《How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9)》


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    ONE


    Audrey Villeneuve knew what she imagined could not possibly be happening. She was a grown woman and could tell the difference between real and imagined. But each morning as she drove through the Ville-Marie Tunnel from her home in east-end Montr¨¦al to her office, she could see it. Hear it. Feel it happening.


    The first sign would be a blast of red as drivers hit their brakes. The truck ahead would veer, skidding, slamming sideways. An unholy shriek would bounce off the hard walls and race toward her, all-consuming. Horns, alarms, brakes, people screaming.


    And then Audrey would see huge blocks of concrete peeling from the ceiling, dragging with them a tangle of metal veins and sinews. The tunnel spilling its guts. That held the structure up. That held the city of Montr¨¦al up.


    Until today.


    And then, and then ¡­ the oval of daylight, the end of the tunnel, would close. Like an eye.


    And then, darkness.


    And the long, long wait. To be crushed.


    Every morning and each evening, as Audrey Villeneuve drove through the engineering marvel that linked one end of the city with another, it collapsed.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be all right.¡± She laughed to herself. At herself. ¡°It¡¯ll be all right.¡±


    She cranked the music louder and sang loudly to herself.


    But still her hands on the steering wheel tingled, then grew cold and numb, and her heart pounded. A wave of slush whacked her windshield. The wipers swept it away, leaving a half moon of streaky visibility.


    Traffic slowed. Then stopped.


    Audrey¡¯s eyes widened. This had never happened before. Moving through the tunnel was bad enough. Stopped in it was inconceivable. Her brain froze.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be all right.¡± But she couldn¡¯t hear her voice, so thin was her breath and so great the howl in her head.


    She locked the door with her elbow. Not to keep anyone out, but to keep herself in. A feeble attempt to stop herself from flinging open the door and running, running, screaming out of the tunnel. She gripped the wheel. Tight. Tight. Tighter.


    Her eyes darted to the slush-spattered wall, the ceiling, the far wall.


    The cracks.


    Dear God, cracks.


    And the half-hearted attempts to plaster over them.


    Not to repair them, but hide them.


    That doesn¡¯t mean the tunnel will collapse, she assured herself.


    But the cracks widened and consumed her reason. All the monsters of her imagination became real and were squeezing out, reaching out, from between those faults.


    She turned the music off so she could concentrate, hyper-vigilant. The car ahead inched forward. Then stopped.


    ¡°Go, go, go,¡± she pleaded.


    But Audrey Villeneuve was trapped and terrified. With nowhere to go. The tunnel was bad, but what waited for her in the gray December sunlight was worse.


    For days, weeks, months¡ªeven years, if she was being honest¡ªshe¡¯d known. Monsters existed. They lived in cracks in tunnels, and in dark alleys, and in neat row houses. They had names like Frankenstein and Dracula, and Martha and David and Pierre. And you almost always found them where you least expected.


    She glanced into the rearview mirror and met two frightened brown eyes. But in the reflection she also saw her salvation. Her silver bullet. Her wooden stake.


    It was a pretty party dress.


    She¡¯d spent hours sewing it. Time she could have, should have, spent wrapping Christmas gifts for her husband and daughters. Time she could have, should have, spent baking shortbread stars and angels and jolly snowmen, with candy buttons and gumdrop eyes.


    Instead, each night when she got home Audrey Villeneuve went straight to the basement, to her sewing machine. Hunched over the emerald green fabric, she¡¯d stitched into that party dress all her hopes.


    She would put it on that night, walk into the Christmas party, scan the room and feel surprised eyes on her. In her clingy green dress, frumpy Audrey Villeneuve would be the center of attention. But it wasn¡¯t made to get everyone¡¯s attention. Just one man¡¯s. And when she had that, she could relax.


    She¡¯d hand over her burden, and get on with life. The faults would be repaired. The fissures closed. The monsters returned to where they belonged.


    The exit to the Champlain Bridge was in sight. It wasn¡¯t what she normally took, but this was far from a normal day.


    Audrey put on her signal and saw the man in the next car give her a sour look. Where did she think she was going? They were all trapped. But Audrey Villeneuve was more trapped. The man gave her the finger, but she took no offense. In Qu¨¦bec it was as casual as a friendly wave. If the Qu¨¦b¨¦cois ever designed a car, the hood ornament would be a middle finger. Normally she¡¯d give him a ¡°friendly wave¡± back, but she had other things on her mind.

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    She edged into the far right lane, toward the exit to the bridge. The wall of the tunnel was just feet away. She could have stuck her fist into one of the holes.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be all right.¡±


    Audrey Villeneuve knew it would be many things, but all right probably wasn¡¯t one of them.


    TWO


    ¡°Get your own fucking duck,¡± said Ruth, and held Rosa a little closer. A living eiderdown.


    Constance Pineault smiled and stared ahead. Four days ago it would never have occurred to her to get a duck, but now she actually envied Ruth her Rosa. And not just for the warmth the duck provided on the bitter, biting December day.


    Four days ago it would never have occurred to her to leave her comfortable chair by the bistro fireplace to sit on an icy bench beside a woman who was either drunk or demented. But here she was.


    Four days ago Constance Pineault didn¡¯t know that warmth came in many forms. As did sanity. But now she knew.


    ¡°Deee-fenssssse,¡± Ruth shouted at the young players on the frozen pond. ¡°For God¡¯s sake, Aim¨¦e Patterson, Rosa could do better.¡±


    Aim¨¦e skated past and Constance heard her say something that might have been ¡°duck.¡± Or ¡°puck.¡± Or ¡­


    ¡°They adore me,¡± Ruth said to Constance. Or Rosa. Or the thin air.


    ¡°They¡¯re afraid of you,¡± said Constance.


    Ruth gave her a sharp assessing glance. ¡°Are you still here? I thought you¡¯d died.¡±


    Constance laughed, a puff of humor that floated over the village green and joined the wood smoke from the chimneys.


    Four days ago she thought she¡¯d had her last laugh. But ankle-deep in snow and freezing her bottom off beside Ruth, she¡¯d discovered more. Hidden away. Here in Three Pines. Where laughter was kept.


    The two women watched the activity on the village green in silence, except for the odd quack, which Constance hoped was the duck.


    Though much the same age, the elderly women were opposites. Where Constance was soft, Ruth was hard. Where her hair was silky and long, and done in a neat bun, Ruth¡¯s was coarse and chopped short. Where Constance was rounded, Ruth was sharp. All edges and edgy.


    Rosa stirred and flapped her wings. Then she slid off Ruth¡¯s lap onto the snowy bench and waddled the few paces to Constance. Climbing onto Constance¡¯s lap, Rosa settled.


    Ruth¡¯s eyes narrowed. But she didn¡¯t move.


    It had snowed day and night since Constance had arrived in Three Pines. Having lived in Montr¨¦al all her adult life, she¡¯d forgotten snow could be quite so beautiful. Snow, in her experience, was something that needed to be removed. It was a chore that fell from the sky.


    But this was the snow of her childhood. Joyful, playful, bright and clean. The more the merrier. It was a toy.


    It covered the fieldstone homes and clapboard homes and rose brick homes that ringed the village green. It covered the bistro and the bookstore, the boulangerie and the general store. It seemed to Constance that an alchemist was at work, and Three Pines was the result. Conjured from thin air and deposited in this valley. Or perhaps, like the snow, the tiny village had fallen from the sky, to provide a soft landing for those who¡¯d also fallen.


    When Constance had first arrived and parked outside Myrna¡¯s bookstore, she¡¯d been worried when the flurries intensified into a blizzard.


    ¡°Should I move my car?¡± Constance had asked Myrna before they went up to bed. Myrna had stood at the window of her New and Used Bookstore and considered the question.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s fine where it is.¡±


    It¡¯s fine where it is.


    And it was. Constance had had a restless night, listening for the sirens from the snow plows. For the warning to dig her car out and move it. The windows of her room had rattled as the wind whipped the snow against it. She could hear the blizzard howl through the trees and past the solid homes. Like something alive and on the hunt. Finally Constance drifted off to sleep, warm under the duvet. When she awoke, the storm had blown by. Constance went to the window, expecting to see her car buried, just a white mound under the foot of new snow. Instead, the road had been plowed and all the cars dug out.


    It¡¯s fine where it is.


    And so, finally, was she.


    For four days and four nights snow had continued to fall, before Billy Williams returned with his plow. And until that happened, the village of Three Pines was snowed in, cut off. But it didn¡¯t matter, since everything they needed was right there.


    Slowly, seventy-seven-year-old Constance Pineault realized she was fine, not because she had a bistro, but because she had Olivier and Gabri¡¯s bistro. There wasn¡¯t just a bookstore, there was Myrna¡¯s bookstore, Sarah¡¯s bakery, and Monsieur B¨¦liveau¡¯s general store.

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    She¡¯d arrived a self-sufficient city woman, and now she was covered in snow, sitting on a bench beside a crazy person, and she had a duck on her lap.


    Who was nuts now?


    But Constance Pineault knew, far from being crazy, she¡¯d finally come to her senses.


    ¡°I came to ask if you¡¯d like a drink,¡± said Constance.


    ¡°For chrissake, old woman, why didn¡¯t you say that in the first place?¡± Ruth stood and brushed the flakes off her cloth coat.


    Constance also rose and handed Rosa back to Ruth, saying, ¡°Duck off.¡±


    Ruth snorted and accepted the duck, and the words.


    Olivier and Gabri were walking over from the B and B, and met them on the road.


    ¡°It¡¯s a gay blizzard,¡± said Ruth.


    ¡°I used to be as pure as the driven snow,¡± Gabri confided in Constance. ¡°Then I drifted.¡±


    Olivier and Constance laughed.


    ¡°Channeling Mae West?¡± said Ruth. ¡°Won¡¯t Ethel Merman be jealous?¡±


    ¡°Plenty of room in there for everyone,¡± said Olivier, eyeing his large partner.


    Constance had had no dealings with homosexuals before this, at least not that she knew of. All she knew about them was that they were ¡°they.¡± Not ¡°us.¡± And ¡°they¡± were unnatural. At her most charitable, she¡¯d considered homosexuals defective. Diseased.


    But mostly, if she thought of them at all, it was with disapproval. Even disgust.


    Until four days ago. Until the snow began to fall, and the little village in the valley was cut off. Until she¡¯d discovered that Olivier, the man she¡¯d been cool to, had dug her car out. Unasked. Without comment.


    Until she¡¯d seen, from her bedroom window in Myrna¡¯s loft above the bookstore, Gabri trudging, head bent against the blowing snow, carrying coffee and warm croissants for villagers who couldn¡¯t make it to the bistro for breakfast.


    As she watched, he delivered the food, then shoveled their porches and stairs and front walks.


    And then left. And went to the next home.


    Constance felt Olivier¡¯s strong hand on her arm, holding her secure. If a stranger came into the village at this moment, what would he think? That Gabri and Olivier were her sons?


    She hoped so.


    Constance stepped through the door and smelled the now familiar scent of the bistro. The dark wood beams and wide-plank pine floors were permeated with more than a century of maple-wood fires and strong coffee.


    ¡°Over here.¡±


    Constance followed the voice. The mullioned windows were letting in whatever daylight was available, but it was still dim. Her eyes went to the large stone hearths at either end of the bistro, lit with cheery fires and surrounded by comfortable sofas and armchairs. In the center of the room, between the fires and sitting areas, antique pine tables were set with silverware and mismatched bone china. A large, bushy Christmas tree stood in a corner, its red, blue, and green lights on, a haphazard array of baubles and beads and icicles hung from the branches.


    A few patrons sat in armchairs nursing caf¨¦s au lait or hot chocolates, and read day-old newspapers in French and English.


    The shout had come from the far end of the room, and while Constance couldn¡¯t yet clearly see the woman, she knew perfectly well who had spoken.


    ¡°I got you a tea.¡± Myrna was standing, waiting for them by one of the fireplaces.


    ¡°You¡¯d better be talking to her,¡± said Ruth, taking the best seat by the fire and putting her feet on the hassock.


    Constance hugged Myrna and felt the soft flesh under the thick sweater. Though Myrna was a large black woman at least twenty years her junior, she felt, and smelt, like Constance¡¯s mother. It had given Constance a turn at first, as though someone had shoved her slightly off balance. But then she¡¯d come to look forward to these embraces.


    Constance sipped her tea, watched the flames flicker, and half listened as Myrna and Ruth talked about the latest shipment of books, delayed by the snow.


    She felt herself nodding off in the warmth.


    Four days. And she had two gay sons, a large black mother, a demented poet for a friend and was considering getting a duck.


    It was not what she¡¯d expected from this visit.


    She became pensive, mesmerized by the fire. She wasn¡¯t at all sure Myrna understood why she¡¯d come. Why she¡¯d contacted her after so many years. It was vital that Myrna understand, but now time was running out.


    ¡°Snow¡¯s letting up,¡± said Clara Morrow. She ran her hands through her hair, trying to tame her hat head, but she only made it worse.


    Constance roused and realized she¡¯d missed Clara¡¯s arrival.

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    She¡¯d met Clara her very first night in Three Pines. She and Myrna had been invited over for dinner, and while Constance yearned for a quiet dinner alone with Myrna, she didn¡¯t know how to politely decline. So they¡¯d put on their coats and boots and trudged over.


    It was supposed to be just the three of them, which was bad enough, but then Ruth Zardo and her duck had arrived and the evening went from bad to a fiasco. Rosa, the duck, had muttered what sounded like ¡°Fuck, fuck, fuck¡± the whole night, while Ruth had spent the evening drinking, swearing, insulting and interrupting.


    Constance had heard of her, of course. The Governor General¡¯s Award¨Cwinning poet was as close as Canada came to having a demented, embittered poet laureate.


    Who hurt you once / so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture / with curling lip?


    It was, Constance realized as the evening ground on, a good question. One she was tempted to ask the crazy poet, but didn¡¯t for fear she¡¯d be asked it in return.


    Clara had made omelettes with melted goat cheese. A tossed salad and warm, fresh baguettes completed the meal. They¡¯d eaten in the large kitchen, and when the meal was over and Myrna made coffee, and Ruth and Rosa retired to the living room, Clara had taken her into the studio. It was cramped, filled with brushes and palettes and canvasses. It smelled of oil and turpentine and ripe banana.


    ¡°Peter would¡¯ve pestered me to clean this up,¡± said Clara, looking at the mess.


    Clara had talked about her separation from her husband over dinner. Constance had plastered a sympathetic look on her face and wondered if she could possibly crawl out the bathroom window. Surely dying in a snow bank couldn¡¯t be all that bad, could it?


    And now here Clara was again talking about her husband. Her estranged husband. It was like parading around in her underwear. Revealing her intimates. It was unsightly and unseemly and unnecessary. And Constance just wanted to go home.


    From the living room she heard, ¡°Fuck, fuck, fuck.¡± She didn¡¯t know, and no longer cared, whether it was the duck or the poet who was saying it.


    Clara walked past an easel. The ghostly outline of what might become a man was just visible on the canvas. Without much enthusiasm, Constance followed Clara to the far end of her studio. Clara turned on a lamp and a small painting was illuminated.


    At first it seemed uninteresting, certainly unremarkable.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to paint you, if you don¡¯t mind,¡± Clara had said, not looking at her guest.


    Constance bristled. Had Clara recognized her? Did she know who Constance was?


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± she¡¯d replied, her voice firm.


    ¡°I understand,¡± Clara had said. ¡°Not sure I¡¯d want to be painted either.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Too afraid of what someone might see.¡±


    Clara had smiled, then walked back to the door. Constance followed, after taking one last look at the tiny painting. It was of Ruth Zardo, who was now passed out and snoring on Clara¡¯s sofa. In this painting the old poet was clutching a blue shawl at her neck, her hands thin and claw-like. The veins and sinews of her neck showed through the skin, translucent, like onion paper.


    Clara had captured Ruth¡¯s bitterness, her loneliness, her rage. Constance now found it almost impossible to look away from the portrait.


    At the door to the studio she looked back. Her eyes weren¡¯t that sharp anymore, but they didn¡¯t have to be, to see what Clara had really captured. It was Ruth. But it was someone else too. An image Constance remembered from a childhood on her knees.


    It was the mad old poet, but it was also the Virgin Mary. The mother of God. Forgotten, resentful. Left behind. Glaring at a world that no longer remembered what she¡¯d given it.


    Constance was relieved she¡¯d refused Clara¡¯s request to paint her. If this was how she saw the mother of God, what would Clara see in her?


    Later in the evening, Constance had drifted, apparently aimlessly, back to the studio door.


    The single light still shone on the portrait, and even from the door Constance could see that her host hadn¡¯t simply painted mad Ruth. Nor had she simply painted forgotten and embittered Mary. The elderly woman was staring into the distance. Into a dark and lonely future. But. But. Just there. Just slightly out of reach. Just becoming visible. There was something else.


    Clara had captured despair, but she¡¯d also captured hope.


    Constance had taken her coffee and rejoined Ruth and Rosa, Clara and Myrna. She¡¯d listened to them then. And she¡¯d begun, just begun, to understand what it might be like to be able to put more than a name to a face.

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    That had been four days ago.


    And now she was packed and ready to leave. Just one last cup of tea in the bistro, and she¡¯d be off.


    ¡°Don¡¯t go.¡±


    Myrna had spoken softly.


    ¡°I have to.¡±


    Constance broke eye contact with Myrna. It was altogether too intimate. Instead, she looked out the frosted windows, to the snow-covered village. It was dusk and Christmas lights were appearing on trees and homes.


    ¡°Can I come back? For Christmas?¡±


    There was a long, long silence. And all Constance¡¯s fears returned, crawling out of that silence. She dropped her eyes to her hands, neatly folded in her lap.


    She¡¯d exposed herself. Been tricked into thinking she was safe, she was liked, she was welcome.


    Then she felt a large hand on her hand and she looked up.


    ¡°I¡¯d love that,¡± Myrna said, and smiled. ¡°We¡¯ll have such fun.¡±


    ¡°Fun?¡± asked Gabri, plopping onto the sofa.


    ¡°Constance is coming back for Christmas.¡±


    ¡°Wonderful. You can come to the carol service on Christmas Eve. We do all the favorites. ¡®Silent Night.¡¯ ¡®The First No?l¡¯¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡®The Twelve Gays of Christmas,¡¯¡± said Clara.


    ¡°¡®It Came Upon a Midnight Queer,¡¯¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°The classics,¡± said Gabri. ¡°Though this year we¡¯re practicing a new one.¡±


    ¡°Not ¡®O Holy Night,¡¯ I hope,¡± said Constance. ¡°Not sure I¡¯m ready for that one.¡±


    Gabri laughed. ¡°No. ¡®The Huron Carol.¡¯ Do you know it?¡± He sang a few bars of the old Qu¨¦b¨¦cois carol.


    ¡°I love that one,¡± she said. ¡°But no one does it anymore.¡±


    Though it shouldn¡¯t have surprised her that in this little village she¡¯d find something else that had been all but lost to the outside world.


    Constance said her good-byes, and to calls of ¡°¨¤ bient?t!,¡± she and Myrna walked to her car.


    Constance started it to warm up. It was getting too dark to play hockey and the kids were just leaving the rink, wobbling through the snow on their skates, using their hockey sticks for balance.


    It was now or never, Constance knew.


    ¡°We used to do that,¡± she said, and Myrna followed her gaze.


    ¡°Play hockey?¡±


    Constance nodded. ¡°We had our own team. Our father would coach us. Mama would cheer. It was Fr¨¨re Andr¨¦¡¯s favorite sport.¡±


    She met Myrna¡¯s eyes. There, she thought. Done. The dirty secret was finally out in the open. When she returned, Myrna would have lots of questions. And finally, finally, Constance knew she would answer them.


    Myrna watched her friend leave, and thought no more of that conversation.


    THREE


    ¡°Think carefully,¡± said Armand Gamache. His voice was almost neutral. Almost. But there was no mistaking the look in his deep brown eyes.


    They were hard, and cold. And unyielding.


    He stared at the agent over his half-moon reading glasses and waited.


    The conference room grew quiet. The shuffling of papers, the slight and insolent whispering, died out. Even the amused glances stopped.


    And all focused on Chief Inspector Gamache.


    Beside him, Inspector Isabelle Lacoste shifted her glance from the Chief to the assembled agents and inspectors. It was the weekly briefing for the homicide department of the S?ret¨¦ du Qu¨¦bec. A gathering meant to exchange ideas and information on cases under investigation. Where once it had been collaborative, now it was an hour she¡¯d come to dread.


    And if she felt like that, how did the Chief Inspector feel?


    It was hard to tell anymore, what the Chief really felt and thought.


    Isabelle Lacoste knew him better than anyone else in the room. Had served with him longest, she realized with surprise. The rest of the old guard had been transferred out, either by request or on the orders of Chief Superintendent Francoeur.


    And this rabble had been transferred in.


    The most successful homicide department in the nation had been gutted, replaced with lazy, insolent, incompetent thugs. Or were they incompetent? Certainly as homicide investigators they were, but was that really their job?


    Of course not. She, and she suspected Gamache, knew why these men and women were really there. And it wasn¡¯t to solve murders.


    Despite this, Chief Inspector Gamache still managed to command them. To control them. Just barely. The balance was tipping, Lacoste could feel it. Every day more new agents were brought in. She could see them exchanging knowing smiles.

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    Lacoste felt her bile rise.


    The madness of crowds. Madness had invaded their department. And every day Chief Inspector Gamache reined it in and took control. But even that was slipping. How much longer could he hold out before losing his grip completely?


    Inspector Lacoste had many fears, most to do with her young son and daughter. Of something happening to them. She knew those fears were for the most part irrational.


    But the fear of what would happen if the Chief Inspector lost control was not irrational.


    She caught the eye of one of the older agents as he slumped in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. Apparently bored. Inspector Lacoste gave him a censorious look. He lowered his eyes and turned red.


    Ashamed of himself. As well he should be.


    As she glared, he sat upright and uncrossed his arms.


    She nodded. A victory, though small and doubtless temporary. But even those, these days, counted.


    Inspector Lacoste turned back to Gamache. His large hands were folded neatly on the table. Resting on the weekly report. A pen, unused, lay beside it. His right hand trembled slightly, and she hoped no one else noticed.


    He was clean-shaven and looked every inch what he was. A man on the far side of fifty. Not necessarily handsome, but distinguished. More like a professor than a cop. More like an explorer than a hunter. He smelled of sandalwood with a hint of rose and wore a jacket and tie in to work every day.


    His dark hair was graying and groomed and curled a little at the temples and around his ears. His face was lined, from age and care and laughter. Though those lines weren¡¯t getting much of a workout lately. And there was, and always would be, that scar at his left temple. A reminder of events neither of them could ever forget.


    His six-foot frame was large, substantial. Not exactly muscular, but neither was he fat. He was solid.


    Solid, thought Lacoste. Like the mainland. Like a headland, facing a vast ocean. Was the now relentless buffeting beginning to wear deeper lines and crevices? Were cracks beginning to show?


    At this moment Chief Inspector Gamache showed no sign of erosion. He stared at the offending agent, and even Lacoste couldn¡¯t help feeling just a little sympathy. This new agent had mistaken the mainland for a sandbar. And now, too late, realized what he¡¯d come up against.


    She could see the insolence turn to disquiet, then to alarm. He turned to his friends for support, but like a pack of hyenas, they backed off. Almost anxious to see him torn apart.


    Until this moment, Lacoste hadn¡¯t realized how willing the pack was to turn on their own. Or, at least, to refuse to help.


    She glanced at Gamache, at his steady eyes not leaving the squirming agent, and she knew that was what the Chief was doing. Testing them. Testing their loyalty. He¡¯d cut one from the pack and waited to see if any would come to the rescue.


    But they did not.


    Isabelle Lacoste relaxed a little. Chief Inspector Gamache was still in control.


    Gamache continued to stare at the agent. Now the others fidgeted. One even got up with a sullen ¡°I¡¯ve got work to do.¡±


    ¡°Sit down,¡± said the Chief, not looking at him. And he dropped like a rock.


    Gamache waited. And waited.


    ¡°D¨¦sol¨¦, patron,¡± said the agent at last. ¡°I haven¡¯t interviewed that suspect yet.¡±


    The words slid down the table. A rotten admission. They¡¯d all heard this agent lie about the interview, and now they waited to see what the Chief Inspector would do. How he¡¯d maul this man.


    ¡°We¡¯ll talk about this after the meeting,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Yessir.¡±


    The reaction around the table was immediate.


    Sly smiles. After a display of strength on the Chief¡¯s part, they now sensed weakness. Had he ripped the agent to shreds they¡¯d have respected him. Feared him. But now they only smelled blood.


    And Isabelle Lacoste thought, God help me, even I wish the Chief had humiliated, disgraced this agent. Nailed him to the wall, as a warning to anyone else who¡¯d cross Chief Inspector Gamache.


    This far and no farther.


    But Isabelle Lacoste had been in the S?ret¨¦ long enough to know how much easier it was to shoot than to talk. How much easier it was to shout than to be reasonable. How much easier it was to humiliate and demean and misuse authority than to be dignified and courteous, even to those who were themselves none of those things.


    How much more courage it took to be kind than to be cruel.


    But times had changed. The S?ret¨¦ had changed. It was now a culture that rewarded cruelty. That promoted it.


    Chief Inspector Gamache knew that. And yet he¡¯d just exposed his neck. Was it on purpose? Lacoste wondered. Or was he really so weakened?

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    She no longer knew.


    What she did know was that over the past six months the Chief Inspector had watched his department being gutted, bastardized. His work dismantled. He¡¯d watched those loyal to him leave. Or turn against him.


    He¡¯d put up a fight at first, but been pounded down. Time and again, she¡¯d seen him return to his office after arguing with the Chief Superintendent. Gamache had come back defeated. And now, it seemed, he had little fight left in him.


    ¡°Next,¡± said Gamache.


    And so it went, for an hour. Each agent trying Gamache¡¯s patience. But the headland held. No sign of crumbling, no sign this had any effect at all on the Chief. Finally the meeting was over and Gamache rose. Inspector Lacoste rose too and there was a hesitation before first one then the rest of the agents got to their feet. At the door the Chief Inspector turned and looked at the agent who¡¯d lied. Just a glance, but it was enough. The agent fell in behind Gamache and followed him to the Chief¡¯s office. Just as the door closed Inspector Lacoste caught a fleeting look on the Chief¡¯s face.


    Of exhaustion.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Sit down.¡± Gamache pointed to a chair, then he himself sat in the swivel chair behind his desk. The agent tried on some bravado, but that faded before the stern face.


    When he spoke, the Chief¡¯s voice carried an effortless authority.


    ¡°Are you happy here?¡±


    The question surprised the agent. ¡°I suppose.¡±


    ¡°You can do better than that. It¡¯s a simple question. Are you happy here?¡±


    ¡°I have no choice but to be here.¡±


    ¡°You have a choice. You could quit. You¡¯re not indentured. And I suspect you¡¯re not the fool you pretend to be.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t pretend to be a fool.¡±


    ¡°No? Then what would you call failing to interview a key suspect in a homicide investigation? What would you call lying about it to someone you must have known would see through that lie?¡±


    But it was clear that the agent never thought he¡¯d be caught. It had certainly never occurred to him that he¡¯d find himself alone in the Chief¡¯s office, about to be chewed out.


    But mostly, it never occurred to him that, instead of ripping into him, tearing him to shreds, Chief Inspector Gamache would simply stare at him, with thoughtful eyes.


    ¡°I would call it foolish,¡± admitted the agent.


    Gamache continued to watch him. ¡°I don¡¯t care what you think of me. I don¡¯t care what you think of your assignment here. You¡¯re right, your being here wasn¡¯t your choice, or mine. You¡¯re not a trained homicide investigator. But you are an agent in the S?ret¨¦ du Qu¨¦bec, one of the great police forces in the world.¡±


    The agent smirked, then his expression shifted to mild surprise.


    The Chief Inspector wasn¡¯t joking. He actually believed it. Believed the S?ret¨¦ du Qu¨¦bec was a great and effective police force. A breakwater between the citizens and those who would do them harm.


    ¡°You came from the Serious Crimes division, I believe.¡±


    The agent nodded.


    ¡°You must have seen some terrible things.¡±


    The agent sat very still.


    ¡°Difficult not to grow cynical,¡± said the Chief quietly. ¡°Here we deal with one thing. There¡¯s a great advantage in that. We become specialists. The disadvantage is what we deal with. Death. Every time the phone rings, it¡¯s about a loss of life. Sometimes accidental. Sometimes it¡¯s suicide. Sometimes it turns out to be natural. But most of the time it¡¯s very unnatural. Which is when we step in.¡±


    The agent looked deeply into those eyes and believed he saw, just for an instant, the terrible deaths that had piled up, day and night, for years. The young and the old. The children. The fathers and mothers and daughters and sons. Killed. Murdered. Lives taken. And the bodies laid at the feet of this man.


    It seemed Death had joined their meeting, making the atmosphere stale and close.


    ¡°Do you know what I¡¯ve learned, after three decades of death?¡± Gamache asked, leaning toward the agent and lowering his voice.


    Despite himself, the agent leaned forward.


    ¡°I¡¯ve learned how precious life is.¡±


    The agent looked at him, expecting more, and when no more came he slumped back in his chair.


    ¡°The work you do isn¡¯t trivial,¡± said the Chief. ¡°People are counting on you. I¡¯m counting on you. Please take it seriously.¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡±


    Gamache rose and the agent got to his feet. The Chief walked him to the door and nodded as the man left.

 Page 8

    Everyone in the homicide office had been watching, waiting for the explosion. Waiting for Chief Inspector Gamache to rip into the offending agent. Even Lacoste waited, and wanted it.


    But nothing had happened.


    The other agents exchanged glances, no longer bothering to hide their satisfaction. The legendary Chief Inspector Gamache was a straw man after all. Not quite on his knees, but close.


    Gamache looked up from his reading when Lacoste knocked.


    ¡°May I come in, patron?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Of course.¡± He got up and indicated the chair.


    Lacoste closed the door, knowing some, if not all, of the agents in the large room would still be watching. But she didn¡¯t care. They could go to hell.


    ¡°They wanted to see you tear into him.¡±


    The Chief Inspector nodded. ¡°I know.¡± He looked at her closely. ¡°And you, Isabelle?¡±


    There was no use lying to the Chief. She sighed.


    ¡°Part of me wanted to see that too. But for different reasons.¡±


    ¡°And what were your reasons?¡±


    She jerked her head in the direction of the agents. ¡°It would show them you can¡¯t be pushed around. Brutality is all they understand.¡±


    Gamache considered that for a moment, then nodded. ¡°You¡¯re right, of course. And I have to admit, I was tempted.¡± He smiled at her. It had taken him a while to get used to seeing Isabelle Lacoste sitting across from him, instead of Jean-Guy Beauvoir.


    ¡°I think that young man once believed in his job,¡± said Gamache, looking through the internal window as the agent picked up his phone. ¡°I think they all did. I honestly believe most agents join the S?ret¨¦ because they want to help.¡±


    ¡°To serve and protect?¡± Lacoste asked, with a small smile.


    ¡°Service, Integrity, Justice,¡± he quoted the S?ret¨¦ motto. ¡°Old-fashioned, I know.¡± He lifted his hands in surrender.


    ¡°So what changed?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Why do decent young men and women become bullies? Why do soldiers dream of being heroes but end up abusing prisoners and shooting civilians? Why do politicians become corrupt? Why do cops beat suspects senseless and break the laws they¡¯re meant to protect?¡±


    The agent that Gamache had just been speaking with was talking on the phone. Despite the taunts of the other agents, he was doing what Gamache had asked of him.


    ¡°Because they can?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°Because everyone else does,¡± said Gamache, sitting forward. ¡°Corruption and brutality are modeled and expected and rewarded. It becomes normal. And anyone who stands up to it, who tells them it¡¯s wrong, is beaten down. Or worse.¡± Gamache shook his head. ¡°No, I can¡¯t condemn those young agents for losing their way. It¡¯s a rare person who wouldn¡¯t.¡±


    The Chief looked at her and smiled.


    ¡°So you ask why I didn¡¯t rip him apart when I could have? That¡¯s why. And before you mistake it for heroics on my part, it wasn¡¯t. It was selfish. I needed to prove to myself that I hadn¡¯t yet fallen that far. I have to admit, it¡¯s tempting.¡±


    ¡°To join Chief Superintendent Francoeur?¡± asked Lacoste, amazed at the admission.


    ¡°No, to create my own stinking mess in response.¡±


    He stared at her, seeming to weigh his words.


    ¡°I know what I¡¯m doing, Isabelle,¡± he said quietly. ¡°Trust me.¡±


    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have doubted.¡±


    And Isabelle Lacoste saw how the rot started. How it happened, not overnight, but by degrees. A small doubt broke the skin. Then an infection set in. Questioning. Critical. Cynical. Distrustful.


    Lacoste looked at the agent that Gamache had spoken to. He¡¯d put down the phone and was making notes on his computer, trying to do his job. But his colleagues were taunting him, and as Inspector Lacoste watched, the agent stopped typing and turned to them. And smiled. One of them, again.


    Inspector Lacoste returned her attention to Chief Inspector Gamache. Never, ever, would she have believed it possible for her to be disloyal to him. But if it could happen to those other agents, who¡¯d been decent once, maybe it could happen to her. Maybe it already had. As more and more of Francoeur¡¯s agents were transferred in, as more and more of them challenged Gamache, believing him to be weak, maybe it was seeping into her too, by association.


    Maybe she was beginning to doubt him.


    Six months ago she¡¯d never have questioned how the Chief disciplined a subordinate. But now she had. And part of her had wondered if what she¡¯d seen, what they¡¯d all seen, wasn¡¯t weakness after all.

 Page 9

    ¡°Whatever happens, Isabelle,¡± said Gamache, ¡°you must trust yourself. Do you understand?¡±


    He was looking at her with great intensity, as though trying to place those words not simply in her head, but someplace deeper. Some secret, safe place.


    She nodded.


    He smiled, breaking the tension. ¡°Bon. Is that what you came to say, or is there more?¡±


    It took her a moment to remember and it was only in noticing the Post-it note in her hand that it came back to her.


    ¡°A call came in a few minutes ago. I didn¡¯t want to disturb you. I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s personal or professional.¡±


    He put on his glasses and read the note, then frowned.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure either.¡± Gamache leaned back in his chair. His jacket opened and Lacoste noticed the Glock in the holster on his belt. She couldn¡¯t quite get used to seeing it there. The Chief loathed guns.


    Matthew 10:36.


    It was one of the first things she¡¯d been taught when she¡¯d joined the homicide division. She could still see Chief Inspector Gamache, sitting where he was now.


    ¡°Matthew 10:36,¡± he¡¯d said. ¡°And a man¡¯s foes shall be they of his own household. Never forget that, Agent Lacoste.¡±


    She¡¯d assumed he¡¯d meant that in a murder investigation, the family was the place to start. But now she knew it meant much more than that. Chief Inspector Gamache wore a weapon. Inside S?ret¨¦ headquarters. Inside his own household.


    Gamache picked the Post-it note off his desk. ¡°Care for a drive? We can be there for lunch.¡±


    Lacoste was surprised but didn¡¯t need to be asked twice.


    ¡°Who¡¯ll be left in charge?¡± she asked, as she grabbed her coat.


    ¡°Who¡¯s in charge now?¡±


    ¡°You, of course, patron.¡±


    ¡°How nice of you to say that, but we both know it isn¡¯t true. I just hope we didn¡¯t leave any matches lying around.¡±


    As the door closed, Gamache heard the agent he¡¯d spoken with say to the others, ¡°It¡¯s about life¡­¡±


    He was lampooning the Chief, in a high, childish voice. Making him sound idiotic.


    The Chief walked down the long corridor to the elevator, and smiled.


    In the elevator, they watched the numbers. 15, 14 ¡­


    The other person in the elevator got out, leaving them alone.


    ¡­ 13, 12, 11 ¡­


    Lacoste was tempted to ask the one question that must never be overheard.


    She looked at the Chief, watching the numbers. Relaxed. But she knew him enough to recognize the new lines, the deeper lines. The darker circles under his eyes.


    Yes, she thought, let¡¯s get out of here. Cross the bridge, get off the island. As far from this damned place as we can.


    8 ¡­ 7 ¡­ 6 ¡­


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    ¡°Oui?¡±


    He turned to her and she saw, again, the weariness that came in unguarded moments. And she hadn¡¯t the heart to ask what had happened to Jean-Guy Beauvoir. Gamache¡¯s second in command before her. Her own mentor. Gamache¡¯s prot¨¦g¨¦. And more than that.


    For fifteen years Gamache and Beauvoir had been a formidable team. Twenty years younger than the Chief Inspector, Jean-Guy Beauvoir was being groomed to take over.


    And then suddenly, coming back from a case at a remote abbey a few months earlier, Inspector Beauvoir had been transferred out, into Chief Superintendent Francoeur¡¯s own department.


    It had been a mess.


    Lacoste had tried to ask Beauvoir what¡¯d happened, but the Inspector wanted nothing to do with anyone from homicide, and Chief Inspector Gamache had issued an order. No one in homicide was to have anything to do with Jean-Guy Beauvoir.


    He was to be shunned. Disappeared. Made invisible.


    Not only persona non grata, but persona non exista.


    Isabelle Lacoste could hardly believe it. And the passage of time hadn¡¯t made it more believable.


    3 ¡­ 2 ¡­


    That was what she wanted to ask.


    Was it true?


    She wondered if it was a ruse, a way to get Beauvoir into Francoeur¡¯s camp. To try to figure out what the Chief Superintendent was up to.


    Surely Gamache and Beauvoir were still allies in this dangerous game.


    But as the months passed, Beauvoir¡¯s behavior had grown more erratic and Gamache had grown more resolute. And the gulf between them had grown into an ocean. And now they appeared to inhabit two different worlds.


    As she followed Gamache to his car, Lacoste realized she hadn¡¯t asked the question to spare his feelings, but her own. She didn¡¯t want the answer. She wanted to believe that Beauvoir remained loyal, and Gamache had a hope of stopping whatever plan Francoeur had in place.

 Page 10

    ¡°Would you like to drive?¡± Gamache asked, offering her the keys.


    ¡°With pleasure.¡±


    She drove through the Ville-Marie Tunnel, then up onto the Champlain Bridge. Gamache was silent, looking at the half-frozen St. Lawrence River far below. The traffic slowed almost to a stop once they approached the very top of the span. Lacoste, who was not at all afraid of heights, felt queasy. It was one thing to drive over the bridge, another thing to be stopped within feet of the low rail. And the long plunge.


    She could see, far below, sheets of ice butting against each other in the cold current. Slush, like sludge, moved slowly under the bridge.


    Beside her, Chief Inspector Gamache inhaled sharply, then exhaled and fidgeted. She remembered that he was afraid of heights. Lacoste noticed his hands were balled into fists, which he was tightening, then releasing. Tightening. Releasing.


    ¡°About Inspector Beauvoir,¡± she heard herself say. It felt a bit like jumping from the bridge.


    He looked as though she¡¯d slapped him. Which was, she realized, her goal. To slap him. Break the squirreling in his head.


    She couldn¡¯t, of course, physically hit Chief Inspector Gamache. But she could emotionally. And she had.


    ¡°Yes?¡± He looked at her but neither his voice nor his expression was encouraging.


    ¡°Can you tell me what happened?¡±


    The car ahead moved a few feet, then put on its brakes. They were almost at the top of the span. The highest point.


    ¡°No.¡±


    He¡¯d slapped her back. And she felt the sting.


    They sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute or so. But Lacoste noticed the Chief was no longer flexing his fists. Now he just stared out the window. And she wondered if she might have hit him too hard.


    Then his face changed and Lacoste realized he was no longer looking at the dark waters of the St. Lawrence, but to the side of the bridge. They¡¯d crested and could now see what the delay was. Police cars and an ambulance were blocking the far right lane, just where the bridge connected with the south shore.


    A covered body, strapped to a wire basket, was being hauled up the embankment. Lacoste crossed herself, through force of habit and not out of any faith that it would make a difference to the dead or the living.


    Gamache did not cross himself. Instead he stared.


    The death had occurred on the south shore of Montr¨¦al. It wasn¡¯t their territory, and not their body. The S?ret¨¦ du Qu¨¦bec was responsible for policing all of Qu¨¦bec, except those cities with their own forces. It still left them plenty of territory, and plenty of bodies. But not this one.


    Besides, both Gamache and Lacoste knew that the poor soul was probably a suicide. Driven to despair as the Christmas holidays neared.


    Gamache wondered, as they passed the body swaddled in blankets like a newborn, how bad life would have to be before the cold, gray waters seemed better.


    And then they were past, and the traffic opened up, and soon they were speeding along the autoroute, away from the bridge. Away from the body. Away from S?ret¨¦ headquarters. Toward the village of Three Pines.


    FOUR


    The small bell above the door tinkled as Gamache entered the bookstore. He knocked his boots against the doorjamb, hoping to get some of the snow off.


    It¡¯d been snowing slightly in Montr¨¦al when they¡¯d left, just flurries, but the snow had intensified as they¡¯d climbed higher into the mountains south of the city. He heard a muffled thumping as Isabelle Lacoste knocked her boots and followed him inside.


    Had the Chief Inspector been blindfolded he could have described the familiar shop. The walls were lined with bookcases filled with hardcovers and paperbacks. With fiction and biography, science and science fiction. Mysteries and religion. Poetry and cookbooks. It was a room filled with thoughts and feeling and creation and desires. New and used.


    Threadbare Oriental rugs were scattered on the wood floor, giving it the feel of a well-used library in an old country home.


    A cheerful wreath was tacked on the door into Myrna¡¯s New and Used Bookstore, and a Christmas tree stood in a corner. Gifts were piled underneath and there was the slight sweet scent of balsam.


    A black cast-iron woodstove sat in the center of the room, with a kettle simmering on top of it and an armchair on either side.


    It hadn¡¯t changed since the day Gamache had first entered Myrna¡¯s bookstore years before. Right down to the unfashionable floral slipcovers on the sofa and easy chairs in the bay window. Books were piled next to one of the sagging seats and back copies of The New Yorker and National Geographic were scattered on the coffee table.


    It was, Gamache felt, how a sigh might look.

 Page 11

    ¡°Bonjour?¡± he called and waited. Nothing.


    Stairs led from the back of the bookstore into Myrna¡¯s apartment above. He was about to call up when Lacoste noticed a scribbled note by the cash register.


    Back in ten minutes. Leave money if you buy anything. (Ruth, this means you.)


    It wasn¡¯t signed. No need. But there was a time written at the top. 11:55.


    Lacoste checked her watch while Gamache turned to the large clock behind the desk. Noon almost exactly.


    They wandered for a few minutes, up and down the aisles. There were equal parts French and English books. Some new, but most used. Gamache became absorbed in the titles, finally selecting a frayed book on the history of cats. He took off his heavy coat and poured himself and Lacoste mugs of tea.


    ¡°Milk, sugar?¡± he asked.


    ¡°A bit of both, s¡¯il vous pla?t,¡± came her reply from across the room.


    He sat down by the woodstove and opened his book. Lacoste joined him in the other easy chair, sipping her tea.


    ¡°Thinking of getting one?¡±


    ¡°A cat?¡± He glanced at the cover of the book. ¡°Non. Florence and Zora want a pet, especially after the last visit. They fell for Henri¡¯s charms and now want a German shepherd of their own.¡±


    ¡°In Paris?¡± asked Lacoste, with some amusement.


    ¡°Yes. I don¡¯t think they quite realize they live in Paris,¡± laughed Gamache, thinking of his young granddaughters. ¡°Reine-Marie told me last night that Daniel and Roslyn are considering getting a cat.¡±


    ¡°Madame Gamache is in Paris?¡±


    ¡°For Christmas. I¡¯ll be joining them next week.¡±


    ¡°Bet you can hardly wait.¡±


    ¡°Oui,¡± he said, and went back to his book. Hiding, she thought, the magnitude of his longing. And how much he was missing his wife.


    The sound of a door opening brought Gamache out of the surprisingly riveting history of the tabby. He looked up to see Myrna coming through the door connecting her bookstore to the bistro.


    She carried a bowl of soup and a sandwich, but stopped as soon as she saw them. Then her face broke into a smile as bright as her sweater.


    ¡°Armand, I didn¡¯t expect you to actually come down.¡±


    Gamache was on his feet, as was Lacoste. Myrna put the dishes on her desk and hugged them both.


    ¡°We¡¯re interrupting your lunch,¡± he said apologetically.


    ¡°Oh, I only nipped out quickly to get it, in case you called back.¡± Then she stopped herself and her keen eyes searched his face. ¡°Why¡¯re you here? Has something happened?¡±


    It was a source of some sadness for Gamache that his presence was almost always greeted with anxiety.


    ¡°Not at all. You left a message and this is our answer.¡±


    Myrna laughed. ¡°What service. Did you not think to phone?¡±


    Gamache turned to Lacoste. ¡°Phone. Why didn¡¯t we think of that?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t trust phones,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°They¡¯re the devil¡¯s work.¡±


    ¡°Actually, I believe that¡¯s email,¡± said Gamache, returning to Myrna. ¡°You gave us an excuse to get out of the city for a few hours. And I¡¯m always happy to come here.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s Inspector Beauvoir?¡± Myrna asked, looking around. ¡°Parking the car?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s on another assignment,¡± said the Chief.


    ¡°I see,¡± said Myrna, and in the slight pause Armand Gamache wondered what she saw.


    ¡°We need to get you both some lunch,¡± said Myrna. ¡°Do you mind if we eat it here? More private.¡±


    A bistro menu was produced, and before long Gamache and Lacoste also had the sp¨¦cial du jour, soup and a sandwich. Then all three sat in the light of the bay window, Gamache and Lacoste on the sofa and Myrna in the large easy chair, which retained her shape permanently and looked like an extension of the generous woman.


    Gamache stirred the dollop of sour cream into his borscht, watching the deep red turn soft pink and the chunks of beets and cabbage and tender beef mix together.


    ¡°Your message was a little vague,¡± he said, looking up at Myrna across from him.


    Beside him, Isabelle Lacoste had decided to start with her grilled tomato, basil, and Brie sandwich.


    ¡°I take it that was intentional,¡± said the Chief.


    He¡¯d known Myrna for a number of years now, since he¡¯d first come to the tiny village of Three Pines on a murder investigation. She¡¯d been a suspect then, now he considered her a friend.


    Sometimes things changed for the better. But sometimes they didn¡¯t.

 Page 12

    He placed the yellow slip of paper on the table beside the basket of baguette.


    Sorry to bother you, but I need your help with something. Myrna Landers


    Her phone number followed. Gamache had chosen to ignore the number, partly as an excuse to get away from headquarters, but mostly because Myrna had never asked for help before. Whatever it was might not be serious, but it was important to her. And she was important to him.


    He ate the borscht while she considered her words.


    ¡°This really is probably nothing,¡± she started, then met his eyes and stopped. ¡°I¡¯m worried,¡± Myrna admitted.


    Gamache put down his spoon and focused completely on his friend.


    Myrna looked out the window and he followed her gaze. There, between the mullions, he saw Three Pines. In every way. Three huge pines dominated the little village. For the first time he realized that they acted as a windbreak, taking the brunt of the billowing snow.


    But still, a thick layer blanketed everything. Not the filthy snow of the city. Here it was almost pure white, broken only by footpaths and the trails of cross-country skis and snowshoes.


    A few adults skated on the rink, pushing shovels ahead of them, clearing the ice while impatient children waited. No two homes around the village green were the same, and Gamache knew each and every one of them. Inside and out. From interrogations and from parties.


    ¡°I had a friend visit last week,¡± Myrna explained. ¡°She was supposed to come back yesterday and stay through Christmas. She called the night before to say she¡¯d be here in time for lunch, but she never showed.¡±


    Myrna¡¯s voice was calm. Precise. A perfect witness, as Gamache had come to realize. Nothing superfluous. No interpretation. Just what had happened.


    But her hand holding the spoon shook slightly, so that borscht splashed tiny red beads onto the wood table. And her eyes held a plea. Not for help. They were begging him for reassurance. To tell her she was overreacting, worrying for nothing.


    ¡°About twenty-four hours then,¡± said Isabelle Lacoste. She¡¯d put down her sandwich and was paying complete attention.


    ¡°That¡¯s not much, right?¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°With adults we don¡¯t generally start to worry for two days,¡± said Gamache. ¡°In fact, an official dossier isn¡¯t opened until someone¡¯s been missing for forty-eight hours.¡± His tone held a ¡°but,¡± and Myrna waited. ¡°But if someone I cared about had disappeared, I wouldn¡¯t wait forty-eight hours before going looking. You did the right thing.¡±


    ¡°It might be nothing.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said the Chief. And while he didn¡¯t say the words she longed to hear, his very presence was reassuring. ¡°You called her, of course.¡±


    ¡°I waited until about four yesterday afternoon, then called her home. She doesn¡¯t have a cell phone. I just got the answering machine. I called¡±¡ªMyrna paused¡ª¡°a lot. Probably once an hour.¡±


    ¡°Until?¡±


    Myrna looked at the clock. ¡°The last time was eleven thirty this morning.¡±


    ¡°She lives alone?¡± Gamache asked. His voice had shifted, from serious conversation into inquiry. This was now work.


    Myrna nodded.


    ¡°How old is she?¡±


    ¡°Seventy-seven.¡±


    There was a longer pause as the Chief Inspector and Lacoste took that in. The implication was obvious.


