“What do you mean?” Francoeur’s voice was now low, completely in control. The panic gone.
“We followed him,” Tessier assured his boss. “But then the signal disappeared. I think that’s a good thing,” he hurriedly said.
“How can losing Chief Inspector Gamache with only hours to go, after he’s clearly connected Arnot to the plan, be a good thing?”
“The signal didn’t die, it just disappeared, which means he’s in an area without satellite coverage. That village.”
So he hadn’t doubled back.
“What’s the village called?” he asked.
“Three Pines.”
“You’re sure Gamache is there?”
Tessier nodded.
“Good. Keep monitoring.”
If he’s there, thought Francoeur, he’s as good as dead. Dead and buried in a village that didn’t even register. Gamache was no threat to them there.
“If he leaves, I need to know immediately.”
“Yessir.”
“And tell no one about the SHU.”
“Yessir.”
Francoeur watched Tessier leave. Gamache had been close. So close. Within meters of finding out the truth. But had stopped short. And now they had Gamache cornered, in some forgotten little village.
*
“That must’ve smarted,” said Jér?me Brunel, stepping back from an examination of Gamache’s face and eyes. “There’s no concussion.”
“Shame,” said Thérèse, sitting at the kitchen table watching. “Might’ve knocked some sense into him. Why in the world would you confront Inspector Beauvoir? Especially now?”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
“Try.”
“Honestly, Thérèse, can it matter at this stage?”
“Does he know what you’re doing? What we’re doing?”
“He doesn’t even know what he’s doing,” Gamache said. “He’s no threat.”
Thérèse Brunel was about to say something, but seeing his face, the bruise and the expression, she decided not to.
Nichol was upstairs, sleeping. They’d already eaten, but saved some for Gamache. He carried a tray with soup and a fresh baguette, paté and cheeses into the living room and set it in front of the fire. Jér?me and Thérèse joined him there.
“Should we wake her up?” Gamache asked.
“Agent Nichol?” asked Jér?me, with some alarm. “We only just got her down. Let’s enjoy the peace.”
It was odd, thought Gamache as he ate the lentil soup, that no one thought to call Nichol by her first name. Yvette. She was Nichol or Agent Nichol.
Not a person, certainly not a woman. An agent, and that was all.
When dinner and the dishes were done, they took their tea back to the living room. Where normally they’d have had a glass of wine with their dinner, or a cognac after, none of them considered it.
Not that night.
Jér?me looked at his watch. “Almost nine. I think I’ll try to get some sleep. Thérèse?”
“I’ll be up in a moment.”
They watched Jér?me haul himself up the stairs, then Thérèse turned to Armand.
“Why did you go to Beauvoir?”
Gamache sighed. “I had to try, one more time.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “You mean one last time. You think you won’t get another chance.”
They sat quietly for a moment. Thérèse kneaded Henri’s ears while the shepherd moaned and grinned.
“You did the right thing,” she said. “No regrets.”
“And you? Any regrets?”
“I regret bringing Jér?me into this.”
“I brought him in,” said Gamache. “Not you.”
“But I could’ve said no.”
“I don’t think any of us believed it would come to this.”
Superintendent Brunel looked around the living room, with its faded slipcovers and comfortable armchairs and sofas. The books and vinyl records and old magazines. The fireplace, and the windows looking to the dark back garden in one direction and the village green in the other.
She could see the three huge pine trees, Christmas lights bobbing in the slight breeze.
“If it had to come to this, this’s a pretty good place to wait for it.”
Gamache smiled. “True. But of course, we’re not waiting. We’re taking the fight to them. Or Jér?me is. I’m just the muscle.”
“Of course you are, mon beau,” she said in her most patronizing tone.
Gamache watched her for a moment. “Is Jér?me all right?”
“You mean, is he ready?” asked Thérèse.
“Oui.”
“He won’t let us down. He knows it all depends on him.”
“And on Agent Nichol,” Gamache pointed out.
“Oui.” But it was said without conviction.
Even drowning people, Gamache realized, when tossed a life preserver by Nichol, hesitated. He couldn’t blame them. He did too.
He hadn’t forgotten seeing her in the B and B when she had no business being there. No business, that is, of theirs. But there was clearly another agenda she was following.
No. Armand Gamache had not forgotten that.
After Thérèse Brunel had gone upstairs, Gamache put another log on the fire, made a fresh pot of coffee, and took Henri for a walk.
Henri bounced ahead, trying to catch the snowballs Gamache was throwing to him. It was a perfect winter night. Not too cold. No wind. The snow was still falling, but more gently now. It would stop before midnight, Gamache thought.
He tipped his head back, opened his mouth, and felt the huge flakes hit his tongue. Not too hard. Not too soft.
Just right.
He closed his eyes and felt them hit his nose, his eyelids, his wounded cheek. Like tiny kisses. Like the ones Annie and Daniel used to give him, when they were babies. And the ones he gave them.
He opened his eyes and continued his walk slowly around and around the pretty little village. As he passed homes, he looked through the windows throwing honey light onto the snow. He saw Ruth bent over a white plastic table. Writing. Rosa sat on the table, watching. Maybe even dictating.
He walked around the curve of the green and saw Clara reading by her fireplace. Curled into a corner of her sofa, a blanket over her legs.
He saw Myrna, moving back and forth in front of her window in the loft, pouring herself a cup of tea.
From the bistro he heard laughter and could see the Christmas tree, lit and cheerful in the corner, and patrons finishing late dinners, enjoying drinks. Talking about their days.
He saw Gabri in the B and B, wrapping Christmas gifts. The window must have been open slightly, because he heard Gabri’s clear tenor singing “The Huron Carol.” Rehearsing for the Christmas Eve service in the little church.
As Gamache walked, he hummed it to himself.
Every now and then a thought about the Ouellet murder entered his head. But he chased it out. Ideas came to mind about Arnot, and Francoeur. But he chased those away too.
Instead he thought about Reine-Marie. And Annie. And Daniel. And his grandchildren. About what a very fortunate man he was.
And then he and Henri returned to Emilie’s home.
*
While everyone slept, Armand stared into the fire, thinking. Going over and over the Ouellet case in his mind.
Then, just before eleven, he started making notes. Pages and pages.
The fire died in the hearth, but he didn’t notice.
Finally, he placed what he’d written into envelopes and put on his coat and boots and hat and mitts. He tried to wake Henri, but the shepherd was snoring and muttering and catching snowballs in his dreams.
And so he’d gone out alone. The homes of Three Pines were dark now. Everyone sound asleep. The lights on the huge trees were off and the snow had stopped. The sky was again filled with stars. He dropped two envelopes through a mail slot and returned to Emilie’s home with one regret. That he hadn’t had the chance to get Christmas gifts for the villagers. But he thought they’d understand.
*
An hour later, when Jér?me and Thérèse came downstairs, they found Gamache asleep in the armchair, Henri snoring at his feet. A pen in his hand and an envelope, addressed to Reine-Marie, on the floor where it had slid off the arm of the chair.
“Armand?” Thérèse touched his arm. “Wake up.”
Gamache snapped awake, almost hitting Thérèse with his head as he sat up straight. It took him just a moment to gather his wits.
Nichol came clomping down the stairs, not really disheveled since she was rarely “sheveled.”
“It’s time,” said Thérèse. She seemed almost jubilant. Certainly relieved.
The wait was over.