How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (27 page)

He’d found a bag of loose Lapsang souchong and held it up. Ruth squinted at it.

“That’s tea? That would explain a few things…”

Gamache put the kettle on. “Do you have a pot?”

“Well, I thought…” Ruth jerked her head toward the baggie.

Gamache stared at her for a moment before decoding that.

“A pot,” he said. “Not ‘pot.’”

“Oh, in that case, yes. Over there.”

Gamache poured hot water into the teapot and swirled it around before pouring it out. Ruth sprawled in a chair and regarded him as he spooned loose black tea into the chipped and stained pot.

“So, time to drop your albatross,” said Ruth.

“Is that a euphemism?” Gamache asked, and heard Ruth snort.

He poured the just boiling water onto the tea and put the cover on. Then he joined her at the table.

“Where’s Beauvoir?” Ruth asked. “And don’t give me any of that crap about being on another assignment. What happened?”

“I can’t tell you the specifics,” said Gamache. “It’s not my story to tell.”

“Then why did you come here tonight?”

“Because I knew you were worried. And you love him too.”

“Is he all right?”

Gamache shook his head.

“Shall I be mother?” asked Ruth, and Gamache smiled as she poured.

They sat and sipped in silence. Then he told her what he could, about Jean-Guy. And he felt his load was lightened.

*   *   *

The Brunels walked in silence except for the rhythmic sound of their boots crunching on the snow. What had once seemed annoying, a noise that broke the quietude, now seemed reassuring, comforting even. A human presence in this tale of inhumanity.

“The Sûreté council voted not to arrest Pierre Arnot and the others immediately,” said Thérèse, “but to give them a few days to put their affairs in order.”

Jérôme thought about that for a moment. The use of those particular words.

“Do you mean…?”

Thérèse said nothing, forcing him to say it.

“… kill themselves?”

“Armand was vehemently against it, but the council voted, and even Arnot could see it was the only way out. A quick bullet to the brain. The men would go to a remote hunting camp. Their bodies, and confessions, would be found later.”

“But…” Again Jérôme was at a loss for words, trying to corral his racing thoughts. “But there was a trial. I saw it. That was Arnot, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“So what happened?”

“Armand disobeyed orders. He went to the hunting camp and arrested them. Brought them back to Montréal in handcuffs and filed the papers himself. Multiple charges of first-degree murder.”

Thérèse stopped. Jérôme stopped. The comforting munching of the snow stopped.

“My God,” Jérôme whispered. “No wonder the leadership hate him.”

“But the rank and file adore him,” said Thérèse. “Instead of bringing shame on the service, the trial proved that while corruption exists, so does justice. The corruption within the Sûreté shocked the public. At least, the degree of it did. But what also surprised them was the degree of decency. While the leadership privately rallied around Arnot, the body of the Sûreté sided with the Chief Inspector. And the public certainly did.”

“Service, Integrity, Justice,” Jérôme quoted the motto Thérèse had above her desk at home. She too believed in it.

“
Oui.
They suddenly became more than words for the rank and file. The only question left unanswered was why Chief Superintendent Arnot did it,” said Thérèse.

“Arnot said nothing?” asked Jérôme, looking down at his feet. Not daring to look at his wife.

“He refused to testify. Proclaimed his innocence throughout the trial. Said it was a putsch, a lynching by a power-hungry and corrupt Chief Inspector.”

“He never explained himself?”

“Said there was nothing to explain.”

“Where is he now?”

“In the shoe.”

“Pardon?”

“The shoe. It’s where the worst offenders are kept,” said Thérèse.

“You keep them in a shoe? Is that really wise?”

Thérèse stared at her husband, then for the first time since this conversation started, she laughed.

“I mean the Special Handling Unit at the maximum security penitentiary. The SHU.”

“That would make more sense,” agreed Jérôme. “And Francoeur?”

“He—”

Thérèse Brunel began to answer but stopped. There was another sound. Coming toward them, out of the darkness.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Neither fast, nor slow. Not hurried, but neither was it leisurely.

They stopped, two elderly people frozen in place. Jérôme drew himself up to his full height. He stared into the night and tried not to think that the very mention of the name had conjured the man.

And still the steps approached. Measured. Assured.

“That was where I made my mistake.”

The voice came out of the darkness.