    ¡°I called the hospitals, both French and English, last night,¡± said Myrna, rightly interpreting their train of thought. ¡°And again this morning. Nothing.¡±


    ¡°She was driving out here?¡± Gamache confirmed. ¡°Not taking the bus, and not being driven by someone else?¡±


    Myrna nodded. ¡°She has her own car.¡±


    She was watching him closely now, trying to interpret the look in his deep brown eyes.


    ¡°She¡¯d have been alone?¡±


    She nodded again. ¡°What¡¯re you thinking?¡±


    But he didn¡¯t answer. Instead he reached in his breast pocket for a small notebook and pen. ¡°What¡¯s the make and model of your friend¡¯s car?¡±


    Lacoste also brought out a pad and pen.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s a small car. Orangy color.¡± Seeing that neither wrote that down, Myrna asked, ¡°Does that help?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you know the license plate number?¡± asked Lacoste, without much hope. Still, it needed to be asked.


    Myrna shook her head.


    Lacoste brought out her cell phone.


    ¡°They don¡¯t work here, you know,¡± said Myrna. ¡°The mountains.¡±


    Lacoste did know that, but had forgotten that there remained pockets of Qu¨¦bec where phones were still attached to the walls. She got up.

 Page 13

    ¡°May I use your phone?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Myrna indicated the desk, and when Lacoste moved away, she looked at Gamache.


    ¡°Inspector Lacoste is calling our traffic patrol, to see if there were any accidents on the autoroute or the roads around here.¡±


    ¡°But I called the hospitals.¡±


    When Gamache didn¡¯t respond Myrna understood. Not every accident victim needed a hospital. They both watched Lacoste, who was listening on the phone, but not taking notes.


    Gamache wondered if Myrna knew that was a good sign.


    ¡°We need more information, of course,¡± he said. ¡°What¡¯s your friend¡¯s name?¡±


    He picked up his pen and pulled his notebook closer. But when there was just silence he looked up.


    Myrna was looking away from him, into the body of her bookstore. He wondered if she¡¯d heard the question.


    ¡°Myrna?¡±


    She returned her gaze to him, but her mouth remained shut. Tight.


    ¡°Her name?¡±


    Myrna still hesitated and Gamache tilted his head slightly, surprised.


    Isabelle Lacoste returned and, sitting down, she smiled at Myrna reassuringly. ¡°No serious car accidents on the highway between here and Montr¨¦al yesterday.¡±


    Myrna was relieved, but it was short-lived. She returned her attention to Chief Inspector Gamache, and his unanswered question.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to tell me,¡± he said, watching her with increased curiosity.


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand, Myrna,¡± he said. ¡°Why don¡¯t you want to tell me?¡±


    ¡°She might still turn up, and I don¡¯t want to cause her embarrassment.¡±


    Gamache, who knew Myrna well, knew she wasn¡¯t telling the truth. He stared at her for a moment, then decided to try another tack.


    ¡°Can you describe her for us?¡±


    Myrna nodded. As she spoke Myrna saw Constance sitting exactly where Armand Gamache was now. Reading and occasionally lowering her book to gaze out the window. Talking to Myrna. Listening. Helping to make dinner upstairs, or sharing a Scotch with Ruth in front of the bistro fireplace.


    She saw Constance getting into her car and waving. Then driving up the hill out of Three Pines.


    And then she was gone.


    Caucasian. Francophone. Approx. five foot four. Slightly overweight, white hair, blue eyes. 77 years of age.


    That¡¯s what Lacoste had written. That¡¯s what Constance came down to.


    ¡°And her name?¡± Gamache asked. His voice, now, was firm. He held Myrna¡¯s eyes and she held his.


    ¡°Constance Pineault,¡± she said at last.


    ¡°Merci,¡± said Gamache quietly.


    ¡°Is that her nom de naissance?¡± asked Lacoste.


    When Myrna didn¡¯t answer Lacoste clarified, in case the French phrase had been lost on the Anglophone woman. ¡°The name she was born with or her married name?¡±


    But Gamache could tell that Myrna understood the question perfectly well. It was the answer that confused her.


    He¡¯d seen this woman afraid, filled with sorrow, joyful, annoyed. Perplexed.


    But he¡¯d never seen her confused. And it was clear by her reaction that it was a foreign state for her too.


    ¡°Neither,¡± she finally said. ¡°Oh, God, she¡¯d kill me if I told anyone.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not ¡®anyone,¡¯¡± said Gamache. The words, while carrying a mild reproach, were said softly, with care.


    ¡°Maybe I should wait some more.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± said Gamache.


    He got up and fed two pieces of wood into the stove in the center of the room, then brought back a mug of tea for Myrna.


    ¡°Merci,¡± she said, and held it between her hands. Her lunch, partly eaten, would not now be finished.


    ¡°Inspector, would you mind trying the home number once more?¡±


    ¡°Absolument.¡± Lacoste got up and Myrna scribbled the number on a piece of paper.


    They heard the beep, beep, beeps from across the room as she punched in the numbers. Gamache watched for a moment, then turned to Myrna, lowering his voice.


    ¡°Who is she if not Constance Pineault?¡±


    Myrna held his eyes. But they both knew she¡¯d tell him. That it was inevitable.


    ¡°Pineault¡¯s the name I know her by,¡± she said quietly. ¡°The name she uses. It was her mother¡¯s maiden name. Her real name, her nom de naissance, is Constance Ouellet.¡±


    Myrna watched him, expecting a reaction, but Armand Gamache couldn¡¯t oblige.


    Across the room, Isabelle Lacoste was listening on the phone. Not talking. The phone rang and rang and rang, in an empty home.

 Page 14

    The home of Constance Ouellet. Constance Ouellet.


    Myrna was studying him closely.


    He could have asked. Was tempted to ask. And he certainly would, if he had to. But Gamache wanted to get there on his own. He was curious to see if the missing woman lurked in his memory and, if she did, what his memory said about her.


    The name did sound familiar. But it was vague, ill-defined. If Madame Ouellet lived in his memory, she was several mountain ranges away from today. He cast his mind back, moving rapidly over the terrain.


    He bypassed his own personal life and concentrated on the collective memory of Qu¨¦bec. Constance Ouellet must be a public figure. Or had been. Someone either famous or notorious. A household name, once.


    The more he looked, the more certain he became that she was in there, hiding in some recess of his mind. An elderly woman who didn¡¯t want to come out.


    And now she was missing. Either by choice, or by someone else¡¯s design.


    He brought his hand up to his face as he thought. As he got closer and closer.


    Ouellet. Ouellet. Constance Ouellet.


    Then he inhaled and his eyes narrowed. A faded black and white photo drifted into view. Not of a seventy-seven-year-old woman, but of a smiling, waving girl.


    He¡¯d found her.


    ¡°You know who I¡¯m talking about,¡± said Myrna, seeing the light in his eyes.


    Gamache nodded.


    But in his search he¡¯d stumbled over some other memory, much more recent. And more worrisome. He got to his feet and walked over to the desk just as Lacoste hung up.


    ¡°Nothing, Chief,¡± she said and he nodded, taking the receiver from her.


    Myrna rose. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Just a thought,¡± he said, and dialed.


    ¡°Marc Brault.¡± The voice was clipped, official.


    ¡°Marc, it¡¯s Armand Gamache.¡±


    ¡°Armand.¡± The voice became friendly. ¡°How¡¯re you doing?¡±


    ¡°Fine, thank you. Listen, Marc, I¡¯m sorry to bother you¡ª¡±


    ¡°No bother at all. What can I help you with?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m in the Eastern Townships. As we crossed the Champlain Bridge this morning at about quarter to eleven¡±¡ªGamache turned his back on Myrna and lowered his voice¡ª¡°we noticed your people bringing a body up from the south shore.¡±


    ¡°And you want to know who it was?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to pry into your jurisdiction, but yes.¡±


    ¡°Let me just look.¡±


    Gamache could hear the clicking of keys as the head of homicide for the Montr¨¦al police accessed his records.


    ¡°Right. Not much on her yet.¡±


    ¡°A woman?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Been there for a couple days, apparently. Autopsy scheduled for this afternoon.¡±


    ¡°Do you suspect murder?¡±


    ¡°Not likely. Her car was found up above. Looks like she tried to jump from the bridge into the water and missed. Hit the shore and rolled under the bridge. Some workers found her there this morning.¡±


    ¡°Do you have a name?¡±


    Gamache prepared himself. Constance Ouellet.


    ¡°Audrey Villeneuve.¡±


    ¡°Pardon?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°Audrey Villeneuve, it says here. Late thirties. Husband reported her missing two days ago. Didn¡¯t show up for work. Hmmm¡­¡±


    ¡°What?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°It¡¯s interesting.¡±


    ¡°What is?¡±


    ¡°She worked for the Ministry of Transport, in their roads division.¡±


    ¡°Was she an inspector? Could she have fallen by accident?¡±


    ¡°Let me see¡­¡± There was a pause while Chief Inspector Brault read the file. ¡°No. She was a senior clerk. Almost certainly suicide, but the autopsy will tell us more. Want me to send it to you, Armand?¡±


    ¡°No need, but thank you. Joyeux No?l, Marc.¡±


    Gamache hung up, then turned to face Myrna Landers.


    ¡°What is it?¡± she asked, and he could see her bracing for what he had to say.


    ¡°A body was brought up from the side of the Champlain Bridge this morning. I was afraid it might be your friend, but it wasn¡¯t.¡±


    Myrna closed her eyes. Then opened them again.


    ¡°So where is she?¡±


    FIVE


    Isabelle Lacoste and Chief Inspector Gamache sat in rush hour traffic, on the approach to the Champlain Bridge back into Montr¨¦al. It was barely four thirty, but the sun was down and it felt like midnight. The snow had stopped and Gamache looked past Isabelle Lacoste, out the window, and across the six lanes of traffic. To the spot where Audrey Villeneuve had chosen death over life.

 Page 15

    By now her family had been told. Armand Gamache had done enough of that, and it never got easier. It was worse than looking into the faces of the dead. To look into the faces of those left behind, and to see that moment when their world changed forever.


    It was a sort of murder he performed. The mother, the father, the wife or husband. They opened the door to his knock, believing the world a flawed but fundamentally decent place. Until he spoke. It was like throwing them off a cliff. Seeing them plummet. Then hitting. Dashed. The person they¡¯d been, the life they¡¯d known, gone forever.


    And the look in their eyes, as though he¡¯d done it.


    Before they¡¯d left, Myrna had given him Constance¡¯s home address.


    ¡°When she was here, how¡¯d she seem?¡± Gamache had asked.


    ¡°As she always did. I hadn¡¯t seen her for a while, but she seemed her usual self.¡±


    ¡°Not worried about anything?¡±


    Myrna shook her head.


    ¡°Money? Health?¡±


    Myrna shook her head again. ¡°She was a very private person, as you might expect. She didn¡¯t tell me a lot about her life, but she seemed relaxed. Happy to be here and happy to be coming back for the holidays.¡±


    ¡°You noticed nothing odd at all? Did she have an argument with anyone here? Hurt feelings?¡±


    ¡°You suspect Ruth?¡± asked Myrna, a shadow of a smile on her face.


    ¡°I always suspect Ruth.¡±


    ¡°As a matter of fact, Constance and Ruth hit it off. They had a certain chemistry.¡±


    ¡°Do you mean chemistry or medication?¡± asked Lacoste, and Myrna had smiled.


    ¡°Are they alike?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°Ruth and Constance? Completely different, but for some reason they seemed to like each other.¡±


    Gamache took that in, with some surprise. The old poet, as a matter of principle, disliked everyone. She¡¯d have hated everyone if she could have worked up the energy hate required.


    ¡°Who hurt you once, / so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture / with curling lip?¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± said Gamache, taken aback by the question.


    Myrna smiled. ¡°It¡¯s from one of Ruth¡¯s poems. Constance quoted it to me one night when she came back from visiting Ruth.¡±


    Gamache nodded and wondered if, when they eventually found her, Constance would have been hurt beyond repair.


    Gamache crossed the bookstore to retrieve his coat. At the door he kissed Myrna on both cheeks.


    She held him at arm¡¯s length, looking into his face. ¡°And you? Are you all right?¡±


    He considered the question, and all his possible responses, from flippant to dismissive, to the truth. It was, he knew, very little use lying to Myrna. But neither could he tell her the truth.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he said, and saw her smile.


    She watched them get into their car and drive up the hill out of Three Pines. Constance had taken that same route, and not returned. But Myrna knew Gamache would come back and bring with him the answer she had to hear.


    *   *   *


    The traffic started to creep forward, and before long the S?ret¨¦ officers were over the Champlain Bridge and driving through the city. Inspector Lacoste pulled up in front of a modest home in the Pointe-Saint-Charles quartier of Montr¨¦al.


    Windows were lit in houses up and down the street. Christmas decorations were on, reflecting red and yellow and green in the fresh snow.


    Except for here. This house was a hole in the cheerful neighborhood.


    Chief Inspector Gamache checked the address he¡¯d been given. Yes, this was where Constance Ouellet lived. He¡¯d expected something different. Bigger.


    He looked at the other homes. A snowman sat on a lawn across the street, his twig arms open in a hug. Gamache could see clearly through the front window. A woman was helping a child with homework. Next door, an elderly couple watched television while decorations on their mantelpiece blinked on and off.


    Everywhere there was life. Except at the dark home of Constance Ouellet.


    The clock on the dashboard said it was just after five.


    They got out of the car. Inspector Lacoste grabbed a flashlight and swung a satchel over her shoulder. The Scene of Crime kit.


    The path to Madame Ouellet¡¯s home had not been shoveled and there were no footprints in the snow. They mounted the steps and stood on the small concrete porch, their breaths puffing and disappearing into the night.


    Gamache¡¯s cheeks burned in the slight breeze, and he could feel the cold sneak up his sleeves and past the scarf at his neck. The Chief ignored the chill and looked around. The snow on the windowsills was undisturbed. Inspector Lacoste rang the doorbell.

 Page 16

    They waited.


    A great deal of police work involved waiting. For suspects. For autopsies. For forensic results. Waiting for someone to answer a question. Or a doorbell.


    It was, he knew, one of Isabelle Lacoste¡¯s great gifts, and one so easily overlooked. She was very, very patient.


    Anyone could run around, not many could quietly wait. As they did now. But that didn¡¯t mean Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Lacoste did nothing. As they waited they took in their surroundings.


    The little home was in good repair, the eaves troughs tacked in place, the windows and sills painted and without chips or cracks. It was neat and tidy. Christmas lights had been strung around the wrought-iron rail of the porch, but they remained off. A wreath was on the front door.


    Lacoste turned to the Chief, who nodded. She opened the outer door and peered through the semi-circle of cut glass, into the vestibule.


    Gamache had been inside many similar homes. They¡¯d been built in the late forties and early fifties for returning veterans. Modest homes in established neighborhoods. Many of the houses had since been torn down, or added to. But some, like this, remained intact. A small gem.


    ¡°Nothing, Chief.¡±


    ¡°Bon,¡± he said. Walking back down the stairs, he gestured to the right and watched Lacoste step into the deep snow. Gamache himself walked around the other side, noting that the snow there was also unmarred by footprints. He sank up to his shins. The snow tumbled down into his boots and he felt the chill as it turned to ice water and soaked his socks.


    Like Lacoste, he looked into the windows, cupping his hands around his face. The kitchen was empty and clean. No unwashed dishes on the counter. He tried the windows. All locked. In the tiny backyard he met Lacoste coming around the other side. She shook her head, then stood on tiptoes and looked in a window. As he watched, she turned on her flashlight and shone it in.


    Then she turned to him.


    She¡¯d found something.


    Wordlessly, Lacoste handed the flashlight to Gamache. He shone it through the window and saw a bed. A closet. An open suitcase. And an elderly woman lying on the floor. Far beyond repair.


    *   *   *


    Armand Gamache and Isabelle Lacoste waited in the small front room of Constance Ouellet¡¯s home. Like the exterior, the interior was neat, though not antiseptic. There were books and magazines. A pair of old slippers sat by the sofa. This was no showroom reserved for special guests. Constance clearly used it. A television, the old box variety, was in a corner, and a sofa and two armchairs were turned to face it. Like everything else in the room, the chairs were well-made, once expensive but now worn. It was a comfortable, welcoming room. What his grandmother would have called a genteel room.


    After they saw the body through the window, Gamache had called Marc Brault, then the two S?ret¨¦ officers had waited in their car for the Montr¨¦al force to arrive and take over. And when they did, the familiar routine started, only without the help of Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Lacoste. They were relegated to the front room, guests at the investigation. It felt odd, as though they were playing hookey. He and Lacoste filled the time by wandering around the modest room, noting the d¨¦cor, the personal items. But touching nothing. Not even sitting.


    Gamache noticed that three of the seats looked as though transparent people were still sitting in them. Like Myrna¡¯s armchair in the bookstore, they held the shape of the people who¡¯d used them, every day, for years and years.


    There was no Christmas tree. No decorations inside the home, but why would there be? thought Gamache. She was planning to go to Three Pines for the holidays.


    Through the drawn curtains, Gamache saw a glow of headlights and heard a car stop, then a door slam and the measured crunch of boots on snow.


    Marc Brault let himself into the home and found Gamache and Lacoste in the front room.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to see you, Marc,¡± said Gamache, shaking the hand of the head of the Montr¨¦al homicide squad.


    ¡°Well, I was about to head home, but since you called in the report I thought I should come along, in case someone needed to arrest you.¡±


    ¡°How kind, mon ami,¡± smiled Gamache.


    Brault turned to Lacoste. ¡°We¡¯re shorthanded. The holidays. Would you like to help my team?¡±


    Lacoste knew when she was being politely dismissed. She left them and Brault turned his intelligent eyes on Gamache.


    ¡°Now, tell me about this body you found.¡±


    ¡°Her name¡¯s Constance Ouellet,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Is she the woman you were worried about this afternoon? The one you thought might be the suicide?¡±

 Page 17

    ¡°Oui. She was expected yesterday for lunch. My friend waited a day, hoping she¡¯d show up, then she called me.¡±


    ¡°Did you know the dead woman?¡±


    It was an odd experience, Gamache realized, to be interrogated. For that¡¯s what this was. Gentle. Friendly. But an interrogation.


    ¡°Not personally, no.¡±


    Marc Brault opened his mouth to ask another question, then hesitated. He studied Gamache for a moment.


    ¡°Not personally, you say. But did you know her any other way? By reputation?¡±


    Gamache could see Brault¡¯s sharp mind working, listening, analyzing.


    ¡°Yes. And so did you, I think.¡± He waited a moment. ¡°She¡¯s Constance Ouellet, Marc.¡± He repeated the name. He¡¯d tell Brault who she was, if necessary, but he wanted his colleague to come to it himself, if he could.


    He saw his friend scan his memory, just as Gamache had done. And he saw Brault¡¯s eyes widen.


    He¡¯d found Constance Ouellet. Brault turned and stared out the door, then he left, walking rapidly down the hall. To the bedroom and the body.


    *   *   *


    Myrna hadn¡¯t heard anything from Gamache, but she didn¡¯t expect to so soon. No news was good news, she told herself. Over and over.


    She called Clara and asked her around for a drink.


    ¡°There¡¯s something I need to tell you,¡± said Myrna, once they had their glasses of Scotch and were sitting by Myrna¡¯s fireplace in her loft.


    ¡°What?¡± asked Clara, leaning toward her friend. She knew Constance was missing, and like Myrna, she was worried.


    ¡°It¡¯s about Constance.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± She steeled herself for bad news.


    ¡°About who she really is.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± asked Clara. Her panic evaporated, replaced by confusion.


    ¡°She went by the name of Constance Pineault, but that was her mother¡¯s maiden name. Her real name was Constance Ouellet.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Constance Ouellet.¡±


    Myrna watched her friend. By now, after Gamache¡¯s reaction, she was used to that pause. Where people wondered two things. Who Constance Ouellet was, and why Myrna was making such a big deal about it.


    Clara¡¯s brow furrowed and she sat back in her chair, crossing her legs. She sipped her Scotch and looked into the distance.


    And then Clara gave a slight jerk as the truth hit her.


    *   *   *


    Marc Brault returned to the front room, walking slowly this time.


    ¡°I told the others,¡± he said, his voice almost dream-like. ¡°We searched her bedroom. You know, Armand, if you hadn¡¯t told us who she was we wouldn¡¯t have known. Not until we ran her through the system.¡±


    Brault looked around the small front room.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing at all to suggest she was one of the Ouellets. Not here, not in the bedrooms. There might be papers or photographs somewhere, but so far nothing.¡±


    The two men looked around the front room.


    There were china figurines and books and CDs and crossword puzzles and worn boxes of jigsaw puzzles. Evidence of a personal life, but not of a past.


    ¡°Is she the last one?¡± Brault asked.


    Gamache nodded. ¡°I think so.¡±


    The coroner poked his head in and said they were about to leave with the body, and did the officers want one last look? Brault turned to Gamache, who nodded.


    The two men followed the coroner down the narrow corridor, to a bedroom at the very back of the home. There, a Scene of Crime team from the Montr¨¦al homicide squad was collecting evidence. When Gamache arrived, they stopped and acknowledged him. Isabelle Lacoste, who¡¯d simply been observing the operation, saw their eyes widen when they realized who he was.


    Chief Inspector Gamache, of the S?ret¨¦. The man most Qu¨¦bec cops dreamed of working with. With the exception of the very cops who were now assigned to the Chief¡¯s own homicide division. She stepped around the tape marking Madame Ouellet¡¯s body and joined the two men at the door. The little room was suddenly very crowded.


    The bedroom, like the front room, had many personal touches, including her suitcase, open and packed, on the neatly made bed. But also like the front room, there wasn¡¯t a single photograph.


    ¡°May I?¡± Gamache asked the Scene of Crime investigator, who nodded. The Chief knelt beside Constance. She wore a dressing gown, buttoned up. He could see a flannel nightie underneath. She¡¯d clearly been killed in the act of packing the night before leaving for Three Pines.


    Chief Inspector Gamache held her cold hand and looked into her eyes. They were wide. Staring. Very blue. Very dead. Not surprised. Not pained. Not fearful.

 Page 18

    Empty. As though her life had simply run out. Drained, like a battery. It would have been a peaceful scene, except for the blood under her head and the broken lamp, its base covered in blood, beside her body.


    ¡°Looks unpremeditated,¡± said one of the investigators. ¡°Whoever did this didn¡¯t bring a weapon. The lamp came from there.¡± She pointed to the bedside table.


    Gamache nodded. But that didn¡¯t make it unpremeditated. It only meant the killer knew where a weapon could be found.


    He looked back down at the woman at his feet and wondered if her murderer had any idea who she was.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± Clara asked.


    ¡°Pretty sure,¡± said Myrna, and tried not to smile.


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell us?¡±


    ¡°Constance didn¡¯t want anyone to know. She¡¯s very private.¡±


    ¡°I thought they were all dead,¡± said Clara, her voice low.


    ¡°I hope not.¡±


    *   *   *


    ¡°Frankly,¡± Marc Brault admitted as they prepared to leave the Ouellet home, ¡°this couldn¡¯t come at a worse time. Every Christmas husbands kill wives, employees kill employers. And some people kill themselves. Now this. Most of my squad is going on holiday.¡±


    Gamache nodded. ¡°I¡¯m off to Paris in a week. Reine-Marie¡¯s already there.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m heading to our chalet in Sainte-Agathe on Friday.¡± Brault gave his colleague an appraising look. They were out on the sidewalk now. Neighbors had begun to gather and stare. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose¡­¡± Marc Brault rubbed his gloved hands together for warmth. ¡°I know you have plenty of your own cases, Armand¡­¡±


    Brault knew more than that. Not because Chief Inspector Gamache had told him, but because every senior cop in Qu¨¦bec, and probably Canada, knew. The homicide department of the S?ret¨¦ was being ¡°restructured.¡± Gamache, while publicly lauded, was being privately and professionally marginalized. It was humiliating, or would be except that Chief Inspector Gamache continued to behave as though he hadn¡¯t noticed.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be happy to take it over.¡±


    ¡°Merci,¡± said Brault, clearly relieved.


    ¡°Bon.¡± The Chief Inspector signaled to Lacoste. It was time to leave. ¡°If your team can complete the interviews and forensics, we¡¯ll take over in the morning.¡±


    They walked to the car. Some of the neighbors asked for information. Chief Inspector Brault was vague, but reassuring.


    ¡°We can¡¯t keep her death quiet, of course,¡± he said to Gamache, his voice low. ¡°But we won¡¯t announce her real name. We¡¯ll call her Constance Pineault, if the press asks.¡± Brault looked at the worried faces of the neighbors. ¡°I wonder if they knew who she was?¡±


    ¡°I doubt it,¡± said Gamache. ¡°She wouldn¡¯t have erased all evidence of who she was, including her name, just to tell her neighborhood.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they guessed,¡± said Brault. But, like Gamache, he thought not. Who would guess that their elderly neighbor was once one of the most famous people not just in Qu¨¦bec, or Canada, or even North America, but in the world?


    Lacoste had started the car and put the heat on to defrost the windshield. The two men stood outside the vehicle. Instead of walking away, Marc Brault lingered.


    ¡°Just say it,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Are you going to resign, Armand?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been on the case for two minutes and you¡¯re already asking for my resignation?¡± Gamache laughed.


    Brault smiled and continued to watch his colleague. Gamache took a deep breath and adjusted his gloves.


    ¡°Would you?¡± he finally asked.


    ¡°At my age? I have my pension in place, and so do you. If my bosses wanted me out that badly, I¡¯d be gone like a shot.¡±


    ¡°If your bosses wanted you out that badly,¡± said Gamache, ¡°don¡¯t you think you¡¯d wonder why?¡±


    Behind Brault, Gamache could see the snowman across the street, its arms raised like the bones of an ill-formed creature. Beckoning.


    ¡°Take retirement, mon ami,¡± said Brault. ¡°Go to Paris, enjoy the holidays, then retire. But first, solve this case.¡±


    SIX


    ¡°Where to?¡± Isabelle Lacoste asked.


    Gamache checked the dashboard clock. Almost seven.


    ¡°I need to get home for Henri, then back to headquarters for a few minutes.¡±


    He knew he could ask his daughter Annie to feed and walk Henri, but she had other things on her mind.

 Page 19

    ¡°And Madame Landers?¡± Lacoste asked, as she turned the car toward the Chief¡¯s home in Outremont.


    Gamache had been wondering about that too.


    ¡°I¡¯ll head down later tonight, and tell her in person.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll come with you,¡± she said.


    ¡°Merci, Isabelle, but that isn¡¯t necessary. I might stay over at the B and B. Chief Inspector Brault said he¡¯d send over what files he has. I¡¯d like you to download them tomorrow morning. I¡¯ll find out what I can in Three Pines.¡±


    They didn¡¯t stay long at his home, only long enough for the Chief to pack an overnight bag for himself and Henri. Gamache beckoned the large German shepherd into the backseat of the car and Henri, his satellite ears forward, received this command with delight. He leapt in, then, fearing Gamache might change his mind, immediately curled into as tight a ball as he could manage.


    You can¡¯t see me. Yoooou can¡¯t seeeee meeee.


    But in his excitement, and having eaten too fast, Henri gave himself away in an all-too-familiar fashion.


    In the front seat, both the Chief Inspector and Isabelle Lacoste cracked open their windows, preferring the bitter cold outside to what threatened to melt the upholstery inside.


    ¡°Does he do that often?¡± she gasped.


    ¡°It¡¯s a sign of affection, I¡¯m told,¡± said the Chief, not meeting her eyes. ¡°A compliment.¡± Gamache paused, turning his head to the window. ¡°A great compliment.¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste smiled. She was used to similar ¡°compliments¡± from her husband and now their young son. She wondered why the Y chromosome was so smelly.


    At S?ret¨¦ headquarters, Gamache clipped Henri on the leather leash and the three of them entered the building.


    ¡°Hold it, please!¡± Lacoste called as a man got into the elevator at the far end of the corridor. She walked rapidly toward it, Gamache and Henri a pace behind, then she suddenly slowed. And stopped.


    The man in the elevator hit a button. And hit it again. And again.


    Lacoste stopped a foot from the elevator. Willing the doors to close so they could take the next one.


    But Chief Inspector Gamache didn¡¯t hesitate. He and Henri walked past Lacoste and into the elevator, apparently oblivious to the man with his finger pressed hard against the close button. As the doors began to close Gamache put his arm out to stop them and looked at Lacoste.


    ¡°Coming?¡±


    Lacoste stepped inside to join Armand Gamache and Henri. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir.


    Gamache acknowledged his former second in command with a small nod.


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir did not return the greeting, preferring to stare straight ahead. If Isabelle Lacoste didn¡¯t already believe in things like energy and vibes when she entered the elevator, she would have when she left. Inspector Beauvoir was throbbing, radiating strong emotion.


    But what emotion? She stared at the numbers¡ª2 ¡­ 3 ¡­ 4¡ªand tried to analyze the waves pounding out of Jean-Guy Beauvoir.


    Shame? Embarrassment? She knew she¡¯d certainly be feeling both of those if she was him. But she wasn¡¯t. And she suspected what Beauvoir felt and radiated was baser. Coarser. Simpler.


    What poured out of him was rage.


    6 ¡­ 7 ¡­


    Lacoste glanced at Beauvoir¡¯s reflection in the pocked and dented door. She¡¯d barely seen him since he¡¯d transferred out of homicide and into Chief Superintendent Francoeur¡¯s department.


    Isabelle Lacoste remembered her mentor as lithe, energetic, frenetic at times. Slender to Gamache¡¯s more robust frame. Rational to the Chief¡¯s intuitive. He was action to Gamache¡¯s contemplation.


    Beauvoir liked lists. Gamache liked thoughts, ideas.


    Beauvoir liked to question, Gamache liked to listen.


    And yet there was a bond between the older man and the younger that seemed to reach through time. They held a natural, almost ancient, place in each other¡¯s lives. Made all the more profound when Jean-Guy Beauvoir fell in love with Annie, the Chief¡¯s daughter.


    It had surprised Lacoste slightly that Beauvoir would fall for Annie. She wasn¡¯t anything like Beauvoir¡¯s ex-wife, or the parade of gorgeous Qu¨¦b¨¦coise he¡¯d dated. Annie Gamache chose comfort over fashion. She was neither pretty nor ugly. Not slender, but neither was she fat. Annie Gamache would never be the most attractive woman in the room. She never turned heads.


    Until she laughed. And spoke.


    To Lacoste¡¯s amazement, Jean-Guy Beauvoir had figured out something many men never got. How very beautiful, how very attractive, happiness was.


    Annie Gamache was happy, and Beauvoir fell in love with her.

 Page 20

    Isabelle Lacoste admired that in him. In fact, she admired many things about her mentor, but what she most admired were his passion for the job and his unquestioned loyalty to Chief Inspector Gamache.


    Until a few months ago. Though, if she was being honest, fissures had begun to appear before that.


    Now she shifted her glance to Gamache¡¯s reflection. He seemed relaxed, holding Henri¡¯s leash loosely in his hands. She noticed the scar at his graying temple.


    Nothing had been the same since the day that had happened. It couldn¡¯t be. It shouldn¡¯t be. But it had taken Lacoste a while to realize just how much everything had changed.


    She was standing in the ruins now, amid the rubble, and most of it had fallen from Beauvoir. His clean-shaven face was sallow, haggard. He looked much older than his thirty-eight years. Not simply tired, or even exhausted, but hollowed out. And into that hole he¡¯d placed, for safekeeping, the last thing he possessed. His rage.


    9 ¡­ 10 ¡­


    The faint hope she¡¯d held, that the Chief and Inspector Beauvoir were just pretending to this rift, vanished. There was no harbor. No hope. No doubt.


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir despised Armand Gamache.


    This wasn¡¯t an act.


    Isabelle Lacoste wondered what would have happened if she hadn¡¯t been in the elevator with them. Two armed men. And one with the advantage, if it could be called that, of near bottomless rage.


    Here was a man with a gun and nothing more to lose.


    If Jean-Guy Beauvoir loathed Gamache, Lacoste wondered how the Chief felt.


    She studied him again in the scratched and dented elevator door. He seemed perfectly at ease.


    Henri chose, if such a thing is a choice, to hand out another great compliment at that moment. Lacoste brought her hand to her face, in an involuntary survival instinct.


    The dog, oblivious to the curdled air, looked around, his tags clinking cheerily together. His huge brown eyes glanced up at the man beside him. Not the one who held his leash. But the other man.


    A familiar man.


    14 ¡­ 15.


    The elevator stopped and the door opened, bringing with it oxygen. Isabelle wondered if she¡¯d have to burn her clothes.


    Gamache held it open for Lacoste and she left as quickly as possible, desperate to get out of that stink, only part of which could be blamed on Henri. But before Gamache could step out, Henri turned to Beauvoir, and licked his hand.


    Beauvoir pulled it back, as though scalded.


    The German shepherd followed the Chief from the elevator. And the doors closed behind them. As the three walked toward the glass doors into the homicide division, Lacoste noticed that the hand that held the leash trembled.


    It was slight, but it was there.


    And Lacoste realized that Gamache had perfect control over Henri, if not Henri¡¯s bowels. He could have held the leash tight, preventing the German shepherd from getting anywhere close to Beauvoir.


    But Gamache hadn¡¯t. He¡¯d allowed the lick. Allowed the small kiss.


    *   *   *


    The elevator reached the top floor of S?ret¨¦ headquarters and the doors clunked open to reveal a couple of men standing in the corridor.


    ¡°Holy shit, Beauvoir, what a stink.¡± One of them scowled.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t me.¡± Beauvoir could feel Henri¡¯s lick, moist and warm on his hand.


    ¡°Right,¡± said the man, and caught the eye of the other agent.


    ¡°Fuck you,¡± Beauvoir mumbled as he pushed between them and into the office.


    *   *   *


    Chief Inspector Gamache looked at his homicide department. Where busy agents would once have sat into the night, the desks were now empty.


    He wished the tranquillity was because all the murders had been solved. Or, better yet, there were no more murders. No more pain so great it made a person take a life. Someone else¡¯s, or his own.


    Like Constance Ouellet. Like the body below the bridge. Like he¡¯d felt in the elevator just now.


    But Armand Gamache was a realist, and knew the long list of homicides would only grow. What had diminished was his capacity to solve them.


    *   *   *


    Chief Superintendent Francoeur didn¡¯t get up. Didn¡¯t look up. He ignored Beauvoir and the others as they took seats in his large private office.


    Beauvoir was used to that now. Chief Superintendent Francoeur was the most senior cop in Qu¨¦bec and he looked it. Distinguished, with gray hair and a confident bearing, he exuded authority. This was a man not to be trifled with. Chief Superintendent Francoeur associated with the Premier, had meals with the Public Security Minister. He was on a first-name basis with the Cardinal of Qu¨¦bec.

 Page 21

    Unlike Gamache, Francoeur gave his agents freedom. He didn¡¯t worry about how they got results. Just get it done, was what he said.


    The only real law was Chief Superintendent Francoeur. The only line not to be crossed was drawn around him. His power was absolute and unquestioned.


    Working with Gamache was always so complicated. So many gray areas. Always debating what was right, as though that was a difficult question.


    Working with Chief Superintendent Francoeur was easy.


    Law-abiding citizens were safe, criminals weren¡¯t. Francoeur trusted his people to decide who was who, and to know what to do about it. And when a mistake was made? They looked out for each other. Defended each other. Protected each other.


    Unlike Gamache.


    Beauvoir rubbed his hand, trying to erase the lick, like a lash. He thought about the things he should have said, could have said, to his former Chief. But hadn¡¯t.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Just drop your things and head home,¡± said Gamache at the door to his office.


    ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want me to drive down with you?¡± asked Lacoste.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure. As I said, I¡¯ll probably stay over. Thank you, Isabelle.¡±


    As he looked at her now he saw, as he almost always did, a brief image. Of Lacoste bending over him. Calling to him. And he felt again her hands gripping either side of his head as he lay sprawled on the concrete floor.


    There¡¯d been a crushing weight on his chest and a rush in his head. And two words that needed to be said. Only two, as he stared at Lacoste, desperate for her to understand him.


    Reine-Marie.


    That was all there was left to say.


    At first, when he¡¯d recovered and remembered Isabelle¡¯s face so close to his, he¡¯d been embarrassed by his vulnerability.


    His job was to lead them, to protect them. And he¡¯d failed. Instead, she¡¯d saved him.


    But now when he looked at her, and that brief image exploded between them, he realized they were fused together forever by that moment. And he felt only great affection for her. And gratitude. For staying with him and hearing those barely whispered words. She was the vessel into which he¡¯d poured his last thoughts.


    Reine-Marie.


    Armand Gamache would always remember the enormous relief when he¡¯d realized she¡¯d understood. And he could go.


    But, of course, he hadn¡¯t gone. In large part thanks to Isabelle Lacoste, he¡¯d survived. But so many of his agents hadn¡¯t, that day.


    Including Jean-Guy Beauvoir. The swaggering, annoying smartass had gone into that factory, and something else had come out.


    ¡°Go home, Isabelle,¡± said Gamache.


    *   *   *


    The Superintendent continued to read the document in front of him, slowly turning a page.


    Beauvoir recognized the report on the raid he¡¯d been on a few days earlier.


    ¡°I see here,¡± Francoeur said slowly in his deep, calm voice, ¡°that not all the evidence made it to the locker.¡±


    He met Beauvoir¡¯s eyes, which widened.


    ¡°Some drugs seem to be missing.¡±


    Beauvoir¡¯s mind raced, while the Superintendent again lowered his eyes to the report.


    ¡°But I don¡¯t think that will affect the case,¡± Francoeur said at last, turning to Martin Tessier. ¡°Remove it from the report.¡±


    He tossed the paper across to his second in command.


    ¡°Yessir.¡±


    ¡°I have a dinner in half an hour with the Cardinal. He¡¯s very worried about the biker gang violence. What can I tell him?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s unfortunate that girl was killed,¡± said Tessier.


    Francoeur stared at Tessier. ¡°I don¡¯t think I need to tell him that, do you?¡±


    Beauvoir knew what they were talking about. Everyone in Qu¨¦bec did. A seven-year-old child had been blown up along with a few members of the Hell¡¯s Angels when a car bomb exploded. It was all over the news.


    ¡°Up until then, we¡¯d been pretty successful at feeding rival gangs information,¡± said Tessier, ¡°and having them go at each other.¡±


    Beauvoir had come to appreciate the beauty of this strategy, though it had shocked him at first. Let the criminals kill each other. All the S?ret¨¦ had to do was guide them a little. Drop a bit of information here. A bit there. Then get out of the way. The rival gangs took care of the rest. It was easy and safe and, above all, effective. True, sometimes a civilian got in the way, but the S?ret¨¦ would plant suggestions in the media that the dead man or woman wasn¡¯t perhaps as innocent as their family claimed.


    And it worked.

 Page 22

    Until this child.


    ¡°What¡¯re you doing about it?¡± Francoeur asked.


    ¡°Well, we need to respond. Hit one of their bunkers. Since the Rock Machine planted the bomb that killed the kid, we should plan a raid against them.¡±


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir lowered his eyes, studying the carpet. Studying his hands.


    Not me. Not me. Not again.


    ¡°I¡¯m not interested in the details.¡± Francoeur got up and they all rose. ¡°Just get it done. The sooner the better.¡±


    ¡°Yessir,¡± said Tessier, and followed him out the door.


    Beauvoir watched them go, then exhaled. Safe.


    At the elevator the Chief Superintendent handed Tessier a small vial.


    ¡°I think our newest recruit is a little anxious, don¡¯t you?¡± Francoeur pressed the pill bottle into Tessier¡¯s hand. ¡°Put Beauvoir on the raid.¡±


    He got in the elevator.


    *   *   *


    Beauvoir sat at his desk, staring blankly at the computer screen. Trying to get the meeting out of his mind. Not with Francoeur, but with Gamache. He¡¯d structured his days, done everything he could, to avoid seeing the Chief. And for months it had worked, until tonight. His whole body felt bruised. Except for one small patch, on his hand. Which still felt moist and warm no matter how hard he rubbed it dry.


    Beauvoir sensed a presence at his elbow and looked up.


    ¡°Good news,¡± said Inspector Tessier. ¡°You¡¯ve impressed Francoeur. He wants you on the raid.¡±


    Beauvoir¡¯s stomach curdled. He¡¯d already taken two OxyContin, but now the pain returned.


    Leaning over the desk, Tessier placed a pill bottle by Beauvoir¡¯s hand.


    ¡°We all need a little help every now and then.¡± Tessier tapped the top of the bottle, his voice light and low. ¡°Take one. It¡¯s nothing. Just a little relaxant. We all take them. You¡¯ll feel better.¡±


    Beauvoir stared at the bottle. A small warning sounded, but it was too deep and too late.


    SEVEN


    Armand Gamache turned off the lights, then he and Henri walked down the corridor, but instead of pressing the down button, he pressed up. Not to the very top floor, but the one just below it. He looked at his watch. Eight thirty. Perfect.


    A minute later he knocked on a door and went in without waiting for a response.


    ¡°Bon,¡± said Superintendent Brunel. ¡°You made it.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel, petite and soign¨¦e as always, rose and indicated a chair next to her husband, J¨¦r?me, who was also on his feet. They shook hands and everyone sat.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel was beyond the S?ret¨¦ retirement age, but no one had the stomach, or other organs, to tell her. She¡¯d come late to the force, been trained by Gamache, then rapidly lapped him, partly through her own hard work and ability, but partly, they all knew, because his career had hit a wall, constructed by Chief Superintendent Francoeur.


    They¡¯d been friends since the academy, when she was twice the age of any other recruit and he was her professor.


    The roles, the offices, the ranks they now enjoyed should have been reversed. Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel knew that. J¨¦r?me knew that. And Gamache knew that, though he alone didn¡¯t seem to care.


    They sat on the formal sofa and chairs, and Henri stretched out between Gamache and J¨¦r?me. The older man dropped an arm, absently stroking the shepherd.


    J¨¦r?me, hovering on the far side of seventy, was almost completely round, and had he been slightly smaller, Henri would have been tempted to chase him.


    Despite the difference in their ranks, it was clear that Armand Gamache was in charge. This was his meeting, if not his office.


    ¡°What¡¯s your news?¡± he asked Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    ¡°We¡¯re getting closer, I think, Armand, but there¡¯s a problem.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve hit a few walls,¡± J¨¦r?me explained. ¡°Whoever¡¯s done this is clever. Just when I get up a head of steam, I find I¡¯m actually in a cul-de-sac.¡±


    His voice was querulous, but his manner was jovial. J¨¦r?me had rolled forward, his hands clasped together. His eyes were bright and he was fighting a smile.


    He was enjoying himself.


    Dr. Brunel was an investigator, but not with the S?ret¨¦ du Qu¨¦bec. Now retired, he¡¯d been the head of emergency services for the H?pital Notre-Dame in Montr¨¦al. His training was to quickly assess a medical emergency, triage, diagnose. Then treat.


    Retired a few years now, he¡¯d refocused his energy and skills toward solving puzzles, cyphers. Both his wife and Chief Inspector Gamache had consulted him on cases involving codes. But it was more than a retired doctor passing the time. J¨¦r?me Brunel was a man born to solve puzzles. His mind saw and made connections that might take others hours or days, or never, to find.

 Page 23

    But Dr. Brunel¡¯s game of choice, his drug of choice, was computers. He was a cyber junkie, and Gamache had brought him uncut heroin in the form of this gnarly puzzle.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen so many layers of security,¡± said J¨¦r?me. ¡°Someone¡¯s tried very hard to hide this thing.¡±


    ¡°What thing, though?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°You asked us to find out who really leaked that video of the raid on the factory,¡± Superintendent Brunel said. ¡°The one you led, Armand.¡±


    He nodded. The video was taken from the tiny cameras each of the agents wore, attached to their headphones. They recorded everything.


    ¡°There was an investigation, of course,¡± Superintendent Brunel continued. ¡°The conclusion of the Cyber Crimes division was that a hacker had gotten lucky, found the files, edited them, and put them on the Internet.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit,¡± said Dr. Brunel. ¡°A hacker could never have just stumbled on those files. They¡¯re too well guarded.¡±


    ¡°So?¡± Gamache turned to J¨¦r?me. ¡°Who did?¡±


    But they all knew who¡¯d done it. If not a lucky hacker, it had to be someone inside the S?ret¨¦, and high enough up to cover his trail. But Dr. Brunel had found that trail, and followed it.


    They all knew it would lead to the office right above them. To the very highest level in the S?ret¨¦.


    But Gamache had long since begun to wonder if they were asking the right question. Not who, but why. He suspected they¡¯d find that the video was simply the disgusting dropping of a much larger creature. They¡¯d mistaken the merde for the actual menace.


    Armand Gamache looked at the gathering. A senior S?ret¨¦ officer, past her retirement age. A rotund doctor. And himself. A middle-aged, marginalized officer.


    Just the three of them. And the creature they sought seemed to grow each time they caught a glimpse of it.


    Gamache knew, though, that what was a disadvantage was also an advantage. They were easily overlooked, dismissed, especially by people who believed themselves invisible and invincible.


    ¡°I think we¡¯re getting closer, Armand, but I keep hitting dead ends,¡± said J¨¦r?me. The doctor suddenly looked a little furtive.


    ¡°Go on,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°I¡¯m not certain, but I think I detected a watcher.¡±


    Gamache said nothing. He knew what a watcher was, in physical as well as cyber terms. But he wanted J¨¦r?me to be more precise.


    ¡°If I have, he¡¯s very cunning and very skilled. It¡¯s possible he¡¯s been watching me for a while.¡±


    Gamache rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his large hands in front of him. Like a battleship plowing toward its target.


    ¡°Is it Francoeur?¡± Gamache asked. No need to pretend otherwise.


    ¡°Not him personally,¡± said J¨¦r?me, ¡°but I think whoever it is is within the S?ret¨¦ network. I¡¯ve been doing this for a long time now, and I¡¯ve never seen anything this sophisticated. Whenever I stop and look, he fades into the background.¡±


    ¡°How do you even know he¡¯s there?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°I don¡¯t for sure, but it¡¯s a sense, a movement, a shift.¡±


    Brunel paused and for the first time Gamache saw in the cheerful doctor a hint of concern. A sense that as good as he was, Dr. Brunel might be up against someone better.


    Gamache sat back in his chair as though something had walked by him, and pushed. What have we uncovered?


    Not only were they hunting the creature, it seemed the creature might now be hunting them.


    ¡°Does this watcher know who you are?¡± he asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°Think?¡± asked Gamache, his voice sharp, his eyes hard.


    ¡°No,¡± J¨¦r?me shook his head. ¡°He doesn¡¯t know.¡±


    Yet. The word was unspoken, but implied. Yet.


    ¡°Be careful, J¨¦r?me,¡± said Gamache, as he rose and picked up Henri¡¯s leash. He said his good-byes, left them, and headed into the night.


    The lights of the cities and towns and villages faded in his rearview mirror as they drove deeper into the forest. After a while the darkness was complete, except for the beams of his headlights on the snowy roads. Eventually he saw a soft glow ahead, and knew what it was. Gamache¡¯s car crested a hill, and there in the valley he saw three huge pines lit with green and red and yellow Christmas lights. Thousands of them, it seemed. And around the village cheery lights were hung along porches and picket fences and over the stone bridge.

 Page 24

    As his car descended, the signal on his device disappeared. No phone reception, no emails. It was as though he and Henri, asleep on the backseat, had fallen off the face of the earth.


    He parked in front of Myrna¡¯s New and Used Bookstore and noted the lights still on upstairs. So often he¡¯d come here to find death. This time he¡¯d brought it with him.


    EIGHT


    Clara Morrow was the first to notice the car arrive.


    She and Myrna had had a simple dinner of reheated stew and a salad, then she¡¯d gotten up to do the dishes, but Myrna soon joined her.


    ¡°I can do them,¡± said Clara, squirting the dishwashing liquid into the hot water and watching it foam. It was always strangely satisfying. It made Clara feel like a magician, or a witch, or an alchemist. Not, perhaps, as valuable as turning lead into gold, but useful all the same.


    Clara Morrow was not someone who liked housework. What she liked was magic. Water into foam. Dirty dishes into clean. A blank canvas into a work of art.


    It wasn¡¯t change she liked so much as metamorphosis.


    ¡°You sit down,¡± she said, but Myrna took the tea towel and reached for a warm, clean dish.


    ¡°It helps take my mind off things.¡±


    They both knew drying the dinner dishes was a fragile raft on a rough sea, but if it kept Myrna afloat for a while Clara was all for it.


    They fell into a reassuring rhythm. She washed and Myrna dried.


    When Clara was finished she drained the water, wiped the sink, and turned to face the room. It hadn¡¯t changed in the years since Myrna had given up her psychologist¡¯s practice in Montr¨¦al and packed her tiny car with all her worldly possessions. When she rolled into Three Pines she looked like someone who¡¯d run away from the circus.


    Out she climbed, an immense black woman, surely larger than the car itself. She¡¯d gotten lost on the back roads, and when she found the unexpected village she¡¯d stopped for a coffee, a pastry, a bathroom break. A pit stop on her way somewhere else. Somewhere more exciting, more promising. But Myrna Landers never left.


    Over caf¨¦ au lait and patisserie in the bistro, she realized that she was fine where she was.


    Myrna had unpacked, leased the empty shop next to Olivier¡¯s Bistro, and opened a new and used bookstore. She¡¯d moved upstairs, into the loft space.


    That¡¯s how Clara had first really gotten to know Myrna. She¡¯d dropped by to check out how the new bookstore was going and heard sweeping and swearing from above. Climbing the stairs at the back of the shop, Clara had found Myrna.


    Sweeping and swearing.


