*
Armand Gamache looked into the sky.
Something was coming.
He and the abbot had been discussing the garden. He wanted to bring the interview back to a more conversational tone. It was like fishing. Reel in, let go. Reel in, let go. Give the suspect the impression of freedom. That they were off the hook. Then reel them in again.
It was exhausting. For everyone. But mostly, Gamache knew, for whoever was on the hook and writhing.
The abbot had clearly interpreted this shift of tone and subject as Gamache relenting.
“Why do you think Dom Clément built this garden?” the Chief had asked.
“What do people who live close together value most?”
Gamache thought about that. Was it companionship? Peace and quiet? Tolerance?
“Privacy?”
The abbot nodded. “Oui. C’est ?a. Dom Clément gave himself the one thing no one else in Saint-Gilbert had. Privacy.”
“Another division,” said Gamache, and the abbot looked at him. Dom Philippe had felt the slight tug on the line and realized what he’d taken for freedom wasn’t that at all.
Gamache considered what the abbot had just said. Maybe their legendary treasure wasn’t a thing, but nothing. An empty room no one knew about. And a lock.
Privacy. And with privacy, of course, came something else.
Safety.
That was, Gamache knew, what people valued most of all.
Then he heard it.
He scanned the clear blue sky. Nothing.
But something was there. And it was getting closer.
*
A roar shattered the peace. It seemed to be coming from all around them, as though the sky had opened its mouth and was shrieking at them.
All the mushroom monks, and Beauvoir, looked up.
Then, as a man, they ducked.
*
Gamache ducked and pulled Dom Philippe down with him.
The plane zoomed overhead and was gone in an instant. But Gamache heard it bank, and turn back.
Both men stood stock-still, staring into the sky, Gamache still clasping the abbot’s robes.
“It’s coming back,” Dom Philippe shouted.
*
“Shit,” yelled Beauvoir, above the straining engines.
“Christ,” yelled Frère Antoine.
The straw hats had been blown from the monks’ heads and lay on the plants, breaking some of the vines.
“It’s coming back,” shouted Frère Antoine.
Beauvoir stared into the sky. It was maddening, only being able to see the patch of blue directly over their heads. They could hear the plane banking, straining, approaching. But couldn’t see it.
And then it was upon them again, even lower this time. Apparently heading straight for the bell tower.
“Oh, shit,” said Frère Antoine.
*
Dom Philippe grabbed at Gamache’s jacket and the two men ducked again.
“Damn.”
Gamache heard the abbot, even above the straining engines.
“They almost hit the monastery,” screamed Dom Philippe. “It’s the press. I’d hoped we’d have more time.”
*
Beauvoir slowly stood but remained alert, listening.
The sound grew momentarily louder, disappeared, then there was a mighty splash.
“Christ,” said Beauvoir.
“Merde,” said Frère Antoine.
The monks and Beavoir ran to the door, back into the monastery. Their floppy hats abandoned in the garden.
*
Damn, thought Gamache, leaving the garden with the abbot.
He’d scanned the plane as it zoomed over the garden within feet, it seemed, of their heads. At the last moment it banked to miss the bell tower.
In that moment, before it disappeared again, he’d seen an insignia on the door of the plane.
They joined the parade of monks walking quickly down the corridors, picking up more monks and more speed as they progressed through the halls, across the Blessed Chapel, and into the final corridor. Gamache could see Beauvoir just ahead, walking rapidly beside Frère Antoine.
Young Frère Luc stood in front of the locked door holding the wrought-iron key in his hand. He stared at them.
Gamache, alone among the men, knew exactly what was on the other side of that door. He’d recognized the insignia on the plane. It wasn’t the press. Nor was it curiosity seekers, come to gawk at the famous monastery, made infamous by a terrible crime.
No, this was another creature entirely.
Smelling blood.