It was almost midnight, and Beauvoir was sitting on a plastic garden chair in Ruth’s kitchen. He’d never been in her home before. Gamache had, a few times, but Beauvoir had always begged off those interviews.
He disliked the wretched old poet immensely which was why he was there.
“OK, dick-head, talk.”
Ruth sat across from him, a pot of watery tea on the white pre-formed table, and one cup. Her thin arms were strapped across her chest, as though trying to keep her innards in. But not her heart, Beauvoir knew. That had escaped years before, like the duck. In time all things fled Ruth.
He needed to talk to someone, but someone without a heart, without compassion. Someone who didn’t care.
“You know what happened?” he asked.
“I read the papers you know.”
“It wasn’t all in the papers.”
There was a pause. “Go on.” Her voice was hard, unfeeling. Perfect.
“I was sitting in the Chief’s office—”
“I’m bored already. Is this going to be a long story?”
Beauvoir glared at her. “The call came at 11:18 in the morning.”
She snorted. “Exactly?”
He met her eyes. “Exactly.”
He saw again the Chief’s corner office. It was early December and Montreal was cold and gray through the windows. They’d been discussing a difficult case in Gaspé when the Chief’s secretary opened the door. She had a call. It was the Inspector in Ste-Agathe. There’d been a shooting. An agent down and one missing.
But he wasn’t missing, he was on the phone asking to speak to the Chief.
Things happened quickly after that, and yet seemed to go on forever.
Agents poured in, the tactical teams were alerted. Satellites, imaging, analysis. Tracing. All swung into action. Within moments there was a near frenzy of activity visible through the large window in the Chief’s office. All going to a protocol Chief Inspector Gamache had designed.
But in his office there was quiet. Calm.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Agent Morin said, when connected to the Chief.
“It’s not your fault. Are you hurt?” Gamache had asked.
By now Beauvoir was listening on the other line. For reasons he didn’t yet understand they’d so far been unable to trace the call and the man who held Agent Morin and had shot the other agent seemed unconcerned. He’d handed the phone back to the young agent but not before making something clear.
He would neither let Morin go, nor would he kill him. Instead, he’d bind the young agent and leave him there.
“Thank you,” said Gamache.
Through the glass Beauvoir could see agents at computers, recording, listening in, pin-pointing the location of the call. He could even see their fingers flying over the keys.
They’d know where Agent Morin was being held within moments. But Beauvoir felt a little uneasy. Why was it taking so long? This should be almost instantaneous.
“You’ll follow me, I know you will,” the farmer was saying. “So I need you not to.”
“I won’t,” lied Gamache.
“Maybe,” the man said in his broad country accent. “But I can’t risk it.”
Something stirred inside Beauvoir and he looked at Gamache. The Chief was standing, staring ahead, concentrating, listening, thinking. Trying not to make a mistake.
“What have you done?” Gamache asked, his voice hard, unyielding.
There was a pause. “I’ve tied your agent up and attached something to him.”
“What?”
“It’s something I made myself.” The man’s voice was defensive, weak, explaining. It was a fearful voice and that meant unpredictable and that meant trouble. The worst possible hostage-taker to deal with, they could panic at any moment. Their reason had fled and they were going on nerves not judgment.
“What is it?” Gamache asked.
Beauvoir knew what the Chief was doing. He was trying to become the sturdy center, the thing a weak, fearful man would move toward. Something firm, solid, predictable. Strong.
“From fertilizer. I didn’t want to but it’s the only way you’ll leave me alone.”
The voice was becoming more and more difficult to understand. The combination of the thick accent and words muffled by desperation.
“It’s set to go off in twenty-four hours. At 11:18 tomorrow morning.”
Beauvoir wrote that down, though he doubted he’d forget it. And he was right.
He heard the Chief inhale sharply, then pause, trying to control his anger.
“This is a mistake,” he said, his voice steady. “You must dismantle that bomb. You’re making this worse for yourself.”
“Worse? How could it be worse? That other agent’s dead. I killed a S?reté agent.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Then you know we’ll find you eventually. You don’t want to spend your whole life running, do you? Wondering where we are?”
There was a hesitation.
“Give yourself up,” said Gamache, his voice deep and calm and reasonable. A smart friend with a good idea. “I promise you won’t be hurt. Tell me where to meet you.”