How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (47 page)

“Yes.”

The two men walked to the door.

“I can tell you that your wife died trying to stop something horrible from happening. I want you and your girls to know that.” He paused. “Stay home today. You and the girls. Don’t go into downtown Montréal.”

“Why? What’s going to happen?” Now the blood drained from Villeneuve’s face.

“Just stay here,” said Gamache firmly.

Villeneuve searched Gamache’s face. “My God, you don’t think you can stop it, do you?”

“I really have to go, Monsieur Villeneuve.”

Gamache put on his coat, but remembered something Villeneuve had said, about Audrey.

“You say your wife was happy on that last morning. Do you know why?”

“I’d assumed it was because she was going to the office Christmas party. She’d made a new dress specially for it.”

“Were you going?”

“No. We had an agreement. She didn’t come to my office Christmas parties and I didn’t go to hers. But she seemed to be looking forward to it.”

Villeneuve looked uneasy.

“What is it?” Gamache asked.

“Nothing. It’s personal. Nothing to do with what happened.”

“Tell me.”

Villeneuve studied Gamache and seemed to realize there was nothing left to lose. “I just wondered if she was having an affair. It’s not true, she’d never have done it, but with the new dress and all. She hadn’t made herself a dress in a long time. And she seemed so happy. Happier than she’d been with me for a while.”

“Tell me about this party. Was it only for the office staff?”

“Mostly. The Minister of Transport always showed up, but not for long. And this year there were rumors of a special guest.”

“Who?”

“The Premier. Didn’t seem such a big deal to me, but Audrey was excited.”

“Georges Renard?”

“
Oui.
Maybe that’s why she made the dress. She wanted to impress him.”

Villeneuve looked at his daughters, building a snowman on the small front yard. Armand shook Gaétan Villeneuve’s hand, waved to the girls, and got in his car.

He sat there for a moment, putting it together. The target, he suspected, was the Ville-Marie Tunnel.

Audrey Villeneuve had almost certainly realized something was wrong, as she’d entered the reports. After years and years of working on repair files, she knew the difference between work genuinely done, or badly done. Or not done at all.

It was possible she’d even turned a blind eye, like so many of her colleagues. Until finally she couldn’t anymore. Then what would Audrey Villeneuve have done? She was organized, disciplined. She’d have gathered proof before saying anything.

And in doing that, she’d have found things she shouldn’t have. Worse things than willful neglect, than corruption, than desperately needed repairs not done.

She’d have found suggestions of a plan to hurry the collapse.

And then what? Gamache’s mind raced as he put it together. What would any midlevel worker do upon finding massive corruption and conspiracy? She’d have gone to her boss. And when he didn’t believe her, her boss’s boss.

But still, no one acted.

That would explain her stress. Her short temper.

And her happiness, finally?

Audrey Villeneuve, the organizer, had a Plan B. She’d make herself a new dress for the Christmas party, something an aging politician might notice. She’d wander up to him, casually. Perhaps flirt a little, perhaps try to get him on his own.

And then she would tell him what she’d found.

Premier Renard would believe her. She was sure of it.

Yes, thought Gamache as he started his car and headed toward downtown Montréal, Renard would have known she was telling the truth.

After a few blocks he stopped to use a public phone.

“Lacoste residence,” came the little voice. “Mélanie speaking.”

“Is your mother home, please?”

Please,
Gamache begged.
Please.

“One moment,
s
’
il vous plaît.”
He heard a scream, “Mama. Mama.
Téléphone.
”

A few seconds later he heard Inspector Lacoste’s voice.
“Oui?”

“Isabelle, I can’t talk long. The target’s the Ville-Marie Tunnel.”

“Oh my God,” came the hushed response.

“We need to close it down, now.”

“Got it.”

“And Isabelle. I’ve handed in my resignation.”

“Yes sir. I’ll tell the others. They’ll want to know.”

“Good luck,” he said.

“And you? Where’re you going?”

“Back to Three Pines. I left something there.” He paused before he spoke again. “Can you find Jean-Guy, Isabelle? Make sure he’s all right today?”

“I’ll make sure he’s far away from what’s about to happen.”

“Merci.”