    They¡¯d been friends ever since.


    She¡¯d watched Myrna work her magic, turning an empty store into a bookshop. Turning an empty space into a meeting place. Turning a disused loft into a home. Turning an unhappy life into contentment.


    Three Pines might be stable but it was never still.


    When Clara surveyed the room, seeing the Christmas lights through the windows, she wasn¡¯t sure she¡¯d seen that brief flash. Headlights.


    But then she heard the car engine. She turned to Myrna, who¡¯d also heard it.


    They were both thinking the same thing.


    Constance.


    Clara tried to stomp down the relief, knowing it was premature, but found it bubbled up and around her caution.


    There was the tinkle of the door downstairs. And steps. They could hear a person, one person, walking across the floor below them.


    Myrna grabbed Clara¡¯s hand and called out, ¡°Hello?¡±


    There was a pause. And then a familiar voice.


    ¡°Myrna?¡±


    Clara felt Myrna¡¯s hand grow cold. It wasn¡¯t Constance. It was the messenger. The telegraph man, pulled up on his bicycle.


    It was the head of homicide for the S?ret¨¦.


    *   *   *


    Myrna held the mug of tea, untouched, in both hands. The purpose was to warm, not to drink.


    She stared into the window of the woodstove, at the flames and embers. They reflected off her face, giving it more animation than it actually held.


    Clara was on the sofa and Armand sat in the armchair across from Myrna. He too held a cup of tea in his large hands. But he watched Myrna, not the fire.


    Henri, after sniffing around the loft, had come to rest on the rug in front of the hearth.


    ¡°Do you think she suffered?¡± Myrna asked, her eyes not leaving the fire.


    ¡°I don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°And you don¡¯t know who did it?¡±


    It. It. Myrna couldn¡¯t yet bring herself to say out loud what ¡°it¡± was.


    When a day had gone by and Constance hadn¡¯t shown up, hadn¡¯t even called, Myrna had prepared herself for the worst. That Constance had had a heart attack. A stroke. An accident.

 Page 25

    It had never occurred to her that it could be even worse. That her friend hadn¡¯t lost her life, but that it had been taken from her.


    ¡°We don¡¯t know yet, but I¡¯ll find out.¡± Gamache was sitting forward now.


    ¡°Can you?¡± asked Clara, speaking for the first time since he¡¯d broken the news. ¡°Didn¡¯t she live in Montr¨¦al? Isn¡¯t that out of your jurisdiction?¡±


    ¡°It is, but the head of homicide for Montr¨¦al¡¯s a friend. He handed the case over to me. Did you know Constance well?¡± he asked Myrna.


    Myrna opened her mouth, then looked over at Clara.


    ¡°Oh,¡± said Clara, with sudden understanding. ¡°Would you like me to leave?¡±


    Myrna hesitated then shook her head. ¡°No, sorry. Force of habit, to not talk about a client.¡±


    ¡°She was a client then,¡± said Gamache. He didn¡¯t take out his notebook, preferring to listen intently. ¡°Not just a friend.¡±


    ¡°A client first, then a friend.¡±


    ¡°How did you meet?¡±


    ¡°She came for counseling a number of years ago.¡±


    ¡°How long ago?¡±


    Myrna thought. ¡°Twenty-three years.¡± She seemed a little amazed by that. ¡°I¡¯ve known her for twenty-three years,¡± Myrna marveled, then forced herself back to the reality. ¡°After she stopped coming for therapy, we stayed in touch. We¡¯d go for dinner, a play. Not often, but as two single women we found we had a lot in common. I liked her.¡±


    ¡°Was that unusual,¡± Gamache asked, ¡°becoming personal friends with a client?¡±


    ¡°A former client, but yes, extremely. It¡¯s the only time it¡¯s happened with me. A therapist has to have clear boundaries, even with former clients. People already get into our heads¡ªif they also get into our lives, there¡¯s a problem.¡±


    ¡°But Constance did?¡±


    Myrna nodded. ¡°I think we were both a little lonely, and she seemed pretty sane.¡±


    ¡°Pretty?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°Who among us is totally sane, Chief Inspector?¡±


    They looked at Clara, whose hair was again standing on end, the terrible convergence of hat head, static electricity, and the habit of running her hands through it.


    ¡°What?¡± asked Clara.


    Gamache turned back to Myrna. ¡°Had you seen Constance since you moved to Three Pines?¡±


    ¡°A couple of times, when I went in to Montr¨¦al. Never out here. Mostly we kept in touch through cards and phone calls. The truth is, we¡¯d drifted apart in recent years.¡±


    ¡°So what brought her down for a visit now?¡± the Chief asked. ¡°Did you invite her?¡±


    Myrna thought about that, then shook her head. ¡°No, I don¡¯t think so. I think it was her idea, though it¡¯s possible she hinted she¡¯d like to come and I invited her.¡±


    ¡°Did she have any particular reason for wanting to visit?¡±


    Again, Myrna considered before answering. ¡°Her sister died in October, as you probably heard¡ª¡±


    Gamache nodded. It had been in the news, as Constance¡¯s death would be. The murder of Constance Pineault was a statistic. The murder of Constance Ouellet was headline news.


    ¡°With her sisters gone there was no one else in her life,¡± said Myrna. ¡°Constance was very private. Nothing wrong with that, but it had become a sort of mania with her.¡±


    ¡°Can you give me the names of some of her friends?¡±


    Myrna shook her head.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know any?¡± he asked.


    ¡°She didn¡¯t have any.¡±


    ¡°Pardon?¡±


    ¡°Constance had no friends,¡± said Myrna.


    Gamache stared at her. ¡°None?¡±


    ¡°None.¡±


    ¡°You were her friend,¡± said Clara. ¡°She was friends with everyone here. Even Ruth.¡±


    Though even as she said it, Clara realized her error. She¡¯d mistaken being friendly for being friends.


    Myrna was quiet for a moment before she spoke.


    ¡°Constance gave the impression of friendship and intimacy without actually feeling it.¡±


    ¡°You mean that was all a lie?¡± asked Clara.


    ¡°Not totally. I don¡¯t want you to think she was a sociopath or anything. She liked people, but there was always a barrier.¡±


    ¡°Even for you?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°Even for me. There were large parts of her life she kept well hidden.¡±


    Clara remembered their exchange in the studio, when Constance had refused to let Clara paint her portrait. She hadn¡¯t been rude, but she had been firm. It was certainly a shove back.

 Page 26

    ¡°What is it?¡± Gamache asked, seeing the look of concentration on Myrna¡¯s face.


    ¡°I was just thinking about what Clara said, and she¡¯s right. I think Constance was happy here, I think she genuinely felt comfortable with everyone, even Ruth.¡±


    ¡°What does that tell you?¡± Gamache asked.


    Myrna thought. ¡°I wonder¡­¡±


    She stared across the room, out the window, to the pines lit for Christmas. The bulbs bobbed in the night breeze.


    ¡°I wonder if she was finally opening up,¡± said Myrna, bringing her gaze back to her guests. ¡°I hadn¡¯t thought about it, but she seemed less guarded, more genuine, especially as the days went on.¡±


    ¡°She wouldn¡¯t let me paint her portrait,¡± said Clara.


    Myrna smiled. ¡°But that¡¯s understandable, don¡¯t you think? It was the very thing she and her sisters most feared. Being put on display.¡±


    ¡°But I didn¡¯t know who she was then,¡± said Clara.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t matter. She knew,¡± said Myrna. ¡°But I think by the time she left, she felt safe here, whether her secret was out or not.¡±


    ¡°And was her secret out?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t tell,¡± said Myrna.


    Gamache looked at the magazine on the footstool. A very old copy of Life, and on the cover a famous photo.


    ¡°And yet you obviously knew who she was,¡± he said to Clara.


    ¡°I told Clara this afternoon,¡± Myrna explained. ¡°When I began to accept that Constance would probably never show up.¡±


    ¡°And no one else knew?¡± he repeated, picking up the magazine and staring at the picture. One he¡¯d seen many times before. Five little girls, in muffs and pretty little winter coats. Identical coats. Identical girls.


    ¡°Not that I know of,¡± said Myrna.


    And once again, Gamache wondered if the man who¡¯d killed Constance knew who she was, and realized he was killing the last of her kind. The last of the Ouellet quintuplets.


    NINE


    Armand stepped outside into the cold, crisp night. The snow had long since stopped and the sky had cleared. It was just past midnight, and as he stood there, taking deep breaths of the clean air, the lights on the trees went out.


    The Chief Inspector and Henri were the lone creatures in a dark world. He looked up, and slowly the stars appeared. Orion¡¯s Belt. The Big Dipper. The North Star. And millions and millions of other lights. All very, very clear now, and only now. The light only visible in the dark.


    Gamache found himself uncertain what to do and where to go. He could return to Montr¨¦al, though he was tired and would rather not, but he hadn¡¯t made any arrangements to stay at the B and B, preferring to go straight to Myrna. And now it was past midnight and all the lights were out at the B and B. He could only just make out the outline of the former coach inn against the forest beyond.


    But as he watched, a light, softened by curtains, appeared at an upstairs window. And then, a few moments later, another downstairs. Then he saw a light through the window in the front door, just before it opened. A large man stood silhouetted on the threshold.


    ¡°Come here, boy, come here,¡± the voice called, and Henri tugged at the leash.


    Gamache dropped it and the shepherd took off along the path, up the stairs and into Gabri¡¯s arms.


    When Gamache arrived, Gabri struggled to his feet.


    ¡°Good boy.¡± He embraced the Chief Inspector. ¡°Get inside. I¡¯m freezing my ass off. Not that it couldn¡¯t use it.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you know we were here?¡±


    ¡°Myrna called. She thought you might need a room.¡± He regarded his unexpected guest. ¡°You do want to stay, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Very much,¡± said the Chief, and had rarely meant anything more.


    Gabri closed the door behind them.


    *   *   *


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir sat in his car and stared at the closed door. He was slumped down. Not so far as to disappear completely, but far enough to make it look like he was trying to be discreet. It was calculated and, somewhere below the haze, he knew it was also pathetic.


    But he didn¡¯t care anymore. He just wanted Annie to look out her window. To recognize his car. To see him there. To open the door.


    He wanted ¡­


    He wanted ¡­


    He wanted to feel her in his arms again. To smell her scent. He wanted her to whisper, ¡°It¡¯ll be all right.¡±


    Most of all, he wanted to believe it.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Myrna told us that Constance was missing,¡± said Gabri, reaching for a hanger for Gamache¡¯s coat. He took the parka from the Chief and paused. ¡°Are you here about her?¡±

 Page 27

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid so.¡±


    Gabri hesitated just an instant before asking, ¡°She¡¯s dead?¡±


    The Chief nodded.


    Gabri hugged the parka and stared at Gamache. While he longed to ask more questions, he didn¡¯t. He could see the Chief¡¯s exhaustion. Instead he finished hanging up the coat and walked to the stairs.


    Gamache followed the immense, swaying dressing gown up the stairs.


    Gabri led them along the passage and stopped at a familiar door. He flicked a switch to reveal the room Gamache always stayed in. Unlike Gabri, this room, indeed the entire bed and breakfast, was a model of restraint. Oriental throw rugs were scattered on the wide-plank floor. The dark wood bed was large and inviting and made up with crisp white linens, a thick white duvet, and down pillows.


    It was uncluttered and comforting. Simple and welcoming.


    ¡°Have you had dinner?¡±


    ¡°No, but I¡¯ll be fine until morning.¡± The clock on the bedside table said 12:30.


    Gabri crossed to the window, opened it a sliver to let the fresh, cold air in, and pulled the curtains closed.


    ¡°What time would you like to get up?¡±


    ¡°Six thirty too early?¡±


    Gabri blanched. ¡°Not at all. We¡¯re always up at that hour.¡± At the door he paused. ¡°You do mean six thirty P.M., right?¡±


    Gamache placed his satchel on the floor by the bed.


    ¡°Merci, patron,¡± he said with a smile, holding Gabri¡¯s eyes for a moment.


    Before changing, Gamache looked at Henri, who was standing by the door.


    The Chief stood in the middle of the room, looking from the warm, soft bed to Henri and back again.


    ¡°Oh, Henri, you¡¯d better want to do more than just play,¡± he sighed, and fished in Henri¡¯s satchel for the tennis ball and a bag.


    They went quietly down the stairs. Gamache put his parka, gloves, and hat back on, unlocked the door and the two headed into the night. He didn¡¯t put Henri on the leash. There was very little danger he¡¯d run away, since Henri was among the least adventurous dogs Gamache knew.


    The village was completely dark now, the homes just hinted at in front of the forest. They walked over to the village green. Gamache watched with satisfaction and a silent prayer of thanks as Henri did his business. The Chief picked it up with the bag, then turned to give Henri his treat.


    But there was no dog. Every walk, over hundreds of walks, Henri had stood beside Gamache, looking up expectantly. One treat deserved another. A quid pro quo.


    But now, inconceivably, Henri wasn¡¯t there. He¡¯d disappeared.


    Gamache cursed himself for a fool and looked at the empty leash in his hand. Had Henri gotten a whiff of deer or coyote, and taken off into the woods?


    ¡°Henri,¡± the Chief called. ¡°Come here, boy.¡±


    He whistled and then noticed the paw prints in the snow. They headed back across the road, but not toward the bed and breakfast.


    Gamache bent over and followed them at a jog. Across the road, over a snow bank. Onto a front lawn. Down an unshoveled walkway. For the second time that day, the Chief felt snow tumble down his boots and melt into his socks. Another soaker. But he didn¡¯t care. All he wanted was to find Henri.


    Gamache stopped. There was a dark figure, with immense ears, looking up expectantly at a door. His tail wagging. Waiting to be let in.


    The Chief felt his heart simmer down and he took a deep, calming breath.


    ¡°Henri,¡± he whispered vehemently. ¡°Viens ici.¡±


    The shepherd looked in his direction.


    Gone to the wrong house, thought Gamache, not altogether surprised. While Henri had a huge heart, he had quite a modest brain. His head was taken up almost entirely by his ears. In fact, his head seemed simply a sort of mount for those ears. Fortunately Henri didn¡¯t really need his head. He kept all the important things in his heart. Except, perhaps, his current address.


    ¡°Come here,¡± the Chief gestured, surprised that Henri, so well trained and normally so compliant, hadn¡¯t immediately responded. ¡°You¡¯ll scare the people half to death.¡±


    But even as he spoke, the Chief realized that Henri hadn¡¯t made a mistake at all. He¡¯d meant to come to this house. Henri knew the B and B, but he knew the house better.


    Henri had grown up here. He¡¯d been rescued and brought to this house as a puppy, to be raised by an elderly woman. Emilie Longpr¨¦ had saved him, and named him, and loved him. And Henri had loved her.


    This had been, and in some ways always would be, Henri¡¯s home.


    Gamache had forgotten that Henri knew Three Pines better than he ever would. Every scent, every blade of grass, every tree, every one.

 Page 28

    Gamache looked down at the paw and boot prints in the snow. The front walk hadn¡¯t been shoveled. The steps up to the verandah hadn¡¯t been cleaned. The home was dark. And empty.


    No one lived there, he was sure, and probably hadn¡¯t in the years since Emilie Longpr¨¦ had died. When Armand and Reine-Marie had decided to adopt the orphan puppy.


    Henri hadn¡¯t forgotten. Or more likely, thought Gamache as he climbed the snowy steps to retrieve the dog, he knew this home by heart. And now the shepherd waited, his tail swishing back and forth, for a woman long dead to let him in and give him a cookie, and tell him he was a good boy.


    ¡°Good boy,¡± whispered Gamache into the immense ears, as he bent down and clipped the leash on Henri. But before going back down the stairs, the Chief peered into a window.


    He saw furniture covered in sheets. Ghost furniture.


    Then he and Henri stepped off the porch. Under a canopy of stars he and Henri walked slowly around the village green.


    One of them thinking, one of them remembering.


    *   *   *


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel got up on one elbow and looked over the lump in the bed that was J¨¦r?me, to the clock on the bedside table.


    It was past one in the morning. She lowered herself onto the mattress and watched her husband¡¯s easy breathing, and envied him his calm.


    She wondered if it was because he really didn¡¯t grasp the seriousness of the situation, though he was a thoughtful man and should.


    Or, perhaps most likely, J¨¦r?me trusted his wife and Armand to know what to do.


    For most of their married life, Th¨¦r¨¨se had been comforted by the thought that as an emergency room physician J¨¦r?me would always be able to help. If she or one of the children choked. Or hit their head. Or were in an accident. Or had a heart attack. He¡¯d save them.


    But now she realized the roles were reversed. He was counting on her. She hadn¡¯t the heart to tell him she had no idea what to do. She¡¯d been trained to deal with clear targets, obvious goals. Solve the crime, arrest the criminal. But now everything seemed blurry. Ill-defined.


    As Superintendent Brunel stared at the ceiling, listening to the heavy, rhythmic breathing of her husband, she realized it came down to two possibilities. That J¨¦r?me had not been found in cyber space. Had not been followed. That it was a mirage.


    Or that he had been found. And followed.


    Which meant someone high up in the S?ret¨¦ had gone to a great deal of trouble to cover up what they were doing. More trouble than a viral video, no matter how vile, warranted.


    Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, she thought the unthinkable. What if the creature they hunted had been there for years, growing and scheming? Putting patient plans in place?


    Is that what they¡¯d stumbled upon? In following the hacked video, had J¨¦r?me found something much larger, older, even more contemptible?


    She looked at her husband and noticed that he was awake after all and also staring at the ceiling. She touched his arm and he rolled over, bringing his face very close to hers.


    Taking both her hands in his, he whispered, ¡°It¡¯ll be all right, ma belle.¡±


    She wished she could believe him.


    *   *   *


    On the far side of the village green, the Chief Inspector paused. Henri, on his leash, stood patiently in the cold as Gamache studied the dark and empty house where Henri had been raised. Where Henri had taken him that evening.


    And a thought formed.


    After a minute or so Gamache noticed that the shepherd was raising and lowering his front paws, trying to get them away from the snow and ice underfoot.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go, mon vieux,¡± he said, and walked rapidly back to the B and B.


    In the bedroom, the Chief found a plate of thick ham sandwiches, some cookies, and a hot chocolate. He could hardly wait to crawl into bed with his dinner.


    But first he knelt down and held Henri¡¯s cold paws in his warm hands. One after the other. Then into those ears he whispered, ¡°It¡¯ll be all right.¡±


    And Henri believed him.


    TEN


    A tap on the door awakened Gamache at six thirty the next morning.


    ¡°Merci, patron,¡± he called, then threw off the duvet and went gingerly across the cold room to shut the window.


    After showering, he and Henri headed downstairs, following the scent of strong coffee and maple-smoked bacon. A fire popped and leapt in the grate.


    ¡°One egg or two, patron?¡± called Gabri.


    Gamache looked into the kitchen. ¡°Two eggs, please. Thank you for the sandwiches last night.¡± He put the empty plates and mug in the sink. ¡°They were delicious.¡±

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    ¡°Slept well?¡± Gabri asked, looking up from pushing the bacon around the skillet.


    ¡°Very.¡±


    And he had. It had been a deep and restful sleep, his first in a very long time.


    ¡°Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back by then.¡±


    At the front door he met Olivier and the two men embraced.


    ¡°I heard you were here,¡± said Olivier, as they bent to put on their boots.


    Straightening up, Olivier paused. ¡°Gabri told me about Constance. What a terrible thing. Heart?¡±


    When Gamache didn¡¯t respond, Olivier¡¯s eyes slowly widened, trying to take in the enormity of what he saw in the Chief¡¯s somber face.


    ¡°It¡¯s not possible,¡± he whispered. ¡°Someone killed her?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid so.¡±


    ¡°My God.¡± Olivier shook his head. ¡°Fucking city.¡±


    ¡°Glass houses, monsieur?¡± asked Gamache.


    Olivier pursed his lips and followed Gamache onto the front porch, where the Chief clipped Henri onto his leash. They were approaching the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The sun wasn¡¯t yet up, but villagers were beginning to stir. Even as the two men and the dog stood there, lights appeared at windows around the green and there was a faint scent of wood smoke in the air.


    They walked together toward the bistro, where Olivier would prepare for the breakfast crowd.


    ¡°How?¡± Olivier asked.


    ¡°She was attacked in her home. Hit on the head.¡±


    Even in the dark, Gamache could see his companion grimace. ¡°Why would anyone do that?¡±


    And that, of course, was the question, thought Gamache.


    Sometimes it was ¡°how,¡± almost always it was ¡°who.¡± But the question that haunted every investigation was ¡°why.¡±


    Why had someone killed this seventy-seven-year-old woman? And had they killed Constance Pineault, or Constance Ouellet? Did the murderer know she was one of the celebrated Ouellet Quints? And not just a Quint, but the last one?


    Why?


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Gamache admitted.


    ¡°Is it your case?¡±


    Gamache nodded, his head dipping in rhythm with his steps.


    They came to rest in front of the bistro and Olivier was about to say good-bye when the Chief reached out and touched his arm. Olivier looked down at the gloved hand, then up into the intense brown eyes.


    Olivier waited.


    Gamache lowered his hand. He was far from certain that what he was about to do was wise. Olivier¡¯s handsome face was turning pink in the cold, and his breath was coming in long, easy puffs.


    The Chief broke eye contact and concentrated on Henri, rolling in the snow, his feet thrashing in the air.


    ¡°Will you walk with me?¡±


    Olivier was a little surprised, and more than a little guarded. It was rarely a good sign, in Olivier¡¯s experience, when the head of homicide asked to speak privately.


    The hard-packed snow of the road squeaked as they walked with a measured pace around the village green. A tall, substantial man and a shorter, slighter, younger man. Heads bent together, sharing confidences. Not about the murder, but about something else entirely.


    They stopped in front of Emilie Longpr¨¦¡¯s home. There was no smoke from the chimney. No light at the windows. But it was filled with memories of an elderly woman Gamache had greatly admired and Henri had loved. The two men looked at the house, and Gamache explained what he wanted.


    ¡°I understand, patron,¡± said Olivier after listening to the Chief¡¯s request.


    ¡°Thank you. Can you keep this to yourself?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    They parted, Olivier to open his bistro, Gamache and Henri for breakfast at the B and B.


    A large bowl of caf¨¦ au lait was waiting for the Chief on the worn pine table in front of the fireplace. After feeding Henri and giving him fresh water, Gamache settled at the table, sipping his caf¨¦ and making notes. Henri lay at his feet but looked up when Gabri arrived.


    ¡°Voil¨¤.¡± The innkeeper put a plate with two eggs, bacon, toasted English muffins, and fresh fruit on the table, then he made himself a caf¨¦ au lait and joined the Chief.


    ¡°Olivier called a few moments ago from the bistro,¡± said Gabri. ¡°He told me that Constance had been killed. Is it true?¡±


    Gamache nodded and took a sip of his own caf¨¦. It was rich and strong. ¡°Did he tell you anything else?¡± Gamache kept his voice light, but studied Gabri.


    ¡°He said she¡¯d been at home.¡±


    Gamache waited, but it seemed Olivier had kept the rest of their conversation secret, as he¡¯d promised.

 Page 30

    ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°But why?¡± Gabri reached for one of the toasted English muffins.


    There it was again, thought Gamache. Like his partner, Gabri hadn¡¯t asked who, but why.


    Gamache, of course, could answer neither of those questions yet.


    ¡°What did you think of her?¡±


    ¡°She was only here a few days, you know,¡± said Gabri. Then he considered the question. Gamache waited, curious to hear the answer.


    ¡°When she arrived she was friendly but reserved,¡± said Gabri, finally. ¡°She didn¡¯t like gays, that was obvious.¡±


    ¡°And did you like her?¡±


    ¡°I did. Some people just haven¡¯t met many queers, that¡¯s their problem.¡±


    ¡°And once she had met you and Olivier?¡±


    ¡°Well, she didn¡¯t exactly become a fag hag, but the next best thing.¡±


    ¡°Which is?¡±


    Instead of a clever quip, Gabri grew serious. ¡°She became very motherly, to both of us. To all of us, I think. Except Ruth.¡±


    ¡°And with Ruth, what was she like?¡±


    ¡°At first Ruth wouldn¡¯t have anything to do with her. Hated Constance on sight. As you know, it¡¯s a point of pride for Ruth, that she hates everyone. She and Rosa kept their distance and muttered obscenities from afar.¡±


    ¡°Ruth¡¯s normal reaction, then,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad Rosa¡¯s back,¡± Gabri confided in a whisper, then looked around in exaggerated concern. ¡°But does she look a little like a flying monkey to you?¡±


    ¡°I wonder if we can stick to the point, Dorothy,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°The funny thing is, after treating Constance like something Rosa pooped, Ruth suddenly warmed to her.¡±


    ¡°Ruth?¡±


    ¡°I know. I¡¯d never seen anything like it. They even had dinner together one night, at Ruth¡¯s home. Alone.¡±


    ¡°Ruth?¡± Gamache repeated.


    Gabri put marmalade on his muffin and nodded. Gamache studied him, but Gabri didn¡¯t seem to be hiding anything. And the Chief realized Gabri did not know who Constance was. If he did, he¡¯d have said something by now.


    ¡°So as far as you can tell, nothing that happened here would explain her death?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    Gamache finished his breakfast, with Gabri¡¯s help, then he got up and called Henri.


    ¡°Should I keep your room for you?¡±


    ¡°Please.¡±


    ¡°And one for Inspector Beauvoir, of course. He¡¯ll be joining you?¡±


    ¡°No, actually. He¡¯s on another assignment.¡±


    Gabri paused, then nodded. ¡°Ahh.¡±


    Neither man really knew what the ¡°ahh¡± was supposed to mean.


    Gamache wondered how long it would be before people stopped looking at him and seeing Beauvoir standing beside him. And how long would it be before he himself stopped expecting to see Jean-Guy there? It wasn¡¯t the ache that was so difficult to bear, thought Gamache. It was the weight.


    When the Chief Inspector and Henri arrived at the bistro, it was full with the breakfast rush, though ¡°rush¡± might have been the wrong word. No one seemed in much of a hurry.


    Many of the villagers were lingering over coffee, settling into seats by the fires with their morning papers, which came in a day late from Montr¨¦al. Some sat at the small round tables, eating French toast or cr¨ºpes or bacon and eggs.


    The sun was just coming up on what would be a brilliant day.


    As he walked through the door, all eyes turned to him. He was used to that. They would, of course, know about Constance. They knew she was missing, and now they¡¯d know she was dead. Murdered.


    The eyes that met his, as he scanned the open room, were curious, some pained, some searching, some simply inquisitive, as though he carried a sack of answers slung over his shoulder.


    As he hung up his parka, Gamache noticed a few smiles. The villagers had recognized his companion, he of the ears. A returning son. And Henri recognized them, and greeted them with licks and wags and inappropriate sniffs as they walked through the bistro.


    ¡°Over here.¡±


    Gamache saw Clara standing by a group of armchairs and a sofa. He returned the wave and threaded his way between tables. Olivier joined him there, a tea towel slung over his shoulder and a damp cloth in his hand. He wiped the table as the Chief greeted Myrna, Clara, and Ruth.


    ¡°Do you mind if Henri stays, or would you rather I leave him in the B and B?¡± Gamache asked.


    Olivier looked over at Rosa. The duck was sitting in an armchair by the fire, a copy of the Montr¨¦al Gazette beneath her and La Presse slung over the arm, waiting to be read.

 Page 31

    ¡°I think it¡¯ll be fine,¡± said Olivier.


    Ruth whacked the seat beside her on the sofa, in what could only be interpreted as an invitation. It was like receiving a personalized Molotov cocktail.


    Gamache sat.


    ¡°So, where¡¯s Beauvoir?¡±


    The Chief had forgotten that, against all odds and nature, Jean-Guy and Ruth had struck up a friendship. Or, at least, an understanding.


    ¡°He¡¯s on another assignment.¡±


    Ruth glared at the Chief and he held her eyes, calmly.


    ¡°Finally saw through you, did he?¡±


    Gamache smiled. ¡°Must have.¡±


    ¡°And your daughter? Is he still in love with her, or did he make a balls-up of that too?¡±


    Gamache continued to hold the cold, old eyes.


    ¡°I¡¯m happy to see Rosa back,¡± he said at last. ¡°She looks well.¡±


    Ruth looked from Gamache to the duck, then back to the Chief. Then she did something he¡¯d rarely seen before. She relented.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said.


    Armand took a deep breath. The bistro smelled of fresh pine and wood smoke and a hint of candy cane. A wreath hung over the mantel and a tree stood in the corner, decorated with mismatched Christmas ornaments and candies.


    He turned to Myrna. ¡°How¡¯re you this morning?¡±


    ¡°Pretty awful,¡± she said with a small smile. And indeed, she looked as though she hadn¡¯t had much sleep.


    Clara reached out and held her friend¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Inspector Lacoste will get all the hard evidence this morning from the Montr¨¦al police,¡± he told them. ¡°I¡¯ll drive into the city and we¡¯ll go over the interviews. One main question is whether the person who killed Constance knew who she really was.¡±


    ¡°You mean, was it a stranger?¡± asked Olivier. ¡°Or someone who targeted Constance on purpose?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s always a question,¡± admitted Gamache.


    ¡°Do you think they meant to kill her?¡± asked Clara. ¡°Or was it a mistake? A robbery that got out of control?¡±


    ¡°Was there mens rea, a guilty mind, or was it an accident?¡± said Gamache. ¡°Those are questions we¡¯ll be asking.¡±


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± said Gabri, who¡¯d joined them, but been uncharacteristically quiet. ¡°What did you mean, ¡®who she really was¡¯? Not ¡®who she was,¡¯ but ¡®who she really was.¡¯ What did you mean by that?¡±


    Gabri looked from Gamache to Myrna, then back again.


    ¡°Who was she?¡±


    The Chief Inspector sat forward, about to answer, then he looked over at Myrna, sitting quietly in her chair. He nodded. It was a secret Myrna had kept for decades. It was her secret to give up.


    Myrna opened her mouth, but another voice, a querulous voice, spoke.


    ¡°She was Constance Ouellet, shithead.¡±


    ELEVEN


    ¡°Constance Ouellet-Shithead?¡± asked Gabri.


    Ruth and Rosa glared at him.


    ¡°Fuck, fuck, fuck,¡± muttered the duck.


    ¡°She¡¯s Constance Ouellet,¡± Ruth clarified, her voice glacial. ¡°You¡¯re the shithead.¡±


    ¡°You knew?¡± Myrna asked the old poet.


    Ruth picked up Rosa, placing the duck on her lap and stroking her like a cat. Rosa stretched her neck, straining her beak upward toward Ruth, and making a nest of the old body.


    ¡°Not at first. I thought she was just some boring old fart. Like you.¡±


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± said Gabri, waving his large hand in front of him as though trying to clear away the confusion. ¡°Constance Pineault was Constance Ouellet?¡±


    He turned to Olivier.


    ¡°Did you know?¡± But it was clear his partner was equally amazed.


    Gabri looked around the gathering and finally came to rest on Gamache.


    ¡°Are we talking about the same thing? The Ouellet Quints?¡±


    ¡°C¡¯est ?a,¡± said the Chief.


    ¡°The quintuplets?¡± Gabri insisted, still unable to fully grasp it.


    ¡°That¡¯s it,¡± Gamache assured him. But it only seemed to increase Gabri¡¯s bafflement.


    ¡°I thought they were dead,¡± he said.


    ¡°Why do people keep saying that?¡± Myrna asked.


    ¡°Well, it all seems so long ago. Once upon a time.¡±


    They sat in silence. Gabri had nailed it. Exactly what most of them had been thinking. Not so much amazement that one of the Ouellet Quints was dead, but that any were still alive. And that one had walked among them.


    The Quints were legend in Qu¨¦bec. In Canada. Worldwide. They were a phenomenon. Freaks, almost. Five little girls, identical. Born in the depths of the Depression. Conceived without fertility drugs. In vivo, not in vitro. The only known natural quintuplets to survive. And they had survived, for seventy-seven years. Until yesterday.

 Page 32

    ¡°Constance was the only one left,¡± said Myrna. ¡°Her sister, Marguerite, died in October. A stroke.¡±


    ¡°Did Constance marry?¡± asked Olivier. ¡°Is that where Pineault came from?¡±


    ¡°No, none of the Quints married,¡± said Myrna. ¡°They went by their mother¡¯s maiden name, Pineault.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± asked Gabri.


    ¡°Why do you think, numb nuts?¡± asked Ruth. ¡°Not everyone craves attention, you know.¡±


    ¡°So how did you know who she was?¡± Gabri demanded.


    That shut Ruth up, much to everyone¡¯s amazement. They¡¯d expected a brusque retort, not silence.


    ¡°She told me,¡± Ruth finally said. ¡°We didn¡¯t talk about it, though.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come on,¡± said Myrna. ¡°She told you she was a Ouellet Quint and you didn¡¯t ask a single question?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care if you believe me,¡± said Ruth. ¡°It¡¯s the truth, alas.¡±


    ¡°Truth? You wouldn¡¯t know the truth if it bit you on the alas,¡± said Gabri.


    Ruth ignored him and focused on Gamache, who¡¯d been watching her closely.


    ¡°Was she killed because she was a Ouellet Quint?¡± Ruth asked him.


    ¡°What do you think?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I can¡¯t see why,¡± Ruth admitted. ¡°And yet¡­¡±


    And yet, thought Gamache, as he rose. And yet. Why else would she be killed?


    He looked at his watch. Almost nine. Time to get going. He excused himself to make a phone call from the bar, remembering in time that his cell phone didn¡¯t work in Three Pines, and neither did email. He almost expected to see messages fluttering back and forth in the sky above the village, unable to descend. Waiting for him to head up the hill out of Three Pines, and then dive-bombing him.


    But as long as he was here, none could reach him. Armand Gamache suspected that partly explained his good night¡¯s sleep. And he suspected it also explained Constance Ouellet¡¯s growing ease in the village.


    She was safe there. Nothing could reach her. It was only in leaving that she¡¯d been killed.


    Or ¡­


    As the phone rang his thoughts sped along.


    Or ¡­


    She hadn¡¯t been killed when she left, he realized. Constance Ouellet had been murdered when she¡¯d tried to return to Three Pines.


    ¡°Bonjour, patron.¡± Inspector Lacoste¡¯s bright voice came down the landline.


    ¡°How¡¯d you know it was me?¡± he asked.


    ¡°The caller ID said ¡®Bistro.¡¯ It¡¯s our code word for you.¡±


    He paused for a moment, wondering if that was true, then she laughed.


    ¡°You¡¯re still in Three Pines?¡±


    ¡°Yes, just leaving. What do you have?¡±


    ¡°We got the autopsy and forensics from the Montr¨¦al police, and I¡¯m reading through the statements from the neighbors. It¡¯s all been sent to you.¡±


    Among the messages hovering overhead, thought Gamache.


    ¡°Anything I should know?¡±


    ¡°Not so far. It seems the neighbors didn¡¯t know who she was.¡±


    ¡°Do they now?¡±


    ¡°We haven¡¯t told them. Want to keep it quiet for as long as possible. There¡¯ll be a media storm when it comes out that the last Quint hasn¡¯t just died, but been murdered.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like to see the scene again. Can you meet me at the Ouellet home in an hour and a half?¡±


    ¡°D¡¯accord,¡± said Lacoste.


    Gamache looked up, into the mirror behind the bar. In it he saw himself reflected, and behind him the bistro, with its Christmas decorations, and the window into the snowy village. The sun was now up, cresting the tree line, and the sky was the palest of winter blues. Most of the patrons of the bistro had gone back to their conversations, excited now, animated by the news that they¡¯d met, in person, a Ouellet Quint. Gamache could sense the ebb and flow of their emotions. Excitement at the discovery. Then remembering she was dead. Then back to the Quint phenomenon. Then the murder. It was like atoms racing between poles. Unable to rest in any one place.


    Around the fireplace, the friends were commiserating with Myrna. And yet¡ª He¡¯d had the impression that as he¡¯d looked into the reflection, there¡¯d been a movement. Someone had been staring at him and had quickly dropped their eyes.


    But one set of eyes remained on him. Staring, unyielding.


    Henri.


    The shepherd sat perfectly contained, oblivious to the hubbub around him. He stared at Gamache. Transfixed. Waiting. He would wait forever, secure in the absolute certainty that Gamache would not forget him.

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    Gamache held the shepherd¡¯s eyes and smiled into the mirror. Henri¡¯s tail twitched, but the rest of his body remained stone still.


    ¡°What now, patron?¡± asked Olivier, coming around the bar as Gamache replaced the phone.


    ¡°Now I head back to Montr¨¦al. Work to do, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    Olivier picked up the phone. ¡°And I have work to do as well. Good luck, Chief Inspector.¡±


    ¡°Good luck to you, mon vieux.¡±


    *   *   *


    Chief Inspector Gamache met Isabelle Lacoste just outside Constance¡¯s home and they went in together.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Henri?¡± she asked, turning on the lights in the house. It was a sunny day, but the home felt dull, as though the color was draining from it.


    ¡°I left him in Three Pines with Clara. They both seemed pretty happy about that.¡±


    He¡¯d assured Henri he¡¯d be back, and the shepherd had believed him.


    Gamache and Lacoste sat at the kitchen table and went over the interviews and forensics. The Montr¨¦al police had been thorough, taking statements and samples and fingerprints.


    ¡°Only her prints, I see,¡± said Gamache, not looking up as he read the report. ¡°No sign of forced entry and the door was unlocked when we arrived.¡±


    ¡°That might not mean anything,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°When you get to the statements by the neighbors, you¡¯ll see that most don¡¯t lock their doors during the day, when they¡¯re at home. It¡¯s an old, established neighborhood. No crime. Families have lived here for years. Generations in some cases.¡±


    Gamache nodded but suspected Constance Ouellet had probably locked her doors. Her most valued possession seemed to be privacy, and she wouldn¡¯t have wanted any well-meaning neighbor stealing it.


    ¡°Coroner confirms she was killed before midnight,¡± he read. ¡°She¡¯d been dead a day and a half by the time we found her.¡±


    ¡°That also explains why no one saw anything,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°It was dark and cold and everyone was inside asleep or watching television or wrapping gifts. And then it snowed all day and covered any tracks there might¡¯ve been.¡±


    ¡°How did he get in?¡± Gamache asked, looking up and meeting Lacoste¡¯s eyes. Around them the dated kitchen seemed to be waiting for one of them to make a pot of tea, or eat the biscuits in the tin. It was a hospitable kitchen.


    ¡°Well, the door was unlocked when we arrived, so either she left it unlocked and he let himself in, or she had it locked, he rang, and she let him in.¡±


    ¡°Then he killed her and left,¡± said Gamache, ¡°leaving the door unlocked behind him.¡±


    Lacoste nodded and watched as Gamache sat back and shook his head.


    ¡°Constance Ouellet wouldn¡¯t have let him in. Myrna said she was almost pathologically private, and this confirms it.¡± He tapped the forensics report. ¡°When was the last time you saw a house with only one set of prints? No one came into this home. At least, no one was invited in.¡±


    ¡°Then the door must¡¯ve been unlocked and he let himself in.¡±


    ¡°But an unlocked door was also against her nature,¡± said the Chief. ¡°And let¡¯s say she¡¯d gotten into the habit of keeping her door unlocked, like the rest of the neighborhood. It was late at night and she was getting ready for bed. She¡¯d have locked the door by then, non?¡±


    Lacoste nodded. Constance either let her killer in, or he let himself in.


    Neither possibility seemed likely, but one of them was the truth.


    Gamache read the rest of the reports while Inspector Lacoste did her own detailed search of the house, starting in the basement. He could hear her down there, moving things about. Beyond that, though, there was just the clunk, clunk as the clock above the sink noted the passing moments.


    Finally he lowered the reports and took off his glasses.


    The neighbors had seen nothing. The oldest of them, who¡¯d lived on the street all her life, remembered when the three sisters moved into the home, thirty-five years ago.


    Constance, Marguerite, and Josephine.


    As far as she knew, Marguerite was the oldest, though Josephine was the first to die, five years ago. Cancer.


    The sisters had been friendly, but private. Never having anyone in, but always buying boxes of oranges and grapefruit and Christmas chocolate from the children when they¡¯d canvassed to raise money, and stopping to chat on warm summer days as they gardened.


    They were cordial without being intrusive. And without allowing intrusion.


    The perfect neighbors, the woman had said.


    She lived next door and had once had a lemonade with Marguerite. They¡¯d sat together on the porch and watched as Constance washed the car. They¡¯d called encouragement and jokingly pointed out areas she¡¯d missed.

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    Gamache could see them. Could taste the tart lemonade and smell the cold water from the hose as it hit the hot pavement. He wondered how this elderly neighbor could not have known she was sitting with one of the Ouellet Quints.


    But he knew the answer to that.


    The Quints only existed in sepia photographs and newsreels. They lived in perfect little castles and wore impossibly frilly dresses. And came in a cluster of five.


    Not three. Not one.


    Five girls, forever children.


    The Ouellet Quints weren¡¯t real. They didn¡¯t age, they didn¡¯t die. And they sure didn¡¯t sip lemonade in Pointe-Saint-Charles.


    That¡¯s why no one recognized them.


    It helped, too, that they didn¡¯t want to be recognized. As Ruth said, not everyone seeks attention.


    ¡°It¡¯s the truth, alas,¡± Ruth had said.


    Alas, thought Chief Inspector Gamache. He left the kitchen and began his own search.


    *   *   *


    Clara Morrow placed a bowl of fresh water on the floor but Henri was too excited to notice. He ran around the home, sniffing. Clara watched, her heart both swelling and breaking. It hadn¡¯t been all that long ago that she¡¯d had to put her golden retriever, Lucy, down. Myrna and Gabri had gone with them, and yet Clara felt she¡¯d been alone. Peter wasn¡¯t there.


    She¡¯d debated calling to tell him about Lucy, but Clara knew that was just an excuse to make contact.


    The deal was, they¡¯d wait a year, and it hadn¡¯t been six months since he¡¯d left.


    Clara followed Henri into her studio, where he found an old banana peel. Taking it from him, she paused in front of her latest work, barely an outline so far.


    This ghost on the canvas was her husband.


    Some mornings, some evenings, she came in here and talked to him. Told him about her day. She even, sometimes, fixed dinner and brought a candle in and ate by candlelight, in front of this suggestion of Peter. She ate, and chatted with him, told him the events of her day. The little events only a good friend would care about. And the huge events. Like the murder of Constance Ouellet.


    Clara painted and talked to the portrait. Adding a stroke here, a dab there. A husband of her own creation. Who listened. Who cared.


    Henri was still sniffing and snorting around the studio. Having found one banana peel, there was reason to hope there¡¯d be more. Pausing in her painting for a moment, Clara realized he wasn¡¯t looking for a banana peel. Henri was looking for Armand.


    Clara reached into her pocket for one of the treats Armand had left, then she bent down and called the dog over. Henri stopped his scurrying and looked at her, his satellite ears turning toward her voice, having picked up his favorite channel. The treat channel.


    He approached, sat, and gently took the bone-shaped cookie.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± she assured him, resting her forehead against his. ¡°He¡¯ll be back.¡±


    Then Clara returned to the portrait.


    ¡°I asked Constance to sit for me,¡± she said to the wet paint. ¡°But she refused. I¡¯m not really sure why I asked. You¡¯re right, I am the best artist in Canada, perhaps the world, so she should¡¯ve been pleased.¡±


    Might as well exaggerate¡ªthis Peter couldn¡¯t roll his eyes.


    Clara leaned away from the canvas and put the brush in her mouth, smearing raw umber paint on her cheek.


    ¡°I stayed over at Myrna¡¯s last night.¡± She described for Peter how she¡¯d pulled the warm duvet around her, rested the old Life magazine on her knees, and studied the cover. As she¡¯d looked at it, the image of the girls moved from endearing, to uncanny, to vaguely unsettling.


    ¡°They were all the same, Peter. In expression, in mood. Not just similar, but exactly the same.¡±


    Clara Morrow, the artist, the portraitist, had searched the faces for any hint of individuality. And found none. Then she¡¯d sat back in bed and remembered the elderly woman she¡¯d met. Clara didn¡¯t ask many people to sit for a portrait. It demanded too much of her to be done on a whim. But, apparently on a whim, she¡¯d popped the question to Constance. And been firmly rebuffed.


    She hadn¡¯t really exaggerated to Peter. Clara Morrow had become surprisingly famous for her portraits. At least, it surprised her. And it had sure surprised her artist husband.


    She remembered what John Singer Sargent had said.


    Every time I paint a portrait I lose a friend.


    Clara had lost her husband. Not because she¡¯d painted him, but because she¡¯d outpainted him. Sometimes, on dark winter nights, she wished she¡¯d stuck to gigantic feet and warrior uteruses.


    ¡°But my paintings didn¡¯t send you from our home, did they?¡± she asked the canvas. ¡°It was your own demons. They finally caught up with you.¡±

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    She considered him closely.


    ¡°How much that must have hurt,¡± she said quietly. ¡°Where are you now, Peter? Have you stopped running? Have you faced whatever ate your happiness, your creativity, your good sense? Your love?¡±


    It had eaten his love, but not Clara¡¯s.


    Henri settled on the worn piece of carpet at Clara¡¯s feet. She picked up her brush and approached the canvas.


    ¡°He¡¯ll be back,¡± she whispered, perhaps to Henri.


    *   *   *


    Chief Inspector Gamache opened drawers and closets and cupboards, examining the contents of Constance Ouellet¡¯s home. In the front hall closet he found a coat, a small collection of hats, and a pair of gloves.


    No hoarding here.


    He looked at the bookshelves and mantelpiece. He got on his hands and knees and looked under furniture. From what the Montr¨¦al police could tell, Constance hadn¡¯t been robbed. Her purse was still there, money and all. Her car sat on the road. There were no blank spots on the walls where a painting might have once hung, or gaps in the curio cabinet where a surprisingly valuable knickknack might have sat.


    Nothing was taken.


    But still he looked.


    He knew he was going over territory the Montr¨¦al police had already covered, but he was looking for something different. Their initial search was for clues to the killer. A bloody glove, an extra key, a threatening note. A fingerprint, a footprint. Signs of theft.


    He was looking for clues to her life.


    ¡°Nothing, Chief,¡± said Lacoste, wiping her hands of the dust from the basement. ¡°They didn¡¯t seem a sentimental lot. No baby clothes, no old toys, no sleds or snowshoes.¡±


    ¡°Snowshoes?¡± asked Gamache, amused.


    ¡°My parents¡¯ basement is full of that sort of stuff,¡± Lacoste admitted. ¡°And when they die, mine will be.¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t get rid of it?¡±


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t. You?¡±


    ¡°Madame Gamache and I kept a few things from our parents. As you know, she has three hundred siblings so there was no question of it all coming to us.¡±


    Isabelle Lacoste laughed. Every time the Chief described Madame Gamache¡¯s family, the number of siblings grew. She supposed for an only child like the Chief, it must have been overwhelming to suddenly find himself in a large family.


    ¡°What was downstairs?¡± he asked.


    ¡°A cedar chest with summer clothing, the outdoor furniture brought in for the winter. Mostly that cheap plastic stuff. Garden hoses and tools. Nothing personal.¡±


    ¡°Nothing from their childhood?¡±


    ¡°Nothing at all.¡±


    They both knew that, even for people who were rigorously unsentimental, that was unusual. But for the Quints? Whole industries had been built around them. Souvenirs, books, dolls, puzzles. He was fairly sure if he looked hard enough in his own home he¡¯d find something from the Quints. A spoon his mother collected. A postcard from Reine-Marie¡¯s family with the girls¡¯ smiling faces.


    At a time when the Qu¨¦b¨¦cois were just beginning to turn from the Church, the Quints had become the new religion. A fantastic blend of miracle and entertainment. Unlike the censorious Catholic Church, the Quints were fun. Unlike the Church, whose most powerful symbol was of sacrifice and death, the lingering image of the Ouellet Quints was of happiness. Five smiling little girls, vibrant and alive. The world fell to its knees before them. It seemed the only ones not enamored of the Quints were the Quints themselves.


    Gamache and Lacoste walked down the hall, each one taking a bedroom. They met up a few minutes later and compared notes.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± said Lacoste. ¡°Clean. Tidy. No clothing and no personal effects.¡±


    ¡°And no photographs.¡±


    She shook her head.


    Gamache exhaled deeply. Had their lives really been so antiseptic? And yet, the home didn¡¯t feel cold. It felt like a warm and inviting place. There were personal possessions, but no private ones.


    They walked into Constance¡¯s bedroom. The bloodstained carpet was still there. The suitcase sat on the bed. The murder weapon had been taken away, but there was police tape indicating where it had been dropped.


    Gamache walked over to the small suitcase and lifted items out, putting them neatly on the bed. Sweaters, underwear, thick stockings, a skirt and comfortable slacks. Long underwear and flannel nightgown. All the things you¡¯d pack for Christmas in a cold country.


    Packed between warm shirts he found three gifts, covered in candy cane wrapping paper. He squeezed and the paper crinkled. Whatever was inside was soft.


    Clothing, he knew, having received his share of socks and ties and scarves from his children. He looked at the tags.

 Page 36

    One for Clara, one for Olivier, and one for Gabri.


    He handed them to Lacoste. ¡°Can you unwrap these, please?¡±


    While she did he felt around the suitcase. One of the sweaters didn¡¯t give as much as it should. Gamache picked it up and unrolled the wool.


    ¡°A scarf for Clara,¡± said Lacoste, ¡°and mittens for Olivier and Gabri.¡±


    She wrapped them up again.


    ¡°Look at this,¡± said Gamache. He held up what he¡¯d found in the center of the sweater. It was a photograph.


