How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (51 page)

Olivier watched with growing anxiety. Billy Williams was likely to tell him everything.

“Bonjour,”
said Francoeur.

Billy Williams raised his beer glass. In front of him he had a huge wedge of lemon meringue pie.

“Do you know Chief Inspector Gamache?”

Billy nodded and picked up his fork.

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“Norfolk and chance.”

“
Pardon?
”

“Norfolk and chance,” said Billy, clearly.

“I’m trying to find Chief Inspector Gamache.” Francoeur switched from French to English and spoke very, very slowly to this rustic. “I’m a friend of his.”

Billy paused, and spoke equally slowly. “Whale oil beef hooked.”

Francoeur stared at Billy, then turned away.

“Does he speak French or English?” Francoeur asked.

Olivier watched as Billy took a huge mouthful of pie, and quietly blessed him. “We’re not sure.”

“Do you know the B and B?” Francoeur asked Beauvoir, who nodded. “Take me there.”

“Can I get you a coffee before you go? Have you had lunch?”

But Olivier was talking to their backs. He walked around the bar, not letting his guard down. Not daring to show how shattered he was.

Olivier Brulé knew he’d looked into the eyes of a man who could kill him, if need be. And maybe, Olivier knew, without need. But just because.

“Whale oil beef hooked,” he whispered.

*   *   *

An accident just off the bridge had backed up the traffic. A little fender-bender had caused a massive tie-up.

But Gamache cleared it, and watched as Danny, his sister and parents peeled off the highway, toward Brossard. Safe.

But other Dannys were just approaching the bridge. Other parents and grandparents and happy holiday children. He hoped Isabelle Lacoste would arrive soon.

Chief Inspector Gamache pressed down on the gas. He was an hour away from Three Pines, even on dry pavement. He went as fast as he dared. And then some.

*   *   *

Francoeur and Tessier searched the B and B. There was evidence of only one guest, and that was Chief Inspector Gamache. They found toiletries in his bathroom. The walls of the shower and the soap were still damp and clothes were hung in the closet and folded in the drawer. The room smelled slightly of sandalwood.

Francoeur looked out the window to the village green and the road that circled it. A few cars were parked, but not Chief Inspector Gamache’s Volvo. But they knew that already. He’d been tracked to the penitentiary, then the Villeneuve home in Montréal. And then came word he’d emailed a large file to Inspector Lacoste, from the home next to Villeneuve.

Agents were on their way, to Lacoste’s home, and to Villeneuve and his neighbor. And the search was on to find Gamache. They had his cell phone and the tracking device in his car, and they’d have him any moment now.

Francoeur turned to Beauvoir, who was standing in the middle of the room like a mannequin.

“Was the owner of the bistro lying?” Francoeur asked.

The direct question roused Beauvoir. “He might’ve been. He lies about a lot of things.”

They heard swearing and turned to see Tessier punching his finger at his device.

“It’s a fucking dead zone,” he said, grabbing for the landline.

While Tessier called Sûreté headquarters, Francoeur turned to Beauvoir.

“Gamache was here, but where’re the others?”

Beauvoir looked blank. “What others?”

“We’re also looking for Superintendent Brunel and her husband. I think that man in the bistro was lying.” Francoeur’s voice was pleasant, reasonable. “Gamache might have left, but I think they’re still here. We need to convince him to tell us the truth.”

“The squads are closing in,” Tessier whispered to Francoeur as they walked down the stairs toward the front door. “They have Gamache’s signal. They’ll get him in the next few minutes.”

“They know what to do?”

Tessier nodded.

“That last message Gamache sent, in reply to the Granby Zoo,” Francoeur asked, once they were on the porch. “What was it again?”

“See Emilie.”

“Right.” Francoeur looked at Beauvoir and demanded, “Who’s Emilie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then what did Gamache mean when he told the Brunels to see Emilie?” snapped Francoeur. “Is there an Emilie in this village?”

Beauvoir’s brows drew together. “There was one, but she’s been dead for a few years.”

“Where did she live?”

