Gamache dialed. It rang, and rang. And rang.
Please, oh please.
“Francoeur.” The voice was clipped, tense.
“Bonjour, Chief Superintendent.”
There was a pause.
“Is that you, Armand? I’ve been looking for you.”
The connection kept cutting in and out, but Sylvain Francoeur’s voice had become happy, friendly. Not in a sly way, but he seemed genuinely pleased by the call. As though they were best friends.
It was, Gamache knew, one of the Chief Superintendent’s many gifts, the ability to make an imitation appear genuine. A counterfeit man. Anyone listening, and there could be any number, would be in no doubt about Francoeur’s sincerity.
“Yes, I’m sorry I’ve been out of contact,” said Gamache. “Tying up loose ends.”
“Exactly what I’m doing. What can I do for you?”
In the old schoolhouse, Francoeur watched as the agents worked. He pressed the phone to his ear and stood by the window, barely able to get the signal. “You’ll have to speak up. I’m in a village with very poor reception.”
Gamache felt as though he’d swallowed battery acid.
So Sylvain was already in Three Pines. Gamache had miscalculated, thinking it would take Francoeur longer to find the place. But then another dose of acid hit his insides. Francoeur must have found someone who knew the way.
Jean-Guy.
Gamache took a deep breath and steadied his voice. Tried to make it sound casual, polite, slightly bored.
“I’m heading out your way, sir. I was wondering if we could meet.”
Francoeur raised his brows. He’d expected to have to hunt Gamache down. It never occurred to him that Gamache’s hubris was so great it consumed all good sense.
But apparently it did.
“Fine with me,” said Sylvain Francoeur cheerfully. “Shall we meet here? Inspector Tessier tells me there’s an interesting satellite dish set up in the woods. I haven’t seen it yet. He thinks it might have been put there by the Aztecs. Do you know it?”
There was a pause.
“I do.”
“Good. Why don’t we meet there.”
Francoeur hung up. He knew Gamache would never make the rendezvous. Agents were closing in and would pick up the Chief Inspector any moment now.
He turned to his second in command.
“They know what to do?” he indicated the two agents. One was under the desk, the other was at the door into the schoolhouse, working with wires.
Tessier nodded. The agents had been with him when he’d dealt with Pierre Arnot and Audrey Villeneuve, and others. They did as they were told.
“Come with me.”
At the door, Tessier turned to the agents.
“Don’t forget about Beauvoir. We need him here.”
“Yessir.”
Beauvoir was no longer on the bench, but Tessier wasn’t worried. He was probably passed out in the SUV.
*
“What do you think it means?” Jér?me whispered as they watched Francoeur and Tessier walk up the hill out of the village. “Are they leaving?”
“On foot?” asked Nichol.
“Maybe not,” conceded Dr. Brunel. “But at least Beauvoir’s gone.”
They looked at the blank spot in the snow where Myrna’s car had been.
Downstairs, Myrna turned to Ruth. “You gave him my car?”
“Well, I couldn’t very well give him mine. I don’t have a car.”
“Where’d you get the keys?”
“They were on the desk where you always keep them.”
Myrna shook her head, but she couldn’t be angry at Ruth. Beauvoir might have taken Myrna’s car, but he’d taken something far more precious from Ruth.
They heard the door to the bookstore close and looked over at it, then out the window. Gabri was walking swiftly along the road, without a coat or hat or boots. He slipped, but righted himself.
“Shit,” said Nichol, racing downstairs, “where’s he going?”
The Brunels were behind her, and Thérèse stopped the young agent before she followed Gabri outside.
“He’s going to the church,” said Clara. She threw on her coat and was almost at the door when Nichol grabbed her arm.
“Oh, no you don’t,” said Nichol.
Clara shook her arm free in a move so sudden and violent it took Nichol by surprise. “Gabri’s my friend and I’m not going to leave him on his own.”
“He’s running away,” said Nichol. “Look at him, he’s scared shitless.”
“I doubt that,” said Ruth. “Gabri will never be shitless. He has an endless supply of it.”
“Was that Gabri?” Olivier hurried through the connecting door from the bistro.
“He’s going to the church,” said Clara. “I’m going too.”
“So’m I,” said Olivier.
“No,” said Thérèse. “You have to look after the bistro.”
“You look after it.” He tossed the tea towel at her and followed Clara out the door.