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t listed in the search by the Montr¨¦al cops,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°Easy to miss,¡± said Gamache. And he could imagine their thinking. It was late, it was cold, they were hungry, and this would soon not even be their case.


    They hadn¡¯t been so much incompetent as less than thorough. And the small black and white photo was almost hidden in the thick wool sweater.


    He took it over to the window, and he and Lacoste examined it.


    Four women, in their thirties Gamache guessed, smiled at them. Their arms were around each other¡¯s waists, and they looked directly at the camera. Gamache found himself smiling back, and noticed Lacoste was as well. The girls¡¯ smiles weren¡¯t big, but they were genuine and infectious.


    Here were four happy people.


    But while their expressions were identical, everything else about them was different. Their clothes, their hair, their shoes, their style. Even their bodies were different. Two were plump, one skinny, one average.


    ¡°What do you think?¡± he asked Lacoste.


    ¡°It¡¯s obviously four of the sisters, but it looks like they¡¯ve done all they can to make sure they¡¯re not alike.¡±


    Gamache nodded. That was his impression as well.


    He looked at the back of the picture. There was nothing there.


    ¡°Why only four?¡± Lacoste asked. ¡°What happened to the other one?¡±


    ¡°I think one died quite young,¡± he said.


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be hard to find out,¡± said Lacoste.


    ¡°Right. Sounds like a job for me, then,¡± said Gamache. ¡°You can look after the hard stuff.¡±


    Gamache put the photograph in his pocket and they spent the next few minutes searching Constance¡¯s room.


    A few books were stacked on the bedside table. He went back to the suitcase and found the book she was reading. It was Ru by Kim Th¨²y.


    He opened it to the bookmark and deliberately turned the page. He read the first sentence. Words Constance Ouellet would never get to.


    As a man who loved books, a bookmark placed by the recently dead always left him sad. He had two books like that in his possession. They were in the bookcase in his study. They¡¯d been found by his grandmother, on the bedside table of his parents¡¯ room, after they¡¯d been killed in a car accident when Armand was a child.


    Every now and then he pulled the books out and touched the bookmarks, but hadn¡¯t yet found the strength to pick up where they left off. To read the rest of the story.


    Now he lowered Constance¡¯s book and looked out the window into the small backyard. He suspected that, beneath the snow, there was a small vegetable garden. And in the summer the three sisters would sit on the cheap plastic chairs in the shade of the large maple and sip iced tea. And read. Or talk. Or just be quiet.


    He wondered if they ever talked about their days as the Ouellet Quints. Did they reminisce? He doubted it.


    The home felt like a sanctuary, and that was what they were hiding from.


    Then he turned back to look at the stain on the carpet, and the police tape. And the book in his hand.


    Soon he¡¯d know the full story.


    ¡°So, I can understand why the Ouellet sisters might not want everyone to know they were the Quints,¡± said Lacoste, when they were ready to leave. ¡°But why not have personal photographs and cards and letters in the privacy of their own home? Does that strike you as strange?¡±


    Gamache stepped off the porch. ¡°I think we¡¯ll find that very little about their life could be considered normal.¡±


    They walked slowly down the snow-packed path, squinting against the brilliant sun bouncing off the snow.


    ¡°Something else was missing,¡± the Chief said. ¡°Did you notice?¡±


    Lacoste thought about that. She knew this wasn¡¯t a test. The Chief Inspector was beyond that, and so was she. But her mind was drawing a blank.


    She shook her head.


    ¡°No parents,¡± he said.


    Damn, thought Lacoste. No parents. She¡¯d missed that. In the crowd of Quints, or missing Quints, she¡¯d missed something else.


    Monsieur et Madame Ouellet. It was one thing to blank out a part of your own past, but why also erase your parents?

 Page 37

    ¡°What do you think it means?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Perhaps nothing.¡±


    ¡°Do you think that¡¯s what the killer took?¡±


    Gamache thought about that. ¡°Photographs of the parents?¡±


    ¡°Family photographs. Of the parents and the sisters.¡±


    ¡°I suppose it¡¯s possible,¡± he said.


    ¡°I¡¯m just wondering¡­¡± she said when they reached her car.


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s really too stupid.¡±


    He raised his brows, but said nothing. Just stared at her.


    ¡°What do we really know about the Ouellet Quints?¡± she asked. ¡°They deliberately dropped from view, became the Pineault sisters. They were private in the extreme¡­¡±


    ¡°Just say it, Inspector,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Maybe Constance wasn¡¯t the last.¡±


    ¡°Pardon?¡±


    ¡°How do we know the others are dead? Maybe one isn¡¯t. Who else could get into the house? Who else even knew where they lived? Who else might take family photographs?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know if the killer even realized she was a Quint,¡± the Chief Inspector pointed out. ¡°And we don¡¯t know that family photos were stolen.¡±


    But as he drove away, Lacoste¡¯s statement grew in his mind.


    Maybe Constance wasn¡¯t the last.


    TWELVE


    Pay attention, Jean-Guy Beauvoir begged himself. For chrissake, hold it together.


    His knee jittered up and down and he placed his hand on it. Pressing down.


    At the front of the room, Martin Tessier was instructing the S?ret¨¦ agents who¡¯d soon be raiding the biker gang stronghold.


    ¡°These aren¡¯t tattooed thugs,¡± said Francoeur¡¯s second in command, turning away from the graphics on his tablet to face them. ¡°Too many dead cops and mob bosses have underestimated the bikers. These¡¯re soldiers. They might look like yahoos, but make no mistake, they¡¯re disciplined and committed and highly motivated to protect their territory.¡±


    Tessier went on, flashing images, schematics, plans.


    But all Beauvoir heard was his own voice, pleading.


    Dear God, don¡¯t let me die.


    *   *   *


    Chief Inspector Gamache knocked on the door, then stepped into Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel¡¯s office. She looked up from her desk as he entered.


    ¡°Close the door, please,¡± she said, removing her glasses. Her voice and manner were uncharacteristically brusque.


    ¡°I got your message but was out of town.¡± He glanced at the clock on her desk. Just past noon.


    She indicated a seat. He hesitated a moment, then sat. She took the chair beside him. She looked tired, but was still perfectly turned out, and perfectly in command of herself and him.


    ¡°We¡¯ve come to the end, Armand. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°You know what I mean. I¡¯ve been thinking about it, and speaking with J¨¦r?me, and we think there¡¯s nothing there. We¡¯ve been chasing our own tails.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t interrupt me, Chief Inspector. This whole video thing has gotten out of control and out of proportion. It¡¯s done. The video¡¯s out there, nothing we can do will get it back. You need to let it go.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand¡­¡± He searched her face.


    ¡°It¡¯s quite simple. You were hurt and angry and wanted revenge. Perfectly natural. And then you became convinced there was more there than just the video. You got yourself rattled and managed to rattle everyone around you. Including me. That¡¯s my fault, not yours. I allowed myself to believe you.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s happened, Th¨¦r¨¨se?¡±


    ¡°Superintendent,¡± she said.


    ¡°D¨¦sol¨¦. Superintendent.¡± He lowered his voice. ¡°Has something happened?¡±


    ¡°It certainly has. I¡¯ve come to my senses and I advise you to do the same. I hardly slept last night, then I finally got up and made notes. Would you like to see them?¡±


    Gamache nodded, watching her closely. She handed him a handwritten note. He put his reading glasses on and studied it. Then he carefully folded it in half.


    ¡°As you see, I listed all the evidence in favor of your contention that Chief Superintendent Francoeur leaked the video of the raid and has a larger, more malevolent purpose¡ª¡±


    ¡°Th¨¦r¨¨se!¡± Gamache exclaimed, leaning forward suddenly as though to physically stop her from saying more.


    ¡°Oh, for God¡¯s sake, Chief Inspector, give it up. The office isn¡¯t bugged. No one¡¯s listening to us. No one cares. It¡¯s all in your head. Look at my notes. There¡¯s no evidence. The weight of our friendship and my respect for you clouded my judgment. You¡¯ve connected dots that you yourself created.¡± She leaned toward him in a manner almost threatening. ¡°Driven almost certainly by your own personal loathing for Francoeur. If you keep this up, Armand, I¡¯ll go to him myself with evidence of your actions.¡±

 Page 38

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t,¡± said Gamache, barely finding his voice.


    ¡°I¡¯m tired, Armand,¡± she said, getting up and taking her seat behind her desk. ¡°J¨¦r?me is exhausted. You¡¯ve dragged us both into this fantasy of yours. Give it up. Better still, retire. Go to Paris for Christmas, think about it, and when you come back¡­¡±


    She let the sentence hang in the air between them.


    He stood up. ¡°You¡¯re making a mistake, Superintendent.¡±


    ¡°If I am, I¡¯ll be making it in Vancouver with our daughter. And while there, J¨¦r?me and I will also discuss my future. It¡¯s time to step aside, Armand. The S?ret¨¦ isn¡¯t falling apart, you are. We¡¯re dinosaurs and the meteor has struck.¡±


    *   *   *


    ¡°Ready?¡± Tessier clapped Beauvoir on the back.


    No.


    ¡°Ready,¡± said Beauvoir.


    ¡°Good. I want you to lead the team into the second level of the bunker.¡±


    Tessier was smiling as though he¡¯d just given the Inspector a ticket to the Bahamas.


    ¡°Yessir.¡±


    He just managed to get to a bathroom. Locking the stall door, he retched, and retched. Until only fetid air burped up, from deep down inside him.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Call for you, Chief.¡±


    ¡°Is it important?¡±


    His secretary looked through the open door into his office. In all the years she¡¯d worked for Chief Inspector Gamache, he¡¯d never asked that question. He¡¯d trusted that if she put a call through, it was, in her judgment, worth taking.


    But he¡¯d seemed distracted since he¡¯d returned from his meeting with Superintendent Brunel and had spent the past twenty minutes staring out the window.


    ¡°Would you like me to take a message?¡± she asked.


    ¡°No, no.¡± He reached for the phone. ¡°I¡¯ll take it.¡±


    ¡°Salut, patron,¡± came Olivier¡¯s cheerful voice. ¡°Hope I¡¯m not disturbing you.¡± He went on without waiting for an answer. ¡°Gabri asked me to call to make sure you still want your room for tonight.¡±


    ¡°I thought I¡¯d already spoken with him about that.¡± The Chief heard the slight annoyance in his voice, but did nothing to change his tone.


    ¡°Look, I¡¯m just passing along the message.¡±


    ¡°Has he double-booked or something?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s still available, but he wants to know how many you¡¯ll be.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Well, will Inspector Beauvoir be coming down?¡±


    Gamache exhaled sharply into the receiver.


    ¡°Voyons, Olivier,¡± he began, then reined himself in. ¡°Listen, Olivier, I¡¯ve been through this as well. Inspector Beauvoir¡¯s on another assignment. Inspector Lacoste will be staying in Montr¨¦al to continue the investigation from here, and I¡¯ll be coming down to Three Pines, to look into that end of the case. I¡¯ve left Henri with Madame Morrow so I have to come down anyway.¡±


    ¡°No need to get all upset, Chief,¡± snapped Olivier. ¡°I was just asking.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not upset¡±¡ªthough it was clear he was¡ª¡°I¡¯m just busy and have no time for this. If the B and B is available, fine. If not, I¡¯ll collect Henri and come back to Montr¨¦al.¡±


    ¡°Non, non. It¡¯s available. And stay as long as you want. Gabri isn¡¯t taking any bookings leading up to Christmas. Too involved with the concert.¡±


    Gamache wasn¡¯t going to be dragged into that conversation. He thanked Olivier, hung up, and looked at the small clock on his desk. Almost one thirty.


    The Chief Inspector leaned back in his chair, then he swung it around so that his back was to the office and he faced the large window that looked out onto snowy Montr¨¦al.


    One thirty.


    *   *   *


    It was one thirty.


    Beauvoir took another deep breath and leaned back against the rumbling van. He tried closing his eyes, but that made the nausea worse. He turned his face so that the cold metal was against his hot cheek.


    An hour and a half and the raid would begin. He wished the van had windows, so he could see the city. The familiar buildings. Solid, predictable. Jean-Guy was always more comfortable with the man-made than the natural. He tried to imagine where they were. Were they over the bridge yet? Were there buildings outside, or forests?


    Where was he?


    *   *   *


    Gamache knew where Beauvoir was. He was on a raid scheduled to begin at three.

 Page 39

    Another raid. An unnecessary raid, ordered by Francoeur.


    The Chief closed his eyes. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.


    Then he put on his coat. At the door to his office he watched Inspector Lacoste give orders to a group of agents. Or try to.


    They were among the new agents, transferred in when Gamache¡¯s own people had been transferred out and spread around the other divisions of the S?ret¨¦. To everyone¡¯s surprise, the Chief Inspector hadn¡¯t protested. Hadn¡¯t fought it. Had barely seemed to care or notice as his division was gutted.


    It went beyond unflappable. Some had begun to wonder, quietly at first and then more boldly, whether Armand Gamache even cared anymore. But still, as he approached the group, they grew quiet and watchful.


    ¡°A word, Inspector,¡± he said, and smiled at the agents.


    Isabelle Lacoste followed Gamache back to his office, where he closed the door.


    ¡°For chrissake, sir, why do we have to put up with that?¡± She jerked her head toward the outer office.


    ¡°We just have to make the best of it.¡±


    ¡°How? By giving up?¡±


    ¡°No one¡¯s giving up,¡± he said, his voice reassuring. ¡°You need to trust me. You¡¯re a great investigator. Tenacious, intuitive. Smart. And you have limitless patience. You need to use that now.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not limitless, patron.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°I understand.¡± Then, hands gripping the edges of his desk, he leaned toward her. ¡°Don¡¯t be bullied off course. Don¡¯t be pushed from your center. And always, always trust your instinct, Isabelle. What does it tell you now?¡±


    ¡°That we¡¯re screwed.¡±


    He leaned back and laughed. ¡°Then trust mine. All is not as I¡¯d have wished, that much is certain. But it isn¡¯t over. This isn¡¯t inaction, this is simply a deep breath.¡±


    She glanced out at the agents lounging at their desks, ignoring her orders.


    ¡°And while we¡¯re catching our breath they¡¯re taking over. Destroying the division.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said.


    She waited for the ¡°but,¡± but none came.


    ¡°Maybe I should threaten them,¡± she suggested. ¡°The only thing a lion respects is a bigger lion.¡±


    ¡°Those aren¡¯t lions, Isabelle. They¡¯re irritating, but tiny. Ants, or toads. You step over them, or around them. But there¡¯s no need to step on them. You don¡¯t make war on toads.¡±


    Toads, or turds. The droppings of some larger beast, thought Lacoste as she left. But Chief Inspector Gamache was right. These new agents weren¡¯t worth her effort. She¡¯d step around them. For now.


    *   *   *


    Gamache pulled his car into the reserved parking spot. He knew the employee who normally parked there wouldn¡¯t need it. She was in Paris.


    It was two o¡¯clock. He paused, closing his eyes. Then he opened them, and with resolve he walked along the icy path to the rear entrance of the Biblioth¨¨que nationale. At the door, he punched Reine-Marie¡¯s code into the keypad and heard the clunk as the door unbolted.


    ¡°Monsieur Gamache.¡± Lili Dufour looked up from her desk, understandably perplexed. ¡°I thought you were in Paris with Reine-Marie.¡±


    ¡°No, she went ahead.¡±


    ¡°What can I do for you?¡± She stood up and walked around to greet him. She was slender, self-contained. Pleasant but cool, bordering on officious.


    ¡°I have some research to do and I thought you might be able to help.¡±


    ¡°On what?¡±


    ¡°The Ouellet Quints.¡±


    He saw her brows rise.


    ¡°Really. Why?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t expect me to tell you that, do you?¡± asked Gamache, with a smile.


    ¡°Then you don¡¯t expect me to help you, do you?¡±


    His smile faded. Reine-Marie had told him about Madame Dufour, who guarded the documents in the National Library and Archives as though they were her own private collection.


    ¡°Police business,¡± he said.


    ¡°Library business, Chief Inspector,¡± she said, nodding toward the large, closed doors.


    He followed her gaze. They were in the back offices, where the head librarians worked. Through those doors was the public area.


    Most of the time, when he¡¯d visited his wife, he¡¯d contented himself with waiting in the huge new public library, where row after row of desks and reading lamps held students and professors, researchers and those simply curious. The desks had plugs for laptops, and wireless Internet gave access to the files.


    But not all the files. The Biblioth¨¨que et Archives nationales du Qu¨¦bec contained tens of thousands of documents. Not just books, but maps, diaries, letters, deeds. Many of them hundreds of years old. And most of them not in the computer system yet.

 Page 40

    Scores of technicians were working long hours to scan everything in, but it would take years, decades.


    He loved walking the aisles, imagining all the history contained there. Maps drawn by Cartier. Diaries written by Marguerite d¡¯Youville. The bloodstained plans for the Battle of the Plains of Abraham.


    And maybe, maybe, the story of the Ouellet Quints. Not the one for public consumption, but their private lives. Their real lives, when the cameras turned off.


    If it was anywhere, it was here.


    And he needed it.


    He turned back to Madame Dufour. ¡°I¡¯m researching the Ouellet Quints for a case, and I need your help.¡±


    ¡°I guessed that much.¡±


    ¡°I need to look at what you have in the private archives.¡±


    ¡°Those are sealed.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, I haven¡¯t read them. They¡¯re sealed.¡±


    Gamache felt a stroke of annoyance until he noticed a slight look of amusement on her face.


    ¡°Would you like to read them?¡± he asked.


    Now she hesitated, caught between the correct response and the truthful one.


    ¡°Are you trying to bribe me?¡± she asked.


    Now it was his turn to be amused. He knew her currency. It was the same as his. Information, knowledge. Finding things out that no one else knew.


    ¡°Even if I let you, you couldn¡¯t use what you found in court,¡± she said. ¡°It would be illegally obtained. The principals are still alive.¡±


    By that she meant the Quints themselves, he knew.


    When he said nothing she grew quiet, her intelligent eyes assessing him, and the silence.


    ¡°Come with me.¡±


    She turned away from the large doors that led to the glass and metal public library, and took him in the opposite direction. Along a corridor. Down some stairs. And finally, she tapped a code into a keypad and a large metal door clicked open with a slight whoosh.


    Incandescent lights went on automatically when the door opened. It was cool inside the windowless room.


    ¡°Sorry for the lighting,¡± she said, locking the door behind them and moving farther into the room. ¡°We try to keep it to a minimum.¡±


    As his eyes adjusted he realized he was in a large room, but only one of many. He looked right. Then left. Then ahead of him. Room after room, all connected, had been constructed under the biblioth¨¨que.


    ¡°Coming?¡± she said, and walked away. Gamache realized if he lost her, he¡¯d be lost. So he made sure not to lose her.


    ¡°The rooms are set out according to quarter centuries,¡± she said as she walked quickly from one to another.


    Gamache tried to read the labels on the drawers as they walked by, but the dull lighting made it difficult. He thought he saw Champlain on one, and he wondered if Champlain himself was actually filed there. And later, in another room, War of 1812.


    After a while he kept his eyes ahead of him, concentrating on Madame Dufour¡¯s thin back. It was best not to know the treasures he was walking by.


    Finally she stopped and he almost bumped into her.


    ¡°There.¡± She nodded to a drawer.


    The label read Ouellet Quintuplets.


    ¡°Has anyone else seen the documents?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Not that I know of. Not since they were collected and sealed.¡±


    ¡°And when was that?¡±


    Madame Dufour went to the drawer and looked closely at the label.


    ¡°July 27, 1958.¡±


    ¡°Why then?¡± he wondered.


    ¡°Why now, Chief Inspector?¡± she asked, and he realized that she was standing between him and what he needed to know.


    ¡°It¡¯s a secret,¡± he said, his voice light, but his eyes not leaving hers.


    ¡°I¡¯m good at keeping secrets,¡± she said, glancing down the long line of files.


    He considered her for a moment. ¡°Constance Ouellet died two days ago.¡±


    Madame Dufour took in that information, her face troubled. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that. She was the last of them, I believe.¡±


    Gamache nodded, and now she studied him more closely.


    ¡°She didn¡¯t just die, did she?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Lili Dufour took a long breath, and sighed. ¡°My mother went to see them, you know, at that home that was built for them here in Montr¨¦al. She lined up for hours. They were just children at the time. She talked about it until the day she died.¡±


    Gamache nodded. There¡¯d been something magical about the Quints, and their extreme privacy later in life only added to the mystique.


    Madame Dufour stepped aside, and Gamache reached for the drawer where their private life lived.

 Page 41

    *   *   *


    Beauvoir looked at his watch. Ten minutes to three. He was plastered against a brick wall. Three S?ret¨¦ officers were behind him.


    ¡°Stay here,¡± he whispered, and stepped around the corner. He had a brief glimpse at the surprise in their faces. Surprise and concern. Not about the biker gang they were about to raid, but the officer who was supposed to lead them.


    Beauvoir knew they had reason to be afraid.


    He leaned his head again the brick, hitting it lightly. Then he crouched down so that his knees were against his chest, and he began rocking himself. As he rocked he heard the rhythmic squeaking of his heavy boots on the snow. Like a rocking horse in need of oiling. In need of something.


    Eight minutes to three.


    Beauvoir reached into the pocket of his Kevlar vest. The one that held bandages and tape to staunch wounds. He pulled out two pill bottles and, twisting the top off one, he quickly swallowed two OxyContin. He¡¯d thrown up the earlier ones and now he could barely think for the pain.


    And the other. The other. He stared at the pill bottle, and felt like a man halfway across a bridge.


    Afraid to take the pill and afraid not to. Afraid of going into the bunker, afraid of running away. He was afraid of dying and he was afraid of living.


    Mostly, he was afraid that everyone would find out just how frightened he really was.


    Beauvoir twisted off the cap and shook the bottle. Pills cascaded out, bouncing off his trembling hand, and were lost in the snow. But one was saved. It sat in the center of his palm. His need was so great, and it was so tiny. He couldn¡¯t get it into his mouth fast enough.


    Five minutes to three.


    *   *   *


    Gamache sat at a desk in the archive room, reading and making notes. Captivated by what he¡¯d found so far. Diaries, personal letters, photographs. But now he took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the books and documents still to be read. There was no way he¡¯d get through them that afternoon.


    Madame Dufour had shown him the buzzer, and now he pressed it. Three minutes later he heard footsteps on the sealed concrete floor.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to take it with me.¡± He nodded to the stacks on the desk.


    She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. And considered.


    ¡°Constance Ouellet really was murdered?¡± she asked.


    ¡°She was.¡±


    ¡°And you think something in there¡±¡ªshe looked at the documents on the desk¡ª¡°might help you?¡±


    ¡°I think it might.¡±


    ¡°I retire next August, you know. Mandatory retirement.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said as she looked around her.


    ¡°Shelved,¡± she said with a smile. ¡°I suspect neither I, nor that file, will be missed. Feel free to take it, monsieur. But please bring it back. Quite a steep fine, you know, if you lose it, or your dog eats it.¡±


    ¡°Merci,¡± he said, and wondered if Madame Dufour had met Henri. ¡°There¡¯s something else I need from you.¡±


    ¡°A kidney?¡±


    ¡°A code.¡±


    A few minutes later they stood by the rear door. Gamache had his coat on, and held the heavy box in both hands.


    ¡°I hope you find what you¡¯re looking for, Chief Inspector. Give my best to Reine-Marie when you see her. Joyeux No?l.¡±


    But before the door closed and locked, she called him back.


    ¡°Be careful,¡± she said. ¡°Light and moisture can do permanent damage.¡± She regarded him for a moment. ¡°And I think, monsieur, you know something about permanent damage.¡±


    ¡°Oui,¡± he said. ¡°Joyeux No?l.¡±


    *   *   *


    It was dark by the time Armand Gamache reached Three Pines. He parked not far from the B and B and barely had time to open the door before Olivier and Gabri appeared from the bistro. It seemed to Gamache that they must have been watching for his arrival.


    ¡°How was the drive?¡± Gabri asked.


    ¡°Not bad,¡± said Gamache, picking up his satchel and the heavy cardboard box. ¡°Except for the Champlain Bridge, of course.¡±


    ¡°Always hellish,¡± agreed Olivier.


    ¡°Everything¡¯s ready for you,¡± said Gabri, leading the way up the steps and along the verandah to the front door. He opened it, and Chief Inspector Gamache, instead of stepping inside, stepped aside to let his two companions in first.


    ¡°Welcome,¡± said Olivier.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se and J¨¦r?me Brunel walked into Emilie Longpr¨¦¡¯s home. The home Henri had found for them.

 Page 42

    THIRTEEN


    Olivier and Gabri brought the luggage in and took it to the bedrooms, then left.


    ¡°Merci, patron.¡± Gamache stepped onto the cold verandah with them.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± said Olivier. ¡°You played your role well on the phone. I almost believed you were annoyed.¡±


    ¡°And you were very convincing,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Worthy of the Olivier award.¡±


    ¡°Well, as luck would have it,¡± said Gabri, ¡°I planned to reward him tonight.¡±


    Gamache watched them cross to the bistro, then he closed the door and faced the room. And smiled.


    He could finally relax.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se and J¨¦r?me were safe.


    And Jean-Guy was safe. He¡¯d monitored the S?ret¨¦ frequency the entire drive down and heard no calls for ambulances. Indeed, what chatter he picked up led him to believe the bunker had been abandoned. The Rock Machine was no longer there.


    The informant had lied. Or, more likely, there was no informant.


    Gamache was both relieved and grim as he absorbed that news.


    Jean-Guy was safe. For now.


    Gamache looked at Emilie Longpr¨¦¡¯s home.


    Two sofas faced each other on either side of the stone fireplace. They were slip-covered in faded floral fabric. A pine blanket box sat in the space between them. On it was a game of cribbage and some playing cards.


    A couple of armchairs were tucked in a corner, a table between them and a hassock in front, to be shared by weary feet. A standing lamp with tasseled shade was on and held the chairs in soft light.


    The walls were painted a soothing light blue, and one had floor-to-ceiling bookcases.


    It felt quiet and calm.


    Olivier had spent the morning finding out who now owned Emilie¡¯s home, and whether he could rent it. Seemed a distant niece in Regina owned the home and hadn¡¯t yet figured out what to do with it. She readily agreed to rent it over Christmas.


    Olivier then called Gamache and gave him the agreed-upon phrase¡ªGabri asked me to call to make sure you still want your room for tonight¡ªthat would tell Gamache he could have Emilie¡¯s home.


    Then Olivier had rounded up others in the village to help. The result was this.


    Sheets had been pulled off the furniture, beds were made and clean towels put out, the home was vacuumed and dusted and polished. A fire was laid in the grate, and judging by the aroma, dinner was warming in the oven.


    It was as though he and the Brunels had just stepped out for a few hours and were returning home.


    Two of Sarah¡¯s fresh-baked baguettes sat in a basket on the marble kitchen counter, and Monsieur B¨¦liveau had stocked the pantry and fridge with milk and cheese and butter. With homemade jams. Fruit sat in a wooden bowl on the harvest table


    There was even a Christmas tree, decorated and lit.


    Gamache loosened his tie, knelt down and struck a match to the wood and paper in the hearth, watching mesmerized as it caught and flared.


    He exhaled. It felt as though a cloak, like the ghostly sheets over the furniture, had been lifted from him.


    ¡°Th¨¦r¨¨se,¡± he called. ¡°J¨¦r?me.¡±


    ¡°Oui?¡± came the distant response.


    ¡°I¡¯m going out.¡±


    He put on his boots and coat and walked quickly through the crisp evening, toward the little cottage with the open gate and winding path.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Armand,¡± said Clara, opening the door to his knock. Henri was so excited he didn¡¯t know whether to jump up or curl into a ball at Gamache¡¯s feet. Instead, the shepherd threaded his way in and out and around Gamache¡¯s legs, crying with excitement.


    ¡°I beat him, of course,¡± said Clara, looking with mock disgust at Henri.


    Gamache knelt down and played with Henri for a moment.


    ¡°You look like you could use a Scotch,¡± said Clara.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me I look like Ruth,¡± said Gamache, and Clara laughed.


    ¡°Just around the edges.¡±


    ¡°Actually, I don¡¯t need anything, merci.¡± He took off his coat and boots and followed her into the living room, where a fire was lit.


    ¡°Thank you for looking after Henri. And thank you for helping to get Emilie¡¯s home ready for us.¡±


    There was no way to explain how that home looked to weary travelers who¡¯d come to the end of the road.


    He wondered, in a moment that startled him, whether that¡¯s what this little village was. The end of the road? And, like most ends, not an end at all.


    ¡°A pleasure,¡± said Clara. ¡°Gabri combined it with a rehearsal for the Christmas concert and had us sing ¡®The Huron Carol¡¯ over and over. I suspect if you hit one of the pillows that song will come out.¡±

 Page 43

    Gamache smiled. The idea of a home infused with music appealed to him.


    ¡°It¡¯s nice to see lights in Emilie¡¯s home again,¡± said Clara.


    Henri crawled onto the sofa. Slowly. Slowly. As though, if he crept up and averted his eyes, no one would see. He laid out his full length, taking up two thirds of the sofa, and slowly put his head in Gamache¡¯s lap. Gamache looked at Clara apologetically.


    ¡°It¡¯s OK. Peter was never a fan of the dogs getting up on the furniture, but I like it.¡±


    This provided Gamache the opening he was hoping for.


    ¡°How are you doing without Peter?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the strangest feeling,¡± she said, after a moment¡¯s reflection. ¡°It¡¯s like our relationship isn¡¯t dead, but neither is it alive.¡±


    ¡°The undead,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°The vampire of marriages,¡± laughed Clara. ¡°Without all the fun blood-sucking part.¡±


    ¡°Do you miss him?¡±


    ¡°The day he left, I watched him drive out of Three Pines and then I came back here and leaned against the door. I realized I was actually pushing against it, in case he returned and wanted back in. The problem is, I love him. I just wish I knew if the marriage was over and I needed to get on with my life,¡± said Clara, ¡°or if we can repair it.¡±


    Gamache looked at her for a long moment. Saw her graying hair, her comfortable and eclectic clothes. Her confusion.


    ¡°May I make a small suggestion?¡± he asked quietly.


    She nodded.


    ¡°I think you might try leading your life as though it¡¯s just you. If he comes back and you know your life will be better with him, then great. But you¡¯ll also know you¡¯re enough on your own.¡±


    Clara smiled. ¡°That¡¯s what Myrna said too. You¡¯re very alike, you know.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m often mistaken for a large black woman,¡± Gamache agreed. ¡°I¡¯m told it¡¯s my best feature.¡±


    ¡°I never am. It¡¯s my one great failing,¡± said Clara.


    Then she noticed his thoughtful brown eyes. His stillness. And the hand that trembled, just a little. But enough.


    ¡°Are you all right?¡± she asked.


    He smiled, nodded, and rose. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±


    He clipped Henri onto his leash and slung Henri¡¯s bag over his shoulder.


    They walked back across the village, man and dog, in the red and green and golden light of the three huge Christmas pines, making prints in the stained-glass snow. Gamache realized he¡¯d just said to Clara the exact words he¡¯d said to Annie.


    When everything had failed¡ªthe counseling, the intervention, the pleas to return to treatment¡ªAnnie had asked Jean-Guy to leave their home.


    Armand had sat in the car that damp autumn evening, across the street from their apartment. Wet leaves were falling from the trees, caught in gusts of wind. They scudded across the windshield and the road. He¡¯d waited. Watched. There in case his daughter needed him.


    Jean-Guy had left without needing to be forced, but as he left he¡¯d seen Gamache, who wasn¡¯t trying to hide. Beauvoir had stopped, in the middle of the glistening street, dead leaves swirling around him, and had poured all his venom into a look so vile it had shocked even the Chief Inspector of homicide. But it had also comforted him. Gamache knew in that moment that if Jean-Guy was going to hurt any Gamache, it would not be Annie.


    It was with relief that he¡¯d driven home that night.


    That was several months ago and as far as he knew Annie had had no further contact with Jean-Guy. But that didn¡¯t mean she didn¡¯t miss him. The man Beauvoir once was, and might be again. Given a chance.


    As Gamache entered Emilie¡¯s home, Th¨¦r¨¨se struggled out of her seat by the fire.


    ¡°Someone knows you well,¡± she said, handing a cut glass to Armand. ¡°They left a fine bottle of Scotch on the sideboard and a couple of bottles of wine and beer in the fridge.¡±


    ¡°And coq au vin in the oven,¡± said J¨¦r?me, coming in from the kitchen carrying a glass of red wine. ¡°It¡¯s just warming up.¡±


    He raised his glass. ¡°¨¤ votre sant¨¦.¡±


    ¡°To your good health,¡± Gamache echoed, raising his own glass to the Brunels.


    Then, after Th¨¦r¨¨se and J¨¦r?me had resumed their seats, Gamache sat down with a grunt, trying not to spill his Scotch in the descent. A soft pillow sat on the sofa beside him and, on a whim, he fluffed it.


    No sound came out, but he softly hummed the first few notes of ¡°The Huron Carol.¡±


    ¡°Armand,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°How did you find this place?¡±

 Page 44

    ¡°Henri found it,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°The dog?¡± J¨¦r?me asked.


    Henri raised his head upon hearing his name, then lowered it again.


    The Brunels exchanged glances. Henri, while a handsome dog, would never get into Harvard.


    ¡°It was his home, you see,¡± said Gamache. ¡°He¡¯d been adopted from a shelter by Madame Longpr¨¦, when he was a puppy. So he knew the house. Madame Longpr¨¦ died shortly after I met her. That¡¯s how Reine-Marie and I came to have Henri.¡±


    ¡°Who owns the house now?¡± asked Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    Gamache explained about Olivier and the sequence of events that morning.


    ¡°You¡¯re a sneak, Armand.¡± She leaned back in her seat.


    ¡°No more sneaky than that little charade in your office.¡±


    ¡°Oui,¡± she admitted. ¡°Sorry about that.¡±


    ¡°What did you do?¡± J¨¦r?me asked his wife.


    ¡°She called me into her office and gave me a dressing-down,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Told me I was delusional and she wasn¡¯t going to be sucked in anymore. She even threatened to go to Francoeur and tell him everything.¡±


    ¡°Th¨¦r¨¨se,¡± said J¨¦r?me, impressed. ¡°You tormented and tricked this poor feeble man?¡±


    ¡°Had to, in case anyone was listening.¡±


    ¡°Well, you had me convinced,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Did I really?¡± She seemed pleased. ¡°Good.¡±


    ¡°He is easily fooled, I hear,¡± said J¨¦r?me. ¡°Famous for his credulity.¡±


    ¡°Most homicide detectives are,¡± agreed Gamache.


    ¡°How¡¯d you finally catch on?¡± J¨¦r?me asked.


    ¡°Years of training. A keen knowledge of human nature,¡± said Gamache. ¡°And she gave me this.¡±


    From his pocket he took a piece of paper, neatly folded, and handed it over.


    If J¨¦r?me really has found something, I have to presume our home and my office are bugged. Have told J¨¦r?me to pack for Vancouver, but don¡¯t want to involve our daughter. Suggestions?


    ¡°After Olivier called and said we could use this home, I wrote a note on the one Th¨¦r¨¨se gave me,¡± said Gamache, ¡°and asked Inspector Lacoste to show it to her.¡±


    J¨¦r?me turned the note on its side. Scribbled there, in Gamache¡¯s hand, was Go to the airport for your flight, but don¡¯t board. Take a taxi to the Dix-Trente mall in Brossard. I¡¯ll meet you there. I know a safe place.


    Dr. Brunel handed the note back to Gamache. He¡¯d noticed the first line of his wife¡¯s message. If J¨¦r?me really has found something ¡­


    As the other two talked, he sipped his wine and looked into the fireplace. It was no longer a matter of if.


    He hadn¡¯t told Th¨¦r¨¨se, but after she¡¯d finally fallen back to sleep, he¡¯d done something foolish. He¡¯d gone to his computer and tried again. He¡¯d dug deeper and deeper into the system. Partly to see what he could find, but also to see if he could attract the watcher. If there was one. He wanted to tempt him out into the open.


    And he had. The watcher appeared, but not where J¨¦r?me Brunel expected. Not behind him, following, but in front of him. Luring J¨¦r?me on, and in.


    Trapping him.


    J¨¦r?me Brunel had fled, erasing, erasing, erasing his electronic footprints. But still the watcher followed. With sure, swift, relentless steps. He¡¯d followed J¨¦r?me Brunel right to their home.


    There was no if about it. He¡¯d found something. And he¡¯d been found.


    ¡°A safe place,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°I didn¡¯t think one existed.¡±


    ¡°And now?¡± Armand asked.


    She looked around and smiled.


    J¨¦r?me Brunel, though, did not smile.


    *   *   *


    The debriefing was over and the S?ret¨¦ teams were heading home.


    Beauvoir sat at his desk, his head lolling. His mouth open, each shallow breath unnaturally loud. His eyes were partly open and he felt himself sliding forward.


    The raid was over. There were no bikers. He¡¯d almost wept with relief, and would have, right there in that shithole of a bunker, had no one been watching.


    It was over. And now he was back, safe in his office.


    Tessier walked by, then backed up and looked in.


    ¡°I was hoping to catch you, Beauvoir. The informant fucked up, but what can we do? The boss feels badly about that, so he¡¯s put you on the next raid.¡±

 Page 45

    Beauvoir stared at him, barely focusing. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°A drug shipment heading for the border. We could let Canada Customs or the RCMP intercept it, but Francoeur wants to make up for today. Rest up. It looks big.¡±


    Beauvoir waited until he no longer heard footsteps down the corridor. And when there was only silence he put his head in his hands.


    And cried.


    FOURTEEN


    After a dinner of coq au vin, green salad, and fruit and meringue, the three of them washed up. Chief Inspector Gamache was up to his elbows in suds in the deep enamel sink, while the Brunels dried.


    It was an old kitchen. No dishwasher, no special mixer taps. No upper cabinets. Just dark wood shelves for plates, over the marble counters. And dark wood cabinets underneath.


    A harvest table, where they¡¯d eaten, doubled as the kitchen island. The windows looked out onto the back garden, but it was dark outside, so all they could see were their own reflections.


    The place felt like what it was. An old kitchen, in an old home, in a very old village. It smelled of bacon and baking. It smelled of rosemary and thyme and mandarin oranges. And coq au vin.


    When the dishes were done Gamache looked at the Bakelite clock above the sink. Almost nine o¡¯clock.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se had returned to the living room with J¨¦r?me. He stoked the embers of the fire while she found the record player and turned it on. A familiar violin concerto started playing softly in the background.


    Gamache put his coat on and whistled for Henri.


    ¡°Evening stroll?¡± asked J¨¦r?me, who stood by the bookcase, browsing.


    ¡°Want to come?¡± Gamache clipped Henri onto the leash.


    ¡°Not me, merci,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. She sat by the fire and looked relaxed, but tired. ¡°I¡¯m going to have a bath and head for bed in a few minutes.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll come with you, Armand,¡± said J¨¦r?me, and laughed at the look of surprise on the Chief¡¯s face.


    ¡°Don¡¯t let him stand still for too long,¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se called after them. ¡°He looks like the bottom half of a snowman. Kids are constantly trying to put big snowballs on top of him.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not true,¡± said J¨¦r?me, as he got into his coat. ¡°Once it happened.¡± He closed the door behind them. ¡°Let¡¯s go. I¡¯m curious to see this little village you like so much.¡±


    ¡°It won¡¯t take long.¡±


    The cold hit them immediately, but instead of being shocking or uncomfortable, it felt refreshing. Bracing. They were well insulated against it. A tall man and a small, round man. They looked like a broken exclamation mark.


    Once down the wide verandah steps, they turned left and strolled along the plowed road. The Chief unclipped Henri, tossed a tennis ball, and watched as the shepherd leapt into the snow bank, furiously digging to retrieve the precious ball.


    Gamache was curious to see his companion¡¯s reaction to the village. J¨¦r?me Brunel, as Gamache had grown to appreciate, was not easily read. He was a city man, born and bred. Had studied medicine at the Universit¨¦ de Montr¨¦al, and before that he¡¯d spent time at the Sorbonne in Paris, where he¡¯d met Th¨¦r¨¨se. She¡¯d been deep into an advanced degree in art history.


    Village life and J¨¦r?me Brunel did not, Gamache suspected, naturally mix.


    After one quiet circuit, J¨¦r?me stopped and stared at the three huge pine trees, lit up and pointing into the sky. Then, while Gamache threw the ball to Henri, J¨¦r?me looked around at the homes surrounding the village green. Some were redbrick, some were clapboard, some were made of fieldstone, as though expelled from the earth they sat on. A natural phenomenon. But instead of commenting on the village, J¨¦r?me¡¯s glance returned to the three huge pines. He tilted his head back, and followed them. Up, up. Into the stars.


    ¡°Do you know, Armand,¡± he said, his face still turned to the sky, ¡°some of those aren¡¯t stars at all. They¡¯re communication satellites.¡±


    His head, and gaze, dropped to earth. He met Gamache¡¯s eyes. Between them there was a haze of warm breath in the freezing air.


    ¡°Oui,¡± said Armand. Henri sat at his feet staring at the tennis ball, encrusted with frozen drool, in Gamache¡¯s gloved hand.


    ¡°They orbit,¡± J¨¦r?me continued. ¡°Receiving signals and sending them. The whole earth is covered.¡±


    ¡°Almost the whole earth,¡± said Gamache.


    In the light from the trees the Chief saw a smile on J¨¦r?me¡¯s moon face.

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    ¡°Almost,¡± J¨¦r?me nodded. ¡°That¡¯s why you brought us here, isn¡¯t it? Not just because it¡¯s the last place anyone would think to look for us, but because this village is invisible. They can¡¯t see us, can they?¡± He waved to the night sky.


    ¡°Did you notice,¡± Gamache asked, ¡°as soon as we drove down that hill, our cell phones went dead.¡±


    ¡°I did notice. And it¡¯s not just cells?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s everything. Laptops, smart phones. Tablets. Nothing works here. There¡¯s phone service and electricity,¡± said Gamache. ¡°But it¡¯s all landlines.¡±


    ¡°No Internet?¡±


    ¡°Dial-up. Not even cable. Not worth it for the companies to try to get through that.¡±


    Gamache pointed and J¨¦r?me looked beyond the small circle of light that was Three Pines. Into the darkness.


    The mountains. The forest. The impenetrable woods.


    That was the glory of this place, J¨¦r?me realized. From a telecommunications point of view, from a satellite¡¯s point of view, this would be complete darkness.


    ¡°A dead zone,¡± said J¨¦r?me, returning his eyes to Gamache.


    The Chief tossed the ball again, and again Henri bounded into the snow bank, only his furiously wagging tail visible.


    ¡°Extraordinaire,¡± said J¨¦r?me. He¡¯d started walking again, but now he looked down, concentrating on his feet. Walking and thinking.


    Finally he stopped.


    ¡°They can¡¯t trace us. They can¡¯t find us. They can¡¯t see us and they can¡¯t hear us.¡±


    There was no need for J¨¦r?me to explain who ¡°they¡± were.


    Gamache nodded toward the bistro. ¡°Would you like a nightcap?¡±


    ¡°Are you kidding, I¡¯d like the entire outfit.¡± J¨¦r?me rolled quickly toward the bistro, as though Three Pines had suddenly tilted. Gamache was delayed by a minute or two when he noticed that Henri was still bottom up in the snow drift.


    ¡°Honestly,¡± said Armand when Henri popped his head out, covered in snow. But without the ball. Gamache dug down with his hands and finally found it. Then he made a snowball and tossed it into the air, watching as Henri jumped, grabbed it, bit down and was, yet again, surprised when it disappeared in his mouth.


    No learning curve at all, marveled Gamache. But he realized Henri already knew all he¡¯d ever need. He knew he was loved. And he knew how to love.


    ¡°Come along,¡± he said, handing the tennis ball to Henri and clipping him back on his leash.


    J¨¦r?me had secured seats in the far corner, away from the other patrons. Gamache greeted and thanked a few of the villagers, whom he knew had helped get Emilie¡¯s home ready for them, then he took the armchair beside J¨¦r?me.


    Olivier showed up almost immediately to wipe the table and take their order.


    ¡°Everything okay?¡± he asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s perfect, thank you.¡±


    ¡°My wife and I are deeply grateful to you, monsieur,¡± said J¨¦r?me, solemnly. ¡°I understand you were the one who arranged for us to stay here.¡±


    ¡°We all helped,¡± said Olivier. But he looked pleased.


    ¡°I was hoping to see Myrna.¡± Gamache looked around.


    ¡°You just missed her. She had dinner with Dominique but left a few minutes ago. Want me to call her?¡±


    ¡°Non, merci,¡± said the Chief. ¡°Ce n¡¯est pas n¨¦cessaire.¡±


    Gamache and J¨¦r?me ordered, then the Chief excused himself and returned a few minutes later to find cognacs on their table.


    J¨¦r?me looked content, but thoughtful.


    ¡°Something troubling you?¡± asked the Chief, as he warmed his glass between his hands.


    The older man took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ¡°Do you know, Armand, I can¡¯t remember the last time I felt safe.¡±


    ¡°I know what you mean,¡± said Gamache. ¡°It feels as though this has been going on forever.¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t mean just this mess. I mean all my life.¡± J¨¦r?me opened his eyes, but didn¡¯t look at his companion. Instead he looked at the beamed ceiling with its simple Christmas pine boughs. He took a deep, deep, profound breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled. ¡°I think I¡¯ve been afraid most of my life. Schoolyards, exams, dating. Medical school. Every time an ambulance rolled into my ER I was afraid I¡¯d screw up and someone would die. I was afraid for my children, afraid for my wife. Afraid something would happen to them.¡±


    Now he dropped his gaze to Gamache.

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    ¡°Yes,¡± said the Chief. ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡±


    The two men held each other¡¯s gaze, and J¨¦r?me realized that the Chief knew something about fear. Not terror. Not panic. But he knew what it was to be afraid.


    ¡°And now, J¨¦r?me? Are you feeling safe?¡±


    J¨¦r?me closed his eyes and leaned back in his armchair. He was quiet so long, Gamache thought maybe he¡¯d nodded off.


    The Chief sipped his cognac, leaned back in his own chair, and let his mind wander.


    ¡°We have a problem, Armand,¡± said J¨¦r?me after a few minutes, his eyes still closed.


    ¡°And what¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°If they can¡¯t get in, we can¡¯t get out.¡±


    J¨¦r?me opened his eyes and leaned forward.


    ¡°It¡¯s a beautiful village, but it¡¯s a little like a foxhole at Vimy, isn¡¯t it? We might be safe, but we¡¯re stuck. And we can¡¯t stay here forever.¡±


    Gamache nodded. He¡¯d bought them time, but not eternity.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to spoil the moment, Armand, but Francoeur and whoever¡¯s behind him will find us eventually. Then what?¡±


    Then what? It was a good question, Gamache knew. And he didn¡¯t like the answer. He knew, as a man used to fear, the great danger of letting it take control. It distorted reality. Consumed reality. Fear created its own reality.


    He leaned forward in his seat, toward J¨¦r?me, and lowered his voice.


    ¡°Then we¡¯ll just have to find them first.¡±


    J¨¦r?me held his eyes, not wavering. ¡°And how do you propose to do that? Telepathy? We¡¯re fine here, for now. For tomorrow even. Maybe for weeks. But as soon as we arrived a clock started ticking. And no one, not you, not me, not Th¨¦r¨¨se, not even Francoeur, knows how long we have before they find us.¡±


    Dr. Brunel looked around the bistro, at the villagers lingering over their drinks. Some chatting. Some playing chess or checkers. Some just sitting, quietly.


    ¡°And now we¡¯ve dragged them into this,¡± he said softly. ¡°When Francoeur finds us, that¡¯ll be it for our peace and quiet. And theirs.¡±


    Gamache knew J¨¦r?me wasn¡¯t being melodramatic. Francoeur had proven he was willing to do anything to achieve his goal. What preoccupied the Chief, what gnawed at him, was that he hadn¡¯t yet figured out what that goal was.


    He needed to keep his fear at bay. A little was good. Kept him sharp. But fear, unchecked, became terror and terror grew into panic and panic created chaos. And then all hell broke loose.


    What he needed, what they all needed, and what they could only find here in Three Pines, was peace and peace of mind and the clarity that came with it.


    Three Pines had given them time. A day. Two. A week. J¨¦r?me was right, it wouldn¡¯t last forever. But please, Lord, prayed Gamache, let it be enough.


    ¡°The problem, Armand,¡± J¨¦r?me continued, ¡°is that the very thing that keeps us safe is what will eventually be our undoing. No telecommunications. Without that, I can¡¯t make any progress. I was getting close, that much is certain.¡±


    He lowered his eyes and swirled his cognac in the bulbous glass. Now was the time to tell Armand what he¡¯d done. What he¡¯d found. Who he¡¯d found.


    He looked up into Gamache¡¯s thoughtful eyes. Beyond his companion, Dr. Brunel saw the cheerful fire, the frosted mullioned windows, the Christmas tree with the presents underneath.


    Dr. Brunel realized he had no desire to stick his head out of this pleasant foxhole. Just for this one night, he wanted peace. Even if it was pretend peace. An illusion. He didn¡¯t care. He wanted just this one quiet night, without fear. Tomorrow he¡¯d face the truth and tell them what he¡¯d found.


    ¡°What do you need to continue the search?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°You know what I need. A high-speed satellite link.¡±


    ¡°And if I could get you one?¡±


    Dr. Brunel studied his companion. Gamache was looking relaxed. Henri lay at his feet beside the chair and Armand¡¯s hand was stroking the dog.


