*
Once up the hill and in the woods, Francoeur’s and Tessier’s devices began to buzz. It was as though they’d crossed a membrane from one world to another.
Francoeur paused on the path and scanned his messages.
His orders had been followed, swiftly, effectively. The mess Gamache had created was being contained, cleaned up.
“Merde,” said Tessier. “We thought we had Gamache.”
“You’ve lost him?”
“He threw his cell phone and the tracking device away.”
“And it took your agents this long to figure that out?”
“No, they realized it half an hour ago, but that fucking village stopped the messages from getting through. Besides—”
“Oui?”
“They thought they were following him, but he put the tracking devices on a float in the Christmas parade.”
“Are you telling me the elite of the S?reté followed Santa Claus through downtown Montréal?”
“Not Santa. It was Snow White.”
“Christ,” Francoeur huffed. “Still, it doesn’t matter. Gamache’s coming to us.”
Before putting his phone back in his pocket, Francoeur noticed a short text, sent to all points almost half an hour earlier, announcing Chief Inspector Gamache’s resignation. So like Gamache, Francoeur thought. Thinking the whole world would care.
*
Thérèse Brunel saw one of the S?reté officers emerge from the old schoolhouse. As she watched, he surveyed the village, then went into Emilie’s home, then over to the B and B. A minute or so later he emerged and opened the passenger doors of the SUV.
Superintendent Brunel heard the car door slam and watched as the agent looked around in frustration.
He’s lost something, Thérèse Brunel thought, and she could guess at what. Or whom. They were looking for Beauvoir. Then he looked in her direction, his sharp eyes just glancing past hers before she jerked back against the wall.
“What is it?” Jér?me asked.
“He’s headed over here,” said Thérèse, and brought out her gun.
*
The agent started toward the line of businesses. The bistro and bookstore and bakery. It was possible Beauvoir had gone in one of them, to rest. Or pass out.
This would be easy, the agent knew.
He could feel his gun on his belt, but he knew what would be most effective was in his pocket. The baggie of pills Tessier had given him, each a little bullet to the brain.
The other agent was making the final arrangements in the schoolhouse, and all they needed now was Beauvoir.
But the officer hesitated. A few minutes earlier he’d noticed a large black woman and an old woman with a cane heading to the church.
The same old woman who’d been talking to Beauvoir on the bench.
If Beauvoir was missing, she might know where he was.
He changed course and made for the church.
*
Armand Gamache parked beside the path into the woods. The one he and Gilles had forged just a few days earlier. It was freshly trodden, he could see.
He walked down the path, deeper and deeper into the forest. Toward the blind.
He saw Sylvain Francoeur first, standing at the base of the white pine. Then he looked up. Standing on the old wooden blind, beside the satellite dish, was Martin Tessier. Inspector Tessier, of the Serious Crimes division, was about to commit a very serious crime. He had an automatic trained on Chief Inspector Gamache.
Gamache stopped on the track, and wondered, fleetingly, if this was how the deer felt. He looked straight at Tessier and turned slightly toward him. Showing the marksman his chest. Daring him to pull the trigger.
If there was ever a time for that damned thing to collapse, thought Gamache, now was it.
But the blind held, and Tessier held him in his sights.
Gamache shifted his eyes to Francoeur and put his arms out at his sides.
The Chief Superintendent gestured and Tessier climbed rapidly and easily down the rickety ladder.
*
The agent entered the church and looked around. It appeared empty. Then he noticed the old woman, still in her gray cloth coat and tuque. She sat in a back pew. The large black woman sat in a front pew.
He stared into the corners but couldn’t see anyone.
“You there,” he said. “Who else is here?”
“If you’re talking to Ruth, you’re wasting your time,” said the woman at the front. She stood up and smiled at him. “She doesn’t speak French.”
She herself spoke to him in very good, though slightly accented, French.
“Can I help you?”
The agent walked down the aisle. “I’m looking for Inspector Beauvoir. You know him?”
“I do,” she said. “He’s been here before, with Chief Inspector Gamache.”
“Where is he now?”
“Beauvoir? I thought he was with you,” said Myrna.
“Why would I—”
But he didn’t get to finish his sentence. The muzzle of a Glock was thrust into the base of his skull and an expert hand reached in and took his gun from its holster.
He turned around. The elderly woman in the cloth coat and knitted tuque was holding a service revolver on him.
And she wasn’t old at all.
“S?reté,” said Agent Nichol. “You’re under arrest.”