Then what? It was a good question, Gamache knew. And he didn’t like the answer. He knew, as a man used to fear, the great danger of letting it take control. It distorted reality. Consumed reality. Fear created its own reality.
He leaned forward in his seat, toward Jér?me, and lowered his voice.
“Then we’ll just have to find them first.”
Jér?me held his eyes, not wavering. “And how do you propose to do that? Telepathy? We’re fine here, for now. For tomorrow even. Maybe for weeks. But as soon as we arrived a clock started ticking. And no one, not you, not me, not Thérèse, not even Francoeur, knows how long we have before they find us.”
Dr. Brunel looked around the bistro, at the villagers lingering over their drinks. Some chatting. Some playing chess or checkers. Some just sitting, quietly.
“And now we’ve dragged them into this,” he said softly. “When Francoeur finds us, that’ll be it for our peace and quiet. And theirs.”
Gamache knew Jér?me wasn’t being melodramatic. Francoeur had proven he was willing to do anything to achieve his goal. What preoccupied the Chief, what gnawed at him, was that he hadn’t yet figured out what that goal was.
He needed to keep his fear at bay. A little was good. Kept him sharp. But fear, unchecked, became terror and terror grew into panic and panic created chaos. And then all hell broke loose.
What he needed, what they all needed, and what they could only find here in Three Pines, was peace and peace of mind and the clarity that came with it.
Three Pines had given them time. A day. Two. A week. Jér?me was right, it wouldn’t last forever. But please, Lord, prayed Gamache, let it be enough.
“The problem, Armand,” Jér?me continued, “is that the very thing that keeps us safe is what will eventually be our undoing. No telecommunications. Without that, I can’t make any progress. I was getting close, that much is certain.”
He lowered his eyes and swirled his cognac in the bulbous glass. Now was the time to tell Armand what he’d done. What he’d found. Who he’d found.
He looked up into Gamache’s thoughtful eyes. Beyond his companion, Dr. Brunel saw the cheerful fire, the frosted mullioned windows, the Christmas tree with the presents underneath.
Dr. Brunel realized he had no desire to stick his head out of this pleasant foxhole. Just for this one night, he wanted peace. Even if it was pretend peace. An illusion. He didn’t care. He wanted just this one quiet night, without fear. Tomorrow he’d face the truth and tell them what he’d found.
“What do you need to continue the search?” Gamache asked.
“You know what I need. A high-speed satellite link.”
“And if I could get you one?”
Dr. Brunel studied his companion. Gamache was looking relaxed. Henri lay at his feet beside the chair and Armand’s hand was stroking the dog.
“What’re you thinking?” asked Jér?me.
“I have a plan,” said Gamache.
Dr. Brunel nodded thoughtfully. “Does it involve spaceships?”
“I have another plan,” said Gamache, and Jér?me laughed.
“You said we can’t stay and we can’t leave,” said the Chief, and Jér?me nodded. “But there’s another option.”
“And what’s that?”
“Create our own tower.”
“Are you mad?” Jér?me glanced furtively around and dropped his voice. “Those towers go up hundreds of feet. They’re engineering marvels. We can hardly ask the schoolchildren of Three Pines to make one out of Popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners.”
“Not Popsicle sticks perhaps,” said Gamache with a smile. “But you’re close.”
Jér?me downed the last of his cognac, then examined Gamache. “What’re you thinking?”
“Can we talk about it tomorrow? I’d like to run it by Thérèse at the same time. Besides, it’s getting late and I still need to speak with Myrna Landers.”
“Who?”
“She owns the bookstore.” Gamache nodded toward the internal door connecting the bistro with the bookstore. “I popped by while Olivier was getting our drinks. She’s expecting me.”
“Is she going to give you a book on building your tower?” Jér?me asked as he put on his parka.
“She was friends with a woman who was killed yesterday.”
“Oh, oui, I’d forgotten you’re actually here on business. I’m sorry.”
“Not at all. The sad fact is, it’s a perfect cover. If anyone asks, it explains why I’m in Three Pines.”
They said their good nights, and while Jér?me walked back to Emilie Longpré’s and a warm bed next to Thérèse, Armand and Henri entered the bookstore.
“Myrna?” he called, and realized he’d done exactly the same thing, at almost exactly the same time, the night before. But this time he wasn’t bringing news of Constance Ouellet’s murder—this time he came bearing questions, and lots of them.
FIFTEEN
Myrna greeted him at the top of the stairs.
“Welcome back,” she said.
She wore an enormous flannel nightie covered in scenes of skiers and snowshoers, frolicking all over Mont Myrna. The nightie went down to her shins, and thick knitted slippers met it there. A Hudson’s Bay blanket was spread across her shoulders.