory, to visit Brother André. She crawled up the long, stone stairs, on her knees. Reciting the Hail Mary as she went—”
“Barbaric,” muttered Ruth.
Myrna paused to look over at the old poet. “Now, pay attention. This is important later.”
Ruth, or Rosa, muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” But they listened.
“And a miracle occurred,” Myrna resumed. “Eight months later, on the day after Brother André died, five babies were born in a tiny farmhouse, in the middle of Québec, delivered by a midwife and the farmer himself. At first it was a terrible shock, but then the farmer picked up his daughters and held them and he discovered a love like none he’d ever experienced. As did his wife. It was the happiest day of their lives. And it was the last happy day.”
“You’re talking about the Ouellet Quints,” said Clara.
“You think?” said Gabri.
“The doctor had been called,” said Myrna, her voice melodic and calm. “But he didn’t bother to go out in the blizzard to some dirt-poor farm where he’d be paid in turnips, if at all. So he went back to sleep and left it up to the midwife. But next morning, when he heard that it was quintuplets and all were alive and healthy, he got himself over there. Photos were taken with him and the girls.”
Myrna paused and looked around the gathering, holding their eyes. Her voice was low, as though inviting them into a conspiracy.
“More than quintuplets were born that day. A myth was also born. And with it, something else came to life. Something with a long, dark tail.” Her voice was hushed and they all leaned forward. “A murder was born.”
*
Armand Gamache sped through the Ville-Marie Tunnel. He’d considered not taking it. Going around it. But this was the fastest way to the Champlain Bridge, and out of Montréal to Three Pines.
As he drove through the long, dark tunnel, he noticed the cracks. The missing tiles and exposed rebar. How could he have driven this route so often and never noticed?
His foot lifted from the accelerator and his car slowed, until other motorists were honking at him. Gesturing to him as they passed. But he barely noticed. His mind was going back over the interview with Monsieur Villeneuve.
He took the next exit and found a phone in a coffee shop.
“Bonjour,” came the soft, weary voice.
“Monsieur Villeneuve, it’s Armand Gamache.”
There was a pause on the other end.