How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (28 page)

Gamache walked over to Thérèse.

“Can I help?”

She shoved another log in and poked it as embers flew up.

“You all right?” he asked.

She took her eyes off the stove and glared across the room. Jérôme was sitting at the desk, organizing a bank of monitors and keyboards and slim metal boxes. Agent Nichol’s bottom could be seen under the desk, as she made connections.

Her eyes flashed back to Gamache.

“No, I’m not all right. This is crazy, Armand,” Thérèse said under her breath. “Even if she doesn’t work for Francoeur, she’s unstable. You know that. She lies, she manipulates. She used to work for you and you fired her.”

“I transferred her, to that basement.”

“You should have fired her.”

“For what? Being arrogant and rude? There’d barely be any Sûreté agents left if that was a dismissible offense. Yes, she’s a piece of work, but look at her.”

They both looked over. All they could see was her bottom, in the air, like a terrier burying a bone.

“Well, maybe not the best moment to make a judgment,” said Gamache with a smile, but Thérèse saw nothing amusing. “I put her in the basement, monitoring communications, because I wanted her to learn how to listen.”

“And did it work?”

“Not perfectly,” he admitted. “But something else happened.” He looked over at Agent Nichol again. Now she was seated, cross-legged, under the desk, carefully dissecting a mass of cables. Disheveled, unkempt, in clothes that didn’t quite fit. The sweater was pilled and too tight, the jeans a bad cut for her body, her hair had a slightly greasy look. But her focus was intense.

“In the hours and hours of sitting there listening, Agent Nichol discovered a knack for communication,” Gamache continued. “Not verbal, but electronic. She spent hours and hours refining techniques for gathering information.”

“Spying.” Thérèse refined what he meant. “Hacking. You do know you’re making an argument for her collaborating with Francoeur.”

“Oui,”
he said. “We’ll see. The Cyber Crimes division suspected her, you know.”

“What happened?”

“They rejected her for being unstable. I don’t believe Francoeur would work with someone he couldn’t control.”

“And so you brought her here?”

“Not as a witty companion, but because of that.”

He tipped a piece of wood in Nichol’s direction and Superintendent Brunel followed it. And saw, again, the awkward young agent sitting under the desk. Quietly, intently, turning the chaos of wires and cables and boxes into orderly connections.

Thérèse turned back to Gamache, her eyes unyielding. “Agent Yvette Nichol may be good at her job, but the question I have, and the one you seem to have failed to ask, is what is her job? Her real job?”

Chief Inspector Gamache had no answer for that.

“We both know she’s probably working for Francoeur. He gave the order and she did it. Found the video, edited it, and released it. To spite you. You’re not universally loved, you know.”

Gamache nodded. “I’m getting that impression.”

Again, Thérèse failed to smile. “The very qualities you see in her, Francoeur also sees. With one exception.” Superintendent Brunel leaned closer to the Chief Inspector and lowered her voice. He could smell her sophisticated eau de toilette, and the slight scent of mint on her breath. “He knows she’s a sociopath. Without conscience. She’ll do anything, if it amuses her. Or hurts someone else. Especially you. Sylvain Francoeur sees that. Cultivates that. Uses that. And what do you see?”

They both looked over at the pale young woman holding a cable up, with much the same expression as Ruth had when she held the flame the night before.

“You see another lost soul to be saved. You made your decision, you brought her here, without consulting us. Unilaterally. Your hubris has very likely cost us…”

Thérèse Brunel didn’t finish that sentence. She didn’t have to. They both knew what the price might be.

She slammed down the wrought-iron cover of the woodstove with such force the clank made Yvette Nichol jump and hit her head on the underside of the desk.

A series of filth exploded from under the teacher’s desk, such as the little schoolhouse had probably never heard before.

But Thérèse didn’t hear it. Neither did Gamache. The Superintendent had left the little building, slamming the door in Gamache’s face as he followed her.

“Thérèse,” he called, and caught up halfway down the shoveled path. “Wait.”

She stopped, but her back was to him. Not able to face him.

“So help me, Armand, if I could fire you I would.” She turned then and her face was angrier than he’d ever seen. “You’re arrogant, egotistical. You think you have special insight into the human condition, but you’re as flawed as the rest of us. And now look what you’ve done.”

