How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (15 page)

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—the counseling, the intervention, the pleas to return to treatment—Annie 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, Thérèse 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 Jérôme, coming in from the kitchen carrying a glass of red wine. “It’s just warming up.”

He raised his glass.
“À votre santé.”

“To your good health,” Gamache echoed, raising his own glass to the Brunels.

Then, after Thérèse and Jérôme 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 Thérèse. “How did you find this place?”

“Henri found it,” said Gamache.

“The dog?” Jérôme 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 Longpré, when he was a puppy. So he knew the house. Madame Longpré died shortly after I met her. That’s how Reine-Marie and I came to have Henri.”

“Who owns the house now?” asked Thérèse.

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?” Jérôme 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.”

“Thérèse,” said Jérôme, 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 Jérôme. “Famous for his credulity.”

“Most homicide detectives are,” agreed Gamache.

“How’d you finally catch on?” Jérôme 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 Jérôme really has found something, I have to presume our home and my office are bugged. Have told Jérôme 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 Thérèse gave me,” said Gamache, “and asked Inspector Lacoste to show it to her.”

Jérôme 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 Jérôme 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 Thérèse, 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 Jérôme Brunel expected. Not behind him, following, but in front of him. Luring Jérôme on, and in.

Trapping him.

Jérôme Brunel had fled, erasing, erasing, erasing his electronic footprints. But still the watcher followed. With sure, swift, relentless steps. He’d followed Jérôme Brunel right to their home.

There was no
if
about it. He’d found something. And he’d been found.

“A safe place,” said Thérèse. “I didn’t think one existed.”

“And now?” Armand asked.

She looked around and smiled.

Jérôme Brunel, though, did not smile.

*   *   *

The debriefing was over and the Sûreté 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.”

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.

Thérèse had returned to the living room with Jérôme. 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 Jérôme, who stood by the bookcase, browsing.

“Want to come?” Gamache clipped Henri onto the leash.

“Not me,
merci,
” said Thérèse. 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 Jérôme, and laughed at the look of surprise on the Chief’s face.

“Don’t let him stand still for too long,” Thérèse 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 Jérôme, 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. Jérôme Brunel, as Gamache had grown to appreciate, was not easily read. He was a city man, born and bred. Had studied medicine at the Université de Montréal, and before that he’d spent time at the Sorbonne in Paris, where he’d met Thérèse. She’d been deep into an advanced degree in art history.

Village life and Jérôme Brunel did not, Gamache suspected, naturally mix.

After one quiet circuit, Jérôme stopped and stared at the three huge pine trees, lit up and pointing into the sky. Then, while Gamache threw the ball to Henri, Jérôme 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, Jérôme’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,” Jérôme 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 Jérôme’s moon face.

“Almost,” Jérôme 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 Jérôme 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, Jérôme realized. From a telecommunications point of view, from a satellite’s point of view, this would be complete darkness.

“A dead zone,” said Jérôme, 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 Jérôme. 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 Jérôme to explain who “they” were.

Gamache nodded toward the bistro. “Would you like a nightcap?”

“Are you kidding, I’d like the entire outfit.” Jérôme 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.

Jérôme 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 Jérôme.