    ¡°What¡¯re you thinking?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°I have a plan,¡± said Gamache.


    Dr. Brunel nodded thoughtfully. ¡°Does it involve spaceships?¡±


    ¡°I have another plan,¡± said Gamache, and J¨¦r?me laughed.


    ¡°You said we can¡¯t stay and we can¡¯t leave,¡± said the Chief, and J¨¦r?me nodded. ¡°But there¡¯s another option.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s that?¡±

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    ¡°Create our own tower.¡±


    ¡°Are you mad?¡± J¨¦r?me glanced furtively around and dropped his voice. ¡°Those towers go up hundreds of feet. They¡¯re engineering marvels. We can hardly ask the schoolchildren of Three Pines to make one out of Popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners.¡±


    ¡°Not Popsicle sticks perhaps,¡± said Gamache with a smile. ¡°But you¡¯re close.¡±


    J¨¦r?me downed the last of his cognac, then examined Gamache. ¡°What¡¯re you thinking?¡±


    ¡°Can we talk about it tomorrow? I¡¯d like to run it by Th¨¦r¨¨se at the same time. Besides, it¡¯s getting late and I still need to speak with Myrna Landers.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°She owns the bookstore.¡± Gamache nodded toward the internal door connecting the bistro with the bookstore. ¡°I popped by while Olivier was getting our drinks. She¡¯s expecting me.¡±


    ¡°Is she going to give you a book on building your tower?¡± J¨¦r?me asked as he put on his parka.


    ¡°She was friends with a woman who was killed yesterday.¡±


    ¡°Oh, oui, I¡¯d forgotten you¡¯re actually here on business. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Not at all. The sad fact is, it¡¯s a perfect cover. If anyone asks, it explains why I¡¯m in Three Pines.¡±


    They said their good nights, and while J¨¦r?me walked back to Emilie Longpr¨¦¡¯s and a warm bed next to Th¨¦r¨¨se, Armand and Henri entered the bookstore.


    ¡°Myrna?¡± he called, and realized he¡¯d done exactly the same thing, at almost exactly the same time, the night before. But this time he wasn¡¯t bringing news of Constance Ouellet¡¯s murder¡ªthis time he came bearing questions, and lots of them.


    FIFTEEN


    Myrna greeted him at the top of the stairs.


    ¡°Welcome back,¡± she said.


    She wore an enormous flannel nightie covered in scenes of skiers and snowshoers, frolicking all over Mont Myrna. The nightie went down to her shins, and thick knitted slippers met it there. A Hudson¡¯s Bay blanket was spread across her shoulders.


    ¡°Coffee? Brownie?¡±


    ¡°Non, merci,¡± he said, and took the comfortable chair she pointed to beside the fire, while she poured herself a mug and brought over a plate of fudge brownies, in case he changed his mind.


    Her home smelled of chocolate and coffee, and something else musky and rich and familiar.


    ¡°You made the coq au vin?¡± he asked. He¡¯d presumed it was Olivier or Gabri.


    She nodded. ¡°Ruth helped. Rosa, however, was no help at all. It was very nearly canard au vin.¡±


    Gamache laughed. ¡°It was delicious.¡±


    ¡°I thought you could use something comforting,¡± she said, watching her guest.


    He held her eyes. Waiting for the inevitable questions. Why was he here? Why did he bring the elderly couple? Why were they hiding, and who from?


    Three Pines had taken them in. Three Pines could, reasonably, expect answers to those questions. But Myrna simply took a brownie and bit into it. And he knew then he really was safe, from prying eyes and prying questions.


    Three Pines, he knew, was not immune to dreadful loss. To sorrow and pain. What Three Pines had wasn¡¯t immunity but a rare ability to heal. And that¡¯s what they offered him, and the Brunels. Space and time to heal.


    And comfort.


    But, like peace, comfort didn¡¯t come from hiding away or running away. Comfort first demanded courage. He picked up one of the brownies and took a bite, then he reached into his pocket for his notebook.


    ¡°I thought you¡¯d like to hear what we¡¯ve found so far about Constance.¡±


    ¡°I take it that doesn¡¯t include whoever killed her,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°Unfortunately not,¡± he said as he put on his reading glasses and glanced at his notebook. ¡°I spent much of the day researching the Quints¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then you think that had something to do with her death? The fact she was a Ouellet Quintuplet?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t really know, but it¡¯s extraordinary, and when someone is murdered we look for the extraordinary, though, to be honest, we often find the killer hiding in the banal.¡±


    Myrna laughed. ¡°Sounds like being a therapist. People normally came into my office because something happened. Someone had died, or betrayed them. Their love wasn¡¯t reciprocated. They¡¯d lost a job. Gotten divorced. Something big. But the truth was, while that might¡¯ve been the catalyst, the problem was almost always tiny and old and hidden.¡±


    Gamache raised his brows in surprise. It did sound exactly like his job. The killing was the catalyst, but it almost always started as something small, invisible to the naked eye. It was often years, decades, old. A slight that rankled and grew and infected the host. Until what had been human became a walking resentment. Covered in skin. Passing as human. Passing as happy.

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    Until something happened.


    Something had happened in Constance¡¯s life, or the life of her killer, that provoked the murder. It might have been big, clearly visible. But more likely it was tiny. Easily dismissed.


    Which was why Gamache knew he had to look closely, carefully. Where other investigators bounded ahead, dramatically covering ground, Armand Gamache took his time. Indeed, he knew that to some it might even appear as inactivity. Walking slowly, his hands behind his back. Sitting on a park bench, staring into space. Sipping coffee in the bistro or brasserie, listening.


    Thinking.


    And while others, in glorious commotion, raced right by the killer, Chief Inspector Gamache slowly walked up to him. Found him hiding, in plain sight. Disguised as everyone else.


    ¡°Shall I tell you what I know?¡± he asked.


    Myrna leaned back in her large armchair, pulled the Hudson¡¯s Bay blanket around her, and nodded.


    ¡°This is culled from all sorts of sources, some of them public, but most came from private notes and diaries.¡±


    ¡°Go on,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°Her parents were Isidore Ouellet and Marie-Harriette Pineault. They were married in the parish church of Saint-Antoine-sur-Richelieu in 1928. He was a farmer. Twenty when they married, and Marie-Harriette was seventeen years old.¡±


    He looked up at Myrna. Whether this was news to her or not, he couldn¡¯t tell. It was, he had to admit, not exactly headline grabbing. That came later.


    ¡°The girls were born in 1937.¡± He took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair, as though done. But they both knew he, and the story, were far from finished. ¡°Now, why that gap? Almost ten years between the marriage and the first child. Children. It¡¯s inconceivable, so to speak, that they weren¡¯t trying to have children. This was a time when the Church and the parish priest were the greatest influences in people¡¯s lives. It was considered the duty of any couple to conceive. In fact, the only reason to get married and have sex was to procreate. So why didn¡¯t Isidore and his young wife?¡±


    Myrna held her coffee mug and listened. She knew he wasn¡¯t asking her anything. Not yet.


    ¡°Families at that time routinely had ten, twelve, even twenty children. My own wife comes from a family of twelve children, and that was a generation on. In a small village, in the country, in the 1920s? It would have been their sacred duty to have children. And any couple that failed to conceive would be shunned. Considered unblessed. Even, perhaps, evil.¡±


    Myrna nodded. This attitude no longer existed in Qu¨¦bec, but it had until fairly recently. Well within living memory. Until the Quiet Revolution gave women back their bodies and Quebeckers back their lives. It invited the Church to leave the womb and restrict itself to the altar. It almost worked.


    But in a farming community, in the twenties and thirties? Gamache was right. Every year that passed without children, the Ouellets would be more and more ostracized. Viewed with either pity or suspicion. Shunned, as though their childless state was communicable and would curse them all. People, animals, land. All would become infertile, barren. Because of one young couple.


    ¡°They¡¯d have been desperate,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Marie-Harriette describes spending most of her days in the village church, praying. Going to confession. Doing penance. And then, finally, eight years on, she made the long journey to Montr¨¦al. It would have been a horrendous trip for a woman alone, from the Mont¨¦r¨¦gie area all the way into Montr¨¦al. And then this farmer¡¯s wife, who¡¯d never been outside her village, walked from the train station all the way to Saint Joseph¡¯s Oratory. That alone would¡¯ve taken her most of a day.¡±


    As he spoke, he watched Myrna. She¡¯d stopped sipping her coffee. Her brownie sat on her plate, half eaten. She listened, wholly and completely. Even Henri, at Gamache¡¯s feet, seemed to listen, his satellite ears turned to his master¡¯s voice.


    ¡°It was May of 1936,¡± he said. ¡°Do you know why she went to the Oratoire Saint-Joseph?¡±


    ¡°Brother Andr¨¦?¡± Myrna asked. ¡°Was he still alive?¡±


    ¡°Barely. He was ninety years old and very ill. But he continued to see people. They came from all over the world by then,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Have you been to the Oratory?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Myrna.


    It was an extraordinary sight, the great dome, illuminated at night, visible from much of Montr¨¦al. The designers had created a long, wide pedestrian boulevard that ran from the street straight to the front door. Except that the church had been built on the side of the mountain. And the only way in was up. Up, up the many stone stairs. Ninety-nine of them.

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    And once inside? The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with crutches and canes. Left because they were no longer needed.


    Thousands of weak and crippled pilgrims had dragged themselves up those stone steps into the presence of the tiny old man. And Brother Andr¨¦ had healed them.


    He was ninety years old when Marie-Harriette Ouellet made her pilgrimage, and walking off the end of his life. It would be understandable if he conserved what strength he had left. But the wizened little man in the simple black robes continued to heal others while growing weaker himself.


    Marie-Harriette Ouellet had traveled alone from her small farm to beg the saint for a miracle.


    Gamache spoke without need of his notes. What happened next was not easily forgotten.


    ¡°Saint Joseph¡¯s Oratory wasn¡¯t what it is today. There was a church there, and a long promenade and stairs, but the dome wasn¡¯t completed. Now it¡¯s overrun with tourists, but back then almost everyone who visited was a pilgrim. The sick, the dying, the crippled, desperate for help. Marie-Harriette joined them.¡±


    He paused and took a deep breath. Myrna, who¡¯d been looking into the dying fire, met his eyes. She knew what almost certainly came next.


    ¡°At the gate, the foot of the long pedestrian boulevard, she dropped to her knees and said the first of the Hail Marys,¡± said Gamache.


    His voice was deep and warm, but neutral. There was no need to infuse his words with his own feelings.


    The images came alive as he spoke. Both he and Myrna could see the young woman. Young by their standards, elderly by the judgment of her time.


    Twenty-six-year-old Marie-Harriette, dropped to her knees.


    Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, she prayed. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.


    Into the quiet loft, Armand Gamache spoke the familiar prayer.


    ¡°All night she crawled on her knees along the promenade, stopping to say the Hail Mary at every step,¡± said Gamache. ¡°At the bottom of the stairs Marie-Harriette didn¡¯t hesitate. She headed up them, her bloody knees staining her best dress.¡±


    It must have looked, thought Myrna, like menstruation. Blood staining a woman¡¯s dress. As she prayed for children.


    Blessed is the fruit of thy womb.


    She imagined the young woman, exhausted, in pain, desperate, crawling up the stone stairs on her knees. Praying.


    ¡°Finally, at dawn, Marie-Harriette reached the top,¡± said Gamache. ¡°She looked up, and standing at the door of the church was Brother Andr¨¦, apparently waiting for her. He helped her up and they went in together and prayed. He listened to her pleas, and he blessed her. Then she left.¡±


    The room fell silent and Myrna took a deep breath. Relieved the long climb was over. She could feel the sting in her knees. Could feel the ache in her own womb. And she could feel Marie-Harriette¡¯s belief, that with the help of a chaste priest and a long-dead virgin, she might finally have a child.


    ¡°It worked,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Eight months later, in January 1937, the day after Brother Andr¨¦ died, Marie-Harriette Ouellet gave birth to five healthy daughters.¡±


    Even though she knew how the story ended, Myrna was still amazed.


    She could see how this would be considered a miracle. Proof that God existed and was kind. And generous. Almost, thought Myrna, to a fault.


    SIXTEEN


    ¡°It was, of course,¡± said Gamache, voicing Myrna¡¯s thoughts, ¡°considered a miracle. The first quintuplets to have ever survived childbirth. They became sensations.¡±


    The Chief leaned forward and placed a photograph on the coffee table.


    It showed Isidore Ouellet, their father, standing behind the babies. He was unshaven, his farmer¡¯s face weather-beaten, his dark hair unkempt. It looked like he¡¯d spent the night running his immense hands through it. Even in the grainy picture, they could see the dark circles under his eyes. He wore a light shirt with a collar, and a frayed suit jacket, as though he¡¯d thrown on his Sunday best at the last minute.


    His daughters lay on the rough kitchen table in front of him. They were tiny, newborn, wrapped in hastily brought sheets and dish towels and rags. He was looking at his children in amazement, his eyes wide.


    It would be comical if there wasn¡¯t so much horror in that beaten face. Isidore Ouellet looked as though God had come for dinner and burned down the house.


    Myrna picked up the picture and took a close look. She¡¯d never seen it before.


    ¡°You found this in her home, I imagine,¡± she said, still distracted by the look in Isidore¡¯s eyes.


    Gamache put another photograph on the table.

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    She picked it up. It was slightly out of focus, but the father had disappeared and now standing behind the babies was an older woman.


    ¡°Midwife?¡± asked Myrna, and Gamache nodded.


    She was stout, no-nonsense, her hands on her hips and a stained pinafore covering her large bosom. She was smiling. Weary and happy. And, like Isidore, amazed, but without his horror. Her responsibility, after all, was over.


    Then Gamache put down a third black and white picture. The older woman had disappeared. The rags and wooden table had disappeared, and now each newborn was neatly wrapped in her own warm, clean flannel blanket and laid on a sterile table. A middle-aged man, dressed head to toe in white, stood proudly behind them. This was the famous photo. The world¡¯s introduction to the Ouellet Quintuplets.


    ¡°The doctor,¡± said Myrna. ¡°What was his name? Bernard. That¡¯s it. Dr. Bernard.¡±


    It was a testament to the Quints¡¯ fame that almost eight decades on, Myrna would know the name of the doctor who¡¯d delivered them. Or not.


    ¡°You mean,¡± she said, going back to the original pictures, ¡°Dr. Bernard didn¡¯t deliver the Quints after all?¡±


    ¡°He wasn¡¯t even there,¡± said Gamache. ¡°And when you think about it, why would he be? In 1937 most farmers¡¯ wives had midwives at their deliveries, not doctors. And while they might have suspected Marie-Harriette was carrying more than one child, no one could have guessed there were five of them. It was the Depression, the Ouellets were dirt-poor, they could never have afforded a doctor even if they knew they needed one.¡±


    They both looked down at the iconic picture. The smiling Dr. Bernard. Confident, assured, paternal. Perfectly cast for a role he¡¯d play for the rest of his life.


    The great man who¡¯d delivered a miracle. Who, because of his skill, had done what no other doctor had managed. He¡¯d brought five babies into the world, alive. And kept them alive. He¡¯d even saved their mother.


    Dr. Bernard became the doctor every woman wanted. The poster boy for competence. A point of pride for Qu¨¦bec, that they had trained and produced a physician of such skill and compassion.


    A shame, thought Gamache as he put on his glasses and studied the photo, that it was a lie.


    He put it aside and went back to the original photograph, of the Quints and their horrified father. It was the first of what would prove to be thousands of pictures of the girls taken during their lifetimes. The babies were imperfectly wrapped in sheets soiled with their mother¡¯s blood and feces and mucus and membranes. It was a miracle, but it was also a mess.


    It was the first picture, but it was also the last time the real girls were photographed. Within hours of the Quints being born, they were manufactured. The lies, the role-playing, the deceit, had begun.


    He turned the original photo over. There, scrawled in neat, rounded schoolchild letters, were the children¡¯s names.


    Marie-Virginie, Marie-H¨¦l¨¨ne, Marie-Josephine, Marie-Marguerite, Marie-Constance.


    They must have been quickly wrapped in whatever the midwife and Monsieur Ouellet could find, and laid on the kitchen table in the order in which they were born.


    Then he picked up the picture with Dr. Bernard, taken just hours later. On the back someone had written M-M, M-J, M-V, M-C, M-H.


    No longer their full names, now they were just initials. Today it would have been bar codes, thought the Chief. He could guess whose handwriting he was seeing, and again he looked at the kindly country doctor whose life had also changed that night. A whole new Dr. Bernard had been born.


    Gamache pulled one more photo from his breast pocket and placed it on the coffee table. Myrna picked it up. She saw four young women, probably in their early thirties, arms around each other and smiling for the camera.


    She turned the photograph over, but nothing was written on the back.


    ¡°The girls?¡± she asked, and Gamache nodded.


    ¡°They all look so different,¡± she marveled. ¡°Hairstyles, taste in clothing, even their bodies.¡± She looked over the picture, to Gamache, who was watching her. ¡°It¡¯s impossible to tell they¡¯re even sisters. Do you think that was on purpose?¡±


    ¡°What do you think?¡± he said.


    Myrna went back to the photo, but she knew the answer. She nodded.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I think too,¡± said the Chief, taking off his glasses and leaning back in his armchair. ¡°They were obviously very close. They didn¡¯t do it to distance themselves from each other, but from the public.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re in disguise,¡± she said, lowering the picture. ¡°They made their bodies a costume, so no one would know who they were. More like armor really, than a costume.¡± She tapped the photo. ¡°There¡¯re four of them. Where¡¯s the other one?¡±

 Page 52

    ¡°Dead.¡±


    Myrna tilted her head at the Chief. ¡°Pardon?¡±


    ¡°Virginie,¡± said Gamache. ¡°She died in her early twenties.¡±


    ¡°Of course. I forgot.¡± She scoured her memory. ¡°It was an accident, wasn¡¯t it? Car? Drowning? I can¡¯t quite remember. Something tragic.¡±


    ¡°She fell down the stairs at the home they shared.¡±


    Myrna was quiet for a moment before she spoke. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose it was more than that? I mean, twenty-year-olds don¡¯t normally just fall down stairs.¡±


    ¡°What a suspicious mind you have, Madame Landers,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Constance and H¨¦l¨¨ne saw it happen. They said she lost her footing. There was no autopsy. No obituary notice in the paper. Virginie Ouellet was quietly buried in the family plot in Saint-Antoine-sur-Richelieu. Someone at the mortuary leaked the news a few weeks later. There was quite a public outpouring of grief.¡±


    ¡°Why hush up her death?¡± asked Myrna.


    ¡°From what I gather, the surviving sisters wanted to grieve in private.¡±


    ¡°Yes, that would fit,¡± said Myrna. ¡°You said, ¡®They said she lost her footing.¡¯ There seems a bit of a qualifier there. They said it, but is it true?¡±


    Gamache smiled slightly.


    ¡°You¡¯re a good listener.¡± He leaned forward so that they looked at each other across the coffee table, their faces half in the firelight, half in darkness. ¡°If you know how to read police reports and death certificates, there¡¯s a lot in what isn¡¯t said.¡±


    ¡°Did they think she might¡¯ve been pushed?¡±


    ¡°No. But there was a suggestion that while her death was an accident, it wasn¡¯t altogether a surprise.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± asked Myrna.


    ¡°Did Constance tell you anything about her sisters?¡±


    ¡°Only in general terms. I wanted to hear about Constance¡¯s life, not her sisters¡¯.¡±


    ¡°It must have been a relief for her,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°I think it was. A relief and a surprise,¡± said Myrna. ¡°Most people were only interested in the Quints as a unit, not as individuals. Though, to be honest, I didn¡¯t realize she was a Quint until about a year into therapy.¡±


    Gamache stared at her and tried to contain his amusement.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t funny,¡± said Myrna, but she too smiled.


    ¡°No,¡± agreed the Chief, wiping the smile from his face. ¡°Not at all. Did you really not know she was one of the most famous people in the country?¡±


    ¡°OK, so here¡¯s the thing,¡± said Myrna. ¡°She introduced herself as Constance Pineault and mentioned her family, but only in response to my questions. It didn¡¯t occur to me to ask if she was a quintuplet. I almost never asked that of my clients. But you didn¡¯t answer my question. What did you mean when you said the youngest Quint¡¯s death was an accident but not a surprise?¡±


    ¡°The youngest?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°Well, yes¡­¡± Myrna stopped herself and shook her head. ¡°Funny that. I think of the one who died first¡ª¡±


    ¡°Virginie.¡±


    ¡°¡ªas the youngest, and Constance as the oldest.¡±


    ¡°I suppose it¡¯s natural. I think I do too.¡±


    ¡°So, Chief, why wasn¡¯t Virginie¡¯s death such a surprise?¡±


    ¡°She wasn¡¯t diagnosed or treated, but it seems Virginie almost certainly suffered from clinical depression.¡±


    Myrna inhaled slowly, deeply, then exhaled slowly, deeply. ¡°They thought she killed herself?¡±


    ¡°It was never said, not so clearly, but the impression I got was that they suspected it.¡±


    ¡°Poor one,¡± said Myrna.


    Poor one, thought Gamache, and was reminded of the police cars on the Champlain Bridge and the woman who¡¯d jumped to her death the morning before. Aiming for the slushy waters of the St. Lawrence. How horrible must the problem be when throwing yourself into a freezing river, or down a flight of stairs, was the solution?


    Who hurt you once, he thought, looking at the photo of the newborn Virginie on the harvest table, crying next to her sisters, so far beyond repair?


    ¡°Did Constance tell you anything about her upbringing?¡±


    ¡°Almost nothing. She¡¯d taken a big step in admitting who she was, but she wasn¡¯t ready to talk about the details.¡±


    ¡°How did you even find out she was one of the Ouellet Quints?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°Wish I could say it was my remarkable insight, but I think that ship has sailed.¡±

 Page 53

    ¡°And sunk, I¡¯m afraid,¡± said Gamache.


    Myrna laughed. ¡°Too true. Looking back, I realize she was a great one for hints. She dropped them all over the place, for a year. She said she had four sisters. But I never thought she meant all the same age. She said her parents were obsessed with Brother Andr¨¦, but that she and her sisters were told not to talk about him. That it would get them into trouble. She said people were always trying to find out about their lives. But I thought she just had snoopy neighbors, or was paranoid. Never occurred to me she meant all of North America, including newsreels, and that it was the truth. She must have been pretty exasperated with me. I¡¯m embarrassed to admit I might never have twigged if she hadn¡¯t finally just told me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like to have been there for that conversation.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll never forget it, that¡¯s for sure. I thought we were going to talk about intimacy issues again. I sat there with my notebook on my knee, pen in hand¡±¡ªMyrna aped it for him now¡ª¡°and then she said, ¡®My mother¡¯s name was Pineault. My father¡¯s name was Ouellet. Isidore Ouellet.¡¯ She was looking at me as though this was supposed to mean something. And the funny thing was, it did. There was a sort of vague stirring. Then when I didn¡¯t respond she said, ¡®I go by the name Constance Pineault. I actually think of myself as that now, but most people know me as Constance Ouellet. My four sisters and I share a birthday.¡¯ I¡¯m ashamed to say even then it took me a moment or two to understand.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I¡¯d have believed it either,¡± said Gamache.


    She shook her head, still in some disbelief. ¡°The Ouellet Quintuplets were almost fictional. Certainly mythical. It was as though the woman I knew as Constance Pineault announced she was a Greek goddess, Hera come to life. Or a unicorn.¡±


    ¡°It seemed unlikely?¡±


    ¡°It seemed impossible, delusional even. But she was so composed, so relaxed. Almost relieved. A more sane person would be hard to find. I think she could see I was struggling to believe her, and I think she found it amusing.¡±


    ¡°Was she also suffering from depression? Is that why she came to you?¡±


    Myrna shook her head. ¡°No. She had moments of depression, but everyone does.¡±


    ¡°Then why did she come to you?¡±


    ¡°It took us a long time to figure that out,¡± admitted Myrna.


    ¡°You make it sound as though Constance herself didn¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°She didn¡¯t. She was there because she was unhappy. She wanted me to help her figure out what was wrong. She said she felt like someone who suddenly realizes they¡¯re color-blind, and everyone else lives in a more vibrant world.¡±


    ¡°Color-blindness can¡¯t be cured,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Could Constance?¡±


    ¡°Well, first we had to get at the problem. Not the brass band banging away on the surface, but the barb beneath.¡±


    ¡°And did you get at the barb?¡±


    ¡°I think so. I think it was simple. Most problems are. Constance was lonely.¡±


    Chief Inspector Gamache thought about that. A woman never alone. Sharing a womb, sharing a home. Sharing parents, sharing a table, sharing clothing, sharing everything. Living in a constant crowd. People around all the time, inside the house, and outside. Gawking.


    ¡°I¡¯d have thought what she¡¯d crave was privacy,¡± he said.


    ¡°Oh, yes, they all craved that. Oddly enough, I think that¡¯s what made Constance so lonely. As soon as they could, the girls retreated from the attention, but they retreated too far. Became too private. Too isolated. What started as a survival mechanism turned against them. They were safe in their little home, in their private world, but they were alone. They were lonely children who grew into lonely adults. But they knew no other life.¡±


    ¡°Color-blind,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°But Constance could see there was something else out there. She was safe, but she wasn¡¯t happy. And she wanted to be.¡± Myrna shook her head. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t wish celebrity on my worst enemy. And parents who do it to their children should be tied up by their nuts.¡±


    ¡°You think the Quints¡¯ parents were to blame?¡±


    Myrna considered that. ¡°I think Constance thought so.¡±


    Gamache nodded to the pictures on the coffee table between them. ¡°You asked if I found those in Constance¡¯s home. I didn¡¯t. There were no personal photos there at all. None in frames, none in albums. I found those in the national archives. Except¡±¡ªhe picked up the one of the four young women¡ª¡°this one. Constance had packed it, to bring down.¡±

 Page 54

    Myrna stared at the small picture in his hand. ¡°I wonder why.¡±


    *   *   *


    J¨¦r?me Brunel closed his book.


    The curtains were drawn and the eiderdown comforter lay on top of them in the large bed. Th¨¦r¨¨se had fallen asleep reading. He watched her for a few moments, breathing deeply, evenly. Her chin on her chest, her active mind at rest. At peace. At last.


    He put his book on the nightstand and, reaching over, took off her glasses and lifted the book from her hand. Then he kissed her forehead and smelled her night cream. Soft and subtle. When she went away on business trips he would spread some on his hands and go to sleep with them to his face.


    ¡°J¨¦r?me?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se roused. ¡°Is everything all right?¡±


    ¡°Perfect,¡± he whispered. ¡°I was just going to turn off the lights.¡±


    ¡°Is Armand back?¡±


    ¡°Not yet, but I left the porch lights on and some lamps in the living room.¡±


    She kissed him and rolled over.


    J¨¦r?me turned off the bedside lamp, and pulled the duvet up around them. The window was open, letting in cold, fresh air, and making the warm bed all the more welcome.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± he whispered into his wife¡¯s ear. ¡°Armand has a plan.¡±


    ¡°I hope it doesn¡¯t involve spaceships or time travel,¡± she mumbled, half asleep again.


    ¡°He has another plan,¡± said J¨¦r?me, and heard her chuckle before the room fell back into silence, except for the little cracks and groans as the home settled around them.


    *   *   *


    Armand Gamache stood at the window of Myrna¡¯s bookstore and saw the light go out in the upstairs bedroom at Emilie¡¯s home.


    He¡¯d followed Myrna downstairs into her shop, and now she was standing, baffled, in the middle of an aisle of her bookstore.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure it was here.¡±


    ¡°What was?¡± He turned around, but Myrna had disappeared into the rows of bookshelves.


    ¡°The book Dr. Bernard wrote, about the Quints. I had it here, but I can¡¯t find it.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know he¡¯d written a book,¡± said Gamache, walking down another aisle, scanning the shelves. ¡°Is it any good?¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t read it,¡± she mumbled, distracted by looking at the spines. ¡°But I can¡¯t believe it was, given what we now know.¡±


    ¡°Well, we know he didn¡¯t deliver them,¡± said Gamache, ¡°but he still devoted most of his life to them. Probably knew them better than anyone.¡±


    ¡°I doubt it.¡±


    ¡°Why do you say that?¡±


    ¡°I think they barely knew themselves. At best the book might give you an insight into the routine of their days, but not into the girls themselves.¡±


    ¡°Then why¡¯re you looking for it?¡±


    ¡°I thought even that might help.¡±


    ¡°It might,¡± he agreed. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you read it?¡±


    ¡°Dr. Bernard took what should¡¯ve been private and made it public. He betrayed them at every turn, as did their parents. I wanted no part of that.¡±


    She rested her large hand on a shelf, perplexed.


    ¡°Could someone have taken it out?¡± Gamache suggested, from the next aisle over.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a lending library. They¡¯d have had to buy it from me.¡± There was silence before Myrna spoke again. ¡°Fucking Ruth.¡±


    It struck Gamache that maybe that was Ruth¡¯s real name. It was certainly her given name. He considered the christening.


    ¡°What do you name this child?¡± the minister asked.


    ¡°Fucking Ruth,¡± her godparents replied. It would have been a prescient choice.


    Myrna interrupted his reverie. ¡°She¡¯s the only one who seems to think this¡¯s a library. She takes out books, then returns them and takes out others.¡±


    ¡°At least she returns them,¡± said Gamache, and got a rude look from Myrna. ¡°You think Ruth took Bernard¡¯s book on the Quints?¡±


    ¡°Who else would have?¡±


    It was a good question.


    ¡°I¡¯ll ask her about it tomorrow,¡± he said, putting on his coat. ¡°You know that poem of Ruth¡¯s you quoted?¡±


    ¡°Who hurt you once? That one?¡± asked Myrna.


    ¡°Do you have it?¡±


    Myrna found the slim volume and Gamache paid for it.


    ¡°Why did Constance stop coming to you as a client?¡± he asked.


    ¡°We hit an impasse.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±

 Page 55

    ¡°It became clear that if Constance really wanted to have close friends, she¡¯d have to drop her guard, and let someone in. Our lives are like a house. Some people are allowed on the lawn, some onto the porch, some get into the vestibule or kitchen. The better friends are invited deeper into our home, into our living room.¡±


    ¡°And some are let into the bedroom,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°The really intimate relationships, yes,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°And Constance?¡±


    ¡°Her home was beautiful to look at. Lovely, perfect. But locked. No one got inside,¡± said Myrna.


    He listened but didn¡¯t tell Myrna that the home analogy was perfect. Constance had barricaded herself in emotionally, but no one got past the threshold of her bricks and mortar home either.


    ¡°Did you tell her this?¡± he asked, and Myrna nodded.


    ¡°She understood and she tried, she really struggled with it, but the walls were just too high and thick. So the therapy had to end. There was nothing more I could do for her. But we stayed in touch. Acquaintances.¡± Myrna smiled. ¡°Even this visit, I thought maybe she¡¯d finally open up. I¡¯d hoped now that her last sister was dead she wouldn¡¯t feel she was betraying family secrets.¡±


    ¡°But she didn¡¯t say anything?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to know what I think?¡± he asked.


    Myrna nodded.


    ¡°I think when she first came down it was for a pleasant visit. When she decided to return it was for another reason altogether.¡±


    Myrna held his eyes. ¡°What reason?¡±


    He brought the pictures out of his pocket and selected the one of the four women.


    ¡°I think she was bringing this to you. Her most prized, most personal possession. I think she wanted to open the doors, the windows of her home, and let you in.¡±


    Myrna let out a long breath, then took the photograph from him.


    ¡°Thank you for that,¡± she said quietly, and looked at the picture. ¡°Virginie, H¨¦l¨¨ne, Josephine, Marguerite, and now Constance. All gone. Passed into legend. What is it?¡±


    Gamache had picked up the very first picture ever taken of the Ouellet Quintuplets, when they were newborns, lined up like loaves of bread on the hacked harvest table. Their stunned father standing behind them.


    Gamache turned the photograph over and looked at the words almost certainly written by their mother or father. Neatly, carefully. In a hand not used to making note of anything. In a life not very noteworthy, this was worth the effort. They¡¯d written the names of their girls in the order in which they¡¯d been placed on the table.


    Marie-Virginie.


    Marie-H¨¦l¨¨ne.


    Marie-Josephine.


    Marie-Marguerite.


    Marie-Constance.


    Almost certainly the order in which they were born, but also, he realized, the order in which they died.


    SEVENTEEN


    Armand Gamache woke to screams and shouts and a short, sharp explosion of sound.


    Sitting bolt upright in bed, he went from deep sleep to complete awareness in a split second. His hand shot out and hovered over the nightstand where his gun sat in the drawer.


    His eyes were sharp, his focus complete. He was motionless, his body tense.


    He could see daylight through the curtains. Then he heard it again. An urgent shout. A cry for help. A command given. Another bang.


    There was no mistaking that sound.


    He put on his dressing gown and slippers, pulled back the curtain, and saw a pickup hockey game on the frozen pond, in the middle of the village green.


    Henri was beside him, alert as well, nudging his nose out the window. Sniffing.


    ¡°This place¡¯s going to kill me,¡± said the Chief Inspector to Henri. But he smiled as he watched the kids, skating furiously after the puck. Shouting instructions to each other. Howling in triumph, and screaming with pain, when a slap shot went in the net.


    He stood, mesmerized for a moment, looking out the frosted pane of glass.


    It was a brilliant day. A Saturday, he realized. The sun was just up, but the kids looked like they¡¯d been at it for hours and could go on all day, with only short breaks for hot chocolate.


    He lowered the window and opened the curtains all the way, then turned around. The house was quiet. It had taken him a moment to remember he wasn¡¯t in Gabri¡¯s bed and breakfast, but in Emilie Longpr¨¦¡¯s home.


    This room was larger than the one he had at the B and B. There was a fireplace on one wall, the floors were wide-plank pine, and the walls were covered in floral paper that was anything but fashionable. There were windows on two sides, making it bright and cheerful.

 Page 56

    He looked at the bedside clock and was shocked to see it was almost eight. He¡¯d overslept. Hadn¡¯t bothered to set the alarm, sure he¡¯d wake up on his own at six in the morning, as he normally did. Or that Henri would nudge him awake.


    But both had fallen into a deep sleep and would still be in bed if it weren¡¯t for a sudden breakaway goal in the game below.


    After a quick shower, Gamache took Henri downstairs, fed him, put the coffee on to perk, then clipped the leash on Henri for a walk around the village green. As they strolled they watched the hockey game, Henri straining, anxious to join the other kids.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad you keep the dumb beast on a leash. He¡¯s a menace.¡±


    Gamache turned to see Ruth and Rosa closing in on them over the frozen road. Rosa wore little knitted boots and seemed to walk with a slight limp, like Ruth. And Ruth appeared to have developed a waddle, like Rosa.


    If people really did morph into their pets, thought Gamache, any moment now he¡¯d sprout huge ears and a playful, slightly vacant, expression.


    But Rosa was more than a pet to Ruth, and Ruth was more than just another person to the duck.


    ¡°Henri is not a dumb beast, madame,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°I know that,¡± snapped the poet. ¡°I was talking to Henri.¡±


    The shepherd and the duck eyed each other. Gamache, as a precaution, tightened his grip on the leash, but he needn¡¯t have worried. Rosa thrust out her beak and Henri leapt back and cowered behind Gamache¡¯s legs, looking up at him.


    Gamache and Henri raised their brows at each other.


    ¡°Pass,¡± Ruth screamed at the hockey players. ¡°Don¡¯t hog the puck.¡±


    Anyone listening would have heard the implied ¡°dumbass¡± tacked to the end of that sentence.


    A boy passed the puck, but too late. It disappeared into a snow bank. He looked over at Ruth and shrugged.


    ¡°That¡¯s OK, Etienne,¡± said Ruth. ¡°Next time keep your head up.¡±


    ¡°Oui, coach.¡±


    ¡°Fucking kids never listen,¡± said Ruth, and turned her back on them, but not before a few had seen her and Rosa and stopped play to wave.


    ¡°Coach?¡± asked Gamache, walking beside her.


    ¡°It¡¯s French for asshole. Coach.¡±


    Gamache laughed, a puff of humor. ¡°Something else you taught them, then.¡±


    Small puffs came from Ruth¡¯s mouth and he presumed it was a chuckle. Or sulphur.


    ¡°Thank you for the coq au vin last night,¡± said the Chief. ¡°It was delicious.¡±


    ¡°It was for you? Christ, I thought that librarian woman said it was for the people in Emilie¡¯s home.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s me and my friends, as you very well know.¡±


    Ruth picked up Rosa and walked in silence for a few paces.


    ¡°Are you any closer to finding out who killed Constance?¡± she asked.


    ¡°A little.¡±


    Beside them the hockey game continued, with boys and girls chasing the puck, some skating forward, some wiggling backward. As though life depended on what happened to that piece of frozen rubber.


    It might appear trivial, but Gamache knew that this was where so much was learned. Trust and teamwork. When to pass, when to advance and when to retreat. And to never lose sight of the goal, no matter the chaos and distractions around you.


    ¡°Why did you take that book by Dr. Bernard?¡± he asked.


    ¡°What book?¡±


    ¡°How many books by a Dr. Bernard do you have?¡± he asked. ¡°The one on the Ouellet Quints. You took it from Myrna¡¯s bookstore.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a bookstore?¡± Ruth asked, looking over at the shop. ¡°But it says ¡®library.¡¯¡±


    ¡°It says librairie,¡± said the Chief. ¡°French for ¡®you¡¯re lying.¡¯¡±


    Ruth snorted with laughter.


    ¡°You know perfectly well librairie in French means bookstore,¡± he said.


    ¡°Fucking confusing language. Why not just be clear?¡±


    Gamache looked at her with amazement. ¡°A very good question, madame.¡±


    He spoke without exasperation. He owed Ruth a great deal, not the least of which was patience.


    ¡°Yes, I took the book. As I said earlier, Constance told me who she was, so I wanted to read up on her. Morbid curiosity.¡±


    Gamache knew that Ruth Zardo might be morbid but she wasn¡¯t curious. That would demand an interest in others.


    ¡°And you figured you¡¯d learn something from Dr. Bernard¡¯s account?¡±


    ¡°Well, I wasn¡¯t going to learn it from her, was I? It was the best I could do. Boring book. Talked mostly about himself. I hate self-centered people.¡±

 Page 57

    He let that one pass.


    ¡°Had some rude things to say about the parents, though,¡± she continued. ¡°All couched in polite terms, of course, in case they ever read it, which I suspect they did. Or had it read to them.¡±


    ¡°Why do you say that?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°According to Bernard, they were poor and ignorant and dumb as a puck. And greedy.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°They basically sold their kids to the government, then got huffy when the money ran out. Figured they were owed more.¡±


    Chief Inspector Gamache had himself found the details of the accounting. It showed a large payment, or certainly large for the time, to Isidore Ouellet, disguised as an expropriation of his farm for a hundred times what it was really worth.


    The dirt-poor farmer had won the lottery, in the form of five fantastical daughters. And all he¡¯d had to do was sell them to the state.


    Gamache had also come across letters. Lots of them. Written over a period of years in laborious longhand, demanding their daughters back, saying they were tricked. Threatening to go public. The Ouellets would tell everyone how the government had stolen their children. Isidore even invoked Fr¨¨re Andr¨¦, who was dead by then, but an increasingly potent symbol in Qu¨¦bec.


    In reading the letters it struck Gamache that what Isidore Ouellet really wanted was not the girls, but more money.


    Then there were the letters in response from a newly formed branch of the government called Service de protection de l¡¯enfance. They were addressed to the Ouellets, and while the language was extremely civil, Gamache could see the counter-threat.


    If the Ouellets opened their mouths, so would the government.


    And they had a great deal to say. They too invoked Brother Andr¨¦. It seemed the saint played for both teams. Or so they hoped.


    Eventually the letters from the Ouellets petered out, but not before the tone became more pathetic, more demeaning. Begging. Explaining they had rights and needs.


    And then the letters stopped.


    ¡°Did Constance tell you about her parents?¡± Gamache asked. It was their second time around the village green. He looked down at Henri, who was staying close to Gamache¡¯s legs, eyes fixed on Rosa. A spectacularly stupid expression on his face.


    Could it be? Gamache wondered. No. Surely not.


    He stole another look at Henri, who was all but slobbering as he watched Rosa. It was difficult to tell, but the shepherd either wanted to eat the duck, or had fallen in love with her.


    Gamache decided not to explore either thought further. It was far too star-crossed.


    ¡°Honestly, you can¡¯t be that stupid,¡± said Ruth. ¡°I told you yesterday that I knew who Constance was but we didn¡¯t talk about it. You really aren¡¯t listening, are you?¡±


    ¡°To your sparkling conversation? Who wouldn¡¯t? No, I was paying attention, I just wondered if Constance had said something to you, but, alas, she didn¡¯t.¡±


    Ruth shot him a look, her blue eyes bleary but sharp. Like a knife in a cold, shallow stream.


    They stopped in front of Emilie Longpr¨¦¡¯s home.


    ¡°I remember visiting Madame Longpr¨¦ here,¡± said Gamache. ¡°She was a remarkable woman.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Ruth, and he waited for some snide qualifier, but none came.


    ¡°It¡¯s nice to see lights on, and smoke coming from the chimney again,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s been empty far too long. This home was meant for people.¡± She turned to him. ¡°It wants company. Even company as banal as yours.¡±


    ¡°Merci,¡± said the Chief, with a small bow. ¡°Might I come over later and pick up the book?¡±


    ¡°What book?¡±


    It was all Gamache could do to not roll his eyes. ¡°The book by Dr. Bernard on the Ouellet Quintuplets.¡±


    ¡°You still want that? You¡¯d better pay that librarian woman for it then, now that she¡¯s changed her place from a library to a bookstore. Is that legal?¡±


    ¡°¨¤ bient?t, coach,¡± said Gamache, and watched Ruth and Rosa limp and waddle next door.


    Henri embarrassed himself by crying a little.


    Gamache tugged on the leash and the shepherd reluctantly followed.


    ¡°And I thought you were in love with the arm of our sofa,¡± said the Chief, as they entered the warm house. ¡°Fickle brute.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se was in the living room in front of the fireplace, reading an old paper.


    ¡°From five years ago,¡± she said, putting it down beside her. ¡°But if I hadn¡¯t looked at the date I¡¯d swear it was today¡¯s.¡±

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    ¡°Plus ?a change¡­¡± said Gamache, joining her.


    ¡°The more it changes, the more it stays the same,¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se finished the quote, then thought about it. ¡°Do you believe it?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he said.


    ¡°You¡¯re an optimist, monsieur.¡± She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. ¡°Neither do I.¡±


    ¡°Caf¨¦?¡± he asked, and went to the kitchen to pour them both a coffee. Th¨¦r¨¨se followed him and leaned against the marble counter.


    ¡°I feel out of sorts without my phone and emails and laptop,¡± she admitted, her arms around her body, like an addict in withdrawal.


    ¡°Me too,¡± he said, passing her a mug of coffee.


    ¡°When you¡¯ve come here for murder investigations, how did you connect?¡±


    ¡°Not much we could do except tap into the telephone lines and boost them.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s still dial-up,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°Better than nothing, though. I know you also use hubs and mobile satellite dishes when you¡¯re in remote areas. Do they work here?¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°Not very reliable. The valley¡¯s too deep.¡±


    ¡°Or the mountains too high,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se with a smile. ¡°Perspective.¡±


    Gamache opened the fridge and found bacon and eggs. Th¨¦r¨¨se brought a loaf out of the bread box and began slicing it while the Chief put bacon into a cast-iron skillet.


    It sizzled and popped, while Gamache poked it and moved the slices around.


    ¡°Morning.¡± J¨¦r?me entered the kitchen. ¡°I smelled bacon.¡±


    ¡°Almost ready,¡± said Gamache from the stove. He cracked the eggs into the frying pan while J¨¦r?me put preserves on the table.


    A few minutes later they all sat in front of plates of bacon, eggs over easy and toast.


    Through the back window, over the sink, Gamache could see Emilie¡¯s garden and the forest beyond covered in snow so bright it looked more blue and pink than white. A more perfect place to hide would be impossible to find. A safer safe house did not exist.


    They were safe, the Chief knew, but they were also stuck.


    Like the Quints, he thought, as he took a sip of rich, hot coffee. While the rest of the world had been in the depths of the Depression, they¡¯d been scooped up, taken away, and made safe. They were given everything they wanted. Except their freedom.


    Gamache looked at his companions, eating bacon and eggs, and spreading homemade jam on homemade bread.


    They too had everything they could want. Except their freedom.


    ¡°J¨¦r?me?¡± he began, his voice uncertain.


    ¡°Oui, mon ami.¡±


    ¡°I have a medical question for you.¡± The thought of the Quints reminded him of his conversation the night before with Myrna.


    J¨¦r?me lowered his fork and gave Gamache his full attention.


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°Twins,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Do they generally share the same amniotic sac?¡±


    ¡°In the womb? Identical twins do. Fraternal twins don¡¯t. They have their own egg and their own sac.¡±


    He was clearly curious, but didn¡¯t ask why.


    ¡°Why?¡± But Th¨¦r¨¨se did. ¡°A happy announcement for you and Reine-Marie?¡±


    Gamache laughed. ¡°As wonderful as having twins at this stage in life would be, no. I¡¯m actually interested in multiple births.¡±


    ¡°How many?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°Five.¡±


    ¡°Five? Must¡¯ve been IVF,¡± he said. ¡°Fertility drugs. Multiple eggs so almost certainly not identical.¡±


    ¡°No, no, these are identical. Or were. And there was no IVF at the time.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se stared at him. ¡°Are you talking about the Ouellet Quintuplets?¡±


    Gamache nodded. ¡°There were five of them, of course. From a single egg. They split off into twos in the womb and shared amniotic sacs. Except one.¡±


    ¡°What a thorough investigator you are, Armand,¡± said J¨¦r?me. ¡°You go all the way back to the womb.¡±


    ¡°Well, no one suspects a fetus,¡± said Gamache. ¡°That¡¯s their great advantage.¡±


    ¡°Though there are a few disadvantages.¡± J¨¦r?me paused to gather his thoughts. ¡°The Ouellet Quints. We studied them in medical school. It was a phenomenon. Not simply a multiple birth, and identical at that, but the fact all five survived. Remarkable man, Dr. Bernard. I heard him lecture once, when he was a very old man. Still sharp, and still very proud of those girls.¡±

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    Gamache wondered if he should say something, but decided against it. There was no need to throw dirt on that idol. Yet.


    ¡°What was your question, Armand?¡±


    ¡°The one Quint who was alone in the womb. Would that have made any difference once they were born?¡±


    ¡°What sort of difference?¡±


    Gamache thought about that. What did he mean?


    ¡°Well, she would have looked like her sisters, but would she have been different in other ways?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not my specialty,¡± J¨¦r?me qualified, then answered anyway. ¡°But I think it couldn¡¯t help but affect her. Not necessarily in a bad way. It could make her more resilient and self-reliant. The others would have a natural affinity for the girl they shared the sac with. Being that close physically, physiologically for eight months, they couldn¡¯t help but bond in ways that go beyond personality. But the girl who developed on her own? She might have been less dependent on the others. More independent.¡±


    He went back to spreading jam on his toast.


    ¡°Or not,¡± said Gamache, and wondered what life would have been like for a perpetual outsider in a closed community. Would she have yearned for that bond? Seen their closeness, and felt left out?


    Myrna had described Constance as lonely. Is this why? Had she been alone and lonely all her life, from before her first breath even?


    Sold by her parents, excluded by her sisters. What would that do to a person? Could it twist her into something grotesque? Pleasant, smiling, the same as all the others on the outside, but hollow on the inside?


    Gamache had to remind himself that Constance was the victim, not a suspect. But he also remembered the police report on the first sister¡¯s death. Virginie had fallen down the stairs. Or maybe, he thought, been pushed.


    The sisters had entered into a conspiracy of silence. Myrna assumed it was in reaction to the extreme glare of publicity they¡¯d suffered as children, but now Chief Inspector Gamache wondered if there was another reason for their silence. Something from within their own household, not from outside.


    And yet, he had the impression that seventy-seven-year-old Constance was returning to Three Pines, to Myrna, and bringing with her not simply the only photo that existed of the grown-up girls, but also the story of what really happened in that home.


    But Constance was killed before she could say anything.


    ¡°She¡¯d have brought it on herself, of course,¡± said J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Well, she killed her sister.¡±


    Gamache gawked. How could J¨¦r?me possibly know that, or know Gamache¡¯s suspicions?


    ¡°The reason she was alone in the sac. There were almost certainly six of them, two to a sac, but the singleton would have killed and absorbed her twin,¡± J¨¦r?me explained. ¡°Happens all the time.¡±


    ¡°Why do you want to know all this, Armand?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se asked.


    ¡°There¡¯s been no public announcement, but the last Quint, Constance Ouellet, was murdered two days ago. She was preparing to come down here, to Three Pines.¡±


    ¡°Here?¡± asked J¨¦r?me. ¡°Why?¡±


    Gamache told them. He could tell, as he spoke, that this was more than another death to them, even more than another murder. There was an added weight to this tragedy, as though Th¨¦r¨¨se and J¨¦r?me had lost someone they knew and cared about.


