But now she realized the roles were reversed. He was counting on her. She hadn’t the heart to tell him she had no idea what to do. She’d been trained to deal with clear targets, obvious goals. Solve the crime, arrest the criminal. But now everything seemed blurry. Ill-defined.
As Superintendent Brunel stared at the ceiling, listening to the heavy, rhythmic breathing of her husband, she realized it came down to two possibilities. That Jér?me had not been found in cyber space. Had not been followed. That it was a mirage.
Or that he had been found. And followed.
Which meant someone high up in the S?reté had gone to a great deal of trouble to cover up what they were doing. More trouble than a viral video, no matter how vile, warranted.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, she thought the unthinkable. What if the creature they hunted had been there for years, growing and scheming? Putting patient plans in place?
Is that what they’d stumbled upon? In following the hacked video, had Jér?me found something much larger, older, even more contemptible?
She looked at her husband and noticed that he was awake after all and also staring at the ceiling. She touched his arm and he rolled over, bringing his face very close to hers.
Taking both her hands in his, he whispered, “It’ll be all right, ma belle.”
She wished she could believe him.
*
On the far side of the village green, the Chief Inspector paused. Henri, on his leash, stood patiently in the cold as Gamache studied the dark and empty house where Henri had been raised. Where Henri had taken him that evening.
And a thought formed.
After a minute or so Gamache noticed that the shepherd was raising and lowering his front paws, trying to get them away from the snow and ice underfoot.
“Let’s go, mon vieux,” he said, and walked rapidly back to the B and B.
In the bedroom, the Chief found a plate of thick ham sandwiches, some cookies, and a hot chocolate. He could hardly wait to crawl into bed with his dinner.
But first he knelt down and held Henri’s cold paws in his warm hands. One after the other. Then into those ears he whispered, “It’ll be all right.”
And Henri believed him.
TEN
A tap on the door awakened Gamache at six thirty the next morning.
“Merci, patron,” he called, then threw off the duvet and went gingerly across the cold room to shut the window.
After showering, he and Henri headed downstairs, following the scent of strong coffee and maple-smoked bacon. A fire popped and leapt in the grate.
“One egg or two, patron?” called Gabri.
Gamache looked into the kitchen. “Two eggs, please. Thank you for the sandwiches last night.” He put the empty plates and mug in the sink. “They were delicious.”
“Slept well?” Gabri asked, looking up from pushing the bacon around the skillet.
“Very.”
And he had. It had been a deep and restful sleep, his first in a very long time.
“Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” said Gabri.
“I’ll be back by then.”
At the front door he met Olivier and the two men embraced.
“I heard you were here,” said Olivier, as they bent to put on their boots.
Straightening up, Olivier paused. “Gabri told me about Constance. What a terrible thing. Heart?”
When Gamache didn’t respond, Olivier’s eyes slowly widened, trying to take in the enormity of what he saw in the Chief’s somber face.
“It’s not possible,” he whispered. “Someone killed her?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“My God.” Olivier shook his head. “Fucking city.”
“Glass houses, monsieur?” asked Gamache.
Olivier pursed his lips and followed Gamache onto the front porch, where the Chief clipped Henri onto his leash. They were approaching the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The sun wasn’t yet up, but villagers were beginning to stir. Even as the two men and the dog stood there, lights appeared at windows around the green and there was a faint scent of wood smoke in the air.
They walked together toward the bistro, where Olivier would prepare for the breakfast crowd.
“How?” Olivier asked.
“She was attacked in her home. Hit on the head.”
Even in the dark, Gamache could see his companion grimace. “Why would anyone do that?”
And that, of course, was the question, thought Gamache.
Sometimes it was “how,” almost always it was “who.” But the question that haunted every investigation was “why.”
Why had someone killed this seventy-seven-year-old woman? And had they killed Constance Pineault, or Constance Ouellet? Did the murderer know she was one of the celebrated Ouellet Quints? And not just a Quint, but the last one?
Why?
“I don’t know,” Gamache admitted.
“Is it your case?”
Gamache nodded, his head dipping in rhythm with his steps.
They came to rest in front of the bistro and Olivier was about to say good-bye when the Chief reached out and touched his arm. Olivier looked down at the gloved hand, then up into the intense brown eyes.
Olivier waited.