“I’m sorry, Thérèse, I should have consulted you and Jérôme.”

“And why didn’t you?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Because I was afraid you’d overrule me.”

She stared at him, still angry, but caught off guard by his candor.

“I know Agent Nichol’s unstable,” he continued. “I know she might be working with Francoeur and that she might have leaked the video.”

“Christ, Armand, do you ever listen to yourself?” she demanded. “I know, I know, I know.”

“What I’m trying to say is that there was no choice. She might be working for him, but if she isn’t, she’s our only hope. No one will miss her. No one ever goes into that basement. Yes, she’s emotionally stunted, she’s rude and insubordinate, but she’s also exceptional at what she does. Finding information. She and Jérôme will make a formidable team.”

“If she doesn’t kill us.”

“Oui.”

“And you thought, if you explained it, Jérôme and I would be too stupid to come to the same conclusion?”

He stared at her. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

His sharp eyes looked around him, then up the road out of the village. Thérèse followed his gaze.

“If she’s working with Francoeur,” she said, “he’s on his way. She’ll have told him we’re together, and she’ll have told him what we’re doing. And she’ll have told him where to find us. If she hasn’t yet, she soon will.”

Gamache nodded, and continued to stare at the top of the hill, half expecting a bank of black vehicles to roll to a stop up there, like dung on the white snow.

But nothing happened. Not yet anyway.

“We have to assume the worst. That he now knows that Jérôme and I are not in Vancouver,” said Thérèse. “That we didn’t turn our backs on you.” She looked like she now wished she had. “That we’re all here in Three Pines, and still trying to gather information on him.”

She turned back to Gamache and considered him.

“How can we trust you, Armand? How do we know you won’t do something else without consulting us?”

“And I’m the only one holding back information?” he demanded, more angrily than even he expected. “Pierre Arnot.”

He spat the name at her.

“Which is the more damning? The more dangerous?” he asked. “An agent who may or may not be working with Francoeur, or a mass murderer? A psychopathic killer who knows the workings of the Sûreté better than anyone else? Is Arnot involved in all of this somehow?”

He glared at her and her cheeks colored. She gave one curt nod.

“Jérôme thinks so. He doesn’t know how yet, but if they can get that thing to work, he’ll find out.”

“And how long has he kept that name from you? From me? Do you not think it would have been helpful to know?”

His voice was rising, and he struggled to lower it, to bring himself under control.

“Oui,”
said Thérèse. “It would have been helpful.”

Gamache gave a curt nod. “It’s done now. His mistake doesn’t excuse my own. I was wrong. I promise to consult you and Jérôme in the future.” He held out a gloved hand to her. “We can’t turn on each other.”

She stared at it. Then took it. But she didn’t return his thin smile.

“Why didn’t you arrest Francoeur at the same time as Arnot and the others?” she asked, dropping his hand.

“I hadn’t enough proof. I tried, but it was all insinuation. He was Arnot’s second in command. It was inconceivable that Francoeur wouldn’t have been involved in the Cree killings, or at the very least known about them. But I couldn’t find a direct link.”

“But you found a link to Chief Superintendent Arnot?” asked Thérèse.

She’d touched on something that had long troubled the Chief Inspector. How he could have found damning and direct evidence against the Chief Superintendent but not against his second in command.

It had worried him then. It worried him now. Even more.

It suggested that he’d not only missed all the rot, but he’d missed the source of it.

It suggested someone had protected Sylvain Francoeur. Covered for him. And hadn’t covered for Arnot. Someone had thrown Arnot to the wolves.

Was that possible?

“Oui,”
he said. “It was hard to find, but evidence linking Arnot with the killings was there.”

“He always maintained his innocence, Armand. You don’t think…”

“That he really was innocent?” asked Gamache, shaking his head. “No. Not a chance.”

But, he thought to himself, perhaps Pierre Arnot was not quite as guilty as he’d thought. Or, perhaps, there was someone who carried even more guilt. Someone still free.