    ¡°Hard to believe they¡¯re all gone,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se, then she thought about it. ¡°But they never seemed completely real. They were like statues. Looked human but weren¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Myrna Landers said it was like finding out her friend was a unicorn, or a Greek goddess. Hera, come to earth.¡±


    ¡°An interesting thing to say,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°But how did this get to be your case, Armand? Constance Ouellet was found in Montr¨¦al. It would be the jurisdiction of the Montr¨¦al police.¡±


    ¡°True, but Marc Brault handed it to me when he realized there was a connection.¡±


    ¡°Lucky you,¡± said J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°Lucky all of us,¡± said Gamache. ¡°If not for that, we wouldn¡¯t be in this home.¡±


    ¡°Which brings us to another issue,¡± said J¨¦r?me. ¡°Now that we¡¯re here, how are we going to get out?¡±


    ¡°The plan?¡± asked Gamache.


    They nodded.


    The Chief paused to gather his thoughts.


    J¨¦r?me knew now would be the time to tell them what he¡¯d found. The name. He¡¯d only just glimpsed it in the moment before he realized he¡¯d been caught. In the moment before he¡¯d run. Run away. Back down the virtual corridor. Slamming doors, erasing his trail. Running, running.

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    He¡¯d only just glimpsed it. And, thought J¨¦r?me, maybe he got it wrong. In his panic, he must have gotten it wrong.


    ¡°Our only hope is to find out what Francoeur¡¯s doing and stop it. And to do that we have to get you reconnected to the Internet,¡± Gamache said. ¡°And not dial-up. It needs to be high-speed.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se, exasperated. ¡°We know that. But how? There is no high-speed here.¡±


    ¡°We create our own transmission tower.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel sat back and stared. ¡°Have you hit your head, Armand? We can¡¯t do that.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Well, beside the fact it would take months and require all sorts of expertise, don¡¯t you think someone would notice we were building a tower?¡±


    ¡°Ahh, they¡¯d notice that, but I didn¡¯t say ¡®build,¡¯ I said ¡®create.¡¯¡± Gamache got up and walked to the kitchen window. He pointed, past the village green, past the three huge pine trees, past the homes covered in snow. And up the hill.


    ¡°What¡¯re we looking at?¡± J¨¦r?me asked. ¡°The hill over the village? We could put a tower on it, but again, that would take expertise.¡±


    ¡°And time,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    ¡°But the tower¡¯s already there,¡± said Gamache, and they looked again. Finally Th¨¦r¨¨se turned to him, astonished.


    ¡°You mean the trees,¡± she said.


    ¡°C¡¯est ?a,¡± said Gamache. ¡°They make a natural tower. J¨¦r?me?¡±


    Gamache turned to the rotund man, wedged between the armchair and the window. His back to them. Staring up and out of the village.


    ¡°It might work,¡± he said, uncertainly. ¡°But we¡¯d need someone to put a satellite dish on a tree.¡±


    They walked back to the breakfast table.


    ¡°There must be people who work with trees around here¡ªwhat¡¯re they called?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se¡¯s city mind stumbled over itself. ¡°Lumberjacks or something? We could get one of them to climb up with a dish. And from that height I bet we could find a transmission tower using line-of-sight. And from there we connect with a satellite.¡±


    ¡°But where do we find a satellite dish?¡± J¨¦r?me asked. ¡°It can¡¯t be a regular one. It needs to be some satellite dish that can¡¯t be traced.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s say we do get online,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se, her mind racing ahead, ¡°we¡¯d have another problem. We can¡¯t use the S?ret¨¦ log-ins to get into the system, Francoeur would be looking for those. So how do we get back in?¡±


    Gamache placed a piece of notepaper on the wooden table.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se asked.


    But J¨¦r?me knew. ¡°It¡¯s an access code. But using what network?¡±


    Gamache turned the paper over.


    ¡°La Biblioth¨¨que nationale,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se, recognizing the logo. ¡°The national archives of Qu¨¦bec. Reine-Marie works there, doesn¡¯t she?¡±


    ¡°Oui. I did my research on the Ouellet Quints yesterday at the Biblioth¨¨que nationale and I remembered Reine-Marie saying that the archive network goes all over the province, into the smallest library and into the massive archives at the universities. It¡¯s connected to every publicly funded library.¡±


    ¡°It also goes into the S?ret¨¦ archives,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°The files of all the old cases.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s our way in,¡± said J¨¦r?me, his eyes glued to the bit of paper and the logo. ¡°Is it Reine-Marie¡¯s? A code belonging to Reine-Marie Gamache would trip an alarm.¡±


    He knew he was looking for reasons this wouldn¡¯t work, because he knew what was waiting on the other side of that electronic door. Prowling. Pacing. Looking for him. Waiting for him to do something stupid. Like go back in.


    ¡°I thought of that,¡± said Gamache, his voice reassuring. ¡°It belongs to someone else. She¡¯s one of the supervisors, so no one will question if that code is logged on.¡±


    ¡°I think it might work.¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se¡¯s voice was low, afraid to tempt the Fates.


    Gamache pushed himself out of the chair. ¡°I¡¯m off to see Ruth Zardo, then I need to head in to Montr¨¦al. Can you speak with Clara Morrow and see if she knows anyone who puts up satellite dishes?¡±


    ¡°Armand,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se at the door, as he collected his car keys and put on his coat and gloves. ¡°You must know that you might¡¯ve solved two ends of the problem. The satellite connection and the access codes, but how do we get from one to the other? The whole middle part is missing. We¡¯ll need cables and computers and someone to connect it all.¡±

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    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s a problem. I might have an idea about that though.¡±


    Superintendent Brunel thought Gamache looked even unhappier about the solution than the problem.


    After the Chief Inspector left, Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel walked back into the kitchen and found her husband sitting at the table, staring at his now cold breakfast.


    ¡°The worm has turned,¡± she announced, joining him at the table.


    ¡°Yes,¡± said J¨¦r?me, and thought that was a perfect description of them.


    EIGHTEEN


    ¡°You lied to me.¡±


    ¡°You sound like a schoolgirl,¡± said Ruth Zardo. ¡°Are your feelings all hurt? I know what¡¯ll help. Scotch?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s ten in the morning.¡±


    ¡°I was asking, not offering. Did you bring Scotch?¡±


    ¡°Of course I didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Well then, why¡¯re you here?¡±


    Armand Gamache was trying to remember that himself. Ruth Zardo had the strange ability to muddle even the clearest goal.


    They sat in her kitchen, on white plastic preform chairs, at a white plastic table, all salvaged from a Dumpster. He¡¯d been there before, including at the oddest dinner party he¡¯d ever attended, where he¡¯d been far from certain they¡¯d all survive.


    But this morning, while maddening, was at least predictable.


    Anyone who placed himself within Ruth¡¯s orbit, and certainly within her walls, and wasn¡¯t prepared for dementia had only himself to blame. What often came as a surprise to people was that the dementia would be theirs, not Ruth¡¯s. She remained sharp, if not clear.


    Rosa slept in her nest made from an old blanket, on the floor between Ruth and the warm oven. Her beak was tucked into her wing.


    ¡°I came for the Bernard book, on the Quints,¡± he said. ¡°And for the truth about Constance Ouellet.¡±


    Ruth¡¯s thin lips pursed, as though stuck between a kiss and a curse.


    ¡°Long dead and buried in another town,¡± Gamache quoted, conversationally, ¡°my mother hasn¡¯t finished with me yet.¡±


    The lips unpursed. Flatlined. Her entire face went limp, and for a moment Gamache was afraid she was having a stroke. But the eyes remained sharp.


    ¡°Why did you say that?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Why did you write that?¡± He brought a slim volume out of his satchel and placed it on the plastic table. Her eyes rested on it.


    The cover was faded and torn. It was blue. Just blue, no design or pattern. And on it was written Anthology of New Canadian Poetry.


    ¡°I picked this up from Myrna¡¯s store last night.¡±


    Ruth lifted her eyes from the book to the man. ¡°Tell me what you know.¡±


    He opened the book and found what he was looking for. ¡°Who hurt you once, / so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture / with curling lip? You wrote those words.¡±


    ¡°Yes, so? I¡¯ve written a lot of words.¡±


    ¡°This was the first poem of yours to be published, and it remains one of your most famous.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve written better.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps, but few more heartfelt. Yesterday, when we were talking about Constance¡¯s visit, you said she told you who she was. You also said you didn¡¯t ask her any more questions. Alas.¡±


    She met his eyes, then her face cracked into a weary smile. ¡°I thought maybe you¡¯d picked up on that.¡±


    ¡°This poem is called ¡®Alas.¡¯¡± He closed the book and quoted by heart, ¡°Then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again / or will it be, as always was, / too late?¡±


    Ruth held her head erect as though facing an attack. ¡°You know it?¡±


    ¡°I do. And I think Constance knew it too. I know the poem because I love it. She knew it because she loved the person who¡¯d inspired it.¡±


    He opened the book again and read the dedication, ¡°For V.¡±


    He carefully placed it on the table between them.


    ¡°You wrote ¡®Alas¡¯ for Virginie Ouellet. The poem was published in 1959, the year after her death. Why did you write it?¡±


    Ruth was quiet. She bent her head and looked at Rosa, then she dropped her thin, blue-veined hand and stroked Rosa¡¯s back.


    ¡°They were my age, you know. Almost exactly. Like them, I grew up in the Depression and then the war. We were poor, my parents struggled. They had other things on their mind than an awkward, unhappy daughter. So I turned inward. Developed a rich imaginary life. In it, I was a Quint. The sixth quint,¡± she smiled at him, and her cheeks reddened a bit. ¡°I know. Six quints. Didn¡¯t make sense.¡±

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    Gamache chose not to point out that that wasn¡¯t the only leap of logic.


    ¡°They always seemed so happy, so carefree,¡± Ruth went on.


    Her voice became distant and her face took on an expression Gamache had never seen before. Dreamy.


    *   *   *


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel followed Clara from the bright kitchen into her studio.


    They passed a ghostly portrait on an easel. A work-in-progress. Th¨¦r¨¨se thought it might be a man¡¯s face, but she wasn¡¯t sure.


    Clara stopped in front of another canvas.


    ¡°I¡¯ve just started this one,¡± she said.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se was eager to see it. She was a fan of Clara¡¯s work.


    The two women stood side-by-side. One disheveled, in flannel and a sweatshirt, the other beautifully turned out in slacks, a silk blouse, a Chanel sweater and thin leather belt. They both held steaming mugs of tisane and stared at the canvas.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se finally asked, after tilting her head this way and that.


    Clara snorted. ¡°Who is it, you mean? It¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve done a portrait from memory.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se wondered how good Clara¡¯s memory could be.


    ¡°It¡¯s Constance Ouellet,¡± Clara said.


    ¡°Ah, oui?¡± Again Th¨¦r¨¨se tilted her head, but no amount of twisting could make this look like one of the famous Quints. Or any other human. ¡°She never finished sitting for you.¡±


    ¡°Or started. Constance refused,¡± said Clara.


    ¡°Really? Why?¡±


    ¡°She didn¡¯t say, but I think she didn¡¯t want me to see too much, or reveal too much.¡±


    ¡°Why did you want to paint her? Because she was a Quint?¡±


    ¡°No, I didn¡¯t know it then. I just thought she had an interesting face.¡±


    ¡°What interested you? What did you see there?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    Now the Superintendent turned from her study of the canvas to study her companion.


    ¡°Pardon?¡±


    ¡°Oh, Constance was wonderful. Fun and warm and kind. A great dinner guest. She came here a couple of times.¡±


    ¡°But?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se prompted.


    ¡°But I never felt I got to know her better. There was a veneer over her, a sort of lacquer. It was as though she was already a portrait. Something created, but not real.¡±


    They stared at the blotch of paint on the canvas for a while.


    ¡°I wonder if you could suggest someone to put up a satellite dish,¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se asked, remembering her mission.


    ¡°I can, but it won¡¯t help.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Satellite dishes don¡¯t work here. You can try rabbit ears, but the TV signal¡¯s still pretty blurry. Most of us get our news from radio. If there¡¯s a big event we go up to the inn and spa and watch their TV. I can lend you a good book though.¡±


    ¡°Merci,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se with a smile, ¡°but if you could find the satellite person anyway that would be great.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll make some calls.¡± Clara left Th¨¦r¨¨se alone in the studio contemplating the canvas, and the woman who¡¯d been not quite real and now was dead.


    *   *   *


    Ruth held the volume of poetry in her thin hands, pressing it closed.


    ¡°Constance came to me the first afternoon she was here. She said she liked my poetry.¡±


    Gamache grimaced. There were two things you never, ever, said to Ruth Zardo. We¡¯re out of alcohol, and I like your poetry.


    ¡°And what did you say to her?¡± he was almost afraid to ask.


    ¡°What do you think I said?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you were gracious and invited her in.¡±


    ¡°Well, I invited her to do something.¡±


    ¡°And did she?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Ruth sounded surprised still. ¡°She stood at my front door and just said, ¡®Thank you.¡¯¡±


    ¡°What did you do?¡±


    ¡°Well, what could I do after that? I slammed the door in her face. Can¡¯t say she didn¡¯t ask for it.¡±


    ¡°You were provoked beyond reason,¡± he said, and she gave him a keen, assessing look. ¡°Did you know who she was?¡±


    ¡°Do you think she said, ¡®Hi, I¡¯m a Quint. Can I come in?¡¯ Of course I didn¡¯t know who she was. I just thought she was some old fart who wanted something from me. So I got rid of her.¡±


    ¡°And what did she do?¡±


    ¡°She came back. Brought a bottle of Glenlivet. Apparently she¡¯d had a word with Gabri over at Chez Gay. He told her the only way into my home was through a bottle of Scotch.¡±

 Page 63

    ¡°A gap in your security system,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°She sat there.¡± Ruth pointed to his plastic chair. ¡°And I sat here. And we drank.¡±


    ¡°At what stage did she tell you who she was?¡±


    ¡°She didn¡¯t really. She told me I had the poem right. I asked her which poem and she quoted it to me. Like you did. Then she said that Virginie had felt exactly like that. I asked what Virginie she had in mind, and she said her sister. Virginie Ouellet.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s when you knew?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°God, man, the fucking duck knew then.¡±


    Ruth got up and returned with the Bernard book on the Quints. She threw it on the table and sat back down.


    ¡°Vile book,¡± she said.


    Gamache looked at the cover. A photograph, in black and white, of Dr. Bernard sitting in a chair, surrounded by the Ouellet Quints, about eight years of age, looking at him adoringly.


    Ruth was also looking at the cover. At the five little girls.


    ¡°I used to pretend I was adopted out and one day they¡¯d come and find me.¡±


    ¡°And one day,¡± Gamache said quietly, ¡°Constance did.¡±


    Constance Ouellet, at the end of her life, at the end of the road, had come to this falling-down old home, to this falling-down old poet. And here, finally, she¡¯d found her companion.


    And Ruth had found her sister. At last.


    Ruth met his eyes, and smiled. ¡°Or will it be, as always was / too late?¡±


    Alas.


    NINETEEN


    Chief Inspector Gamache drove in to Montr¨¦al, and now sat at his computer reading the weekly roundup from Inspector Lacoste, from his homicide agents, from detachments around the province.


    It was Saturday morning and he was alone in the office. He responded to emails, wrote notes, and sent off thoughts and suggestions on murder investigations under way. He called a couple of inspectors in remote areas with active cases, to talk about progress.


    When all that was done, he looked at the last daily report. It was an executive summary of activities and cases from Chief Superintendent Francoeur¡¯s office. Gamache knew he didn¡¯t have to read it, knew if he opened it he was doing exactly as Sylvain Francoeur wanted. It was sent to Gamache not as information, and certainly not as a courtesy, but as an assault.


    Gamache¡¯s finger rested on the open message command.


    If he pressed down it would be flagged as opened, by him. At his desk, on his terminal. Using his security codes.


    Francoeur would know he¡¯d bested Gamache, again.


    Gamache pressed anyway, and the words sprang up on the page.


    He read what Francoeur wanted him to see. And he felt exactly what Francoeur wanted him to feel.


    Impotent. Angry.


    Francoeur had assigned Jean-Guy Beauvoir to another operation, this time a drug raid that could easily have been left to the RCMP and border guards. Gamache stared at the words and took a long, slow, deep breath in. Held it for a moment. Then he released it. Slowly. He forced himself to re-read the report. To take it in, fully.


    Then he closed the message and filed it.


    He sat at his chair and looked through the glass between his office and the open room beyond. The empty room beyond. With its bedraggled strings of Christmas lights. The half-hearted tree, without gifts. Not even fake ones.


    He wanted to swing his chair around, to turn his back on all that and stare at the city he loved. But instead he contemplated what he saw, and what he¡¯d read. And what he felt. Then he made a call, got up, and left.


    *   *   *


    He probably should have driven, but the Chief wanted fresh air. The streets of Montr¨¦al were slushy underfoot and bustling with holiday shoppers, bumping each other and wishing each other anything but peace and goodwill.


    The Salvation Army was performing carols on one of the corners. As he walked, a boy soprano sang, ¡°Once in Royal David¡¯s City.¡±


    But Chief Inspector Gamache heard none of it.


    He wove his way between the shoppers, not meeting anyone¡¯s eyes. Deep in thought. Finally the Chief arrived at an office building, pressed a button and was buzzed in. An elevator took him to the top floor. He walked down the deserted corridor and opened a door into a familiar waiting room.


    The sight of it, the scent of it, turned his stomach, and he was slightly surprised by the force of the memories that hit him, and the wave of nausea.


    ¡°Chief Inspector.¡±


    ¡°Dr. Fleury.¡±


    The two men shook hands.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad you could see me,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Especially on a Saturday. Merci.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not normally in on a weekend. I was just clearing my desk before heading off for holiday.¡±

 Page 64

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± said the Chief. ¡°I¡¯m disturbing you.¡±


    Dr. Fleury regarded the man in front of him, and smiled. ¡°I said I¡¯d see you, Armand. You¡¯re not disturbing me at all.¡±


    He ushered the Chief into his office, a comfortable, bright space with large windows, a desk and two chairs facing each other. Fleury indicated one, but he needn¡¯t have. Armand Gamache knew it well. Had spent hours there.


    Dr. Fleury was his therapist. Indeed, he was the main therapist for the S?ret¨¦ du Qu¨¦bec. His offices, though, weren¡¯t in headquarters. It was decided a neutral place would be better.


    Besides, if Dr. Fleury¡¯s practice depended upon S?ret¨¦ agents coming for therapy, he¡¯d starve. S?ret¨¦ agents were not known for admitting they needed help. And certainly not renowned for asking for it.


    But after the raid on the factory, Chief Inspector Gamache had made it a condition of returning to work that all the agents involved, wounded physically or otherwise, needed to get therapy.


    Including himself.


    ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t trust me,¡± said Dr. Fleury.


    The Chief smiled. ¡°I trust you. It¡¯s others I¡¯m not so sure about. There¡¯ve been leaks about me, my personal life and relationships, but mostly leaks from sessions you had with my team. Information has been used against them, deeply personal information they only admitted to you.¡±


    Gamache¡¯s eyes remained on Dr. Fleury. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his gaze was hard.


    ¡°Your office was the only place it could¡¯ve come from,¡± he continued. ¡°But I never accused you, personally. I hope you know that.¡±


    ¡°I do. But you believed my files had been hacked.¡±


    Gamache nodded.


    ¡°Do you still?¡±


    The Chief held the therapist¡¯s eyes. They were almost the same age, with Fleury perhaps a year or two younger. Experienced men. One who¡¯d seen too much, and one who¡¯d heard too much.


    ¡°I know you investigated thoroughly,¡± said the Chief. ¡°And there was no evidence of tampering with your patient files.¡±


    ¡°But do you believe it?¡±


    Gamache smiled. ¡°Or am I paranoid?¡±


    ¡°I hope so,¡± said Fleury, crossing his legs and placing his open notebook on his knee. ¡°I¡¯m eyeing a cottage in the Laurentians.¡±


    Gamache laughed, but the nausea had settled into his stomach, a sour, stagnant pool. He hesitated.


    ¡°Are you still not sure, Armand?¡±


    Gamache could see the concern, almost certainly genuine, in Fleury¡¯s face, and could hear it in his voice.


    ¡°Someone else called me paranoid recently,¡± admitted the Chief.


    ¡°Who was that?¡±


    ¡°Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel. Superintendent Brunel.¡±


    ¡°A superior officer?¡± asked Fleury.


    Gamache nodded. ¡°But also a friend, and confidante. She thought I¡¯d gone off the deep end. Seeing conspiracies all over the place. She, ah¡­¡± He looked briefly at his hands in his lap, then back up to Dr. Fleury¡¯s face. Gamache smiled a little bashfully. ¡°She refused to help me investigate and took off on holiday to Vancouver.¡±


    ¡°You think her holiday plans had something to do with you?¡±


    ¡°Now you think I¡¯m a narcissist?¡±


    ¡°I can see a new outboard motor in my future,¡± admitted Fleury. ¡°Continue, Chief Inspector.¡±


    But this time Gamache didn¡¯t smile. Instead he leaned forward.


    ¡°There¡¯s something going on. I know it, I just can¡¯t prove it. Yet. There¡¯s corruption inside the S?ret¨¦, but it¡¯s more than that. I think a senior officer is behind it.¡±


    Dr. Fleury was unmoved. Unfazed.


    ¡°You keep saying, ¡®I think,¡¯¡± said the therapist. ¡°But are your fears really rational?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re not fears,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°But they¡¯re not facts.¡±


    Gamache was silent, clearly trying to choose words that would convince this man.


    ¡°Is this about the leaked video again? You know there was an official investigation,¡± said Dr. Fleury. ¡°You need to accept their findings and let it go.¡±


    ¡°Move on?¡± Gamache heard the tinge of bitterness, a slight whine, in his voice.


    ¡°Things you can¡¯t control, Armand,¡± the therapist reminded him, patiently.


    ¡°It¡¯s not about control, it¡¯s about responsibility. Taking a stand.¡±


    ¡°The white knight? The key is to know if you¡¯re tilting at a legitimate target or a windmill.¡±

 Page 65

    Chief Inspector Gamache glared at Fleury, his eyes hard, then he inhaled sharply as though from a sudden pain. He dropped his head into his hands and covered his face. Massaging his forehead. Feeling the rough scar.


    Eventually Gamache raised his head and met patient and kind eyes.


    My God, thought Gamache. He feels sorry for me.


    ¡°I¡¯m not making this up,¡± he insisted. ¡°Something¡¯s going on.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± the Chief admitted, and realized how lame that sounded. ¡°But it goes high up. To the top.¡±


    ¡°Are these the same people who were supposed to have hacked into my files and stolen the notes on your therapy?¡±


    Gamache could hear the slightly patronizing tone.


    ¡°Not just mine,¡± said Gamache. ¡°They stole the files of everyone who was involved in that raid. Who came to you for help. Who told you everything. All their fears, their vulnerabilities. What they want from life. What matters to them. A road map into their heads.¡±


    His voice was getting louder, more intense. His right hand started to tremble and he took hold of it with his left. Gripping it.


    ¡°Jean-Guy Beauvoir came to you. He sat right here, and opened up to you. He didn¡¯t want to, but I ordered him to. I forced him to. And now they know everything about him. Know how to get inside his head and under his skin. They turned him against me.¡±


    Gamache¡¯s tone slid from sulky to pleading. Begging this therapist to believe him. Begging just one person to believe him.


    ¡°So you still think my records have been hacked?¡± Fleury¡¯s normally steady voice was incredulous. ¡°If you really believe that, why¡¯re you here now, Armand?¡±


    That stopped the Chief. They held each other¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Because there¡¯s no one else to talk to,¡± Gamache finally said, his voice almost a whisper. ¡°I can¡¯t talk to my wife, my colleagues. I can¡¯t tell my friends. I don¡¯t want to involve them. I could tell Lacoste. I¡¯ve been tempted. But she has a young family¡­¡±


    His voice trailed off.


    ¡°In the past, when things got bad, who did you speak to?¡±


    ¡°Jean-Guy.¡± The words were almost inaudible.


    ¡°Now you¡¯re alone.¡±


    Gamache nodded. ¡°I don¡¯t mind that. I prefer it.¡± He was resigned now.


    ¡°Armand, you need to believe me when I say that my files haven¡¯t been stolen. They¡¯re secure. No one but me knows what we¡¯ve talked about. You¡¯re safe here. What you¡¯re telling me now will go no further. I promise.¡±


    Fleury continued to regard the man in front of him. Sunken, sad. Trembling. This was what was beneath the fa?ade.


    ¡°You need help, Armand.¡±


    ¡°I do need help, but not the sort you think,¡± said Gamache, rallying.


    ¡°There¡¯s no threat,¡± said Fleury, his voice convincing. ¡°You¡¯ve created it in your mind, to explain things you don¡¯t want to see or admit.¡±


    ¡°My department¡¯s been gutted,¡± said Gamache, anger once again flaring. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s my imagination. I spent years building it up, taking discarded agents and turning them into the best homicide investigators in the country. And now they¡¯ve left. I suppose I¡¯m imagining that.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you¡¯re the reason they left,¡± Fleury suggested quietly.


    Gamache gaped at him. ¡°That¡¯s what he wants everyone to believe.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Syl¡ª¡± but Gamache stopped himself and stared out the window. Trying to rein himself in.


    ¡°Why¡¯re you here, Armand? What do you want?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t come for me.¡±


    Dr. Fleury nodded. ¡°That¡¯s obvious.¡±


    ¡°I need to know if Jean-Guy Beauvoir is still seeing you.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell you that.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a polite request.¡±


    ¡°That day in the factory¡ª¡± began Dr. Fleury before Gamache cut him off.


    ¡°This has nothing to do with that.¡±


    ¡°Of course it does,¡± said Dr. Fleury, impatience finally getting the better of him. ¡°You felt you¡¯d lost control, and your agents were killed.¡±


    ¡°I know what happened, I don¡¯t need reminding.¡±


    ¡°What you need to be reminded of,¡± snapped Fleury, ¡°is that it wasn¡¯t your fault. But you refuse to see that. It¡¯s willful and arrogant and you need to accept what happened. Inspector Beauvoir has his own life.¡±

 Page 66

    ¡°He¡¯s being manipulated,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°By the same senior officer?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t patronize me. I¡¯m also a senior officer, with decades of investigative experience. I¡¯m not some delusional nutcase. I need to know if Jean-Guy Beauvoir is still seeing you, and I need to see his files. I need to see what he¡¯s told you.¡±


    ¡°Listen.¡± Dr. Fleury¡¯s voice was straining, trying to get back to calm, to be reasonable. But he was finding it difficult. ¡°You have to let Jean-Guy live his own life. You can¡¯t protect him. He has his own road and you have yours.¡±


    Gamache shook his head and looked at his hands in his lap. One still, the other still trembling. He raised his eyes to meet Fleury¡¯s.


    ¡°That would make sense in normal circumstances, but Jean-Guy isn¡¯t himself. He¡¯s being influenced and manipulated. And he¡¯s addicted again.¡±


    ¡°To his painkillers?¡±


    Gamache nodded. ¡°Superintendent¡ª¡±


    He stopped himself. Across from him Dr. Fleury was leaning forward slightly. This was the closest Gamache had come to naming his so-called adversary.


    ¡°The senior officer,¡± said Gamache. ¡°He¡¯s pushed OxyContin on him. I know it. And Beauvoir¡¯s working with him now. I think he¡¯s trying to shove Jean-Guy over the edge.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°To get at me.¡±


    Dr. Fleury let the words sit there. To speak for themselves. About this man¡¯s paranoia and arrogance. His delusions.


    ¡°I¡¯m worried about you, Armand. You say Inspector Beauvoir is being pushed over the edge, but so are you. And you¡¯re doing it to yourself. If you¡¯re not careful, I¡¯ll have to recommend you go on leave.¡±


    He looked at the gun attached to Gamache¡¯s belt.


    ¡°When did you start carrying that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s regulation issue.¡±


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t my question. When you first came to me you made it clear how you felt about firearms. You said you never wore one unless you felt you might use it. So why are you wearing it now?¡±


    Gamache¡¯s eyes narrowed and he got up.


    ¡°I can see it was a mistake coming here. I wanted to know about Inspector Beauvoir.¡±


    Gamache walked to the door.


    ¡°Worry about yourself,¡± Dr. Fleury called after him. ¡°Not Beauvoir.¡±


    Armand Gamache left the office, strode back down the corridor, and punched the down button. When the elevator arrived he got in. Breathing deeply, he leaned against the back wall and closed his eyes.


    Once outside, he felt the bracing air against his cheeks and narrowed his eyes against the bright sunshine.


    ¡°Noel, noel,¡± the small chorus on the corner sang. ¡°Noooo-e-el, nooo-eee-elll.¡±


    The Chief walked back to headquarters, taking his time. His gloved hands held each other behind his back. The sound of Christmas carols in his ears.


    And as he walked, he hummed. He¡¯d done what he went there to do.


    *   *   *


    At S?ret¨¦ headquarters Chief Inspector Gamache pressed the up button, but when the elevator came he didn¡¯t get into it. By the time the elevator door closed, Gamache was in the stairwell. Walking down.


    He could have taken the elevator, but he couldn¡¯t risk being seen descending so low.


    Beyond the basement, beyond the sub-basement, below the parking garage, into an area of flickering fluorescent lights. Of cinder-block walls and metal doors. And a constant throb from the lights, and the boilers, heaters, air conditioners. The whir of hydraulics.


    This was the physical plant. A place of machines and maintenance crews.


    And one agent.


    All the way in to Montr¨¦al, Gamache had thought about his next move. He¡¯d weighed the consequences of visiting Dr. Fleury, and visiting this agent. He¡¯d considered what would happen if he did. What would happen if he didn¡¯t.


    What was the best he could expect?


    What was the worst?


    And, finally, what was the alternative? What choice did he have?


    And when he¡¯d answered those questions, and made up his mind, Chief Inspector Gamache didn¡¯t hesitate. At the door, he gave a sharp rap, then opened it.


    The young agent, her pale face a soft green from the bank of monitors around her, turned. He could see she was surprised.


    No one came here to see her. Which was why Armand Gamache was there.


    ¡°I need your help,¡± he said.


    TWENTY


    A note on the kitchen table greeted Gamache when he arrived back at Emilie¡¯s home.


    Drinks at the bistro. Join us.

 Page 67

    Even Henri was gone. Saturday night. Date night.


    Gamache showered, changed into corduroys and a turtleneck, then walked over to join them. Th¨¦r¨¨se stood as he entered and waved him over.


    She was sitting with J¨¦r?me, Myrna, Clara, and Gabri. Henri had been dozing by the fire, but sat up, tail wagging. Olivier brought over a licorice pipe.


    ¡°If any man looked like he could use a good pipe,¡± said Olivier.


    ¡°Merci, patron.¡± Gamache dropped onto the sofa with a groan and raised the candy to his companions. ¡°¨¤ votre sant¨¦.¡±


    ¡°You look like you had a long day,¡± said Clara.


    ¡°A good day, I think,¡± said the Chief. Then he turned to J¨¦r?me. ¡°You too?¡±


    Dr. Brunel nodded. ¡°It¡¯s restful here.¡±


    But he didn¡¯t look very rested.


    ¡°Scotch?¡± Olivier offered, but Gamache shook his head, not really sure what he felt like. Then he noticed a boy and girl with bowls of hot chocolate.


    ¡°I¡¯d love one of those, patron,¡± said the Chief, and Olivier smiled and left.


    ¡°What news from the city?¡± Myrna asked. ¡°Any progress on Constance¡¯s murder?¡±


    ¡°Some,¡± said Gamache. ¡°I have to say that in most investigations progress isn¡¯t exactly linear.¡±


    ¡°True,¡± said Superintendent Brunel. And she told some humorous stories about art thefts and forgeries and confused identities, while Gamache sat back, half listening. Grateful that the Superintendent had leapt in, deflecting the conversation. So he needn¡¯t admit that he¡¯d spent most of the day on something else.


    His hot chocolate arrived and he raised it to his lips, and noticed that Myrna was watching him. Not examining, but simply looking at him, with interest.


    She took a handful of mixed nuts.


    ¡°Ah, here¡¯s Gilles,¡± said Clara, getting up and waving a large, red-bearded man over. He was in his late forties and dressed casually. ¡°I¡¯ve invited him and Odile for dinner,¡± she said to the Chief Inspector. ¡°You¡¯re coming too.¡±


    ¡°Merci,¡± he said, shoving himself off the sofa to greet the newcomer.


    ¡°Been a while,¡± said Gilles, shaking Gamache¡¯s hand, then taking a seat. ¡°I was sorry to hear about the Quint.¡±


    Gamache noticed that it wasn¡¯t even necessary to say Ouellet Quints. The five girls had lost their privacy, their parents, and their names. They were just the Quints.


    ¡°We¡¯re trying to keep that quiet for now,¡± said the Chief.


    ¡°Well, Odile¡¯s writing a poem about them,¡± Gilles confided. ¡°She¡¯s hoping to get it into the Hog Breeder¡¯s Gazette.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯ll be all right,¡± said Gamache, and wondered if that was further up the food chain from her previous publishers. Her anthology, he knew, had been published, almost without edits, by the Root Vegetable Board of Qu¨¦bec.


    ¡°She¡¯s calling it ¡®Five Peas in a Gilded Pod,¡¯¡± said Gilles.


    Gamache was grateful Ruth wasn¡¯t there. ¡°She knows her market. Where is Odile, by the way?¡±


    ¡°At the shop. She¡¯ll try to make it later.¡±


    Gilles made exquisite furniture from fallen trees and Odile sold it from the front of their shop. And wrote poetry that, Gamache had to admit, was barely fit for human consumption, despite the opinion of the Root Vegetable Board.


    ¡°Now¡±¡ªGilles whacked a huge hand onto Gamache¡¯s knee¡ª¡°I hear you want me to install a satellite dish? You know they don¡¯t work here, right?¡±


    The Chief stared at him, then over at the Brunels, who were also slightly perplexed.


    ¡°You asked me to get in touch with the guy who puts up satellite dishes in the area,¡± said Clara. ¡°That¡¯s Gilles.¡±


    ¡°Since when?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°Since the recession,¡± said the large, burly man. ¡°The market for handmade furniture tanked, but the market for five hundred television channels has skyrocketed. So I make extra bucks putting up the dishes. It helps that I have a head for heights.¡±


    ¡°To put it mildly,¡± said Gamache. He turned to Th¨¦r¨¨se and J¨¦r?me. ¡°He used to be a lumberjack.¡±


    ¡°Long time ago,¡± said Gilles, looking into his drink.


    ¡°I have to put the casserole in the oven.¡± Clara rose to her feet.


    Gamache got up and they all followed.


    ¡°Maybe we can continue this discussion over at Clara¡¯s,¡± said the Chief, and Gilles rocked himself out of the sofa. ¡°Where it¡¯s a little more private.¡±

 Page 68

    ¡°So,¡± said Gilles as they walked the short distance to Clara¡¯s home, their feet crunching on the snow. ¡°Where¡¯s your little buddy?¡±


    A few kids were skating on the frozen pond. Gabri scooped up some snow, made it into a ball and tossed it for Henri, who sailed over the snow bank after it.


    ¡°Gilligan?¡± asked Gamache, keeping his voice light. In the darkness he heard Gilles guffaw.


    ¡°That¡¯s right, Skipper,¡± said Gilles.


    ¡°He¡¯s on another assignment.¡±


    ¡°So he finally made it off the island,¡± said Gilles, and Gamache could hear the smile in his deep voice. But the words came as a bit of a shock.


    Had he inadvertently made the famed homicide department of the S?ret¨¦ an island? Far from saving the careers of promising agents, had he in fact imprisoned them, kept them from the mainland of their peers?


    The kids on the pond saw Gabri¡¯s snowball and stopped to make some of their own, throwing them at Gabri, who ducked but too late. Snowballs rained down on all of them and Henri was almost hysterical with excitement.


    ¡°You gol¡¯darned kids,¡± said Gabri. ¡°Dagnabbit.¡± He shook his fist at them in such a parody of anger that the kids almost peed themselves with laughter.


    *   *   *


    Jean-Guy Beauvoir couldn¡¯t be bothered to shower. He wanted one, but it was just too much effort. As was laundry. He knew he reeked, but he didn¡¯t care.


    He¡¯d come in to the office but had done no work. He only wanted to get away from his dreary little apartment. From the piles of dirty clothing, from the rotting food in the fridge, from the unmade bed and food-encrusted dishes.


    And from the memory of the home he¡¯d had. And lost.


    No, not lost. It had been taken from him. Stolen from him. By Gamache. The one man he¡¯d trusted had taken everything from him. Everyone from him.


    Beauvoir got to his feet and walked stiffly to the elevator, then to his car.


    His body ached and he was alternately famished and nauseous. But he couldn¡¯t be bothered to pick up anything from the cafeteria or any of the fast food joints he passed on his way.


    He pulled into a parking spot, turned the car off, and stared.


    Now he was hungry. Starving. And he stank. The whole car reeked. He could feel his clammy undershirt sticking to him. Molding itself there, like a second skin.


    He sat in the cold, dark car and stared at the one lit window. Hoping for a glimpse of Annie. Even just a shadow.


    Was a time he could conjure up her scent. A lemon grove on a warm summer day. Fresh and citrony. But now all he smelt was his own fear.


    *   *   *


    Annie Gamache sat in the dark, staring out the window. She knew this was unhealthy. It wasn¡¯t something she¡¯d ever admit to her friends. They¡¯d be appalled and look at her as though she was pathetic. And she probably was.


    She¡¯d kicked Jean-Guy out of their home when he refused to go back to rehab. They¡¯d fought and fought, until there was nothing left to say. And then they fought some more. Jean-Guy insisted there was nothing wrong. That her father had made up the whole drug thing, as payback for him joining Superintendent Francoeur.


    Finally, he¡¯d left. But he hadn¡¯t actually gone. He was still inside her, and she couldn¡¯t get him out. And so she sat in her car and stared at the dark window of his tiny apartment. Hoping to see a light.


    If she closed her eyes she could feel his arms around her, smell his scent. When she¡¯d kicked him out she¡¯d bought a bottle of his cologne and put a dab on the pillow next to hers.


    She closed her eyes and felt him inside her skin. Where he was vibrant and smart and irreverent and loving. She saw his smile, heard his laugh. Felt his hands. Felt his body.


    Now he was gone. But he hadn¡¯t left. And she sometimes wondered if that was him, beating on her heart. And she wondered what would happen if he stopped.


    Every night she came here. Parked. And stared at the window. Hoping to see some sign of life.


    *   *   *


    ¡°It¡¯s hardly the first time you¡¯ve had a ball in the face,¡± said Ruth to Gabri. ¡°Stop complaining.¡±


    Ruth was in Clara¡¯s living room when they arrived. Not really waiting for them. In fact, she¡¯d looked pissed off when everyone came in.


    ¡°I was hoping for a quiet night,¡± she muttered, swirling the ice cubes around in her glass so forcefully they created a Scotch vortex. Gamache wondered if one day the old poet would be sucked right into it. Then he realized she already had.


    Henri ran to Rosa, who was seated on the footstool beside Ruth. Gamache grabbed his collar as he took off, but needn¡¯t have worried. Rosa hissed at the shepherd then turned away. If she could have raised one of her feathers to him, she would have.

 Page 69

    ¡°I didn¡¯t think ducks hissed,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°Are we sure it¡¯s a duck?¡± Gabri whispered.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se and J¨¦r?me wandered over, fascinated.


    ¡°Is that Ruth Zardo?¡± J¨¦r?me asked.


    ¡°What¡¯s left of her,¡± said Gabri. ¡°She lost her mind years ago, and never did have a heart. Her bile ducts are keeping her alive. That,¡± said Gabri, pointing, ¡°is Rosa.¡±


    ¡°I can see why Henri¡¯s lost his heart,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se, looking at the smitten shepherd. ¡°Who doesn¡¯t like a good duck?¡±


    Silence met that remark by the elegant older woman. She smiled and raised her brow just a little, and Clara started to laugh.


    The casserole was in the oven and they could smell the rosemary chicken. People poured their own drinks and broke into groups.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se, J¨¦r?me and Gamache took Gilles aside.


    ¡°Did I understand correctly? You used to be a lumberjack?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se asked.


    Gilles became guarded. ¡°Not anymore.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± said the burly man. ¡°Personal reasons.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se continued to stare at him, with a look that had dragged uncomfortable truths from hardened S?ret¨¦ officers. But Gilles held firm.


    She turned to Gamache, who remained mute. While he knew those reasons, he wouldn¡¯t break Gilles¡¯s confidence. The two large men held eyes for a moment and Gilles nodded a slight thanks.


    ¡°Let me ask you this, then,¡± said Superintendent Brunel, taking another tack. ¡°What¡¯s the tallest tree up there?¡±


    ¡°Up where?¡±


    ¡°On the ridge above the village,¡± said J¨¦r?me.


    Gilles considered the question. ¡°Probably a white pine. They can get to ninety feet or more. About eight stories high.¡±


    ¡°Can they be climbed?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se asked.


    Gilles stared at her as though she¡¯d suggested something disgusting. ¡°Why these questions?¡±


    ¡°Just curious.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t treat me like a fool, madame. You¡¯re more than just curious.¡± He looked from the Brunels to Gamache.


    ¡°We¡¯d never ask you to cut down a tree, or even hurt one,¡± said the Chief. ¡°We just want to know if the tallest trees up there can be climbed.¡±


    ¡°Not by me they can¡¯t,¡± Gilles snapped.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se and J¨¦r?me turned away from the former forester and looked at Gamache, perplexed by Gilles¡¯s reaction. The Chief Inspector touched Gilles¡¯s arm and drew him aside.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I should have spoken with you privately about this. We need to bring a satellite signal down into Three Pines¡ª¡±


    He held up his hand to ward off Gilles¡¯s protests, yet again, that it couldn¡¯t be done.


    ¡°¡ªand we wondered if a dish could be attached to one of the tall trees, and a cable strung down to the village.¡±


    Gilles opened his mouth to protest again, but closed it. His expression went from aggressive to thoughtful.


    ¡°You¡¯re thinking someone could climb ninety feet up a pine tree, a frozen pine tree, hauling a satellite dish with him, then not only attach it up there, but adjust it to find a signal? You must love television, monsieur.¡±


    Gamache laughed. ¡°It¡¯s not for television.¡± He lowered his voice. ¡°It¡¯s for the Internet. We need to get online, and we need to do it as ¡­ umm ¡­ quietly as possible.¡±


    ¡°Steal a signal?¡± asked Gilles. ¡°Frankly, you¡¯d be far from the first to try it.¡±


    ¡°Then it¡¯s possible?¡±


    Gilles sighed and gnawed on his knuckles, deep in thought. ¡°You¡¯re talking about turning a ninety-foot tree into a transmission tower, finding a signal, then laying cable back down.¡±


    ¡°You make it sound difficult,¡± said the Chief, with a smile.


    But Gilles wasn¡¯t smiling. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, patron. I¡¯d do anything to help you, but what you¡¯re describing I don¡¯t think can be done. Let¡¯s just say I could climb to the top of the tree with the dish and attach it¡ªthere¡¯s too much wind. The dish would blow around up there.¡±


    He looked at Gamache and saw the fact sink in. And it was a fact. There was no way around it.


    ¡°The signal would never hold,¡± Gilles said. ¡°That¡¯s why transmission towers are made of steel, and are stable. That¡¯s absolutely key. It¡¯s a good idea, in theory, but it just won¡¯t work.¡±

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    Chief Inspector Gamache broke eye contact and looked at the floor for a moment, absorbing the blow. This wasn¡¯t just a plan, it was the plan. There was no Plan B.


    ¡°Can you think of another way to connect to high-speed Internet?¡± he asked, and Gilles shook his head.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you just go into Cowansville or Saint-R¨¦mi? They have high-speed.¡±


    ¡°We need to stay here,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Where we can¡¯t be traced.¡±


    Gilles nodded, thinking. Gamache watched him, willing an answer to appear. Finally Gilles shook his head. ¡°People have been trying to get it for years. Legal or bootleg. It just can¡¯t be done. D¨¦sol¨¦.¡±


    And that¡¯s how Gamache felt, as he thanked Gilles and walked away.


    Desolated.


    ¡°Well?¡± asked Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    ¡°He says it can¡¯t be done.¡±


    ¡°He just doesn¡¯t want to do it,¡± said Superintendent Brunel. ¡°We can find someone else.¡±


    Gamache explained about the wind, and saw her slowly accept the truth. Gilles wasn¡¯t being willful, he was being realistic. But Gamache saw something else. While Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel looked disappointed, her husband did not.


    Gamache wandered into the kitchen where Clara and Gabri were preparing dinner.


    ¡°Smells good,¡± he said.


    ¡°Hungry?¡± Gabri asked, handing him a platter with pat¨¦ de campagne and crackers.


    ¡°I am, as a matter of fact,¡± said the Chief, as he spread a cracker. He could smell the yeasty scent of baking bread. It mingled with the rosemary chicken and he realized he hadn¡¯t eaten since breakfast. ¡°I have a favor to ask. I¡¯ve transferred some old film onto a disk and I¡¯d like to watch it, but Emilie¡¯s home doesn¡¯t have a DVD player.¡±


    ¡°You want to use mine?¡±


    When he nodded she waved a piece of cutlery like a wand in the direction of the living room. ¡°It¡¯s in the room off the living room.¡±


    ¡°Do you mind?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ll set you up. Dinner won¡¯t be for at least half an hour.¡±


    Gamache followed her through to a small room with a sofa and armchair. An old box television sat on a table, with a DVD player beside it. He watched while Clara pressed some buttons.


    ¡°What¡¯s on the DVD?¡± asked Gabri. He stood at the door holding the platter of crackers and pat¨¦. ¡°Let me guess. Your audition for Canada¡¯s Got Talent?¡±


    ¡°It would be very short if it was,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Ruth demanded, pushing through, holding Rosa in one arm and a vase of Scotch in the other.


    ¡°The Chief Inspector¡¯s auditioning for Canadian Idol,¡± Gabri explained. ¡°This¡¯s his audition tape.¡±


    ¡°Well, not¡ª¡± Gamache began, then gave up. Why bother?


    ¡°Did someone say you¡¯re auditioning for So You Think You Can Dance?¡± asked Myrna, squeezing onto the small sofa between the Chief and Ruth.


    Gamache looked plaintively over at Clara. Olivier had arrived and was standing next to his partner. The Chief sighed and pressed the play button.


    A familiar black and white graphic swirled toward them on the small screen, accompanied by music and an authoritative voice.


    ¡°In a small Canadian hamlet a tiny miracle has occurred,¡± said the grim newsreel announcer. The first grainy images appeared, and everyone in Clara¡¯s small television room leaned forward.


    TWENTY-ONE


    ¡°Five miracles,¡± the melodramatic narration continued, as though announcing Armageddon. ¡°Delivered one bitter winter night by this man, Dr. Joseph Bernard.¡±


    There on the screen stood Dr. Bernard, in full surgical smock, a mask over his nose and mouth. He waved a little maniacally, but Gamache knew that was the effect of the old black and white newsreels, where people lurched and movements were either too static or too manic.


    In front of the doctor lay the five babies, wrapped up tight.


    ¡°Five little girls, born to Isidore and Marie-Harriette Ouellet.¡±


    The sonorous voice struggled with the Qu¨¦b¨¦cois names. The first time they¡¯d been pronounced on the newsreels, but would soon be on everyone¡¯s lips. This was the world¡¯s introduction to¡ª


    ¡°Five little princesses. The world¡¯s first surviving quintuplets. Virginie, H¨¦l¨¨ne, Josephine, Marguerite, and Constance.¡±


    And Constance, noted Gamache with interest. She would go through life hanging off the end of that sentence. And Constance. An outlier.

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    The voice became suddenly excitable. ¡°Here¡¯s their father.¡±


    The scene switched to Dr. Bernard standing in a modest farmhouse living room, in front of a woodstove. He was handing a large man one of his own daughters. Like a special favor. Not a gift, though. A loan.


    Isidore, cleaned up for the camera and giving a gap-toothed smile, held his child awkwardly in his arms. Unused to infants but, Gamache could see, he was a natural.


    *   *   *


    Th¨¦r¨¨se felt a familiar hand on her elbow, and was drawn, reluctantly, away from the television.


    J¨¦r?me led her to a corner of Clara¡¯s living room, as far from the gathering as possible, though they could still hear the Voice of Doom in the background. Now the Voice was talking about rustics, and seemed to imply the girls had been born in a barn.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se looked at her husband inquiringly.


    J¨¦r?me positioned himself so that he could see the guests standing around the doorway, focused on the television. He switched his gaze to his wife.


    ¡°Tell me about Arnot.¡±


    ¡°Arnot?¡±


    ¡°Pierre Arnot. You knew him.¡± His voice was low. Urgent. His eyes flickered between the other guests and his wife.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se could not have been more surprised had her husband suddenly stripped. She stared at him, barely comprehending.


    ¡°Do you mean the Arnot case? But that was years ago.¡±


    ¡°Not just the case. I want to hear about Arnot himself. Everything you can tell me.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se stared, dumbfounded. ¡°But that¡¯s absurd. Why in the world would you suddenly want to know about him?¡±


    J¨¦r?me¡¯s eyes shot to the other guests, their backs safely turned, before returning to his wife. He lowered his voice still further.


    ¡°Can¡¯t you guess?¡±


    She felt her heart drop. Arnot. Surely not.


    In the background the bleak voice implied that the hand of God had assisted in the delivery. But the hand of God felt very far from this little room, with the cheery fire and aroma of fresh baking. And the rancid name hanging foul in the air.


    Goddamned Pierre Arnot.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Dr. Bernard is typically humble about his accomplishment,¡± said the newsreel announcer.


    On the screen now, Dr. Bernard was out of his hospital whites and in a suit and narrow black tie. His gray hair was groomed, he was clean-shaven and wore glasses with heavy black frames.


