He clicked rapidly back. And back. And then he stopped and stood up so rapidly Celeste and Gaétan both jumped back.
“May I use your phone, please?”
Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed the receiver and began dialing.
“Isabelle, it’s not the tunnel. It’s the bridge. The Champlain Bridge. I think the explosives must be attached to the piers.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you, sir. They won’t close the tunnel. They don’t believe me. Or you. If they won’t close the tunnel, they sure as hell won’t close the bridge.”
“I’m emailing you the report,” he said, retaking his seat and pounding on the keys. “You’ll have the proof. Close that bridge, Isabelle. I don’t care if you have to lie across the lanes yourself. And get the bomb disposal unit out.”
“Yessir. Patron, there’s one other thing.”
By the tone of her voice, he knew. “Jean-Guy?”
“I can’t find him. He’s not in his office, he’s not at home. I’ve tried his cell phone. It’s shut off.”
“Thank you for trying,” he said. “Just get that bridge closed.”
Gamache thanked Celeste and Gaétan Villeneuve and made for the door.
“It’s the bridge?” Villeneuve asked him.
“Your wife found out about it,” said Gamache, outside now and walking rapidly to his car. “She tried to stop it.”
“And they killed her,” said Villeneuve, following Gamache.
Gamache stopped and faced the man. “Oui. She went to the bridge to get the final proof, to see for herself. She planned to take that proof, and this”—he held up the memory stick—“to the Christmas party, and pass it on to someone she thought she could trust.”
“They killed her,” Villeneuve repeated, trying to grasp the meaning behind the words.
“She didn’t fall from the bridge,” said Gamache. “She was killed underneath it when she went to look at the piers.” He got in his car. “Get your girls. Go to a hotel and take your neighbor and her family with you. Don’t use your credit card. Pay cash. Leave your cell phones at home. Stay there until this is over.”
“Why?”
“Because I emailed the files from your neighbor’s home and used her phone. They’ll know I know. And they’ll know you know too. They’ll be here soon. Go. Leave.”
Villeneuve blanched and backed away from the car, then he ran stumbling over the ice and snow, calling for his girls.
*
“Sir,” said Tessier, looking down at his messages. “I need to show you this.”
He handed his device over to Chief Superintendent Francoeur.
Gamache had returned to the Villeneuve house. And something had been emailed to Inspector Lacoste, from the neighbor’s computer.
When he saw what it was, Francoeur’s face hardened.
“Pick up Villeneuve and the neighbor,” he said quietly to Tessier. “And pick up Gamache and Lacoste. Clean this up.”
“Yessir.” Tessier knew what “clean this up” meant. He’d cleaned up Audrey Villeneuve.
While Tessier made the arrangements, Francoeur watched as the flat farmland turned into hills, and forest, and mountains.
Gamache was getting closer, Francoeur knew. But so were they.
*
Chief Inspector Gamache craned his neck, to see what had stopped all the traffic. They were just inching along the narrow residential street. At a main intersection he spotted a city cop and a barricade. He pulled over.
“Move along,” the cop commanded, not even looking at the driver.
“What’s the holdup?” Gamache asked.
The cop looked at Gamache as though he was nuts.
“Don’t you know? The Santa Claus parade. Get going, you’re holding up traffic.”
*
Thérèse Brunel stayed by the window, standing to the side. Staring out.
It wouldn’t be long now, she knew.
But still she listened to Myrna’s story. The tale with the long tail. That went back decades. Almost beyond living memory.
To a saint and a miracle, and a Christmas tuque.
“MA,” said Myrna. “That was the key. Every hat their mother made had a tag with their initials. MC for Marie-Constance, et cetera.”
“So what did MA stand for?” Clara asked. She went back over the girls’ names. Virginie, Hélène, Josephine, Marguerite, Constance. No A.
Then Clara’s eyes widened and shone. She looked at Myrna.
“Why did everyone think there were only five?” she asked Myrna. “Of course they’d have more.”
“More what?” asked Gabri. But Olivier got it.
“More children,” said Olivier. “When the girls were taken from them, the Ouellets made more.”
Myrna was nodding slowly, watching them as the truth dawned. And, as with Constance and her hints, it now seemed so obvious. But it hadn’t been obvious to Myrna, until she’d read it in Armand’s letter.
When Marie-Harriette and Isidore had their beloved daughters taken away, what choice did they have but to make more?
In his letter, Chief Inspector Gamache explained that he’d had the tuque tested for DNA. They’d found his. They’d found Myrna’s. Both of them had recently handled the hat. They’d also found Constance’s DNA, and one other. A close match to Constance.
Gamache admitted he’d assumed it was her father’s or mother’s, but the fact was, the technician had originally said a sibling.
“Another sister,” said Clara. “Marie-A.”
“But why didn’t anyone know about this younger sister?” asked Gabri.
“Christ,” snapped Ruth, looking at Gabri with disdain. “I’d have thought someone who was practically a work of fiction himself would know more about myths.”
“Well, I know a gorgon when I see one.” Gabri glared at Ruth, who looked like she was trying to turn him to stone.
“Look,” Ruth finally said, “the Quints were supposed to be a miracle, right? A huge harvest from barren ground. Frère André’s final gift. Well, how would it look if Mama starting popping out children all over the place? Kinda takes away from the miracle.”
“Dr. Bernard and the government figured she’d laid the golden eggs, now she needed to stop,” said Myrna.
“If I’d said that they’d castrate me,” Gabri muttered to Olivier.
“But would people really care?” asked Olivier. “I mean, the Quints were pretty amazing no matter how many younger brothers and sisters they had.”
“But they were more amazing if seen as an act of a benevolent God,” said Myrna. “That’s what the government and Bernard were peddling. Not a circus act, but an act of God. Through the Depression and war, people flocked to them, not to see five identical girls, but to see hope. Proof that God exists. A generous and kind God, who’d given this gift to a barren woman. But suppose Madame Ouellet wasn’t barren at all? Suppose she had another child?”
“Suppose Christ hadn’t risen?” said Gabri. “Suppose the water wasn’t wine?”
“It was critical to their story that Madame Ouellet be barren. That’s what made the miracle,” said Myrna. “Without that the Quints became an oddity, nothing more.”
“No miracle, no money,” said Clara.
“So the new baby threatened to bring down everything they’d created,” said Ruth.
“And cost them millions of dollars,” said Myrna. “The child had to be hidden. Armand thinks that’s what we were seeing, when Marie-Harriette closed the door on her daughters in the newsreel.”