“Armand,” said Thérèse with a nervous laugh.

“Christ,” said Jérôme. “We almost needed the pooper-scooper.”

“Sorry,” said the Chief.

“How did it go with Madame Zardo?” asked Jérôme.

“We talked a bit.”

“About what?” Thérèse asked. “The Ouellet case?”

“No.” The three of them, and Henri, walked back toward Emilie Longpré’s home. “About Jean-Guy. She wanted to know what happened.”

Thérèse was silent. It was the first time Armand had mentioned the young man’s name, though she suspected he thought about him almost constantly.

“I couldn’t tell her much, but I felt I owed her something.”

“Why?”

“Well, she and Jean-Guy had developed a particular loathing for each other.”

Thérèse smiled. “I can see that happening.”

Gamache stopped and looked at the Brunels. “You were discussing the Arnot case. Why was that?”

Thérèse and Jérôme exchanged looks. Finally Jérôme answered.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you right away, but I was too…”

Afraid, admit it. Afraid.

“… afraid,” he said. “In my last search, I came across his name. It was in a file deeply buried.”

“About the murders in the Cree territory?” asked Gamache.

“No. A more recent file.”

“And you said nothing?” Armand’s voice was clear and calm and dark like the night.

“I found his name just before we came here. I thought it was over. That we’d stay here for a while, lie low so Francoeur and the others would know we weren’t a threat.”

“And then what?” asked Gamache. He wasn’t angry. Just curious. Sympathetic even. How often had he wished for the same thing? To offer his resignation and walk away. He and Reine-Marie would find a small place in Saint-Paul de Vence, in France. Far away from Québec. From Francoeur.

Surely he’d done enough. Surely Reine-Marie had done enough.

Surely it was someone else’s turn.

But it wasn’t. It was still his turn.

And he’d involved the Brunels. And neither they, nor he, could put down this burden just yet.

“It was a fool’s dream,” admitted Jérôme wearily. “Wishful thinking.”

“What did the files say about Pierre Arnot?” Gamache asked.

“I didn’t have a chance to read them.”

Even in the dark, Jérôme could feel Gamache scrutinizing him.

“And Francoeur?” asked the Chief. “Was he mentioned?”

“Just suggestions,” said Jérôme. “If I can get back online I can look deeper.”

Gamache nodded toward the road. A vehicle drove slowly around the green, then came to a stop directly in front of them. It was a beat-up old Chevy truck, with cheap winter tires and rust. The door shrieked as it opened and the driver stepped out. Male or female, it was impossible to say.

Henri, who barely ever made a sound, emitted a low growl.

“Hope this is worth it,” said the voice. Female. Petulant. Young.

Thérèse Brunel turned to Gamache.

“You didn’t,” she whispered.

“I had to, Thérèse.”

“You could’ve just stuck a gun in our mouths,” she said. “Would have been less painful.”

She grabbed the Chief’s arm, yanked him a few paces away from the truck, and whispered urgently into his face. “You do know she’s one of the people we suspect of working with Francoeur, of leaking the video of the raid? She was in the perfect position to do that. She had the access, the ability and the personality to do it.” Thérèse shot a look at the figure creating a dark hole against the cheerful Christmas lights. “She’s almost certainly working with Francoeur. What’ve you done, Armand?”

“It was a risk I had to take,” he insisted. “If she’s working with Francoeur we’re sunk, but we would’ve been anyway. She might be one of the few who could leak the video, but she’s also one of the few who can get us back online.”

The two senior Sûreté officers glared at each other.

“You know that, Thérèse,” said Gamache urgently. “I had no choice.”

“You had a choice, Armand,” Thérèse hissed. “For one thing, you could have consulted me. Us.”

“You haven’t worked with her, I have,” said Gamache.

“And you have such insight into people? Is that it, Armand? Is that why Jean-Guy’s where he is? Is that why your department deserted you? Is that why we’re hiding here and our only hope is one of your own former agents, and you don’t even know if she’s loyal or not?”

Silence met those words. Silence and a long, long exhale of what looked like steam.

“Excuse me,” he said at last, and walked past Thérèse Brunel to the road.

“Can I help?” Jérôme asked a little awkwardly. He’d heard what Thérèse had said. He suspected this young woman had too.

