*
Jean-Guy Beauvoir was on the highway heading toward Montréal. Rosa sat beside him, and hadn’t made a sound. Nor had she stopped staring at him.
But Beauvoir kept his eyes forward. Moving further and further away from the village. He didn’t know what Francoeur and Tessier and the others had planned, and he didn’t want to know.
When he’d emerged from Three Pines his device had blipped, a few times. All messages from Lacoste. Wondering where he was.
Beauvoir knew what that meant. It meant Gamache was looking for him, probably to finish what he’d started the day before. But then he’d read her last message, sent across the system.
Gamache had resigned. He was out of the S?reté.
It was over.
He glanced at the duck. Why in the world had he agreed to take her? Though he knew the answer to that. It wasn’t that he’d agreed to take her, but that he hadn’t the energy or willpower to fight.
Beauvoir wondered, though, why Ruth had given her to him. He knew how much she loved Rosa, and how much Rosa loved her.
I love you, Ruth had whispered to the duck.
I love you. But this time the voice didn’t belong to the demented old poet, but to Gamache. In the factory. Bullets slamming into the concrete floor, into the walls. Bam, bam, bam. The clouds of choking, blinding dust. The deafening sounds. The shouts, the shots, the screams.
And Gamache dragging him to safety, and staunching his wound. Even as the bullets hit around them.
The Chief had stared into his eyes and bent over and kissed him on his forehead and whispered, “I love you.”
As Gamache had the day before, when he thought Beauvoir was about to shoot him. Instead of struggling, of fighting back, as he could have, he’d said, I love you.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew then that he and Rosa hadn’t been abandoned, they’d been saved.
FORTY-ONE
“Now what?” Gabri asked.
He, Olivier, and Clara had come out from behind the altar, where they’d watched. Clara and Olivier each held one of the simple candlestick holders, and Gabri gripped the crucifix, ready to brain the gunman if he got away from Nichol and Myrna.
But there was no need. The gunman was now gagged and handcuffed to a long wooden pew.
“There’s one more,” said Myrna. “In the schoolhouse.”
“And the other two who went into the woods,” said Clara. She looked at the gun in Myrna’s hand, and the one in Nichol’s. They were terrifying and repulsive, and Clara wanted one.
“So what do we do?” Gabri turned to Nichol, who managed to look both in charge and out of control at the same time.
*
Martin Tessier stripped the coat from Gamache and took his weapon, leaving him in his shirtsleeves.
Tessier placed Gamache’s gun in Francoeur’s outstretched hand.
“Where’s Beauvoir?” Gamache demanded.
“He’s in the village with the others,” said Tessier. “Working.”
“Let him be,” said Gamache. “I’m the one you want.”
Francoeur smiled. “‘I’m the one you want,’ as though this begins and ends with the great Armand Gamache. You really haven’t grasped what’s happening, have you? You even had your resignation broadcast, as though it was important. As though we might care.”
“And you don’t?” asked Gamache. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” said Tessier, pointing his weapon at Gamache’s chest.
Gamache ignored him and continued to watch Francoeur.
There was more buzzing and Francoeur checked his texts.
“We’ve picked up Isabelle Lacoste and her family. And Villeneuve and the neighbor. You’re like the plague, Armand. Everyone you’ve come in contact with is either dead or soon will be. Including Beauvoir. He’ll be found among the remains of the schoolhouse, trying to dismantle the bomb you connected to all those computers.”
Gamache looked from Francoeur to Tessier and back to Francoeur.
“You’re trying to decide whether to believe me,” said Francoeur.
“For chrissake,” said Tessier. “Let’s get this over with.”
Francoeur turned to his second in command. “You’re right. Get that satellite dish down. I’ll finish up here. Walk with me, Armand. I’ll let you go ahead, for once.”
Francoeur pointed down the path, and Gamache started to walk, slipping slightly in the snow. It was the trail that he and Nichol had made when they’d lugged the cable through the woods, back to Three Pines. It was, in effect, a shortcut to the old schoolhouse.
“Are they still alive?” Gamache asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” said Francoeur.
“Beauvoir? Is he still alive?”
“Well, I haven’t heard an explosion yet, so yes. For now.”
Gamache took another few steps.
“And the bridge? Shouldn’t you have heard about the bridge by now?” Gamache asked, breathing heavily and grabbing a branch to catch his balance. “Something’s wrong, Sylvain. You can feel it.”
“Stop,” said Francoeur, and Gamache did. He turned around and saw Francoeur bring out his cell phone. He touched it with his finger, then beamed.
“It’s done.”
“What’s done?”
“The bridge is down.”