She couldn’t talk. Her throat closed around the words.
“… my fault…” she managed. “… I told you there were six. I only heard…”
And now she sobbed.
Armand Gamache took her in his arms and held her. She heaved, and shook. And sobbed. She cried and cried, until there was nothing left. No sound, no tears, no words. Until she could barely stand. And still he held her and held her up.
When she pulled away, her face was streaked and her nose thick with slime. Gamache opened his parka and handed her his handkerchief.
“I told you there were only six gunmen in the factory,” she finally managed, the words coming in hiccups and gasps. “I only heard four, but I added some. In case. You taught me that. To be careful. I thought I was. But there were…” The tears began again, but this time they flowed freely, with no effort to stop them. “… more.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Yvette,” said Gamache. “You weren’t to blame for what happened.”
And he knew that was true. He remembered the moments in that factory. But not anything any video could capture. Armand Gamache remembered not the sights, nor the sounds. But how it felt. Seeing his young agents gunned down.
Holding Jean-Guy. Calling for the medics. Kissing him good-bye.
I love you, he’d whispered in Jean-Guy’s ear, before leaving him on the cold, bloody concrete floor.
The images might one day fade, but the feelings would live forever.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeated.
“And it wasn’t yours, sir,” she said. “I wanted people to know. But I never stopped to think … The families … the other officers. I wanted to do it…”
She looked at him, her eyes begging him to understand.
“For me?” asked the Chief.
She nodded. “I was afraid you’d be blamed. I wanted them to know it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry.”
He took her slimy hands and looked at her little face, blotched and wet with tears and mucus.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “We all make mistakes. And yours might not have been a mistake at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you hadn’t released that video we never would’ve found out what Superintendent Francoeur was doing. It might turn out to be a blessing.”
“Some fucking blessing,” she said. “Sir.”
“Yes.” He smiled and got into his car. “While I’m gone I want you to research Premier Renard. His background, his history. See if you can find anything linking him with Pierre Arnot or Chief Superintendent Francoeur.”
“Yessir. You know they’re probably tracking your car and your cell. Shouldn’t you leave your phone here and use someone else’s car?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Let me know what you find.”
“If you get a message from the zoo, you’ll know who it is.”
It seemed about right to the Chief. He drove out of the village, aware that he’d be detected as soon as he left, and counting on it.
THIRTY-SIX
For the second time in two days, Armand Gamache pulled into the parking lot of the penitentiary, but this time he got out, slamming the car door. He wanted there to be no question that he was there. He meant to be seen and he meant to get inside. At the gate he showed his credentials.
“I need to see one of your prisoners.”
A buzzer sounded and the Chief Inspector was admitted but shown no further than the waiting room. The officer on duty came out of a side room.
“Chief Inspector? I’m Captain Monette, the head guard. I wasn’t told you’d be coming.”
“I didn’t know until half an hour ago myself,” said Gamache, his voice friendly, examining the surprisingly young man standing in front of him. Monette could not have been thirty yet, and was solidly built. A linebacker.
“Something’s come up in a case I’m investigating,” Gamache explained, “and I need to see one of your high-security prisoners. He’s in the Special Handling Unit, I believe.”
Monette’s brow rose. “You’ll have to leave your weapon here.”
Gamache had expected that, though he’d hoped his seniority would give him a pass. Apparently not. The Chief took out his Glock and glanced around. Cameras were trained on him from every corner of the sterile room.
Could the alarm have already been raised? If so, he’d know in a moment.
Gamache placed the gun on the counter. The guard signed for it and gave the slip to the Chief.
Captain Monette gestured for Gamache to follow him down the corridor.
“Which prisoner do you want to see?”
“Pierre Arnot.”
The head guard stopped. “He’s a special case, as you know.”
Gamache smiled. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, sir, but I really have very little time.”
“I need to speak with the warden about this.”
“No, you don’t,” said Gamache. “You’re welcome to if you feel it necessary, but most head guards have the authority to grant interviews, especially to investigating officers. Unless”—Gamache examined the young man in front of him—“you haven’t been given that authority?”
Monette’s face hardened. “I can do it, if I choose.”
“And why wouldn’t you choose?” asked Gamache. His face was curious, but there was a sharpening of the eyes and tone.
The man now looked insecure. Not afraid, but unsure what to do and Gamache realized he probably hadn’t been on the job for long.
“It really is very common,” said the Chief, his voice softening just a little. Not a patronizing tone, but a reassuring one, he hoped.
Come on, come on, thought Gamache, mentally counting the minutes. Not long before the alarm would be raised. He’d wanted to be followed to the SHU, but not caught there.
Monette examined him, then nodded. He turned back down the hall without a word.
Doors opened then clanged behind them as they moved deeper and deeper into the high-security pen. And as they walked, Chief Inspector Gamache wondered what had happened to Monette’s predecessor, and why they’d given the job of guarding some of the most dangerous criminals in Canada to someone so young and inexperienced.
Finally they entered an interview room, and Monette left Gamache alone.
He glanced around. Once again cameras were trained on him. Far from being disconcerting, his plan depended on those cameras.
He placed himself in front of the door and prepared to come face to face with Pierre Arnot for the first time in years.
Finally the door opened. Captain Monette entered first, then another guard came in escorting an older man in an orange prison uniform.
Chief Inspector Gamache looked at him. Then at the head guard.
“Who’s this?”
“Pierre Arnot.”