*
The Brunels walked in silence except for the rhythmic sound of their boots crunching on the snow. What had once seemed annoying, a noise that broke the quietude, now seemed reassuring, comforting even. A human presence in this tale of inhumanity.
“The S?reté council voted not to arrest Pierre Arnot and the others immediately,” said Thérèse, “but to give them a few days to put their affairs in order.”
Jér?me thought about that for a moment. The use of those particular words.
“Do you mean…?”
Thérèse said nothing, forcing him to say it.
“… kill themselves?”
“Armand was vehemently against it, but the council voted, and even Arnot could see it was the only way out. A quick bullet to the brain. The men would go to a remote hunting camp. Their bodies, and confessions, would be found later.”
“But…” Again Jér?me was at a loss for words, trying to corral his racing thoughts. “But there was a trial. I saw it. That was Arnot, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“So what happened?”
“Armand disobeyed orders. He went to the hunting camp and arrested them. Brought them back to Montréal in handcuffs and filed the papers himself. Multiple charges of first-degree murder.”
Thérèse stopped. Jér?me stopped. The comforting munching of the snow stopped.
“My God,” Jér?me whispered. “No wonder the leadership hate him.”
“But the rank and file adore him,” said Thérèse. “Instead of bringing shame on the service, the trial proved that while corruption exists, so does justice. The corruption within the S?reté shocked the public. At least, the degree of it did. But what also surprised them was the degree of decency. While the leadership privately rallied around Arnot, the body of the S?reté sided with the Chief Inspector. And the public certainly did.”
“Service, Integrity, Justice,” Jér?me quoted the motto Thérèse had above her desk at home. She too believed in it.
“Oui. They suddenly became more than words for the rank and file. The only question left unanswered was why Chief Superintendent Arnot did it,” said Thérèse.
“Arnot said nothing?” asked Jér?me, looking down at his feet. Not daring to look at his wife.
“He refused to testify. Proclaimed his innocence throughout the trial. Said it was a putsch, a lynching by a power-hungry and corrupt Chief Inspector.”
“He never explained himself?”
“Said there was nothing to explain.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the shoe.”
“Pardon?”
“The shoe. It’s where the worst offenders are kept,” said Thérèse.
“You keep them in a shoe? Is that really wise?”
Thérèse stared at her husband, then for the first time since this conversation started, she laughed.
“I mean the Special Handling Unit at the maximum security penitentiary. The SHU.”
“That would make more sense,” agreed Jér?me. “And Francoeur?”
“He—”
Thérèse Brunel began to answer but stopped. There was another sound. Coming toward them, out of the darkness.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Neither fast, nor slow. Not hurried, but neither was it leisurely.
They stopped, two elderly people frozen in place. Jér?me drew himself up to his full height. He stared into the night and tried not to think that the very mention of the name had conjured the man.
And still the steps approached. Measured. Assured.
“That was where I made my mistake.”
The voice came out of the darkness.
“Armand,” said Thérèse with a nervous laugh.
“Christ,” said Jér?me. “We almost needed the pooper-scooper.”
“Sorry,” said the Chief.
“How did it go with Madame Zardo?” asked Jér?me.
“We talked a bit.”
“About what?” Thérèse asked. “The Ouellet case?”
“No.” The three of them, and Henri, walked back toward Emilie Longpré’s home. “About Jean-Guy. She wanted to know what happened.”
Thérèse was silent. It was the first time Armand had mentioned the young man’s name, though she suspected he thought about him almost constantly.
“I couldn’t tell her much, but I felt I owed her something.”
“Why?”
“Well, she and Jean-Guy had developed a particular loathing for each other.”
Thérèse smiled. “I can see that happening.”
Gamache stopped and looked at the Brunels. “You were discussing the Arnot case. Why was that?”
Thérèse and Jér?me exchanged looks. Finally Jér?me answered.
“I’m sorry, I should have told you right away, but I was too…”
Afraid, admit it. Afraid.
“… afraid,” he said. “In my last search, I came across his name. It was in a file deeply buried.”
“About the murders in the Cree territory?” asked Gamache.
“No. A more recent file.”
“And you said nothing?” Armand’s voice was clear and calm and dark like the night.
“I found his name just before we came here. I thought it was over. That we’d stay here for a while, lie low so Francoeur and the others would know we weren’t a threat.”
“And then what?” asked Gamache. He wasn’t angry. Just curious. Sympathetic even. How often had he wished for the same thing? To offer his resignation and walk away. He and Reine-Marie would find a small place in Saint-Paul de Vence, in France. Far away from Québec. From Francoeur.
Surely he’d done enough. Surely Reine-Marie had done enough.
Surely it was someone else’s turn.
But it wasn’t. It was still his turn.
And he’d involved the Brunels. And neither they, nor he, could put down this burden just yet.
“It was a fool’s dream,” admitted Jér?me wearily. “Wishful thinking.”
“What did the files say about Pierre Arnot?” Gamache asked.
“I didn’t have a chance to read them.”
Even in the dark, Jér?me could feel Gamache scrutinizing him.
“And Francoeur?” asked the Chief. “Was he mentioned?”
“Just suggestions,” said Jér?me. “If I can get back online I can look deeper.”
Gamache nodded toward the road. A vehicle drove slowly around the green, then came to a stop directly in front of them. It was a beat-up old Chevy truck, with cheap winter tires and rust. The door shrieked as it opened and the driver stepped out. Male or female, it was impossible to say.