    He was standing in the Ouellet living room, alone, holding a cigarette.


    ¡°Of course, the mother did most of the work.¡± He spoke English with a soft Qu¨¦b¨¦cois accent and his voice was surprisingly high, especially compared to the cavern voice of the narrator. He looked at the camera and smiled at his little joke. The viewers were meant to believe only one thing. That Dr. Bernard was the hero of the moment. A man whose immense skill was only matched by his humility. And, thought Gamache with some admiration, he was perfectly cast for the role. Charming, whimsical even. Fatherly and confident.


    ¡°I was called out in the middle of a storm. Babies seem to prefer arriving in storms.¡± He smiled for the camera, inviting the viewers into his confidence. ¡°This was a big one. A five-baby blizzard.¡±


    Gamache glanced around and saw Gilles and Gabri and even Myrna smiling back. It was involuntary, almost impossible not to like this man.


    But Ruth, at the far end of the sofa, was not smiling. Still, that was hardly telling.


    ¡°It must have been almost midnight,¡± Dr. Bernard continued. ¡°I¡¯d never met the family but it was an emergency, so I took my medical bag and got here as fast as I could.¡±


    It was left vague as to how this man, who¡¯d never been to the Ouellet farm, might have found it in the middle of the night, in the middle of a snowstorm, in the middle of nowhere. But perhaps that was part of the miracle.


    ¡°No one told me there were five babies.¡± He corrected himself, and his tense. ¡°There would be five babies. But I set the father to boiling water and sterilizing equipment and finding clean linen. Fortunately Monsieur Ouellet is used to helping his farm animals calve and drop foals. He was remarkably helpful.¡±


    The great man sharing credit, albeit by implying Madame Ouellet was no better than one of their sows. Gamache felt his admiration, if not his respect, grow. Whoever was behind this was brilliant. But, of course, Dr. Bernard was as much a pawn as the babies and the earnest, stunned Isidore Ouellet.


    Dr. Bernard looked directly at the newsreel camera, and smiled.


    *   *   *

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    ¡°The Arnot case was in all the papers,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se, lowering her own voice. ¡°It was a sensation. You know it already. Everyone knows it.¡±


    It was true. Pierre Arnot was as infamous as the Ouellet Quints were famous. He was their antithesis. Where the five girls brought delight, Pierre Arnot brought shame.


    If they were an act of God, Pierre Arnot was the son of the morning. The fallen angel.


    And still, he haunted them. And now he was back. And Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel would give almost anything not to resurrect that name, that case, that time.


    ¡°Oui, oui,¡± said J¨¦r?me. He rarely showed his impatience, and almost never with his wife. But he did now. ¡°It all happened a decade or so ago. I want to hear it again, and this time what didn¡¯t make the papers. What you kept from the public.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t keep anything from the public, J¨¦r?me.¡± Now she was herself impatient. Her voice was clipped and cold. ¡°I was an entry-level agent at the time. Wouldn¡¯t it be better to ask Armand? He knew the man well.¡±


    They both, instinctively, turned to the group gathered around the door to the television.


    ¡°Do you really think that would be wise?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se turned back to her husband. ¡°Perhaps not.¡± She stared at him for a moment, searching his eyes. ¡°You need to tell me, J¨¦r?me. Why are you interested in Pierre Arnot?¡±


    J¨¦r?me¡¯s breathing was labored, as though he¡¯d been carrying something too heavy over too great a distance. Finally he spoke.


    ¡°His name came up in my search.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel felt herself suddenly light-headed. Goddamned Pierre Arnot.


    ¡°Are you kidding?¡± But she could see he was not. ¡°Was that the name that tripped the alarms? If it was, you need to tell us.¡±


    ¡°What I need, Th¨¦r¨¨se, is to hear more about Arnot. His background. Please. You might have been entry-level then, but you¡¯re a superintendent now. I know you know.¡±


    She gave him a hard, assessing stare.


    ¡°Pierre Arnot was the Chief Superintendent of the S?ret¨¦,¡± she began, giving in, as she knew she would. ¡°The top position, the job Sylvain Francoeur now holds. I¡¯d just joined the S?ret¨¦ when it all came to light. I only met him once.¡±


    J¨¦r?me Brunel remembered all too well the day his wife, the head curator at the Mus¨¦e des beaux-arts in Montr¨¦al, came home announcing she wanted to join the provincial police. She was in her mid-fifties and might as well have said she¡¯d signed up for Cirque du Soleil. But he could tell she wasn¡¯t joking, and to be fair, it hadn¡¯t come completely out of the blue. Th¨¦r¨¨se had been a consultant for the police on a number of art thefts and had discovered an aptitude for solving crimes.


    ¡°As you said, this all happened more than ten years ago,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°Arnot had held the top post for many years by then. He was well liked. Respected. Trusted.¡±


    ¡°You say you met him once,¡± said J¨¦r?me. ¡°When was that?¡±


    Her husband¡¯s eyes were sharp. Analytical. She knew this was exactly as he must have been in the hospital, when a particularly urgent case had been wheeled in.


    Gathering information, absorbing, analyzing. Breaking it down rapidly so he¡¯d know how to deal with the emergency. Here in Clara¡¯s living room, with the scent of fresh baking and rosemary chicken in the air, some sudden emergency had arisen. And brought with it the mud-covered, blood-covered name of Pierre Arnot.


    ¡°It was at a lecture at the academy,¡± she recalled. ¡°In the class Chief Inspector Gamache taught.¡±


    ¡°Arnot was his guest?¡± asked J¨¦r?me, surprised.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se nodded. By then both men were already famous. Arnot for being the respected head of a respected force, and Gamache for building and commanding the most successful homicide department in the nation.


    She was in the packed auditorium, just one of hundreds of students, nothing, yet, to distinguish her from the rest, except her gray hair.


    As Th¨¦r¨¨se thought about it, the living room dissolved and became the amphitheater. She could see the two men below clearly. Arnot standing at the lectern. Older, confident, distinguished. Short and slender. Compact. With groomed gray hair and glasses. He looked anything but powerful. And yet, in that very humility there was force implied. So great was his power he needn¡¯t flaunt it.


    And standing off to the side, watching, was Chief Inspector Armand Gamache.

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    Tall, substantial. Quiet and contained. As a professor he seemed endlessly patient with stupid questions and testosterone. Leading by example, not force. Here, Agent Brunel knew, was a born leader. Someone you¡¯d choose to follow.


    Had Arnot been alone at the front of the class, she would have been deeply impressed. But as his lecture went on, her eyes were drawn more and more to the quiet man off to the side. So intently listening. So at ease.


    And slowly it dawned on Agent Brunel where the real authority lay.


    Chief Superintendent Arnot might hold power, but Armand Gamache was the more powerful man.


    She told J¨¦r?me this. He thought for a moment before speaking.


    ¡°Did Arnot try to kill Armand?¡± he asked. ¡°Or was it the other way around?¡±


    *   *   *


    The Movietone newsreel ended with the benign Dr. Bernard holding up one of the newborn Quints and flapping her arm at the camera.


    ¡°Bye-bye,¡± said the announcer, as though announcing the Great Depression. ¡°I know we¡¯ll be seeing a lot more of you and your sisters.¡±


    Out of the corner of his eye, Gamache noticed Ruth raise one veined hand.


    Bye-bye.


    The screen went blank, but only for a moment before another image, familiar to Canadians, came on. The black and white stylized eye and then the stenciled words, with no attempt at creativity or beauty.


    Just facts.


    National Film Board of Canada. The NFB.


    There was no grim voice-over. No cheerful music. It was just raw footage taken by an NFB cameraman.


    They saw the exterior of a charming cottage in summer. A fairy-tale cottage, with fish-scale shingles and gingerbread woodwork. Flower boxes were planted at each window and cheery sunflowers and hollyhocks leaned against the sunny home.


    The little garden was ringed by a white picket fence.


    It was like a doll¡¯s house.


    The camera zoomed in on the closed front door, focused, then the door opened slightly and a woman¡¯s head poked out, stared at the camera, mouthed something that looked like ¡°Maintenant?¡± Now?


    She backed up and the door closed. A moment later it opened again and a little girl appeared in a short, frilly dress with a bow in her dark hair. She wore ankle socks and loafers. She was five or six years of age now, Gamache guessed. He did a quick calculation. It would be the early forties. The war years.


    A hand appeared and pushed her further out into the sunshine. Not a shove, exactly, but a push strong enough that she stumbled a little.


    Then an identical girl was expelled from the home.


    Then another.


    And another.


    And another.


    The girls stood together, clasping each other as though they¡¯d been born conjoined. And their expressions were identical too.


    Terror. Confusion. Almost exactly the same expression their father had had when he¡¯d first gazed down at them.


    They turned to the door, then returned to the door, flocking around it. Trying to get back in. But it wouldn¡¯t open for them.


    The first little girl looked at the camera. Pleading. Crying.


    The image flickered and went out. Then the pretty cottage reappeared. The girls were gone and the door was closed.


    Again it opened and this time the little girl walked out on her own. Then her sister appeared, gripping her hand. And so on. Until the last one was out, and the door closed behind them.


    As one, they stared back at it. A hand snaked through a crack in the door and waved them away, before disappearing.


    The girls were rooted in place. Paralyzed.


    The camera shook slightly and as one the girls turned to look into the lens. The cameraman, Gamache thought, must have called to them. Was perhaps holding up a teddy bear or candy. Something to draw their attention.


    One of them began to cry, then the others disintegrated and the picture flickered and went to black.


    Over and over, in Clara¡¯s back room, they watched, the pat¨¦ and drinks forgotten.


    Over and over the girls came out of the pretty little house, and were hauled back in, to try it again. Until finally the first one appeared, a big smile on her face, followed by her sister, happily holding her hand.


    Then the next and the next.


    And the next.


    They left the cottage and walked around the garden, along the border of white picket fence, smiling and waving.


    Five happy little girls.


    Gamache looked at Myrna, Olivier, Clara, Gilles, Gabri. He looked at Ruth, her tears following the crevices in her face, grand canyons of grief.


    On the television, the Ouellet Quints smiled identical smiles, and waved identical waves into the camera, before the screen went dead. It was, Gamache knew, the scene that had come to define the Quints as perfect little girls, leading fairy-tale lives. Plucked from poverty, far from any conflict. This bit of footage had been sold to agencies around the world and was still used today in retrospectives of their lives.

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    As proof of how lucky the Ouellet Quints were.


    Gamache and the others knew what they¡¯d just witnessed. The birth of a myth. And they¡¯d seen something broken. Shattered. Hurt beyond repair.


    *   *   *


    ¡°How¡¯d you know about that?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se asked. ¡°It never came out in the trial.¡±


    ¡°I found references to something happening between the two men. Something near lethal.¡±


    ¡°You really want to know?¡± she asked, examining him.


    ¡°I need to know,¡± he said.


    ¡°This goes no further.¡± She received a look caught between amusement and annoyance.


    ¡°I promise not to put it into my blog.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se didn¡¯t laugh. Didn¡¯t even smile. And J¨¦r?me Brunel, not for the first time, wondered if he really wanted to hear this.


    ¡°Sit,¡± she said, and he followed her to the comfortable sofa. They faced the door, watching the backs of the other guests.


    ¡°Pierre Arnot made his mark in the S?ret¨¦ detachment in the north of Qu¨¦bec,¡± she confided. ¡°On a Cree reserve on James Bay. Lots of alcohol. Sniff. The government-issue homes were a disgrace. The sewage and water systems overflowed into each other. There was terrible disease and violence. A cesspool.¡±


    ¡°In the middle of paradise,¡± said J¨¦r?me.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se nodded. That, of course, heightened the tragedy.


    The James Bay area was spectacularly beautiful and unspoiled. At the time. Ten thousand square miles of wildlife, of clear, fresh lakes, of fish and game and old-growth forests. This was where the Cree lived. This was where their gods lived.


    But a hundred years ago they¡¯d met the devil and made a deal.


    In exchange for everything they could ever need¡ªfood, medical care, housing, education, the marvels of modern life¡ªall they had to do was sign over the rights to their ancestral land.


    But not all of it. They¡¯d be given a nice plot on which to hunt and fish.


    And if they didn¡¯t sign?


    The government would take the land anyway.


    A hundred years before Agent Pierre Arnot stepped off the floatplane onto the reserve, the Grand Chief and the head of Indian Affairs for Canada met.


    The deed was signed.


    The deed was done.


    The Cree had everything they could want. Except their freedom.


    They did not thrive.


    ¡°By the time Arnot arrived the reserve was a ghetto of open sewers and disease, addiction and despair,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°And lives so empty they raped and beat each other for distraction. Still, the Cree had held on to their dignity longer than anyone could have expected. It had taken several generations until finally there was no dignity, no self-respect, no hope left. The Cree thought their life couldn¡¯t get worse. But it was about to.¡±


    ¡°What happened?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°Pierre Arnot arrived.¡±


    *   *   *


    ¡°Here the girls are asking their father for his blessing,¡± the Movietone newsreel narrator said, as though announcing the bombing of London. ¡°Like obedient children. It¡¯s a ritual still practiced in the hinterlands of Quebec.¡±


    He pronounced it Kwee-bek, and his voice was hushed, documenting a rare species caught in its natural habitat.


    Gamache sat forward. The girls were now eight or nine years of age. They weren¡¯t in their fairy-tale cottage. This was back at the family farmhouse. Through the windows he could see it was winter.


    Their coats and hats and skates were neatly hung on pegs by the door. Hockey sticks formed a teepee in the corner. He recognized the woodstove and braided rag rug and furnishings from the very first film, when the girls had been born. Almost nothing had changed. Like a museum.


    The girls were kneeling, hands clasped in front of them, heads bowed, wearing identical dresses, identical shoes, identical bows. He wondered how anyone could tell them apart, and he wondered if they even bothered. As long as there were five of them, the details didn¡¯t seem to matter.


    Marie-Harriette knelt behind her daughters.


    It was the first time the newsreels had captured the Quints¡¯ mother. Gamache put his elbows on his knees and leaned further forward, trying to get a good look at this epic mother.


    With surprise, Gamache realized this wasn¡¯t, in fact, the first time he¡¯d seen her. It had been Marie-Harriette who¡¯d pushed her daughters out that door. Then closed it on them.


    Over and over. Until they got it right.


    He¡¯d presumed it was some NFB producer, or even a nurse or teacher. But it was their own mother.

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    Isidore Ouellet stood at the front of the room facing his family, his arms straight out in front of him. His eyes were closed. His face was in repose, like a zombie seeking enlightenment.


    Gamache recognized the ritual. It was the New Year¡¯s Day blessing of the children by their father. It was a solemn and meaningful prayer, though one rarely practiced in Qu¨¦bec anymore. He¡¯d never considered doing it and Reine-Marie, Annie and Daniel would have howled with laughter had he tried. He had a brief thought that the holidays were approaching and the whole family would be together in Paris. Perhaps on New Year¡¯s Day, with his children and grandchildren, he could suggest it. Just to see the looks on their faces. It would almost be worth it. Though Reine-Marie¡¯s mother had remembered, as a child, kneeling with her siblings for the blessing.


    And here it was, being played out for the insatiable newsreel audience, sitting in dark theaters around the world in the mid-forties, the Quints¡¯ lives a prelude to the latest Clark Gable or Katharine Hepburn film.


    There was a definite odor of the gaslights about what they were seeing on this grainy black and white film. A staged event, played for effect. Like the native drumming and dances performed for paying tourists.


    Genuine, absolutely. But here more mercantile than spiritual.


    The girls were supposedly praying for the paternal blessing. Gamache wondered what their father was praying for.


    ¡°The charming little ceremony over, the girls prepare to go outside to play,¡± said the voice-over, as though announcing the tragic raid on Dieppe.


    What followed were scenes of the Quints putting on their snowsuits, good-naturedly teasing each other, looking into the camera and laughing. Their father helped lace up their skates and handed them hockey sticks.


    Marie-Harriette appeared, putting knitted tuques on their heads. Each hat, Gamache noticed, had a different pattern. Snowflakes, trees. She had one too many and threw the extra off camera. Not a casual toss. She whipped it, as though it had bitten her.


    The gesture was revealing. It showed a woman at the end of her tether, where something as trivial as too many hats could spark anger. She was exasperated, exhausted. Worn down.


    She turned to the camera and, in a look that chilled the Chief Inspector, she smiled.


    It was one of those moments a homicide investigator looked for. The tiny conflict. Between what was said and what was done. Between the tone and the words.


    Between Marie-Harriette¡¯s expression and her actions. The smile, and the thrown hat.


    Here was a woman divided, perhaps even falling apart. It was through such a crack an investigator crawled to get to the heart of the matter.


    Gamache watched the screen and wondered how the woman who¡¯d struggled up the steps of Saint Joseph¡¯s Oratory on her knees, praying for children, came to this.


    The Chief suspected her annoyance had been directed at the ubiquitous Dr. Bernard, trying to keep him out of the frame. To, just once, leave them alone with their children.


    It had worked. Whoever she¡¯d gestured to had backed off.


    But Gamache could tell it was a rearguard action. No one that tired would prevail for long.


    Long dead and buried in another town, Gamache remembered Ruth¡¯s seminal poem, my mother hasn¡¯t finished with me yet.


    In just over five years, Marie-Harriette would be dead. And in just over fifteen years Virginie would possibly take her own life. And what had Myrna said? They would no longer be Quints. They would be a quartet, then triplets, twins. Then just one. An only child.


    And Constance would become simply Constance. And now she was gone too.


    He looked at the girls, laughing together in their snowsuits, and tried to pick out the little girl who now lay in the Montr¨¦al morgue. But he could not.


    They all looked alike.


    ¡°Yes, these rugged Canadians pass the long winter months ice fishing, skiing and playing hockey,¡± said the morose narrator. ¡°Even the girls.¡±


    The Quints waved at the camera and wobbled on their skates out the door.


    The film ended with Isidore waving merrily to them, then turning back into the cabin. He closed the door and looked into the camera, but Gamache realized his eyes were in fact slightly off. Catching not the lens, but the eye of someone just out of sight.


    Was he looking at his wife? At Dr. Bernard? Or at someone else entirely?


    It was a look of supplication, for approval. And once again Gamache wondered what Isidore Ouellet had prayed for, and whether his prayers had ever been answered.


    But something was off. Something about this film didn¡¯t fit with what the Chief Inspector had learned.


    He covered his mouth with his hand and stared at the black screen.

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    *   *   *


    ¡°Let me ask you this,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel. ¡°What¡¯s the surest way to destroy someone?¡±


    J¨¦r?me shook his head.


    ¡°First you win their trust,¡± she said, holding his stare. ¡°Then you betray it.¡±


    ¡°The Cree trusted Pierre Arnot?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°He helped restore order. He treated them with respect.¡±


    ¡°And then?¡±


    ¡°And then, when plans for the new hydroelectric dam were unveiled, and it became clear it would destroy what was left of the Cree territory, he convinced them to accept it.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d he do that?¡± asked J¨¦r?me. As a Qu¨¦b¨¦cois, he¡¯d always seen the great dams as a point of pride. Yes, he was aware of the damage up north, but it seemed a small price. A price he himself didn¡¯t actually have to pay.


    ¡°They trusted him. He¡¯d spent years convincing them he was their friend and ally. Later, those who doubted him, questioned his motives, disappeared.¡±


    J¨¦r?me¡¯s stomach churned. ¡°He did that?¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se nodded. ¡°I don¡¯t know if he started out so corrupt, or if he was corrupted, but that¡¯s what he did.¡±


    J¨¦r?me lowered his eyes and thought about the name he¡¯d found. The one buried below Arnot. If Arnot had fallen, this other man had fallen further. Only to be dug up, years later, by J¨¦r?me Brunel.


    ¡°When did Armand get involved?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°A Cree elder, a woman, was selected to travel to Quebec City, to ask for help. She wanted to tell someone in authority that young men and women were disappearing. Dying. They were found hanged and shot and drowned. The S?ret¨¦ detachment had dismissed the deaths as accidents or suicides. Some young Cree had disappeared completely. The S?ret¨¦ concluded they¡¯d run away. Probably down south. They¡¯d be found in some crack house or drunk tank in Trois-Rivi¨¨res or Montr¨¦al.¡±


    ¡°She came to Quebec City to ask for help in finding them?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°No, she wanted to tell someone in authority that it was lies. Her own son was among the missing. She knew they hadn¡¯t run away, and the deaths weren¡¯t accidents or suicides.¡±


    J¨¦r?me could see how dredging up these memories was affecting Th¨¦r¨¨se. As a senior S?ret¨¦ officer. As a woman. As a mother. And it sickened him too, but they¡¯d gone too far. They couldn¡¯t stop in the middle of this quagmire. They had to keep going.


    ¡°No one believed her,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°She was dismissed as demented. Another drunk native. It didn¡¯t help that she didn¡¯t know where to find the National Assembly, so she stopped people going into and out of the Chateau Frontenac.¡±


    ¡°The hotel?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se nodded. ¡°It¡¯s such an imposing building, she thought it was where the leaders must be.¡±


    ¡°But how did Armand get involved?¡±


    ¡°He was in Quebec City for a conference at the Chateau and saw her sitting on a bench, distraught. He asked her what was wrong.¡±


    ¡°She told him?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°Everything. Armand asked why she hadn¡¯t gone to the S?ret¨¦ with that information.¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se lowered her eyes to her manicured hands.


    Out of the corner of his eye J¨¦r?me could see the gathering in the TV room breaking up, but he didn¡¯t hurry his wife. They¡¯d come to the bottom of the swamp at last, to the final words that needed to be dredged up. She was clearly struggling to speak the unspeakable.


    ¡°The Cree elder said she hadn¡¯t reported it to the S?ret¨¦ because the S?ret¨¦ were doing it. They were killing the young Cree. Including, probably, her own son.¡±


    J¨¦r?me stared at his wife. Holding on to those familiar eyes. Not wanting to let go and slide into a world where such a thing was possible. He could tell that Th¨¦r¨¨se was almost relieved. Believing she was near the end now. That the worst was over.


    But J¨¦r?me knew they were very far from the worst. And nowhere near the end.


    ¡°What did Armand do?¡±


    He could see Clara heading to the kitchen and Olivier was making his way toward them. But still he held his wife¡¯s eyes.


    She leaned toward him and whispered, just before Olivier arrived.


    ¡°He believed her.¡±

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    TWENTY-TWO


    ¡°Dinner!¡± Clara called.


    They¡¯d watched to the end of the DVD. After the NFB footage and the newsreels, there were more clips of the Quints. At First Communion, meeting the young Queen, curtsying to the Prime Minister.


    In unison, of course. And the great man laughing, delighted.


    It was odd, thought Clara, as she took the casserole from the oven, to see someone she only knew as an elderly woman as an infant. It was odder still to see her grow up. To see so much of her, and so many of her.


    Seeing those films one after the other went from charming, to disconcerting, to devastating. It was made even odder by not being able to tell which one was Constance. They were all her. And none were.


    The films ended suddenly when the girls reached their late teens.


    ¡°Can I help?¡± asked Myrna, prying the warm bread from Clara¡¯s hand.


    ¡°What did you think of the film?¡± Clara asked, putting the baguette Myrna sliced into a basket. Olivier was placing plates on the long pine table while Gabri tossed the salad.


    Ruth was either trying to light the candles or set the house on fire. Armand was nowhere to be seen, and neither were Th¨¦r¨¨se or her husband J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°I keep seeing that first sister, Virginie, I think, looking at the camera.¡± Myrna paused in her slicing and stared ahead.


    ¡°You mean when their mother wouldn¡¯t let them back into the house?¡± Clara asked.


    Myrna nodded and thought how strange it was that, when talking with Gamache, she¡¯d used the house analogy, saying that Constance was locked and barricaded inside her emotional home.


    What was worse, Myrna wondered. To be locked in, or locked out?


    ¡°They were so young,¡± Clara said, as she took the knife from Myrna¡¯s suspended hand. ¡°Maybe Constance didn¡¯t remember.¡±


    ¡°Oh, she¡¯d have remembered,¡± said Myrna. ¡°They all would. If not the specific event, they¡¯d remember how it felt.¡±


    ¡°And they couldn¡¯t tell anyone,¡± said Clara. ¡°Not even their parents. Especially not their parents. I wonder what that does to a person.¡±


    ¡°I know what it does.¡±


    They turned to Ruth, who¡¯d struck another match. She stared, cross-eyed, as it burned down. Just before it singed her yellowed nails she blew it out.


    ¡°What does it do?¡± Clara asked. The room was quiet, all eyes on the old poet.


    ¡°It turns a little girl into an ancient mariner.¡±


    There was a collective sigh. They¡¯d actually thought maybe Ruth had the answer. They should have known better than to look for wisdom in a drunken old pyro.


    ¡°The albatross?¡± asked Gamache.


    He was standing just inside the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. Myrna wondered how long he¡¯d been listening.


    Ruth struck another match and Gamache held her blazing eyes, looking beyond the flame to the charred core.


    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± Gilles broke the silence. ¡°An old sailor and a tuna?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s albacore,¡± said Olivier.


    ¡°Oh, for chrissake,¡± snapped Ruth, and flicked her hand so that the flame went out. ¡°One day I¡¯ll be dead and then what¡¯ll you do for cultured conversation, you stupid shits?¡±


    ¡°Touch¨¦,¡± said Myrna.


    Ruth gave Gamache one final, stern look, then turned to the rest of the room.


    ¡°The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?¡± When that was met with blank stares she went on. ¡°Epic poem. Coleridge?¡±


    Gilles leaned toward Olivier and whispered, ¡°She¡¯s not going to recite it, is she? I get enough poetry at home.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± said Ruth. ¡°People are always confusing Odile¡¯s work with Coleridge.¡±


    ¡°At least they both rhyme,¡± said Gabri.


    ¡°Not always,¡± Gilles confided. ¡°In her latest, Odile has ¡®turnip¡¯ rhyming with ¡®cowshed.¡¯¡±


    Ruth sighed so violently her latest match blew out.


    ¡°OK, I¡¯ll bite,¡± said Olivier. ¡°Why does any of this remind you of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?¡±


    Ruth looked around. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me Clouseau and I are the only ones with classical educations?¡±


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± said Gabri. ¡°I remember now. Didn¡¯t the ancient mariner and Ellen DeGeneres save Nemo from a fish tank in Australia?¡±


    ¡°I think that was the Little Mermaid,¡± said Clara.


    ¡°Really?¡± Gabri turned to her. ¡°Because I seem to remember¡ª¡±

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    ¡°Stop it.¡± Ruth waved them to be quiet. ¡°The Ancient Mariner carried his secret, like a dead albatross, around his neck. He knew the only way to get rid of it was to tell others. To unburden himself. So he stopped a stranger, a wedding guest, and told him everything.¡±


    ¡°And what was his secret?¡± asked Gilles.


    ¡°The mariner had killed an albatross at sea,¡± said Gamache, stepping into the kitchen and taking the breadbasket to the table. ¡°As a consequence of this cruel act, God took the lives of the entire crew.¡±


    ¡°Jeez,¡± said Gilles. ¡°I¡¯m no fan of hunting, but a bit of an overreaction, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    ¡°Only the mariner was spared,¡± said Gamache. ¡°To stew. When he was finally rescued he realized that he could only be free if he talked about what had happened.¡±


    ¡°That a bird died?¡± asked Gilles, still trying to wrap his mind around it.


    ¡°That an innocent creature was killed,¡± said Gamache. ¡°That he¡¯d killed it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d think God should also have to answer for slaughtering the entire crew,¡± Gilles suggested.


    ¡°Oh, shut up,¡± snapped Ruth. ¡°The Ancient Mariner brought the curse on himself and them. It was his fault, and he had to admit it, or carry it the rest of his life. Got it?¡±


    ¡°Still doesn¡¯t make sense to me,¡± mumbled Gilles.


    ¡°If you think this is difficult, try reading The Faerie Queene,¡± said Myrna.


    ¡°Fairy Queen?¡± asked Gabri, hopefully. ¡°Sounds like bedtime reading to me.¡±


    They sat down for dinner, the guests jockeying not to sit next to Ruth, or the duck.


    Gamache lost.


    Or perhaps he wasn¡¯t playing.


    Or perhaps he won.


    ¡°You think Constance had an albatross around her neck?¡± he asked Ruth as he spooned chicken and dumplings onto her plate.


    ¡°Ironic, don¡¯t you think?¡± Ruth asked, without thanking him. ¡°Talking about the killing of an innocent bird while eating chicken?¡±


    Gabri and Clara put down their forks. The rest pretended they hadn¡¯t heard. It was, after all, very tasty.


    ¡°So what was Constance¡¯s albatross?¡± asked Olivier.


    ¡°Why ask me, numb nuts? How would I know?¡±


    ¡°But you think she had a secret?¡± Myrna persevered. ¡°Something she felt guilty about?¡±


    ¡°Look.¡± Ruth laid down her cutlery and stared across at Myrna. ¡°If I was a fortune-teller, what would I say to people? I¡¯d look them in the eye and say¡­¡± She turned to Gamache and moved her spiny hands back and forth in front of his amused face. She took on a vague eastern European accent and lowered her voice. ¡°You carry a heavy burden. A secret. Something you¡¯ve told no living soul. Your heart is breaking, but you must let it go.¡±


    Ruth dropped her hands but continued to stare at Gamache. He gave nothing away, but became very still.


    ¡°Who doesn¡¯t have a secret?¡± Ruth asked quietly, speaking directly to the Chief.


    ¡°You¡¯re right, of course,¡± said Gamache, taking a forkful of the delicious casserole. ¡°We all carry secrets. Most to the grave.¡±


    ¡°But some secrets are heavier than others,¡± said the old poet. ¡°Some stagger us, slow us. And instead of taking them to the grave, the grave comes to us.¡±


    ¡°You think that¡¯s what happened with Constance?¡± asked Myrna.


    Ruth held Gamache¡¯s thoughtful brown eyes for a moment longer, then broke off to stare across the table.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you, Myrna?¡±


    More frightening than the thought was Ruth¡¯s use of Myrna¡¯s actual name. So serious was the suddenly and suspiciously sober poet that she¡¯d forgotten to forget Myrna¡¯s name.


    ¡°What do you think her secret was?¡± asked Olivier.


    ¡°I think it was that she was a transvestite,¡± said Ruth so seriously that Olivier¡¯s brows rose, then quickly descended and he glowered. Beside him, Gabri laughed.


    ¡°The Fairy Queen after all,¡± he said.


    ¡°How the hell should I know her secret?¡± demanded Ruth.


    Gamache looked across the table. Myrna was the wedding guest, he suspected. The person Constance Ouellet had chosen to unburden herself to. But she never got that chance.


    And, more and more, Gamache suspected it wasn¡¯t a coincidence that Constance Ouellet, the last Quint, was murdered as she prepared to return to Three Pines.


    Someone wanted to prevent her from getting here.


    Someone wanted to prevent her from unburdening herself.

 Page 79

    But then another thought struck Gamache. Maybe Myrna wasn¡¯t the only wedding guest. Maybe Constance had confided in someone else.


    The rest of the meal was spent talking about Christmas plans, menus, the upcoming concert.


    Everyone, except Ruth, cleared the table while Gabri took Olivier¡¯s trifle out of the fridge, with its layers of ladyfingers, custard, fresh whipped cream and brandy-infused jam.


    ¡°The love that dares not speak its name,¡± Gabri whispered as he cradled it in his arms.


    ¡°How many calories, do you think?¡± asked Clara.


    ¡°Don¡¯t ask,¡± said Olivier.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell,¡± said Myrna.


    After dinner, when the table was cleared and the dishes done, the guests took their leave, getting on their heavy coats and sorting through the jumble of boots by the mudroom door.


    Gamache felt a hand on his elbow and was drawn by Gilles into a far corner of the kitchen.


    ¡°I think I know how to connect you to the Internet.¡± The woodsman¡¯s eyes were bright.


    ¡°Really?¡± asked Gamache, barely daring to believe it. ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a tower up there already. One you know about.¡±


    Gamache looked at his companion, perplexed. ¡°I don¡¯t think so. We¡¯d be able to see it, non?¡±


    ¡°No. That¡¯s the beauty of it,¡± said Gilles, excited now. ¡°It¡¯s practically invisible. In fact, you can barely tell it¡¯s there even from right under it.¡±


    Gamache was unconvinced. He knew those woods, not, perhaps, as intimately as Gilles, but well enough. And nothing came to mind.


    ¡°Just tell me,¡± said the Chief. ¡°What¡¯re you talking about?¡±


    ¡°When Ruth was talking about killing that bird, it made me think of hunting. And that reminded me of the blind.¡±


    The Chief¡¯s face went slack from surprise. Merde, he thought. The hunting blind. That wooden structure high up in a tree in the forest. It was a platform with wooden railings, built by hunters to sit comfortably and wait for a deer to walk past. Then they¡¯d kill it. The modern equivalent of the Ancient Mariner in his crow¡¯s nest.


    It was, for a man who¡¯d seen far too many deaths, shameful.


    But it might, this day, redeem itself.


    ¡°The blind,¡± whispered Gamache. He¡¯d actually been on it, when he¡¯d first come to Three Pines to investigate the murder of Miss Jane Neal, but he hadn¡¯t thought of it in years. ¡°It¡¯ll work?¡±


    ¡°I think so. It¡¯s not as high as a transmission tower, but it¡¯s on the top of the hill and it¡¯s stable. We can attach a satellite dish up there for sure.¡±


    Gamache waved Th¨¦r¨¨se and J¨¦r?me over.


    ¡°Gilles¡¯s figured out how to get a satellite dish up above.¡±


    ¡°How?¡± the Brunels asked together and the Chief told them.


    ¡°That¡¯ll work?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°We won¡¯t know until we try, of course,¡± said Gilles, but he was smiling and clearly hopeful, if not completely confident. ¡°When do you need it up by?¡±


    ¡°The dish and other equipment are arriving sometime tonight,¡± said Gamache, and both Th¨¦r¨¨se and J¨¦r?me looked at him, surprised.


    Gilles walked with them to the door. The others were just leaving, and the four of them put on their parkas and boots, hats and mitts. They thanked Clara, then left.


    Gilles stopped at his car. ¡°I¡¯ll be by tomorrow morning then,¡± he said. ¡°¨¤ demain.¡±


    They shook hands, and after he¡¯d driven away Gamache turned to the Brunels.


    ¡°Do you mind walking Henri? I¡¯d like a word with Ruth.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se took the leash. ¡°I won¡¯t ask which word.¡±


    *   *   *


    ¡°Good.¡±


    Sylvain Francoeur glanced from the document his second in command had downloaded, then went back to the computer. They were in the Chief Superintendent¡¯s study at home.


    As his boss read the report, Tessier tried to read his boss. But in all the years he¡¯d worked for the Chief Superintendent, he¡¯d never been able to do that.


    Classically handsome, in his early sixties, the Chief Superintendent could smile and bite your head off. He could quote Chaucer and Tintin, in either educated French or broad joual. He¡¯d order poutine for lunch and foie gras for dinner. He was all things. To all people. He was everything and he was nothing.


    But Francoeur also had a boss. Someone he answered to. Tessier had seen the Chief Superintendent with him just once. The man hadn¡¯t been introduced as Francoeur¡¯s boss, of course, but Tessier could tell by the way Francoeur behaved. ¡°Grovel¡± would be too strong a word, but there¡¯d been anxiety there. Francoeur had been as anxious to please that man as Tessier was to please Francoeur.

 Page 80

    At first it had amused Tessier, but then the smile had burned away when he realized there was someone who scared the most frightening man he knew.


    Francoeur finally sat back, rocking a little in the chair.


    ¡°I need to get back to my guests. I see it went well.¡±


    ¡°Perfectly.¡± Tessier kept his face placid, his voice neutral. He¡¯d learned to mirror his boss. ¡°We got completely kitted out, drove there in the assault van. By the time we got there Beauvoir could barely stand. I made sure some of the evidence ended up in a baggie in his pocket, with my compliments.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to know the details,¡± said Francoeur.


    ¡°Sorry, sir.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t, Tessier knew, because Francoeur was squeamish. It was that he just didn¡¯t care. All he cared about was that it was done. The details he left up to his subordinates.


    ¡°I want him sent on another raid.¡±


    ¡°Another?¡±


    ¡°Do you have a problem with that, Inspector?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a waste of time, in my opinion, sir. Beauvoir¡¯s had it. He¡¯s past the edge now, hanging in midair. He just hasn¡¯t fallen. But he will. There¡¯s no way back for him and nothing to go back to. He¡¯s lost everything, and he knows it. Another raid is unnecessary.¡±


    ¡°Is that so? You think this is about Beauvoir?¡±


    The calm should have warned him. The slight smile certainly should have. But Inspector Tessier had taken his eyes off Francoeur¡¯s face.


    ¡°I realize this is about Chief Inspector Gamache.¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡±


    ¡°But did you see here¡ª¡± Tessier leaned forward and pointed to the computer screen. He didn¡¯t see that the Chief Superintendent¡¯s eyes never left him. Never wavered. Barely blinked.


    ¡°The psychologist¡¯s report, Dr. Fleury. Gamache was so upset he went to see him today. A Saturday.¡±


    Too late, he looked up into those glacier eyes. ¡°We picked this off Dr. Fleury¡¯s computer late this afternoon.¡±


    He hoped for some sign of approval. A slight thaw. A sign of life. But all he met was the dead stare.


    ¡°He says Gamache is spinning out of control. Delusional even. Don¡¯t you see?¡± And even as he said that he could have shot himself. And might have. Francoeur saw everything, ten steps ahead of everyone else. Which was why they were on the verge of success.


    There¡¯d been a few unexpected setbacks. The raid on the factory was one. The dam plot discovered. Gamache again.


    But that¡¯s what made this report all the sweeter. The Chief Superintendent should be pleased. Then why was he looking like that? Tessier felt his blood cool and grow thick and his heart labor.


    ¡°If Gamache ever tries to go public, his own therapist¡¯s report can be leaked. His credibility will be gone. No one will believe a man who¡­¡± Tessier looked over at the report, desperate to find that perfect sentence. He found it and read, ¡°¡­ is suffering from persecution mania. Seeing conspiracies and plots.¡±


    Tessier scrolled down, reading fast. Trying to create a wall of reassuring words between himself and Francoeur.


    ¡°Chief Inspector Gamache is not simply a broken man,¡± he read, ¡°but shattered. When I return from Christmas vacation I will recommend he be relieved of duty.¡±


    Tessier looked up and met, again, those arctic eyes. Nothing had changed. Those words, if they penetrated, had only found more ice. Colder. Older. Endless.


    ¡°He¡¯s isolated,¡± said Tessier. ¡°Inspector Lacoste is the only one left of his original investigators. The rest have either transferred out on their own or been moved by you. His last senior ally, Superintendent Brunel, has even abandoned him. She also thinks he¡¯s delusional. We have the recordings from her office. And Gamache refers to it here.¡±


    Once again Tessier rifled through the therapist¡¯s report. ¡°See? He admits they¡¯ve left for Vancouver.¡±


    ¡°They may have gone, but they got too close.¡± Francoeur spoke at last. ¡°Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel¡¯s husband turned out to be more than a weekend hacker. He almost figured it out.¡±


    The voice was conversational, at odds with the glacial look.


    ¡°But he didn¡¯t,¡± said Tessier, eager to reassure his boss. ¡°And it scared him shitless. Brunel shut down his computer. Hasn¡¯t turned it on since.¡±


    ¡°He saw too much.¡±


    ¡°He has no idea what he saw, sir. He won¡¯t be able to put it together.¡±


    ¡°But Gamache will.¡±


    It was Tessier¡¯s turn to smile. ¡°But Dr. Brunel didn¡¯t tell him. And now he and the Superintendent are in Vancouver, as far from Gamache as they could get. They¡¯ve abandoned him. He¡¯s on his own. He admitted as much to his therapist.¡±

 Page 81

    ¡°Where is he?¡±


    ¡°Investigating the murder of the Quint. He¡¯s spending most of his time in some small village in the Townships, and when he¡¯s not there he¡¯s distracted by Beauvoir. It¡¯s too late. He can¡¯t stop it now. Besides, he doesn¡¯t even know what¡¯s happening.¡±


    Chief Superintendent Francoeur got up. Slowly. Deliberately. And walked around his desk. Tessier twisted out of his chair and stood, then stepped back, back, until he felt his body against the bookcase.


    Francoeur stopped within inches of his second in command, his eyes never leaving Tessier.


    ¡°You know what¡¯s at stake?¡±


    The younger man nodded.


    ¡°You know what happens if we succeed?¡±


    Again Tessier nodded.


    ¡°And you know what happens if we don¡¯t?¡±


    It had never occurred to Tessier that they could possibly fail, but now he thought about it, and understood what that would mean.


    ¡°Do you want me to take care of Gamache, sir?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. It would raise too many questions. You need to make sure Dr. Brunel and Gamache don¡¯t come within a thousand kilometers of each other. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡±


    ¡°If it looks like Gamache is coming close, you need to distract him. That shouldn¡¯t be difficult.¡±


    As Tessier walked to his car he knew Francoeur was right. It wouldn¡¯t be difficult. Just a tiny little shove and Jean-Guy Beauvoir would fall. And land on Chief Inspector Gamache.


    TWENTY-THREE


    J¨¦r?me and Th¨¦r¨¨se walked Henri around the village green. Their second circuit. Deep in conversation. It was biting cold, but they needed the fresh air.


    ¡°So Armand investigated what the Cree elder told him,¡± said J¨¦r?me. ¡°And he found she was telling the truth. What did he do?¡±


    ¡°He made absolutely certain his case was seamless, then he took the proof to the council.¡±


    This was the council of superintendents, J¨¦r?me knew. The leadership of the S?ret¨¦. Th¨¦r¨¨se sat on it now, but at the time she was a lowly agent, a new recruit. Oblivious to the earthquake that was about to shake everything the S?ret¨¦ felt was stable.


    Service, Integrity, Justice. The S?ret¨¦ motto.


    ¡°He knew it would be almost impossible to convince the superintendents, and even if convinced, they¡¯d want to protect Arnot and the reputation of the force. Armand approached a couple of members of the council he thought would be sympathetic. One was, one wasn¡¯t. And his hand was forced. He asked for a meeting with the council. By now Arnot and a few others suspected what it was about. They refused, at first.¡±


    ¡°What changed their minds?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°Armand threatened to go public.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡±


    But even as he said that, J¨¦r?me knew it made sense. Of course Gamache would. He¡¯d discovered something so horrific, so damning, he felt he no longer owed loyalty to the S?ret¨¦ leadership. His loyalty was to Qu¨¦bec, not a bunch of old men around a polished table looking at their own reflections as they made decisions.


    ¡°What happened at the meeting?¡± J¨¦r?me asked.


    ¡°Arnot and his immediate deputies, the ones Armand had the most proof against, agreed to resign. They¡¯d retire, the S?ret¨¦ would leave the Cree territory, and everyone would get on with their lives.¡±


    ¡°Armand won,¡± said J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°No. He demanded more.¡±


    Their feet crunched over the snow as they made their slow circuit in the light of the three great trees.


    ¡°More?¡±


    ¡°He said it wasn¡¯t enough. Not even close. Armand demanded that Arnot and the others be arrested and charged with murder. He argued that the young Cree who died deserved that. That their parents and loved ones and their community deserved answers and an apology. And a pledge that it would never happen again. The council reluctantly agreed after a bitter debate. They had no choice. Armand had all the proof. They knew it would ruin the S?ret¨¦ when it all became public, when the very head of the force was tried for murder.¡±


    That was the Arnot case.


    J¨¦r?me, like the rest of Qu¨¦bec, had followed it. It was, in many ways, his introduction to Gamache. Seeing him on the news walk into court, alone, each day. Swarmed by the media. Answering impolite questions politely.


    Testifying against his own brothers-in-arms. Clearly. Thoroughly. Hammering home, in his reasonable, thoughtful voice, the facts.

 Page 82

    ¡°But there¡¯s more,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se quietly. ¡°What didn¡¯t make the papers.¡±


    ¡°More?¡±


    *   *   *


    ¡°May I make you a tea, madame?¡± Gamache asked Ruth.


    Once more they were in her small kitchen. Ruth had put Rosa to bed and taken off her cloth coat, but didn¡¯t offer to take Gamache¡¯s parka.


    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 S?ret¨¦ council voted not to arrest Pierre Arnot and the others immediately,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se, ¡°but to give them a few days to put their affairs in order.¡±


    J¨¦r?me thought about that for a moment. The use of those particular words.


    ¡°Do you mean¡­?¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se 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 J¨¦r?me 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 Montr¨¦al in handcuffs and filed the papers himself. Multiple charges of first-degree murder.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se stopped. J¨¦r?me stopped. The comforting munching of the snow stopped.


    ¡°My God,¡± J¨¦r?me whispered. ¡°No wonder the leadership hate him.¡±


    ¡°But the rank and file adore him,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°Instead of bringing shame on the service, the trial proved that while corruption exists, so does justice. The corruption within the S?ret¨¦ 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 S?ret¨¦ sided with the Chief Inspector. And the public certainly did.¡±


    ¡°Service, Integrity, Justice,¡± J¨¦r?me quoted the motto Th¨¦r¨¨se 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 Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    ¡°Arnot said nothing?¡± asked J¨¦r?me, 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.¡±

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    ¡°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 Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    ¡°You keep them in a shoe? Is that really wise?¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se 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 J¨¦r?me. ¡°And Francoeur?¡±


    ¡°He¡ª¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se 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. J¨¦r?me 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 Th¨¦r¨¨se with a nervous laugh.


    ¡°Christ,¡± said J¨¦r?me. ¡°We almost needed the pooper-scooper.¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± said the Chief.


    ¡°How did it go with Madame Zardo?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°We talked a bit.¡±


    ¡°About what?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se asked. ¡°The Ouellet case?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± The three of them, and Henri, walked back toward Emilie Longpr¨¦¡¯s home. ¡°About Jean-Guy. She wanted to know what happened.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se 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.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se smiled. ¡°I can see that happening.¡±


    Gamache stopped and looked at the Brunels. ¡°You were discussing the Arnot case. Why was that?¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se and J¨¦r?me exchanged looks. Finally J¨¦r?me 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 Qu¨¦bec. 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 J¨¦r?me 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, J¨¦r?me could feel Gamache scrutinizing him.


    ¡°And Francoeur?¡± asked the Chief. ¡°Was he mentioned?¡±


    ¡°Just suggestions,¡± said J¨¦r?me. ¡°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.

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    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel turned to Gamache.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°I had to, Th¨¦r¨¨se.¡±


    ¡°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.¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se 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 S?ret¨¦ officers glared at each other.


    ¡°You know that, Th¨¦r¨¨se,¡± said Gamache urgently. ¡°I had no choice.¡±


    ¡°You had a choice, Armand,¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se 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 Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel to the road.


    ¡°Can I help?¡± J¨¦r?me asked a little awkwardly. He¡¯d heard what Th¨¦r¨¨se had said. He suspected this young woman had too.


    ¡°Go inside, J¨¦r?me,¡± 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 Montr¨¦al. 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?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se 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.

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    ¡°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 Longpr¨¦¡¯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-R¨¦mi 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 J¨¦r?me Brunel worked to connect the equipment, Chief Inspector Gamache walked over to one of the maps of Qu¨¦bec tacked to a wall. He smiled. Someone had placed a tiny dot south of Montr¨¦al. Just north of Vermont. Beside the winding Rivi¨¨re 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 Th¨¦r¨¨se 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.


    Gamache walked over to Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    ¡°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. J¨¦r?me 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,¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se 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 S?ret¨¦ 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 Th¨¦r¨¨se 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.¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se refined what he meant. ¡°Hacking. You do know you¡¯re making an argument for her collaborating with Francoeur.¡±

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    ¡°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.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se 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, Th¨¦r¨¨se 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¡­¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se 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 Th¨¦r¨¨se 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.


    ¡°Th¨¦r¨¨se,¡± 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, Th¨¦r¨¨se, I should have consulted you and J¨¦r?me.¡±


    ¡°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 J¨¦r?me will make a formidable team.¡±


    ¡°If she doesn¡¯t kill us.¡±


    ¡°Oui.¡±


    ¡°And you thought, if you explained it, J¨¦r?me 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. Th¨¦r¨¨se 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.¡±

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    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 J¨¦r?me and I are not in Vancouver,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°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 S?ret¨¦ 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.


    ¡°J¨¦r?me 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 Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°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 J¨¦r?me 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 Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    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 Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°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 Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°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?¡±

 Page 88

    ¡°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 Th¨¦r¨¨se, J¨¦r?me, 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 J¨¦r?me¡¯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¡±¡ªhe turned to it, his nose touching the mottled bark, his words soft and warm against the tree¡ª¡°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 J¨¦r?me. ¡°And you¡¯re not going to be doing any of the wiring.¡±


    Gamache shook his head.


    ¡°Then I suggest you and Th¨¦r¨¨se get out of the way,¡± said J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°Banished to the bistro,¡± said Gamache, and now Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel did smile.


    TWENTY-FIVE


    Mugs of steaming apple cider were placed in front of Th¨¦r¨¨se 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 S?ret¨¦ 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. Th¨¦r¨¨se 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 J¨¦r?me never had cider in Montr¨¦al, 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.


    Even from halfway back, she could see the kindness in his eyes. A quality some had mistaken, to their regret, for weakness.


    But there wasn¡¯t just kindness there. Armand Gamache had the personality of a sniper. He watched, and waited, and took careful aim. He almost never shot, metaphorically or literally, but when he did, he almost never missed.


    But a decade ago, he¡¯d missed. He¡¯d hit Arnot. But not Francoeur.