“Go inside, Jérôme,” said Gamache. “I’ll look after this.”

“She didn’t mean it, you know.”

“She meant it,” said Gamache. “And she was right.”

When the Brunels had gone inside, he turned to the newcomer.

“You heard that?”

“I did. Fucking paranoid.”

“Do not use that language with me, Agent Nichol. You’ll be respectful of me, and the Brunels.”

“So that’s who that is,” she said, peering into the night. “Superintendent Brunel. I couldn’t tell. Heady company. She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t trust you.”

“And you, sir?”

“I asked you down here, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you had no choice.”

It was too dark to see her face, but Gamache was sure there was a sneer there. And he wondered just how big a mistake he might have made.

TWENTY-FOUR

The next morning all four of them worked to install the equipment Agent Yvette Nichol had brought with her from Montréal. They carried it up the hill, from Emilie’s home to the old schoolhouse.

Olivier had given Gamache the key, but had asked no questions. And Gamache had offered no explanations. When he’d unlocked the door a puff of stale air met him, as though the one-room schoolhouse had been holding its breath for years. It was dusty and still smelled of chalk and textbooks. It was bitterly cold inside. A black potbellied woodstove sat in the middle of the floor, and the walls were lined with maps and charts. Math, science, spelling. A large blackboard above the teacher’s desk dominated the front of the room.

Most of the students’ desks had gone, but a couple of tables sat against the wall.

Gamache surveyed it and nodded. It would do.

Gilles showed up and helped them carry the cables and terminals and monitors and keyboards.

“Pretty old stuff,” he commented. “Are you sure it still works?”

“It works,” snapped Nichol, and studied the grizzled man. “I know you. We met when I was here last time. You talk to trees.”

“He talks to trees?” Thérèse muttered to Gamache as she passed, carrying a box of supplies. “Two for two, Chief Inspector. Who’s next? Hannibal Lecter?”

Within the hour all the equipment had been moved from Emilie’s home to the old schoolhouse. Agent Nichol had proved more helpful than anyone, especially Gamache, could have hoped. Which only increased his discomfort. She only questioned his orders once.

“Really?” She’d turned to him when the Chief Inspector had told her what they needed to do. “That’s your plan?”

“Do you have a better one, Agent Nichol?”

“Set it up in Emilie Longpré’s living room. That way it’s convenient.”

“For you, yes,” explained Gamache. “But the less distance the cables have to run, the better. You know that.”

She reluctantly admitted he had a point.

He hadn’t told her the other reason. If they were found out, if their signal was traced, if Francoeur and Tessier and others appeared on the brow of the hill, he wanted the target to be the abandoned schoolhouse. Not a home in the middle of Three Pines. The schoolhouse wasn’t far removed, but perhaps enough.

If they were successful, it would be decided, he suspected, by moments and millimeters.

“You do know this probably won’t work,” said Nichol, as she crawled under the old teacher’s desk.

The school had been decommissioned years earlier. No longer could the children of Three Pines walk to school and go home for lunch. Now they were bused to Saint-Rémi every day. Such was progress.

Once the equipment was in place, Gilles left them. Through the dirty schoolhouse window Gamache watched the red-bearded woodsman carry his snowshoes up the hill out of the village, in search of the hunting blind. It had been a long time since Gilles, or Gamache, had seen it, and Gamache hoped and prayed it was still there.

A clanking of metal on metal caught his attention and he turned to face the room. Superintendent Brunel was feeding old newspapers and kindling into the woodstove, trying to get it going. Right now the schoolhouse felt like a freezer.

While Agent Nichol and Jérôme Brunel worked to connect the equipment, Chief Inspector Gamache walked over to one of the maps of Québec tacked to a wall. He smiled. Someone had placed a tiny dot south of Montréal. Just north of Vermont. Beside the winding Rivière Bella Bella. Written there, in a small perfect hand, was one word.
Home.

It was the only map in existence that showed the village of Three Pines.

Superintendent Brunel was now feeding quartered logs into the woodstove. Gamache could hear the crackle and pop of the long-dry wood and he could smell the slight sweet scent of the smoke. Soon, if Thérèse Brunel tended it, the stove would be radiating heat and they could remove their coats and hats and mitts. But not just yet. The winter had taken hold of the old building and wouldn’t be easily evicted.