“That’s what you’re doing.”
“I’ve been working at this for years,” said Gamache, approaching her. “Long before the raid on the factory. Long before Jean-Guy got into trouble. I’ve given up everything to see this through. It ends tonight. Jér?me will just have to dig deeper. We all will.”
“You’re not being rational.”
“No, you aren’t,” he seethed. “Can’t you see Jér?me’s frightened? Scared sick? That’s what’s draining his energy. The longer we wait, the worse it’ll get.”
“You’re saying you’re doing this to be kind to Jér?me?” demanded Thérèse, incredulous.
“I’m doing this because one more day and he’ll crack,” said Gamache. “And then we’ll all be lost, including him. If you can’t see it, I can.”
“He’s not the one who’s falling apart,” she said. “He’s not the one who was in tears today.”
Gamache looked as though she’d hit him with a car.
“Jér?me can and will do it tonight. He’ll go back in and get us the information we need to nail Francoeur and stop whatever’s planned.” Gamache’s voice was low and his eyes glared. “Jér?me agrees. He, at least, has a backbone.”
Gamache opened the door and left, going up to his room and staring at the wall, waiting for the trembling in his hand to subside.
*
At two in the morning Jér?me stood up.
Armand had awoken Nichol and come downstairs. He didn’t look at Thérèse and she didn’t look at him.
Nichol descended, disheveled, and put on her coat.
“Ready?” Gamache asked Jér?me.
“Ready.”
Gamache signaled Henri, and they quietly left the home. Like thieves in the night.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Nichol marched ahead, the only one anxious to get to the schoolhouse. But her rush was futile, Gamache knew, since he had the key.
Jér?me held Thérèse’s hand. Both wore puffy black coats and puffy white mitts. They looked like Mickey and Minnie Mouse out for a stroll.
Chief Inspector Gamache brushed past Superintendent Brunel and unlocked the schoolhouse door. He held it open for them, but instead of entering himself, he let it drift shut.
He saw the light go on through the frosted window and heard the metallic clank as the top of the woodstove was lifted and logs were fed to the dying embers.
But outside, there was only a hush.
He tipped his head back and looked into the night sky. Was one of the bright specks not a star at all, but the satellite that would soon transport them from this village?
He brought his gaze back to earth. To the cottages. The B and B, the bakery. Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. Myrna’s bookstore. The bistro. The scene of so many great meals and discussions. He and Jean-Guy. Lacoste. Even Nichol.
Going back years.
He was about to order the final connection made, and then there’d be no turning back. As Nichol so clearly pointed out, they’d be found eventually. And traced back here.
And then no number of woodsmen, of huntsmen, of villagers, of demented poets, of glorious painters and innkeepers could stop what would happen. To Three Pines. To everyone in it.
Armand Gamache turned his back on the sleeping village, and went inside.
Jér?me Brunel had taken his seat in front of one of the monitors, and Thérèse was standing behind him. Yvette Nichol sat beside Dr. Brunel at her own keyboard and monitor, her back already slumped, like a widow’s hump.
They all turned to look at him.
Gamache did not hesitate. At his nod, Yvette Nichol slid under the desk.
“OK?” she asked.
“Oui,” he said, his voice clipped, determined.
There was silence, then they heard a click.
“Done,” she called, and crawled back out.
Gamache met Jér?me’s eyes, and nodded.
Jér?me reached out, surprised to see his finger wasn’t trembling, and pressed the power button. Lights flashed on. There was a slight crackling and then their screens flashed alive.
Gamache reached into his pocket and brought out a neatly folded piece of paper. He smoothed it out and placed it in front of Jér?me.
Agent Nichol looked at it. At the insignia. And the line of letters and numbers. Then she looked up at the Chief.
“The national archives,” she whispered. “My God, it might work.”
“OK, everything’s live and we’re online,” Jér?me reported. “All the encryption programs and sub-programs are running. Once I log in, the clock starts.”
While Dr. Brunel slowly, carefully, typed in the long access code, Gamache turned away to look at the wall, and the ordnance map. So detailed. Even so, it would not have shown where they now stood had some child years ago not put that dot on the page and written, in careful, clear letters, Home.
Gamache stared at it. And he thought of St. Thomas’s Church across the way. And the stained-glass window made after the Great War, showing bright young soldiers walking forward. Not with brave faces. They were filled with fear. But still they advanced.
Below them was the list of the young men who never made it home. And below the names the inscription They were our children.
Gamache heard Jér?me type in the sequence of numbers and letters. Then he heard nothing. Only silence.
The code was in place. Only one thing left to do.
Jér?me Brunel’s finger hovered above the enter button.
Then he brought it down.
“Non,” said Armand. He gripped Jér?me’s wrist, stopping the finger millimeters from the button. They stared at it, not daring to breathe, wondering if Jér?me had actually hit enter before Gamache had stopped him.
“What’re you doing?” Jér?me demanded.
“I made a mistake,” said Gamache. “You’re exhausted. We all are. If this’s going to work we need to be sharp. Rested. There’s too much at stake.”
He glanced again to the map on the wall. And the mark that was almost invisible.
“We’ll come back tomorrow night and start fresh,” said Gamache.
Jér?me Brunel looked like a man who’d had his execution stayed. Not sure if this was a kindness, not sure if this was a trick. After a moment his shoulders rolled forward and he sighed.
With what felt like the last of his energy, Dr. Brunel erased the code and handed the paper back to Gamache.
As he returned it to his pocket, Gamache caught Thérèse’s eye. And nodded.
“Can you unplug us, please?” Jér?me asked Nichol.
She was about to argue, but decided against it, too tired herself to fight. Once again she slid off her chair and crawled under the desk.
When the cable was unplugged, they turned the lights out and Gamache relocked the door. Hoping he hadn’t made a mistake. Hoping he hadn’t just given Francoeur that critical twenty-four hours to complete his plan.
As they trudged back to Emilie Longpré’s home, Gamache caught up with Thérèse.
“You were right. I—”
Thérèse held up her Minnie Mouse hand and Gamache fell silent.
“We were both wrong. You were afraid to stop and I was afraid to go.”
“You think we’ll have less fear tomorrow?” he asked.
“Not less fear,” she said. “But perhaps more courage.”
Once in the warm house, they went to bed, falling asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow. Just before drifting off, Gamache heard Henri groan contentedly, and the house creak in ways that felt like home.