How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (13 page)

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?

“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 Sûreté 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 Thérèse 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 Jérôme, and we think there’s nothing there. We’ve been chasing our own tails.”

“But—”

“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, Thérèse?”

“Superintendent,” she said.

“
Désolé.
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—”

“Thérèse!” 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.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Gamache, barely finding his voice.

“I’m tired, Armand,” she said, getting up and taking her seat behind her desk. “Jérôme 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, Jérôme and I will also discuss my future. It’s time to step aside, Armand. The Sûreté 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 Montréal 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”—though it was clear he was—“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 Montréal.”

“
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 Montréal.

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.

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 Sûreté. 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 Bibliothèque 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 Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec 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.

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.