He hung up, called Annie to warn her to stay away from downtown, then got back in his car.

*   *   *

Sylvain Francoeur sat in the backseat of the black SUV. Tessier sat beside him, and in the rearview mirror Francoeur could see the unmarked van, carrying two more agents and the equipment they’d need.

Francoeur had been happy to get out of the city, given what was about to happen. Far from the trouble and far from any possible blame. None of it would stick to him, as long as he got to the village in time.

It was coming down to the wire.

“Gamache didn’t go to headquarters,” Tessier whispered, checking his device. “He was tracked to east-end Montréal. The Villeneuve place. Should we pick him up?”

“Why bother?” Francoeur had a smile on his face. This was perfect. “We searched it. He won’t find anything there. He’s wasting what little time’s left. He thinks we’ll follow him. Let him think that.”

Tessier hadn’t been able to find Three Pines on any map, but it didn’t matter. They knew approximately where it was, from where Gamache’s signal always disappeared. But “approximately
”
wasn’t good enough for the careful Francoeur. He needed no delays, no unknowns. So he’d found a certainty. Someone who did know where the village could be found.

Francoeur looked over at the haggard man behind the wheel.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir held tight to the steering wheel, his face blank, as he drove them straight to Three Pines.

*   *   *

Olivier looked out the window. From Myrna’s loft they had a panoramic view over the village, past the three huge pine trees and up the main road out of Three Pines.

“Nothing,” he said, and returned to sit beside Gabri, who put his large hand on Olivier’s slender knee.

“I canceled choir practice,” said Gabri. “Probably shouldn’t have. Best to keep everything normal.” He looked at Olivier. “I might’ve blown it.”

“It?” asked Nichol.

After a surprised and strained pause, Gabri laughed.

“Atta girl,” said Ruth.

And then the quiet descended again. The weight of waiting.

“Let me tell you a story,” said Myrna, pulling her chair closer to the woodstove.

“We’re not four-year-olds,” said Ruth, but she put Rosa on her lap and turned to Myrna.

Olivier and Gabri, Clara, Gilles and Agent Nichol, all moved their chairs closer, forming a circle in front of the warm fire. Jérôme Brunel wandered over, but Thérèse stayed by the window, looking out. Henri lay beside Ruth and gazed up at Rosa.

“Is it a ghost story?” asked Gabri.

“Of sorts,” said Myrna. She picked up a thick envelope from the coffee table. Written in a careful hand were the words:
For Myrna.

An identical envelope lay on the table. It said,
For Inspector Isabelle Lacoste. Please Deliver by Hand.

Myrna had found them dropped through her mailbox early that morning. Over coffee, she’d read the one addressed to her. But the envelope for Isabelle Lacoste remained sealed, though she suspected it said almost exactly the same thing.

“Once upon a time, a poor farmer and his wife prayed for children,” said Myrna. “Their land was barren, and so, apparently was she. So desperate was the farmer’s wife for children that she traveled all the way to Montréal, to the Oratory, to visit Brother André. She crawled up the long, stone stairs, on her knees. Reciting the Hail Mary as she went—”

“Barbaric,” muttered Ruth.

Myrna paused to look over at the old poet. “Now, pay attention. This is important later.”

Ruth, or Rosa, muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” But they listened.

“And a miracle occurred,” Myrna resumed. “Eight months later, on the day after Brother André died, five babies were born in a tiny farmhouse, in the middle of Québec, delivered by a midwife and the farmer himself. At first it was a terrible shock, but then the farmer picked up his daughters and held them and he discovered a love like none he’d ever experienced. As did his wife. It was the happiest day of their lives. And it was the last happy day.”

“You’re talking about the Ouellet Quints,” said Clara.

“You think?” said Gabri.

“The doctor had been called,” said Myrna, her voice melodic and calm. “But he didn’t bother to go out in the blizzard to some dirt-poor farm where he’d be paid in turnips, if at all. So he went back to sleep and left it up to the midwife. But next morning, when he heard that it was quintuplets and all were alive and healthy, he got himself over there. Photos were taken with him and the girls.”

Myrna paused and looked around the gathering, holding their eyes. Her voice was low, as though inviting them into a conspiracy.

