And she was right. She simply hadn’t realized where she’d be going.
Chief Inspector Gamache had heard about the meditation and wanted to meet the young agent who’d become the laughingstock of the S?reté. When she was finally called in to her boss’s office, letter of resignation in hand, she’d expected it to be just the two of them. Instead, another man rose from the large chair. She’d recognized him immediately. She’d seen Chief Inspector Gamache at the academy. Seen him on television and read about him in the newspaper. She’d once ridden with him in an elevator, and been so close she could smell his cologne. So attractive had been that aroma, and so powerful had been the pull of the man, she’d almost followed him from the elevator.
Chief Inspector Gamache had risen from his seat when she’d entered her boss’s office, and bowed slightly. To her. There was something old-worldly about him. Something otherworldly about him.
He extended his hand. “Armand Gamache,” he’d said.
She’d taken it, feeling light-headed. Not at all sure what was happening.
She hadn’t left his side since.
Not literally, of course. But professionally, emotionally. She would follow wherever he went.
And now he was telling her he was resigning.
She couldn’t say this was a complete surprise. She’d, in fact, been expecting it for some time. Since the department had begun to be dismantled and the agents spread among the other departments. Since the atmosphere at S?reté headquarters had grown dank and sour with the smell of rot.
“Thank you for all you’ve done for me,” he said. He got up and smiled. “I’ll email you a copy of my resignation letter. Perhaps you can circulate it.”
“Yessir.”
“As soon as you get it, please.”
“I’ll do that.”
She walked with him to the door to his office. He offered her his hand, as he had in their first meeting.
“Not a day goes by when I’m not proud of you, Inspector Lacoste.”
She felt his hand, strong. None of the weariness he’d shown the other agents. No defeat, or resignation. He was resolute. He held her hand and looked at her with complete focus.
“Trust your instincts. You understand?”
She nodded.
He opened the door and left without a backward glance. Walking slowly but without hesitation from the department he’d created and this day destroyed.
THIRTY
“I think you’ll want to see this, sir.”
Tessier caught up with Chief Superintendent Francoeur, and ordered everyone else out of the elevator. The doors closed and Tessier handed him a sheet of paper.
Francoeur quickly scanned it.
“When was this recorded?”
“An hour ago.”
“And he sent everyone home?” Francoeur began to hand the paper back to Tessier, but changed his mind. Instead, he folded it and put it in his pocket.
“Inspector Lacoste is still there. They seem focused on the Ouellet case, but everyone else has gone.”
Francoeur looked straight ahead and saw his imperfect reflection in the scuffed and pocked metal door of the elevator.
“He’s had it,” said Tessier.
“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Francoeur. “According to the files you picked off the therapist’s computer, Gamache still thinks we have him under surveillance.”
“But no one believes him.”
“He believes it, and he’s right. Don’t you think this might be for our benefit?” Francoeur tapped his breast pocket, where the transcription now sat. “He wants us to know he’s resigning.”
Tessier thought about that. “Why?”
Francoeur stared ahead. At the door. He remembered when it had been new. When the stainless steel gleamed, and the reflection was perfect. He took a deep breath and tipped his head back, closing his eyes.
What was Gamache about? What was he doing?
Francoeur should have been pleased, but alarms were sounding. They were so close. And now this.
What’re you up to, Armand?
*
The parish priest met him with keys to the old stone church.
Long gone were the days when churches were unlocked. Those days disappeared along with the chalices and crucifixes and anything else that could be stolen or defaced. Now the churches were cold and empty. Though not all of that could be laid at the feet of the vandals.
Gamache brushed the snow from his coat, took off his hat, and followed the priest. Father Antoine’s Roman collar was hidden beneath a worn scarf and heavy coat. He hurried, not happy to be taken from his lunch and his hearth on this snowy day.
He was elderly, stooped. Closing in on eighty, Gamache guessed. His face was soft, the veins in his nose and cheeks purple and protruding. His eyes were tired. Exhausted from looking for miracles in this hardscrabble land. Though it had produced one miracle within living memory. The Ouellet Quints. But perhaps, thought Gamache, one was worse than none. God had visited once. And then not returned.
Father Antoine knew what was possible, and what was passing him by.