“Sorry for the lighting,” she said, locking the door behind them and moving farther into the room. “We try to keep it to a minimum.”
As his eyes adjusted he realized he was in a large room, but only one of many. He looked right. Then left. Then ahead of him. Room after room, all connected, had been constructed under the bibliothèque.
“Coming?” she said, and walked away. Gamache realized if he lost her, he’d be lost. So he made sure not to lose her.
“The rooms are set out according to quarter centuries,” she said as she walked quickly from one to another.
Gamache tried to read the labels on the drawers as they walked by, but the dull lighting made it difficult. He thought he saw Champlain on one, and he wondered if Champlain himself was actually filed there. And later, in another room, War of 1812.
After a while he kept his eyes ahead of him, concentrating on Madame Dufour’s thin back. It was best not to know the treasures he was walking by.
Finally she stopped and he almost bumped into her.
“There.” She nodded to a drawer.
The label read Ouellet Quintuplets.
“Has anyone else seen the documents?” he asked.
“Not that I know of. Not since they were collected and sealed.”
“And when was that?”
Madame Dufour went to the drawer and looked closely at the label.
“July 27, 1958.”
“Why then?” he wondered.
“Why now, Chief Inspector?” she asked, and he realized that she was standing between him and what he needed to know.
“It’s a secret,” he said, his voice light, but his eyes not leaving hers.
“I’m good at keeping secrets,” she said, glancing down the long line of files.
He considered her for a moment. “Constance Ouellet died two days ago.”
Madame Dufour took in that information, her face troubled. “I’m sorry to hear that. She was the last of them, I believe.”
Gamache nodded, and now she studied him more closely.
“She didn’t just die, did she?”
“No.”
Lili Dufour took a long breath, and sighed. “My mother went to see them, you know, at that home that was built for them here in Montréal. She lined up for hours. They were just children at the time. She talked about it until the day she died.”
Gamache nodded. There’d been something magical about the Quints, and their extreme privacy later in life only added to the mystique.
Madame Dufour stepped aside, and Gamache reached for the drawer where their private life lived.
*
Beauvoir looked at his watch. Ten minutes to three. He was plastered against a brick wall. Three S?reté officers were behind him.
“Stay here,” he whispered, and stepped around the corner. He had a brief glimpse at the surprise in their faces. Surprise and concern. Not about the biker gang they were about to raid, but the officer who was supposed to lead them.
Beauvoir knew they had reason to be afraid.
He leaned his head again the brick, hitting it lightly. Then he crouched down so that his knees were against his chest, and he began rocking himself. As he rocked he heard the rhythmic squeaking of his heavy boots on the snow. Like a rocking horse in need of oiling. In need of something.
Eight minutes to three.
Beauvoir reached into the pocket of his Kevlar vest. The one that held bandages and tape to staunch wounds. He pulled out two pill bottles and, twisting the top off one, he quickly swallowed two OxyContin. He’d thrown up the earlier ones and now he could barely think for the pain.
And the other. The other. He stared at the pill bottle, and felt like a man halfway across a bridge.
Afraid to take the pill and afraid not to. Afraid of going into the bunker, afraid of running away. He was afraid of dying and he was afraid of living.
Mostly, he was afraid that everyone would find out just how frightened he really was.
Beauvoir twisted off the cap and shook the bottle. Pills cascaded out, bouncing off his trembling hand, and were lost in the snow. But one was saved. It sat in the center of his palm. His need was so great, and it was so tiny. He couldn’t get it into his mouth fast enough.
Five minutes to three.
*
Gamache sat at a desk in the archive room, reading and making notes. Captivated by what he’d found so far. Diaries, personal letters, photographs. But now he took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the books and documents still to be read. There was no way he’d get through them that afternoon.
Madame Dufour had shown him the buzzer, and now he pressed it. Three minutes later he heard footsteps on the sealed concrete floor.
“I’d like to take it with me.” He nodded to the stacks on the desk.
She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. And considered.
“Constance Ouellet really was murdered?” she asked.
“She was.”
“And you think something in there”—she looked at the documents on the desk—“might help you?”
“I think it might.”
“I retire next August, you know. Mandatory retirement.”