“Why did Chief Superintendent Arnot do it?” asked Thérèse. “That never came out in court, or in any of the confidential documents. He seemed to respect, even admire the Cree at the beginning of his career. Then thirty years later he’s involved in killing them. For no reason, apparently.”

“Well, he didn’t do the actual killing, as you know,” said Gamache. “He created a climate where the use of lethal force was encouraged. Rewarded even.”

“He did more than that, as your own investigation proved,” said Thérèse. “There were documents showing he encouraged the killings, even ordered some. That was irrefutable. What was never clear was why a senior and apparently excellent officer would do such a thing.”

“You’re right,” agreed Gamache. “From the evidence, the young men who were killed weren’t even criminals. Just the opposite. Most had no record at all.”

In a place with so much crime, why kill the ones who’d done nothing wrong?

“I need to visit Arnot,” he said.

“In the SHU? You can’t do that. They’ll know we’ve found his name in our searches.” She examined him closely. “That’s an order, Chief Inspector. You’re not to go. Understand?”

“I do. And I won’t.”

Still, she tried to read his familiar face. The worn and torn face. Behind his eyes she could sense activity. Just as her husband and that alarming young agent were busy trying to make connections, she could see Armand doing the same thing. In his mind. Sifting through old files, names, events. Trying to find some connection he’d missed.

A man appeared at the brow of the hill and waved.

It was Gilles and he looked pleased.

*   *   *

“Here she is.”

Gilles laid a hand on the rough bark of the tree. They were in the forest above the village. He’d brought snowshoes for all of them, and now Thérèse, Jérôme, Nichol, and Gamache stood beside him, only sinking a few inches into the deep snow.

“Isn’t she magnificent?”

They tilted their heads back, and Jérôme’s tuque fell off as he looked up.

“She?” asked Nichol.

Gilles chose to ignore the sarcasm in her voice. “She,” he confirmed.

“Hate to think how he came to that conclusion,” said Nichol, not quite under her breath. Gamache gave her a stern look.

“She’s at least a hundred feet tall. White pine. Old growth,” Gilles continued. “Hundreds of years old. There’s one in New York State that they figure is almost five hundred years old. The three white pines down in the village may have seen the first loyalists come across during the American Revolution. And this one”—he turned to it, his nose touching the mottled bark, his words soft and warm against the tree—“might have been a seedling when the first Europeans arrived.”

The woodsman looked at them, a bit of bark on the tip of his nose and in his beard. “Do you know what the aboriginals called the white pine?”

“Ethel?” asked Nichol.

“The tree of peace.”

“So what’re we doing here?” asked Nichol.

Gilles pointed and they looked up again. This time Gamache’s hat fell off as he tilted his head. He picked it up and struck it against his leg to knock the soft snow off.

There, nailed twenty feet up in the tree of peace, was the hunting blind. Made for violence. It was rickety and rotten, as though the tree was punishing it.

But it was there.

“What can we do to help?” asked Gamache.

“You can help me haul the satellite dish up there,” said Gilles.

Gamache blanched.

“I think we have the answer to that request,” said Jérôme. “And you’re not going to be doing any of the wiring.”

Gamache shook his head.

“Then I suggest you and Thérèse get out of the way,” said Jérôme.

“Banished to the bistro,” said Gamache, and now Thérèse Brunel did smile.

TWENTY-FIVE

Mugs of steaming apple cider were placed in front of Thérèse Brunel and the Chief Inspector.

Clara and a friend were sitting by the fireplace and motioned them over, but after thanking Clara for dinner the night before, the Sûreté officers moved off to the relative privacy of the easy chairs in front of the bay window.

The mullions were frosted slightly but the village was still easily seen, and the two stared out in slightly awkward silence for a minute or two. Thérèse stirred her cider with the cinnamon stick, then took a sip.

It tasted of Christmas, and skating, and long winter afternoons in the country. She and Jérôme never had cider in Montréal, and she wondered why not.

“Will it be all right, Armand?” she finally asked. There was no neediness, no fear in her voice. It was strong and clear. And curious.

He also stirred his cider. Looking up, he held her eyes and once again she marveled at the quality of calm in them. And something else. Something she’d first noticed in that packed amphitheater years ago.