And there it was. He’d said it out loud.
Goddamned Arnot, rotting in prison but still haunting him.
‘I thought so,’ said Brébeuf, returning to his chair.
‘Why are you here, Michel?’
‘In my own office?’
Gamache was silent, watching his friend. Finally Brébeuf leaned forward, putting his elbows on his wide desk as though he intended to crawl across and wrap himself around Gamache’s head.
‘I know what happened to you once in the old Hadley house. You were almost killed there—’
‘It wasn’t so bad.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Armand,’ Brébeuf warned. ‘I wanted to be the one to tell you about this case and see how you feel.’
Gamache was silent, deeply touched.
‘There’s something about the place,’ he admitted after a moment. ‘You’ve never been there, have you?’
Brébeuf shook his head.
‘There’s something in there. It’s like a hunger, some need that has to be met. I must sound crazy.’
‘I think there’s a need in you that’s equally destructive,’ said Brébeuf. ‘Your need to help people. Like Agent Nichol.’
‘I don’t want to help her. I want to expose her and her bosses. I believe she’s working for the faction that supports Arnot. I’ve already told you that.’
‘So fire her,’ snapped Brébeuf, exasperated. ‘The only reason I haven’t is because you asked me not to. As a personal favor. Listen, the Arnot case will never be over. It goes too deep into the system. Every officer in the S?reté is involved in one way or another. Most support you, you know that. But the ones who don’t,’ Brébeuf now raised his palms in a simple, eloquent gesture of defeat, ‘they’re powerful and Nichol is their eyes and ears. As long as she’s near you you’re in danger. They’ll bring you down.’
‘It works both ways, Michel,’ said Gamache wearily. Talking about former Superintendent Arnot always drained him. It was, he’d thought, an old case. Long dead and buried. But now it was back. Risen. ‘As long as she’s close I can watch her, control what she sees and does.’
‘Foolish man.’ Brébeuf shook his head.
‘Prideful, stubborn, arrogant man,’ agreed Gamache, walking to the door.
‘You may have your Nichol,’ said Brébeuf, turning his back to look out the window.
‘Merci.’
Gamache closed the door and walked to his own office to make some calls.
Alone now Superintendent Brébeuf picked up the phone and made a call of his own.
‘It’s Superintendent Brébeuf. You’ll be getting a call soon from Chief Inspector Gamache’s office. No, he doesn’t suspect. He thinks the problem is Nichol.’
Brébeuf took a few deep breaths. He’d gotten to the stage where just looking at Armand Gamache made him want to retch.
Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir drove the Volvo over the Pont Champlain spanning the St Lawrence River and onto the Eastern Townships Autoroute, heading south toward the American border. Beauvoir had suggested the chief buy an MG when his last Volvo had finally died a year or so ago, but the chief for some reason thought he was joking.
‘So what’s the case?’
‘A woman was frightened to death last night in Three Pines,’ said Gamache, watching the countryside slip by.
‘Sacré. So what are we looking for? A ghost?’
‘Closer than you might think. It happened at a séance. At the old Hadley house.’
Gamache turned to watch his young inspector’s lean and handsome face. It grew even tauter, the lips compressing and growing pale.
‘That fucking place,’ Beauvoir said at last. ‘Someone should tear it down.’
‘You think the house is to blame?’
‘Don’t you?’
It was a strange admission for Beauvoir. Normally so rational and driven by facts, he gave no credence to things unseen, like emotions. He was the perfect complement to his boss, who, in Beauvoir’s opinion, spent far too much time crawling into people’s heads and hearts. Inside there lived chaos, and Beauvoir wasn’t a big one for that.
But if there was ever a case for evil, in Beauvoir’s experience, it was the old Hadley house. He shifted his toned body in the driver’s seat, suddenly uncomfortable, and looked over at the boss. Gamache was watching him thoughtfully. They locked eyes, Gamache’s steady and calm and of the deepest brown and Beauvoir’s almost gray.
‘Who was the victim?’