“More than quintuplets were born that day. A myth was also born. And with it, something else came to life. Something with a long, dark tail.” Her voice was hushed and they all leaned forward. “A murder was born.”

*   *   *

Armand Gamache sped through the Ville-Marie Tunnel. He’d considered not taking it. Going around it. But this was the fastest way to the Champlain Bridge, and out of Montréal to Three Pines.

As he drove through the long, dark tunnel, he noticed the cracks. The missing tiles and exposed rebar. How could he have driven this route so often and never noticed?

His foot lifted from the accelerator and his car slowed, until other motorists were honking at him. Gesturing to him as they passed. But he barely noticed. His mind was going back over the interview with Monsieur Villeneuve.

He took the next exit and found a phone in a coffee shop.

“Bonjour,
” came the soft, weary voice.

“Monsieur Villeneuve, it’s Armand Gamache.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Of the Sûreté. I just left your place.”

“Yes, of course. I’d forgotten your name.”

“Did the police return your wife’s car to you?”

“No. But they gave me back what was in it.”

“Any papers? A briefcase?”

“She had a briefcase, but they didn’t return it.”

Gamache rubbed his face, and was surprised by the stubble. No wonder Villeneuve hadn’t been all that anxious to invite him in. He must look like a vagrant, between the gray stubble and the bruise.

He focused his thoughts. Audrey Villeneuve had planned to go to the Christmas party. Had been excited, happy, perhaps even relieved. Finally she could pass on what she’d found to someone who could do something about it.

She must have felt a huge weight lift.

But she’d also realize that the Premier of Québec wouldn’t just take her word for it, no matter how attractive she was in her new dress.

She’d have to give him proof. Proof she’d have carried with her to the party.

“Allô?”
said Villeneuve. “You still there?”

“Just a moment, please,” said Gamache. He was almost there. Almost at the answer.

Audrey might have carried a clutch with her to the party, but not a briefcase, or a file folder, or loose papers. So how did she plan to pass the proof to the Premier?

Audrey Villeneuve was killed because of what she’d found out, and what she’d failed to find. That one last step that would have taken her to the man behind it all. The very man she’d be approaching. Premier Georges Renard.

“May I come back?” Gamache asked. “I need to see what she had in the car.”

“It’s not much,” said Villeneuve.

“I need to see anyway.” He hung up, turned his car around, went back through the Ville-Marie Tunnel, holding his breath like a child passing a graveyard, and was back at the Villeneuve home a few minutes later.

*   *   *

Jérôme Brunel sat on the arm of Myrna’s chair. Everyone leaned forward, to catch the story. Of miracles, and myth, and murder.

Everyone except Thérèse Brunel. She stood at the window, listening to the words, but looking out. Scanning the roads into the village.

The sun was bright and the skies clear. A beautiful winter day. And behind her, a dark story was being told.

“The girls were taken from their mother and father when they were still infants,” said Myrna. “It was at a time when the government didn’t need a reason, but they provided one anyway, by having the good doctor intimate that, though good people, the Ouellets were a little slow. Perhaps even congenitally so. Fit to raise cows and pigs, but not five little angels. They were a gift from God, Frère André’s last earthly miracle, and as such they belonged to all of Québec, and not some subsistence farmer. Dr. Bernard also hinted that the Ouellets were well paid for the girls. And people believed it.”

Clara looked at Gabri, who looked at Olivier, who looked at Ruth. They’d all believed that the Quints had been sold by their greedy parents. It was an essential part of the fairy tale. Not just that the Quints were born, but that they were saved.

“The Quints were sensations,” said Myrna. “All over the world people crushed by the Depression clamored for news of the miracle babies. They seemed proof of good in a very bad time.”

Myrna held the envelope containing the pages Armand Gamache had painstakingly written the night before. Twice. Once for his colleague. Once for Myrna. He knew Myrna had loved Constance, and deserved to know what had happened to her. He had no Christmas gift to give her, but he gave her this instead.

“To Bernard and the government it was clear that a fortune could be made from the girls. From films, to merchandise, to tours. Books, magazine articles. All chronicling their gilded life.”