But no Bean.
Downstairs he heard boots and masculine voices, raised. But in this room there was only a hush, as though a breath had been held for hundreds of years. Waiting.
And then he heard it. A slight thumping. And he knew what it was.
Ahead of him a square of light and water hit the floor. The grimy skylight was open. He scrambled towards it, and stuck his head out. And there they were.
Bean, and the murderer, on the roof.
Gamache had seen terror many times. On the faces of men and women newly dead, and those about to die, or believing they were. He saw that look now, in Bean’s face. Mouth covered with tape, book clutched in little tied hands, feet dangling. Gamache had seen terror, but never like this. Bean was literally in the clutches of the murderer, standing on the very peak of the rain-slick metal roof.
Without thinking Gamache clutched the sides of the skylight and hoisted himself through, his feet immediately slipping on the wet metal. He fell on one knee, feeling the jar.
And then the world started to spin and he grabbed hold of the edge of the open skylight. He could barely see, blinded by the rain in his eyes and the sheer panic in his head. It shrieked at him to get off the roof. Either through the hole into the attic, or over the edge.
Do it, shove yourself off, his howling head pleaded. Do it.
Down below people were yelling and waving and he dragged his eyes up.
To Bean.
And Bean too looked into the face of terror. The two of them stared at each other, and slowly, with wet, trembling hands, Gamache dragged himself to his feet. He took a tentative step along the peak of the steep roof, one unhappy foot on either side. His head spinning, he kept himself low, so that he could grab hold. Then he shifted his eyes, from Bean, to the murderer.
‘Get away from me, Monsieur Gamache. Get away or I’ll throw the kid over.’
‘I don’t think you will.’
‘Going to risk it? I’ve killed already. I have nothing to lose. I’m at the end of the world. Why’d you block the roads out? I could’ve gotten away. By the time you found the child tied up in the attic I’d have been halfway to …’
The voice faltered.
‘To where?’ Gamache called, over the moaning wind. ‘There was nowhere to go, was there? Don’t do this. It’s over. Bring Bean to me.’
He held out unsteady arms, but the murderer didn’t budge.
‘I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I’d come here to forget it all, to get away. I thought I had. But seeing her again—’
‘I understand, I do.’ Gamache tried to sound reassuring, reasonable. Tried to keep the tremble from his voice. ‘You don’t want to harm a child. I know you. I know—’
‘You know nothing.’
Far from being frightened, the murderer seemed almost calm. A panicked, cornered murderer was a terrible thing, and the only thing worse was a calm one.
‘Bean,’ Gamache said, his voice steady. ‘Bean, look at me.’ He caught the child’s panicked eyes, but could tell Bean wasn’t seeing anything any more.
‘What’re you doing? No! Get down!’ The murderer suddenly grew agitated, and looked beyond Gamache.
The Chief Inspector turned carefully and saw Beauvoir climbing through the skylight. His thumping heart calmed, for an instant. Beauvoir was there. He wasn’t alone.
‘Tell him to get down.’
Beauvoir saw the horrific scene. The murderer standing like a lightning rod in the storm, holding the horrified child. But the most horrifying was the chief, who was looking at him with eyes so grave. Frightened, his fate sealed, and knowing it. A Burgher of Calais.
Gamache lifted his hand and gave Beauvoir the signal to withdraw.
‘No, please,’ Beauvoir rasped. ‘Let me come too.’
‘Not this time, Jean Guy,’ said Gamache.
‘Get away. I’ll toss the kid over.’ Bean was suddenly thrust into space, the murderer barely holding on. Even with tape over the child’s mouth Beauvoir could hear the scream.
With one last look, Beauvoir disappeared, and Gamache was alone again, with a dangling Bean and the murderer and the wind and rain that buffeted them all.
Bean struggled in the murderer’s arms, twisting to break free and letting out a high-pitched, strangled shriek, muffled by the tape.
‘Bean, look at me.’ Gamache stared at Bean, willing himself to forget where he was, trying to trick his traitor brain into believing they were on the ground. He wiped the fear from his own face. ‘Look at me.’
‘What’re you doing?’ the murderer repeated, staring at Gamache with suspicion and clutching the squirming child.
‘I’m trying to calm the child. I’m afraid Bean’ll knock you off balance.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ The murderer hoisted the child higher. And Gamache knew then the murderer was going to do it. To throw the child over.
‘For God’s sake,’ Gamache pleaded. ‘Don’t do it.’
But the murderer was beyond listening to reason. For reason had nothing to do with what was happening. The murderer now heard only a very old howl.
‘Bean, look at me,’ Gamache called. ‘Remember Pegasus?’
The child calmed slightly and seemed to focus on Gamache, though the squealing continued.
‘Remember riding Pegasus into the sky? That’s what you’re doing now. You’re on his back. Can you feel his wings, can you hear them?’
The moaning wind became the outstretched wings of the horse Pegasus, who gave a powerful beat and took Bean into the sky, away from the terror. Gamache watched as Bean slipped the surly bonds of earth.
Bean relaxed in the murderer’s arms, and slowly the big book slipped from the small, wet fingers and hit the roof, sliding down and launching into the air, the leaves spreading like wings.
Gamache glanced down and saw frenzied activity, arms waving and pointing. But one man held his arms outstretched, to catch someone falling from the heavens.
Finney.
Gamache took a deep breath and looked briefly beyond Bean, beyond the murderer, beyond the chimney pots. To the tree tops, and the lake and the mountains.
‘This is my own, my native land!’
And he felt himself relax, a little. Then he looked further. To Three Pines, just on the other side of the mountains. To Reine-Marie.
Here I am, can you see me?
He stood up, slowly, a firm hand on his back steadying him.
‘Now, higher, Bean. I’ve seen you take Pegasus higher.’
Below, the men and women saw the three figures, the Chief Inspector standing upright now in the driving rain and the other two, melded as though the murderer had sprung tiny arms and legs from the chest.
Beside Finney the book thudded to the ground, leaves outstretched and flattened. And in the sobbing wind they heard a far-off song in a deep baritone.
‘Letter B, Letter B,’ it sang, to the tune of the Beatles’ ‘Let It Be’.
‘Oh, God,’ Lacoste whispered and raised her arms too. Beside her Mariana was staring, numb and dumb and uncomprehending. Everything else could fall, she saw it all day, every day. Except Bean. She stepped forward and raised her arms. Unseen beside her, Sandra lifted her hands towards the child. The precious thing, stuck on the roof.
Bean, hands now free of the book, brought them together in front. Clutching reins, eyes staring at the big man opposite.
‘Higher, Bean,’ Gamache urged. Wheeled and soared and swung, said a voice in his head, and Gamache’s right hand opened slightly, to grasp a larger, stronger one.
The child gave a mighty yank and kicked Pegasus in the flanks.
Shocked, Pierre Patenaude let go and Bean fell.
Armand Gamache dived. He sprang with all his might and seemed to hover in the air, as though expecting to make the other side. He strained, reached out his hand, and touched the face of God.