    And now Francoeur had assembled an army, and was planning something horrific. The question was, did Gamache have another shot in him? And would he hit the target this time?


    ¡°Oui, Th¨¦r¨¨se,¡± he said now, and as he smiled his eyes crinkled into deep lines. ¡°All shall be well.¡±

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    ¡°Julian of Norwich,¡± she said, recognizing the phrase. All shall be well.


    Through the frosted window she could see Gilles and Nichol carrying equipment up the slope and into the woods. Superintendent Brunel returned her gaze to her companion, noting the holster and gun on his belt. Armand Gamache would do what was necessary. But not before it was necessary.


    ¡°All shall be well,¡± she said, and went back to her reading.


    Gamache had given her the documents he¡¯d found on the Ouellet Quints while researching in the Biblioth¨¨que nationale, with the comment that something was bothering him after watching the films the night before.


    ¡°Just one thing?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se had asked. She¡¯d watched the DVD that morning on an old laptop Nichol had brought with her. ¡°Those poor girls. I once envied them, you know. Every little girl wanted to be either a Quint or young Princess Elizabeth.¡±


    And so they settled in, Superintendent Brunel with the file on the girls, and Chief Inspector Gamache with the book by Dr. Bernard. Th¨¦r¨¨se put down the dossier an hour later.


    ¡°Well?¡± asked Gamache, taking off his reading glasses.


    ¡°There¡¯s a lot in here to damn the parents,¡± she said.


    ¡°And a lot in here,¡± said Gamache, laying a large hand on the book. ¡°Did anything strike you?¡±


    ¡°As a matter of fact it did. The house.¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    She could see by his face it was what bothered him too.


    ¡°The documents show Isidore Ouellet sold the family farm to the government shortly after the Quints were born, for a huge profit. Well beyond its worth.¡±


    ¡°In effect, a payment for the girls,¡± said the Chief.


    ¡°The Qu¨¦bec government would make them wards of the state, and the Ouellets would go on their merry way, unburdened by mouths they couldn¡¯t feed.¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se put the manila folder on the table with distaste. ¡°They suggest the Ouellets were too poor and ignorant to care for the quintuplets and would have eventually had the girls taken away by the welfare officials anyway.¡±


    Gamache nodded. The documents failed to mention it was also the depths of the Depression, when every family struggled. An economic crisis the Ouellets did not bring on themselves. And yet, again, there was the insinuation that they, uniquely, were to blame for their plight. And the benevolent government would save them and their daughters.


    ¡°They were doing the Ouellets a favor,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Buying their burden. Madame Ouellet had given birth to their ticket out of the Depression. Dr. Bernard¡¯s book says much the same thing. The language is couched, of course. No one wanted to be seen to criticize the parents, but the image of the ignorant Qu¨¦b¨¦cois farmer wasn¡¯t a hard sell in those days.¡±


    ¡°Except they didn¡¯t cash in at all,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°Not according to the film. That b¨¦n¨¦diction paternelle was when the girls were almost ten, and the Ouellets were still in their old home. They hadn¡¯t sold it.¡±


    Gamache tapped the manila folder with his glasses. ¡°This is a lie. The official documents are fabricated.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°To make the Ouellets look bad, in case they ever went public.¡±


    Suddenly the letters by Isidore Ouellet took on another flavor. What had appeared wheedling, demanding, whining was in fact simply stating the truth.


    The government had stolen their children. And the Ouellets wanted them back. Yes, they were poor, as Ouellet stated, but they could give the girls what they needed.


    Gamache remembered the old farmhouse, and Isidore lacing up his daughters¡¯ skates, and Marie-Harriette, haggard, handing them each a hat.


    But not just any hat. She handed them their own hats. Each different.


    And then, annoyed, she¡¯d tossed one offscreen.


    Gamache¡¯s attention had been taken by that. The angry act had overshadowed the tenderness of a moment earlier, when she¡¯d treated them as individuals. Had knitted them their own unique tuques. To protect them against the harsh world.


    ¡°Could you excuse me?¡±


    He got up and gave her a very small bow, then put on his coat and headed into the winter day.


    From her armchair, Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel watched him walk briskly along the road ringing the village green and over to Gabri¡¯s B and B. He disappeared inside.


    *   *   *


    ¡°Yes, Chief,¡± said Inspector Lacoste. ¡°I have it here.¡±


    Gamache could hear the keys click on her computer. He¡¯d called her on her cell and caught her at home this Sunday afternoon.

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    ¡°It¡¯ll take me just a moment.¡± Her voice was muffled and he could see her pinning the phone between her shoulder and ear, while tapping away on her laptop. Trying to find the one obscure reference.


    ¡°No rush,¡± he said, and sat on the side of the bed. In what he considered ¡°his¡± bedroom at the B and B. And it still was. He¡¯d kept it, paid for it, and even had a few of his personal items around.


    In case anyone came looking.


    And whenever he needed to make a call to Montr¨¦al, or Paris, he came here. If he was right, they¡¯d be traced. He wanted nothing traced back to the Longpr¨¦ house.


    ¡°Got it,¡± said Lacoste, and her voice became clear again as she read. ¡°In Marguerite¡¯s room ¡­ let¡¯s see ¡­ two pairs of gloves. Some heavy mitts. Four winter scarves. And yes, here it is. Two hats. One warm and store-bought and one looked hand-knitted.¡±


    Gamache stood up. ¡°The hand-knitted one, can you describe it?¡±


    He held his breath. Lacoste wasn¡¯t looking at the actual inventory, that was still in the little home. She was reading from the notes she¡¯d taken.


    ¡°It was red,¡± she read, ¡°and had pine trees around it. A tag was sewn into it with MM on it.¡±


    ¡°Marie-Marguerite. Anything else?¡±


    ¡°About the tuque? Sorry, Chief, that¡¯s it.¡±


    ¡°And the other bedrooms? Did Constance and Josephine also have those handmade hats?¡±


    There was another pause and more clicking.


    ¡°Yes. Josephine¡¯s was green with snowflakes. The tag inside says MJ. The one in Constance¡¯s room had reindeer¡ª¡±


    ¡°And a tag with MC.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you guess?¡±


    Gamache gave a short laugh. Lacoste went on to describe two other tuques, found in the back of the front hall closet, with MV and MH sewn in.


    All accounted for.


    ¡°Why¡¯s this important, Chief?¡±


    ¡°It might not be, but their mother knitted those hats. It seems the only things they kept from their childhoods. The only souvenirs.¡±


    Remembrances, thought Gamache, of their mother. Of being mothered. And being individuals.


    ¡°There¡¯s something else, patron.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s that?¡±


    He was so focused on the find that for a split second he failed to take in her darkening tone. The warning pulse before the impact. He started to stand up, to meet it. To bring up his defenses.


    But he was just too late.


    ¡°Inspector Beauvoir¡¯s been sent on another raid. You caught me in because I was monitoring it. This one¡¯s bad.¡±


    Chief Inspector Gamache felt his cheeks both flush and drain. The atmosphere around him seemed to disappear, as though he was suddenly in a sensory deprivation tank. All his senses seemed to fail at once, and he felt like he was suspended. Then falling.


    Within a moment he started breathing again, and then his senses rushed back. Acute. Everything was suddenly stark, loud, bright.


    ¡°Tell me,¡± he said.


    He gathered himself, steadied himself. With the exception of his right hand. That he kept closed in a tight, and tightening, fist.


    ¡°It was last-minute. Martin Tessier himself is leading it. Only four agents, from what I can gather.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the target?¡± His voice was clipped, commanding. Assessing.


    ¡°A meth lab on the South Shore. Must be Boucherville, judging by the route they took.¡±


    There was a pause.


    ¡°Inspector?¡± demanded Gamache.


    ¡°Sorry, Chief. Seems to be Brossard. But they took the Jacques Cartier Bridge.¡±


    ¡°The bridge doesn¡¯t matter,¡± he said, irritated. ¡°Has the raid begun?¡±


    ¡°Just. They¡¯re meeting resistance. There¡¯s arms fire.¡±


    Gamache pressed the telephone to his ear, as though that would bring him closer.


    ¡°An ambulance has just been called. Medics going in. Officer hit.¡±


    Lacoste, used to making reports, tried to make this one simply factual. And she almost succeeded.


    ¡°Officer down,¡± she repeated the phrase. The one she herself had shouted, over and over, as she¡¯d seen both Beauvoir and the Chief shot down. In that factory.


    Officer down.


    ¡°Christ,¡± she heard down the telephone line. It sounded more like a plea than profanity.


    Gamache saw movement out of the corner of his eye and spun around. Agent Nichol was standing in the open doorway to his room. The perpetual sneer froze when she saw his face.


    The Chief looked at her for a moment, then reached out and slammed the door shut with such force the pictures shook on the walls.

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    ¡°Chief?¡± called Lacoste down the line. ¡°Are you all right? What was that?¡±


    It sounded like a gunshot.


    ¡°The door,¡± he said, and turned his back on it. Through a crack in the gauzy curtains at the window he could see diffuse light, and hear slap shots and laughter. He turned his back on that. And stared at the wall. ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡±


    ¡°There seems a fair amount of chaos,¡± she reported. ¡°I¡¯m trying to make sense of the communications.¡±


    Gamache held his tongue and waited. Feeling his rage rising. Feeling the almost irrepressible need to slam his fist, already made and waiting to be used, into the wall. To hit it over and over, until the wall bled.


    Instead, he steadied himself.


    The fools. To go on a raid unprepared.


    The Chief knew what the goal was, the purpose. It was simple and sadistic. It was to unhinge Beauvoir and unbalance the Chief. To push both over the edge. And possibly worse.


    Officer down.


    He himself had shouted that, as he¡¯d held Jean-Guy. Held a bandage to Beauvoir¡¯s abdomen. To staunch the blood. Seeing the pain and terror in the young man¡¯s eyes. Seeing the blood all over Beauvoir¡¯s shirt. And all over his own hands.


    And now Gamache could almost feel it again, in this peaceful, pleasant room. The warm, sticky blood on his hands.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Chief, all communications have gone down.¡±


    Gamache stared at the wall for a moment. All communications down. What did that mean?


    He tried not to go to the worst possible conclusion. That they were down because everyone who might communicate was down.


    No. He forced his mind away from that. Stick with the simple facts. He knew how catastrophic a rampant imagination, driven by fear, could be.


    He stepped away from that. Time enough to have it confirmed. And whatever had happened had happened by now.


    It was over. And there was nothing he could do.


    He closed his eyes and tried not to see Jean-Guy. Not the terrified, wounded man in his arms. Not the drained man of recent weeks and months. And certainly not the Jean-Guy Beauvoir sitting in the Gamaches¡¯ living room. Drinking a beer and laughing.


    That was the face Gamache tried hardest to keep away.


    He opened his eyes.


    ¡°Keep monitoring, please,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll be in the bistro or at the bookstore.¡±


    ¡°Chief?¡± asked Lacoste, her voice uncertain.


    ¡°It will be all right.¡± His voice was calm and composed.


    ¡°Oui.¡± She didn¡¯t sound completely convinced, but she did sound less shaky.


    All shall be well, he repeated as he walked with resolve across the village green.


    But he wasn¡¯t sure he believed it.


    *   *   *


    Myrna Landers sat on the sofa in her loft and stared at the TV screen.


    Frozen there was a smiling little girl, her skates being laced by her father while her sisters, their skates already on, waited.


    On her head she wore a tuque with reindeer.


    Myrna was caught between tears and a smile.


    She smiled. ¡°She looks radiant, doesn¡¯t she?¡±


    Gamache and Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel nodded. She did.


    Now that he¡¯d figured out who was who, Gamache wanted to see this film again.


    Behind little Constance, her sisters Marguerite and Josephine looked on, impatient to be outside. Each girl was now distinguishable by their tuques. The pines for Marguerite, and snowflakes for Josephine. Marie-Constance looked like she could sit there all day, being tended to by her father. Reindeer racing around her head.


    Virginie and H¨¦l¨¨ne stood by the door. They also wore knitted hats, and slight scowls.


    On Gamache¡¯s request, Myrna again pressed rewind and they were back at the beginning. With Isidore holding out his arms, administering the b¨¦n¨¦diction paternelle.


    But this time they knew which little penitent was Constance, having followed her back, back, back to the beginning. She was kneeling at the end of the row.


    And Constance, thought Gamache.


    ¡°Does this help us find whoever killed Constance?¡± Myrna asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± admitted the Chief. ¡°But at least now we know which girl was which.¡±


    ¡°Myrna,¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se began, ¡°Armand told me that when you first found out who Constance was, you thought it was like having Hera as a client.¡±


    Myrna glanced at Th¨¦r¨¨se, then back at the screen. ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Hera,¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se repeated. ¡°One of the Greek goddesses.¡±


    Myrna smiled. ¡°Yes.¡±

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    ¡°Why?¡±


    Myrna paused the image and turned to her guest. ¡°Why?¡± She thought about that. ¡°When Constance told me she was one of the Ouellet Quints, she might as well have said she was a Greek goddess. A myth. I was making a joke, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°But why Hera?¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± Myrna was clearly confused. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re asking.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯re you thinking?¡± asked Gamache.


    ¡°It¡¯s probably ridiculous,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°When I was head curator at the Mus¨¦e des beaux-arts, I saw a lot of classical art. Much of it based in mythology. Victorian artists in particular liked to paint Greek goddesses. An excuse, I always suspected, to paint naked women, often battling serpents. An acceptable form of pornography.¡±


    ¡°But you digress,¡± suggested Gamache, and Th¨¦r¨¨se smiled.


    ¡°I got to know the various gods and goddesses. But two goddesses in particular seemed to fascinate artists of that era.¡±


    ¡°Let me guess,¡± said Myrna. ¡°Aphrodite?¡±


    Superintendent Brunel nodded. ¡°The goddess of love¡ªand prostitutes, wouldn¡¯t you know. Conveniently, she didn¡¯t seem to own many clothes.¡±


    ¡°And the other?¡± asked Myrna, though they all knew the answer.


    ¡°Hera.¡±


    ¡°Also naked?¡± asked Myrna.


    ¡°No, the Victorian painters liked her because of her dramatic potential, and she suited their cautionary view of strong women. She was malicious and jealous.¡±


    They turned to the screen. The film was paused on the praying face of little Constance.


    Myrna looked at Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°You think she was malicious and jealous?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not the one who called her Hera.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a name, the only goddess who came to mind. I could have just as easily called her Aphrodite or Athena.¡± Myrna was sounding testy, defensive.


    ¡°But you didn¡¯t.¡±


    Superintendent Brunel didn¡¯t back down. The two women held each other¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°I knew Constance,¡± said Myrna. ¡°First as a client, then as a friend. She never struck me that way.¡±


    ¡°But you say she was closed off,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Do you really know what she kept hidden?¡±


    ¡°Are you putting the victim on trial?¡± asked Myrna.


    ¡°No,¡± said Gamache. ¡°This isn¡¯t judgmental. But the better we know Constance, the easier it might be to find out who needed her dead. And why.¡±


    Myrna thought about that. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Constance was so private, I feel a need to protect her.¡±


    She pressed the play button and they watched little Constance pray, then rise, then playfully jostle with her sisters in line, to have their father put on their skates.


    But now each of them wondered how playful that really was.


    They saw the look of joy on Constance¡¯s face as her father kneeled at her feet, and her sisters, in pairs, stood behind. Watching.


    Myrna¡¯s phone rang and Gamache tensed so forcefully both women looked at him.


    Myrna answered it, then held it out for him.


    ¡°It¡¯s Isabelle Lacoste.¡±


    ¡°Merci,¡± he said, crossing the distance and taking the phone. It felt warm to the touch.


    He turned away from Superintendent Brunel and Myrna, and spoke into the receiver.


    ¡°Bonjour.¡± His voice steady, his back straight. His head up.


    From behind, the women watched as he listened. And they saw the broad shoulders sag a little, though the head remained high.


    ¡°Merci,¡± he said, and slowly replaced the receiver. Then Gamache turned around.


    And smiled with relief.


    ¡°Good news,¡± he said. ¡°Nothing to do with this case, though.¡±


    He rejoined them. Both women looked away and didn¡¯t say a word about the sheen in his eye.


    TWENTY-SIX


    ¡°We have to go.¡±


    Gamache stood up abruptly, and both Myrna and Th¨¦r¨¨se looked at him. A moment earlier he¡¯d been relieved, almost ecstatic, then something had shifted and his joy had turned to anger.


    Myrna paused the recording. Five happy girls stared at them, apparently mesmerized by what was happening in Myrna¡¯s loft.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se asked, as they put on their coats and walked down to the bookstore. ¡°Who was on the phone?¡±


    ¡°Merci, Myrna.¡± Gamache paused at the door and strained to produce a smile.

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    Myrna watched him closely. ¡°What just happened?¡±


    Gamache shook his head a little. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯ll tell you one day.¡±


    ¡°But not today?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    The door closed behind them and the cold closed around them. The sun was still up, but they were on the edge of the shortest day and there wasn¡¯t much light left.


    ¡°You¡¯ll tell me,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se as they walked rapidly across the village green. Past Ruth on the bench. Past families skating on the frozen pond. Past the three ancient white pines.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel was not asking, but commanding.


    ¡°Beauvoir was sent on another raid today.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel absorbed the news. Gamache¡¯s face, in profile, was grim.


    ¡°This must stop,¡± said Gamache.


    Up the hill they strode, Th¨¦r¨¨se hurrying to keep pace. At the edge of the forest they found their snowshoes stuck in a snow bank where they¡¯d left them. Strapping them on, they made their way back down the trail, though they barely needed the snowshoes anymore. The trail was hard packed and easy to find.


    Too easy? Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel wondered. But there was no way around it now.


    As they approached, they saw Gilles apparently hovering in midair, twenty feet up and five feet from the tree trunk. The woods were getting dark, but as the two senior officers got closer Th¨¦r¨¨se could see the platform, nailed to the tree of peace.


    J¨¦r?me was standing at the base of the white pine, staring up. He glanced at them as they approached, then back up into the branches above their heads. It was then Superintendent Brunel noticed that Gilles was not alone up there. Nichol was standing on the platform, a couple feet back from Gilles as he worked to position the satellite dish on the wooden railing.


    ¡°Anything?¡± Gilles asked, his voice muffled by frozen lips. His red beard was white and crusty, as though his words had frozen and stuck to his face.


    ¡°Close.¡± Nichol was studying something in her mittens.


    Gilles adjusted the dish slightly.


    ¡°There. Stop,¡± said Nichol.


    Everyone, including Th¨¦r¨¨se and Armand, stopped. And waited. And waited. Gilles slowly, slowly released the dish.


    ¡°Still?¡± he asked.


    Then waited. Waited.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said.


    ¡°Let me see.¡± He held out his gloved hand.


    ¡°It¡¯s locked onto the satellite. We¡¯re fine.¡±


    ¡°Give it to me. I want to see for myself,¡± snapped the woodsman, the biting cold gnawing at his patience.


    Nichol handed over whatever she held and he studied it.


    ¡°Good,¡± he said at last, and unseen below them three streams of steam were exhaled.


    Once back on firm ground, Gilles smiled. His crystalline beard made him look like Father Christmas, and as he grinned some of it cracked off.


    ¡°Well done,¡± said J¨¦r?me. He was stomping his feet and all but blue with cold.


    Yvette Nichol stood a few feet away, separated from the main body of the team by what looked like a long, black umbilical cord. The transmission cable.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se, J¨¦r?me, Gilles, and Nichol, thought Gamache, looking at the glum young agent. And Nichol. Attached to their own quintuplet by a slender thread.


    And Nichol. How easy it would be to cut her loose.


    ¡°Are we connected?¡± Gamache asked Gilles, who nodded.


    ¡°We¡¯ve found a satellite,¡± he replied through lips and cheeks numb with cold.


    ¡°The rest?¡±


    He shrugged.


    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se demanded. ¡°Will it do the job or not?¡±


    Gilles turned to her. ¡°And what is the job, madame? I still don¡¯t know why we¡¯re here, except that it probably has nothing to do with watching the last episode of Survivor.¡±


    There was a stiff silence.


    ¡°Perhaps you can explain it to Gilles back at the schoolhouse,¡± said Gamache. He spoke matter-of-factly, as though suggesting hot chocolate after an afternoon of tobogganing. ¡°I expect you¡¯re ready to get inside.¡±


    The Chief turned to Nichol, standing alone a few feet away. ¡°You and I can finish what was started.¡±


    They were clear, cold black-ice words.


    He wants us to leave them alone, Th¨¦r¨¨se thought. He¡¯s cutting her from the pack.


    Seeing the slight smile on Armand¡¯s face, and hearing his hard voice, an alarm sounded inside her. A deep, dark gap had appeared between what Armand Gamache had said and what he meant. And Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel did not envy this young agent, who was about to discover what the Chief Inspector kept locked and hidden, deep inside.

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    ¡°I should stay too,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°I¡¯m not cold yet.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Gamache. ¡°I think you should go.¡±


    Th¨¦r¨¨se felt a chill in her marrow.


    ¡°You have a job to do,¡± he said quietly. ¡°And so do I.¡±


    ¡°And what job is that, Armand? Like Gilles, I¡¯m wondering.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m simply doing my small part to make a crucial connection.¡±


    And there it was.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel stared at Gamache, then over to Agent Nichol, who was untangling a twist in the frozen telecommunications cable and seemed oblivious. Seemed. Th¨¦r¨¨se looked at the sullen, petulant, but clever young woman. Armand had sent her to the S?ret¨¦ basement to learn how to listen.


    Perhaps it had worked better than they realized.


    Superintendent Brunel made a decision. She turned her back on Armand and the young agent, and ushered her husband and the woodsman away.


    Gamache waited until he no longer heard the crunch, crunch, crunch of snowshoes, until silence fell on the winter woods. Then he turned on Yvette Nichol.


    ¡°What were you doing in the B and B?¡±


    ¡°Bonjour to you too,¡± she said, not looking up. ¡°Good job, Nichol. Well done, Nichol. Thank you for coming to this shithole, freezing your ass off to help us, Nichol.¡±


    ¡°What were you doing in the B and B?¡±


    She looked up and felt what little warmth she still had evaporate.


    ¡°What were you doing there?¡± she demanded.


    He tilted his head slightly and narrowed his eyes. ¡°Are you questioning me?¡± Nichol¡¯s eyes widened and the cable slipped from her hands.


    ¡°Are you working for Francoeur?¡± The words came out of his mouth like icicles.


    Nichol couldn¡¯t speak, but managed to shake her head.


    Gamache unzipped his parka and moved it behind his hip. His shirt was exposed. And so was his gun.


    As she watched, he removed his warm gloves and held his right hand loose at his side.


    ¡°Are you working for Francoeur?¡± he repeated, his voice even quieter.


    She shook her head vehemently and mouthed, ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°What were you doing in the B and B?¡±


    ¡°I was looking for you,¡± she managed.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I was at the schoolhouse getting the cable ready for here and saw you go into the B and B, so I followed you.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    It had taken him a while to put it together. At first he thought he owed Nichol an apology, for slamming the door in her face. But then he¡¯d begun to wonder what she was doing in the B and B.


    Was she there for the same reason he¡¯d gone, to make a quiet call? If so, who was she calling? Gamache could guess.


    ¡°Why were you in the B and B, Yvette?¡±


    ¡°To speak to you.¡±


    ¡°You could¡¯ve spoken to me at Emilie¡¯s home. You could have spoken to me at the schoolhouse. Why were you in the B and B, Yvette?¡±


    ¡°To talk to you,¡± she repeated, her voice barely a squeak. ¡°Privately.¡±


    ¡°What about?¡±


    She hesitated. ¡°To tell you that this won¡¯t work.¡± She gestured up toward the hunting blind and the satellite dish. ¡°Even if you get online, you can¡¯t get into the S?ret¨¦ system.¡±


    ¡°Who says that¡¯s our goal?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not an idiot, Chief Inspector. You asked for untraceable satellite equipment. You¡¯re not building a robot army. If you were going in through the front door you could do that from home or your office. This is something else. You brought me here to help you break in. But it won¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± Despite himself, he was interested.


    ¡°Because while all this shit might get you connected, and even hide where you are for a while, you need a code to get into the deepest files. Your own S?ret¨¦ security code will give you away. So will Superintendent Brunel¡¯s. You know that.¡±


    ¡°How much do you know about what we¡¯re doing?¡±


    ¡°Not much. I knew nothing until yesterday, when you asked for my help.¡±


    They stared at each other.


    ¡°You invited me here, sir. I didn¡¯t ask. But when you asked for help, I agreed. And now you treat me like your enemy?¡±


    Gamache was having none of her mind games. He knew there was a far more likely reason she¡¯d agreed to come down. Not loyalty to him, but to another. She was in the B and B to report to Francoeur, and had he not been distracted by his concern for Jean-Guy, he¡¯d have caught her at it.

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    ¡°I invited you because we had no choice. But that doesn¡¯t mean I trust you, Agent Nichol.¡±


    ¡°What do I need to do to gain your trust?¡±


    ¡°Tell me why you were in the B and B.¡±


    ¡°I wanted to warn you that without a security code, none of this will work.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re lying.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Gamache knew she was lying. She didn¡¯t need to tell him about the code privately.


    ¡°What have you told Francoeur?¡±


    ¡°Nothing,¡± she pleaded. ¡°I¡¯d never do that.¡±


    Gamache glared at her. Once the computer was turned on. Once the satellite connection was made. Once J¨¦r?me opened that door and stepped through, it was just a matter of time before they were found. Their only hope rested with the embittered young agent in front of him, trembling with cold and fear and indignation, real or forced.


    Time was running out to save Beauvoir, and to find out what Francoeur¡¯s goal was. There was a purpose here that went well beyond hurting Gamache and Beauvoir.


    Something far bigger, put in place years ago, was maturing now. Today. Tomorrow. Soon. And Gamache still didn¡¯t know what it was.


    He felt slow, stupid. It was as though all sorts of clues, elements, were floating in front of him, but one piece was missing. Something that would connect them all. Something he¡¯d either missed or hadn¡¯t yet found.


    He now knew it involved Pierre Arnot. But what was their goal?


    Gamache could have screamed his frustration.


    What role did this pathetic young woman play in all of this? Was she the nail in their coffin, or their salvation? And why did one look so much like the other?


    Gamache brought his parka forward and zipped it up with a hand so cold he could barely tell he was holding the zipper. Putting his gloves back on, he scooped up the heavy cable at her feet.


    As Nichol watched, Chief Inspector Gamache put the thick black cable over his shoulder and leaned forward, lugging it through the forest, in a direct route to the schoolhouse.


    After a few steps he felt it grow lighter. Agent Yvette Nichol¡¯s snowshoes plodded along in the trail he was making, picking up the slack.


    She fell in behind him, puffing with the effort and relief.


    He¡¯d caught her. He might even suspect. But he hadn¡¯t gotten the truth from her.


    *   *   *


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel got J¨¦r?me and Gilles settled in the schoolhouse, in front of the woodstove. Heat radiated from it and the men stripped off their heavy parkas, hats, mitts, and boots and sat with their feet out, as close as they could get to the fire without themselves bursting into flames.


    The room smelled of wet wool and wood smoke. It was warm now, but Gilles and J¨¦r?me were not.


    After shoving more wood into the stove, Th¨¦r¨¨se went over to Emilie¡¯s to get Henri, then to the general store, where she picked up milk, cocoa and marshmallows. The hot chocolate now simmered in a pot on top of the stove, and the scent joined that of wet wool and wood smoke. She poured it into mugs and topped each with a couple of large, soft marshmallows.


    But the hot chocolate shook so badly in Gilles¡¯s hands, Th¨¦r¨¨se had to take the mug from him.


    ¡°You asked what this is about,¡± she said.


    Gilles nodded. His teeth chattered violently as he listened, and he alternately hugged himself and held his hands out to the stove as she spoke. His beard had melted a wet stain on his sweater.


    When she finished speaking, Th¨¦r¨¨se handed him back his hot chocolate, the marshmallow melted to white foam on the top. He gripped the warm mug to his chest like a little boy, frightened by a scary story and trying to be brave.


    Beside him, J¨¦r?me had remained quiet while his wife described what they were looking for, and why. Dr. Brunel kneaded his feet, trying to get the blood flowing again. Pins and needles stabbed his toes as the circulation returned.


    The sun was now barely visible over the dark forest, the forest that still contained Armand Gamache and Agent Nichol. Th¨¦r¨¨se turned on the lights and looked at the blank monitors her husband had set up that morning.


    What if this doesn¡¯t work?


    They¡¯d have made a very poor Scout troop, she thought. Not only were they unprepared for this to fail, they were using stolen equipment to hack into police files. If there were badges for deception, they¡¯d be covered in them.


    They heard heavy footsteps on the wooden porch, and Th¨¦r¨¨se opened the door to find Armand there, puffing with exertion.


    ¡°You all right?¡± she asked, though they both knew she was really asking, ¡°Are you alone?¡±

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    ¡°Never better,¡± he gasped. His face was red from exertion and the bitter cold. Dropping the cable on the stoop, he entered the schoolhouse, followed a moment later by Agent Nichol. Her face was no longer pallid. Now it was blotched, white and red. She looked like the Canadian flag.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se exhaled, unaware until that moment just how concerned she¡¯d really been.


    ¡°Do I smell chocolate?¡± Gamache asked, through frozen lips. Henri had run over to greet him and the Chief was on one knee, hugging the shepherd. For warmth as much as affection, Th¨¦r¨¨se suspected. And Henri was happy to give him both.


    Space was made by the woodstove for the newcomers.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se poured them mugs of hot chocolate, and after Gamache and Nichol had stripped off their outerwear, the five sat silently around the woodstove. For the first couple of minutes Gamache and Nichol shuddered with cold. Their hands shook and every now and then they spasmed as the bitter winter, like a wraith, left their body.


    Then the little schoolhouse grew quiet, except for the odd squeal of a chair leg on the wooden floor, the crackle of the fire, and Henri¡¯s groans as he stretched out at Gamache¡¯s feet.


    Armand Gamache felt he could nod off. His socks were now dry and slightly crispy, the mug of hot chocolate warmed his hands, and the heat from the stove enveloped him. Despite the urgency of their situation, he felt his lids grow heavy.


    Oh, for just a few minutes, a few moments, of rest.


    But there was work to be done.


    Putting down his mug, he leaned forward, hands clasped together. He looked at the circle huddled around the woodstove in the tiny one-room schoolhouse. The five of them. Quints. Th¨¦r¨¨se, J¨¦r?me, Gilles, Armand, and Nichol.


    And Nichol, he thought again. Hanging off the end. The outlier.


    ¡°What¡¯s next?¡± he asked.


    TWENTY-SEVEN


    ¡°Next?¡± asked J¨¦r?me.


    He never expected it to get this far. Looking across the room at the bank of blank monitors, he knew what had to happen.


    Beneath the thick sweater he felt a trickle of perspiration, as though his round body was weeping. If Three Pines was their foxhole, he was about to raise his head. Armand had given them a weapon, but it was a pointy stick against a machine gun.


    He walked away from the warmth of the fire and felt the chill again as he approached the far reaches of the room. Two old, battered computers sat side-by-side, one on the teacher¡¯s desk, the other on the table they¡¯d dragged over. Above them, glued to the wall, was the cheerful alphabet, illustrated with bumblebees and butterflies and ducks and roses. And below that, musical notes.


    He hummed it slowly, following the notes.


    ¡°Why¡¯re you singing that?¡± asked Gamache.


    J¨¦r?me started a little. He hadn¡¯t realized Armand was with him and he hadn¡¯t realized he was humming.


    ¡°It¡¯s that.¡± J¨¦r?me pointed to the notes. ¡°Do-re-mi is the top line, and then this song is beneath it.¡±


    He hummed some more and then, to his surprise, Armand started quietly, slowly, singing.


    ¡°What do you do with a drunken sailor¡­¡±


    J¨¦r?me examined his friend. Gamache was staring at the music and smiling. Then he turned to J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°¡­ early in the morrrr ¡­ ning.¡±


    J¨¦r?me smiled in genuine amusement and felt some of his terror detach and drift away on the back of the musical notes and the silly words from his serious friend.


    ¡°An old sea shanty,¡± Gamache explained, and returned to look at the notes on the wall. ¡°I¡¯d forgotten that Miss Jane Neal was the teacher here, before the school was closed and she retired.¡±


    ¡°You knew her?¡±


    Gamache remembered kneeling in the bright autumn leaves and closing those blue eyes. It was years ago now. Felt like a lifetime.


    ¡°I caught her killer.¡±


    Gamache gazed again at the wall, with the alphabet and music.


    ¡°Way, hey, and up she rises¡­¡± he whispered. It felt somehow comforting to be in this room where Miss Jane Neal had done what she loved, for children she adored.


    ¡°We need to get the cable in here,¡± said J¨¦r?me, and for the next few minutes, while Gilles drilled a hole in the wall to snake the cable through, J¨¦r?me and Nichol crawled under the desks and sorted out the wires and boxes.


    Gamache watched all this, marveling that they¡¯d begun the day thirty-five thousand kilometers from any communication satellite and now they were just centimeters from that connection.

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    ¡°Did you make your connection?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel asked as she joined him. She nodded toward the young agent.


    Her husband and Nichol were squeezed under the desk, trying not to elbow each other. At least, Dr. Brunel was trying not to¡ªit looked as though Agent Nichol was doing her best to shove her bony elbows into him whenever she could.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid not,¡± Gamache whispered.


    ¡°But you both made it back, Chief Inspector. That¡¯s something.¡±


    Gamache grinned, though without amusement. ¡°Some victory. I didn¡¯t gun down one of my own agents in cold blood.¡±


    ¡°Well, we take our victories where we can get them,¡± she smiled. ¡°I¡¯m not sure J¨¦r?me would¡¯ve passed up the chance.¡±


    By now the two under the desk were openly elbowing each other.


    The hole in the schoolhouse wall was completed and Gilles shoved the cable through. J¨¦r?me grabbed it and pulled.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take it.¡±


    Before J¨¦r?me knew it, Nichol had grabbed the cable from him and was attaching it to the first of the metal boxes.


    ¡°Wait.¡± He yanked it back. ¡°You can¡¯t connect it.¡± He gripped the cable in both hands and tried to bring his sudden panic under control.


    ¡°Of course I can.¡± She almost swiped it from him and might have, had Superintendent Brunel not cut in.


    ¡°Agent Nichol,¡± she commanded. ¡°Get out from there.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do as you¡¯re told,¡± she said, as though speaking to a willful child.


    Both J¨¦r?me and Nichol crawled out from under the desk, J¨¦r?me still gripping the black cable. Behind them they could hear the hiss as Gilles, still outside, sprayed the hole he¡¯d made with foam insulation.


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°We can¡¯t connect it,¡± said J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°Yes we ca¡ª¡±


    But the Chief raised his hand and cut Nichol off.


    ¡°Why not?¡± he asked J¨¦r?me. They¡¯d come so far. Why not the last few inches?


    ¡°Because we don¡¯t know what¡¯ll happen once we do.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t tha¡ª¡±


    But again, Nichol was cut off. She shut her mouth, but fumed.


    ¡°Why not?¡± Gamache asked again, his voice neutral, assessing the situation.


    ¡°I know it sounds overcautious, but once this is plugged in, we have the ability to connect to the world. But it also means the world can connect to us. This¡±¡ªhe held up the cable¡ª¡°is a highway that goes in both directions.¡±


    Agent Nichol looked like she was about to wet her pants.


    Chief Inspector Gamache turned to her and nodded.


    ¡°But the power isn¡¯t on.¡± The dam broke and the words rushed from her. ¡°That might as well be rope for all the connecting it¡¯ll do. We have to attach it to the computers and we have to turn the power on. We have to make sure it works. Why wait?¡±


    Gamache felt a chill on his neck and turned to see Gilles walking into the tense atmosphere. He shut the door, took off his tuque and mitts and coat, and sat by the door as though guarding it.


    Gamache turned to Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    ¡°What do you think?¡±


    ¡°We should wait.¡± On seeing Nichol open her mouth again, Th¨¦r¨¨se headed off any comment. Looking directly at the young agent she spoke. ¡°You¡¯ve just arrived, but we¡¯ve been living with this for weeks, months. We¡¯ve risked our careers, our friendships, our homes, perhaps even more. If my husband says we pause, then we pause. Do you understand?¡±


    Nichol gave in with bad grace.


    As they left, Gamache turned the key in the Yale lock and put it in his breast pocket. Gilles joined him for the short walk through the dark, back to Emilie¡¯s home.


    ¡°You know that young woman¡¯s right?¡± Gilles said, his voice low and his eyes on the snowy ground.


    ¡°We need to test it?¡± said Gamache, also in a whisper. ¡°Oui, I know.¡±


    He watched Nichol, up ahead, and behind her J¨¦r?me and Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    And he wondered what J¨¦r?me was really afraid of.


    *   *   *


    After a dinner of beef stew, they took their coffees into the living room, where a fire had been laid.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se put a match to the newspaper and watched it flare and burn bright. Then she turned to the room. Gamache and Gilles sat together on one of the sofas and J¨¦r?me sat across from them. Nichol was in the corner, working on a jigsaw puzzle.

 Page 98

    After plugging in the lights on the Christmas tree, Th¨¦r¨¨se joined her husband.


    ¡°Wish I¡¯d thought to bring gifts,¡± she said, gazing at the tree. ¡°Armand, you look pensive.¡±


    Gamache had followed her gaze and was looking under the tree. Something had twigged, some little thought to do with trees, or Christmas, or presents. Something triggered by what Th¨¦r¨¨se just said, but the direct question had chased it away. He furrowed his brow and continued to look at the cheerful Christmas tree in the corner of the room. Bare underneath. Barren of gifts.


    ¡°Armand?¡±


    He shook his head and met her gaze. ¡°Sorry, I was just thinking.¡±


    J¨¦r?me turned to Gilles. ¡°You must be exhausted.¡±


    J¨¦r?me looked exhausted himself.


    Gilles nodded. ¡°Been a while since I climbed a tree.¡±


    ¡°Do you really hear them talk?¡± J¨¦r?me asked.


    The woodsman studied the rotund man across from him. The man who¡¯d stayed at the base of the white pine in the bitter cold, calling encouragement, when he could have left. He nodded.


    ¡°What do they say?¡± J¨¦r?me asked.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you want to know what they¡¯re saying,¡± said Gilles with a smile. ¡°Besides, mostly I just hear sounds. Whispers. Other stuff.¡±


    The Brunels looked at him, waiting for more. Gamache held his coffee, and listened. He knew the story.


    ¡°Have you always been able to hear them?¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se finally asked.


    In the corner, Agent Nichol looked up from the puzzle.


    Gilles shook his head. ¡°I was a lumberjack. I cut down hundreds of trees with my chain saw. One day, as I cut into an old-growth oak, I heard it cry.¡±


    Silence met the remark. Gilles stared into the fireplace, and the burning wood.


    ¡°At first I ignored it. Thought I was hearing things. Then it spread, and I could hear not just my tree, but all the trees crying.¡±


    He was quiet for a moment.


    ¡°It was horrible,¡± he whispered.


    ¡°What did you do?¡± J¨¦r?me asked.


    ¡°What could I do? I stopped cutting and I made my team stop.¡± He looked at his huge, worn hands. ¡°They thought I was mad, of course. I¡¯d have thought the same thing, if I hadn¡¯t heard it myself.¡±


    Gilles looked directly at J¨¦r?me as he spoke.


    ¡°I could live in denial for a while, but once I knew, I could never un-know. You know?¡±


    J¨¦r?me nodded. He did know.


    ¡°Gilles now makes the most wonderful furniture, from found wood,¡± said Gamache. ¡°Reine-Marie and I have a couple of pieces.¡±


    Gilles smiled. ¡°Doesn¡¯t pay the bills, though.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of payment¡ª¡± Gamache began.


    Gilles looked at the Chief Inspector. ¡°Don¡¯t say any more.¡±


    ¡°D¨¦sol¨¦,¡± said Gamache. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have said that much.¡±


    ¡°I was glad to help. I can stay if you¡¯d like. That way I¡¯ll be here if you need help.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± said Gamache, getting to his feet. ¡°We¡¯ll call if we need you.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll come tomorrow morning. You¡¯ll find me in the bistro if you need me.¡±


    With his coat on and his large hand on the doorknob, Gilles looked at the four of them.


    ¡°There¡¯s a reason thieves steal at night, you know.¡±


    ¡°Are you calling us thieves?¡± asked Th¨¦r¨¨se with some amusement.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Armand closed the door and looked at his colleagues.


    ¡°We have some decisions to make, mes amis.¡±


    *   *   *


    J¨¦r?me Brunel drew the curtains and walked back to his seat by the fire.


    It was almost midnight and, while bone-tired, they¡¯d gotten their second, or third, wind. More coffee had been made, another maple log was tossed on the fire, Henri had been walked and now slept curled up by the hearth.


    ¡°Bon,¡± said Gamache, leaning forward and looking into their faces. ¡°What do we do now?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not ready to connect,¡± said J¨¦r?me.


    ¡°What you mean is, you¡¯re not ready,¡± Nichol said. ¡°What¡¯re you waiting for?¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t get a second chance,¡± J¨¦r?me snapped. ¡°When I operated on a patient I didn¡¯t think, Well, if I screw up I can always try again. No. One shot, that¡¯s it. We have to make sure we¡¯re prepared.¡±

 Page 99

    ¡°We are prepared,¡± Nichol insisted. ¡°Nothing more¡¯s going to happen. No more equipment¡¯s going to show up. No more help. You have everything you¡¯re ever going to have. This is it.¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯re you so impatient?¡± J¨¦r?me demanded.


    ¡°Why aren¡¯t you?¡± she replied.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± said Gamache. ¡°What can we do to help, J¨¦r?me? What do you need?¡±


    ¡°I need to know about all that equipment she brought.¡± He glanced at Nichol, who was sitting with her arms across her chest. ¡°Why do we need two computers?¡±


    ¡°One¡¯s for me,¡± Nichol said. She decided to speak to them as though to Henri. ¡°I¡¯ll be encrypting the channel we use to access the S?ret¨¦ network. If anyone picks up your signal, they¡¯ll need to break the encryption. It buys us time.¡±


    That last bit they understood, even Henri, but they needed to think about the encryption part.


    ¡°What you¡¯re saying,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se, slowly picking her way through the technical talk, ¡°is that when J¨¦r?me types something on the keyboard it¡¯s put into code? Then that code is scrambled?¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± said Nichol. ¡°All before it leaves the room.¡± She paused and her arms closed even tighter across her body, like steel straps.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°They¡¯ll still find you.¡± Her voice was soft. It held no triumph. ¡°My programs only make it difficult for them to see you, but not impossible. They know what they¡¯re doing. They¡¯ll find us.¡±


    It didn¡¯t escape the Chief Inspector that within a breath, the ¡°you¡± had become ¡°us.¡± There were few more significant breaths.


    ¡°Will they know who we are?¡± he asked.


    Gamache saw the vise grip loosen around the young agent¡¯s chest. She leaned slightly forward.


    ¡°Now that¡¯s an interesting question. I¡¯ve intentionally created an encryption that appears clunky, unsophisticated.¡±


    ¡°Intentionally?¡± asked J¨¦r?me, not convinced it was on purpose at all. ¡°Why would anyone do that? We don¡¯t need ¡®clunky,¡¯ for God¡¯s sake. We need the best there is.¡±


    He looked at Gamache, and the Chief Inspector could see the slight lash of panic.


    Nichol was silent, either because she¡¯d finally figured out the immense power of silence, or because she was miffed. Gamache suspected the latter, but it gave him time to consider J¨¦r?me¡¯s very good question.


    Why appear unsophisticated?


    ¡°To throw them off,¡± he said at last, turning to the petulant little face. ¡°They might see us, but they might not take us seriously.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯est ?a,¡± Nichol said, unwinding slightly. ¡°Exactly. They¡¯ll be looking for a sophisticated attack.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be like taking a stone to a nuclear war,¡± said Gamache.


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Nichol. ¡°If found, we won¡¯t be taken seriously.¡±


    ¡°For good reason,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°How much damage can a stone do?¡±


    The David and Goliath analogy aside, the reality was a stone wasn¡¯t much of a weapon. She turned to J¨¦r?me, expecting to see a dismissive look on his face, and was surprised to see admiration.


    ¡°We don¡¯t need to do damage,¡± he said. ¡°We just need to sneak past the guards.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the hope,¡± said Nichol, and gave a great sigh. ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯ll work, but it¡¯s worth a try.¡±


    ¡°Jeez,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se. ¡°It¡¯s like living with a Greek chorus.¡±


    ¡°My programs will make it difficult for them to see us, but we need a security code to even get in, and they¡¯ll know as soon as you log in with your own codes.¡±


    ¡°And what could stop them from finding us?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°I told you that before. A different security code. One that won¡¯t draw any attention. But even that won¡¯t stop them for long. As soon as we break into a file they¡¯re trying to protect, they¡¯ll know it. They¡¯ll hunt us down, and they¡¯ll find us.¡±


    ¡°How long will that take, do you think?¡±


    Nichol¡¯s thin lips pouted as she thought. ¡°Finesse won¡¯t matter at that stage. All that¡¯ll matter is speed. Get in, get what we need, and get out. It¡¯s unlikely we¡¯ll have more than half a day. Probably less.¡±

 Page 100

    ¡°Half a day from the time we break into the first secure file?¡± Gamache asked.


    ¡°No,¡± said J¨¦r?me. He spoke to Gamache, but was looking at Nichol. ¡°She means twelve hours from our first effort.¡±


    ¡°Maybe less,¡± said Nichol.


    ¡°Twelve hours should be enough, don¡¯t you think?¡± asked Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t before,¡± said J¨¦r?me. ¡°We¡¯ve had months and still haven¡¯t found what we need.¡±


    ¡°But you didn¡¯t have me,¡± said Nichol.


    They looked at her, marveling at the indestructibility, and delusion, of youth.


    ¡°So when do we start?¡± asked Nichol.


    ¡°Tonight.¡±


    ¡°But, Armand¡ª¡± Th¨¦r¨¨se began. J¨¦r?me¡¯s hand had tightened over hers, to the point of hurting her.


    ¡°Gilles was right,¡± said the Chief, his voice decisive. ¡°There¡¯s a reason thieves work at night. Fewer witnesses. We have to get in and get out while everyone else sleeps.¡±


    ¡°Finally,¡± said Nichol, getting up.


    ¡°We need more time,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    ¡°There is no more time.¡± Gamache consulted his watch. It was almost one in the morning.


    ¡°J¨¦r?me, you have an hour to get your notes together. You know where the alarm was tripped last time. If you can get there fast, we might be in and out with the information in time for breakfast.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± said J¨¦r?me. He released his grip on his wife¡¯s hand.


    ¡°You get some sleep,¡± Gamache said to Nichol. ¡°We¡¯ll wake you in an hour.¡±


    He went to the kitchen, and heard the door close behind him.


    ¡°What¡¯re you doing, Armand?¡± asked Th¨¦r¨¨se.


    ¡°Making fresh coffee.¡± His back was to her as he counted the spoons of coffee into the machine.


    ¡°Look at me,¡± she demanded. Gamache¡¯s hand stopped, the heaping spoon was suspended and a few grains fell to the counter.


    He lowered the spoon to the coffee can and turned.


    Th¨¦r¨¨se Brunel¡¯s eyes were steady. ¡°J¨¦r?me¡¯s exhausted. He¡¯s been going all day.¡±


    ¡°We all have,¡± said Gamache. ¡°I¡¯m not saying this is easy¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re suggesting J¨¦r?me and I are looking for ¡®easy¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Then what are you looking for? You want me to say we can all go to sleep and forget what¡¯s happening? We¡¯re close, we finally have a chance. This ends now.¡±


    ¡°My God,¡± said Th¨¦r¨¨se, looking at him closely. ¡°This isn¡¯t about us. This¡¯s about Jean-Guy Beauvoir. You don¡¯t think he¡¯ll survive another raid. That¡¯s why you¡¯re pushing us, pushing J¨¦r?me.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t about Beauvoir.¡± Gamache reached behind him and clutched the marble countertop.


    ¡°Of course it is. You¡¯d sacrifice all of us to save him.¡±


    ¡°Never,¡± Gamache raised his voice.


    ¡°That¡¯s what you¡¯re doing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been working at this for years,¡± said Gamache, approaching her. ¡°Long before the raid on the factory. Long before Jean-Guy got into trouble. I¡¯ve given up everything to see this through. It ends tonight. J¨¦r?me will just have to dig deeper. We all will.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not being rational.¡±


    ¡°No, you aren¡¯t,¡± he seethed. ¡°Can¡¯t you see J¨¦r?me¡¯s frightened? Scared sick? That¡¯s what¡¯s draining his energy. The longer we wait, the worse it¡¯ll get.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re saying you¡¯re doing this to be kind to J¨¦r?me?¡± demanded Th¨¦r¨¨se, incredulous.


    ¡°I¡¯m doing this because one more day and he¡¯ll crack,¡± said Gamache. ¡°And then we¡¯ll all be lost, including him. If you can¡¯t see it, I can.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not the one who¡¯s falling apart,¡± she said. ¡°He¡¯s not the one who was in tears today.¡±


    Gamache looked as though she¡¯d hit him with a car.


    ¡°J¨¦r?me can and will do it tonight. He¡¯ll go back in and get us the information we need to nail Francoeur and stop whatever¡¯s planned.¡± Gamache¡¯s voice was low and his eyes glared. ¡°J¨¦r?me agrees. He, at least, has a backbone.¡±


    Gamache opened the door and left, going up to his room and staring at the wall, waiting for the trembling in his hand to subside.