“Were you across the border, Armand, when you killed the American?”
“I believe I was. It’s difficult to tell in the forest exactly where the border is. There’s a marker that was put there during Prohibition, though I doubt the rum runners were worried about complete accuracy. But I believe I crossed the line, yes.”
The Premier Ministre du Québec shook his head slightly and gave him a wry smile.
“You choose now to tell the truth?”
He refrained from saying that Gamache had indeed crossed a line. Several, in fact. So many that the politician had stopped counting, or caring, though the Departments of Justice in both countries had not.
“And you did it knowing you had no jurisdiction?”
“I didn’t even think of jurisdiction at that moment, and if I had I’d have done it anyway.”
“You’re not making this easy, Armand.”
Gamache didn’t say anything. Though he did sympathize with the Premier, who was, he suspected, trying to help.
*
He’d dragged the body of the cartel leader back past the faded old marker. Hauling the dead weight, step by step. His own body leaning forward, toward Québec, toward home.
The firefight up ahead had stopped and he heard Jean-Guy, calling him.
It was over.
But there was no celebration in his heart. He was too shattered.
When he was sure he’d crossed back into Québec, Gamache fell to his knees in exhaustion, so that when Beauvoir found him, he saw a man covered in blood, apparently praying over the body he had created.
With Jean-Guy’s help, they dragged the American back to where Toussaint was turning chaos into order.
Jean-Guy had sustained an injury to his leg, but it was minor and quickly bandaged. His was the only injury among the S?reté team. Except, of course, for Isabelle.
The cartel members, from both sides, had almost managed to wipe each other out. Those who survived were being handcuffed, while paramedics sorted through the rest.
It looked, in those old-growth forests, like what it was. A battlefield. Sirens, from more ambulances and police, could be heard.
Anton had his hands secured behind his back.
“You did my job for me, Armand,” said Anton, nodding toward the body. “You think you’ve won back the province, don’t you? Just wait for it.”
“I should’ve killed him,” said Jean-Guy, as they’d made their way back to Three Pines.
Gamache wiped blood, now congealing, from his eyes. But said nothing. In that moment, he agreed with Jean-Guy. It would have been better, far better.
*
“It’s a shame,” said the Premier Ministre du Québec, when Armand had finished his account, “that Anton Boucher survived.”
The comment, said so dryly, so matter-of-factly, surprised Gamache. Not that the Premier would think it, but that he would say it out loud.
“There are lines,” said Gamache. “That cannot be crossed. And once crossed, there’s no going back.”
“Like murder,” said the Premier. “Which brings me to my next question.”
Judge Corriveau shifted slightly in her chair, knowing it was her turn now. Knowing what he was about to ask.
“Tell me about the killing of Madame Kathleen Evans.”
*
It was much the same conversation Chief Superintendent Gamache had had with Judge Corriveau a few days after the attack.
The trial had, of course, been put on hold.
Maureen Corriveau had gone up to the Gamaches’ apartment, along with Barry Zalmanowitz, to discuss the case and what should happen next.
When they knocked on the door of the second-floor walk-up in the Outremont quartier of Montréal, Gamache himself opened it.
“Bonjour,” he said. “Thank you for coming to me.”
He showed them into the living room, while the two people behind him exchanged glances. They’d heard about the grave injuries to Chief Inspector Lacoste. And had read the preliminary reports, written by the senior officers. Including Chief Superintendent Gamache.
They had heard, through the information and misinformation swirling around government buildings, that Gamache himself had sustained some injuries. But they weren’t prepared for the bruised face, his one eye almost swollen shut. The cuts where the boot had scraped flesh off bone.
When he’d opened the door to them, Judge Corriveau had searched his eyes, worried that they’d been hollowed out by the events in the village. In the woods.
That the warmth would be replaced by bitterness. The kindness by cruelty.
And the decency would be gone completely.
The look of pain she saw now wasn’t new, and wasn’t physical. It had always been there, in Gamache’s eyes, like an astigmatism that meant he saw things slightly differently from the rest of them.
He saw the worst of humanity. But he also saw the best. And she was relieved to see that the decency remained. Stronger, even, than the pain. Stronger than ever.
“Thank you for your flowers,” he said, pointing to the arrangement of cheerful cut flowers on the side table.
“You’re welcome,” said Judge Corriveau.
The card had simply read, “Merci.” And had been signed Maureen Corriveau and Joan Blanchette.
Judge Corriveau had never discussed her personal life, but she felt she needed to give him that much. And besides, Joan had insisted.
She took in the room around her. It was a pied-à-terre, she knew, their real home being in that little village. The one-bedroom apartment was in a classic Outremont walk-up. The ceilings were high, the room bright and airy and welcoming, with books on shelves and on side tables. La Presse, Le Devoir and The Gazette newspapers were scattered around. It was casual but not messy.
The sofa and armchairs were inviting, lived in. Upholstered in fresh, warm colors. It was a room she and Joan could happily occupy.
Another man was in the living room, leaning slightly on a cane.
“You know Inspector Beauvoir, I believe,” said Gamache, and they all shook hands.
“You all right?” asked Barry Zalmanowitz.
“This’s for effect,” said Jean-Guy, waving it in front of himself, as he’d seen Ruth do thousands of times. He wondered, briefly, what would happen if he called the Chief Crown numbnuts.
“How’s Chief Inspector Lacoste?” asked the Crown.
“We’re going to the hospital as soon as we’ve finished here,” said Gamache. “I spoke to her husband this morning, and he said that there’s some activity in her brain.”
The other two nodded. When that was the good news, there was nothing more that could be said.
“I don’t think you’ve met my wife,” said Gamache, as Reine-Marie came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with cold drinks.
He took the tray and introduced her to Judge Corriveau.
“We’ve met, of course,” said Monsieur Zalmanowitz. “I interviewed you as part of the witness process. You found the body of Katie Evans.”
“Oui,” said Reine-Marie. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Of course not,” said Judge Corriveau, while all the time wondering if she should mind, and if she should have brought a court reporter, to take down what was said.