Beauvoir pointed to the right. There, just across the Old Stage Road, was Emilie Longpré’s home, with its wide front verandah, wood cladding, mullioned windows, and brick chimney.

And the shoveled front path.

Last time Beauvoir had been in Three Pines, Emilie Longpré’s home had been empty. Now it was not.

*   *   *

“Christ,” said Jérôme, standing to the side of Myrna’s upstairs window and peering out. “He’s leading them right to Emilie’s place.”

“Who is?” Gabri asked. He was seated by the woodstove with Agent Nichol, while the Brunels looked out the window and reported back.

“Inspector Beauvoir,” said Thérèse. “He’s with Francoeur.”

“Impossible.” Gabri got to his feet and went over to see for himself.

Glancing quickly out the frosted window, Gabri saw large men entering Emilie’s home. Jean-Guy Beauvoir did not. Instead he stood on the snowy steps and looked around the village. Gabri swung away from the window a moment before Beauvoir’s eyes reached him.

“I don’t believe it,” he whispered.

“Inspector Beauvoir’s an addict,” said Thérèse from the other side of the window. “Has been for a while.”

“Since the factory,” said Gabri quietly. “I know. But I’d thought…”

“Yes, we all thought,” said Thérèse. “Hoped. Addiction’s a terrible thing. It’ll steal your health, your friends, family, careers. Judgment. It’ll steal your soul. And when there’s nothing left, it takes your life.”

Gabri dared a quick glance out the window. Beauvoir was still on the porch, staring straight ahead. He looked like he had nothing left to steal.

“He’d never turn on Gamache.”

“Jean-Guy Beauvoir wouldn’t, you’re right,” said Jérôme. “But drugs have no friends, no loyalty. They’ll do anything.”

“Inspector Beauvoir may very well be the most dangerous person out there,” said Superintendent Brunel.

*   *   *

“They were here,” said Francoeur, coming out of Emilie’s home. “But they’ve gone. We need to get the truth out of the owner of the bistro.”

“I know where they are.”

Beauvoir stepped off Emilie Longpré’s porch and pointed.

FORTY

It took a split second to break through the Yale lock, then they were in the schoolhouse.

Tessier stepped through first, followed by the two large agents. Sylvain Francoeur strolled in last and looked around. Monitors, cables, wires, and boxes were against one wall. Five empty chairs circled the still warm woodstove.

Francoeur took off his gloves and let his hand hover over the cast-iron woodstove.

Yes. They’d been here, and not long ago. They’d gotten out in a hurry, leaving behind all that incriminating equipment. Gamache, the Brunels, and Agent Nichol were shut down and on the run. Incapable of more damage. It was just a matter of time before they were found.

“How’d you know?” Francoeur asked Beauvoir.

“The schoolhouse was closed,” Beauvoir explained. “But the path to it’s been cleared. Like the Longpré place.”

“Gamache makes a habit of abandoning places,” the Chief Superintendent said. “And people.”

He turned his back on Beauvoir and joined the others at the computers.

Jean-Guy watched for a moment, then left.

His boots crunched on the snow, munch, munch, munch, as he walked across the village green, which was very, very, suspiciously, quiet. Normally kids would be playing hockey, parents either watching or out cross-country skiing. Families would be tobogganing down the hill, shedding passengers as they flew over bumps.

But today, despite the sunshine, Three Pines was quiet. Not abandoned, he felt. Not a ghost town. Three Pines seemed to be waiting. And watching.

Jean-Guy walked over to the bench and sat down.

He didn’t know what Francoeur and Tessier were about. He didn’t know why they were here. He didn’t know how Gamache figured in. And he didn’t ask.

He pulled a pill bottle out of his pocket, shook two out and swallowed them. He looked at the OxyContin bottle. He had two more in his apartment, and a nearly full bottle of anti-anxiety pills.

Enough to do the job.

“Hello, numb nuts,” said Ruth, as she sat on the bench beside Jean-Guy. “Who’re your new friends?”

Ruth waved her cane toward the old schoolhouse.

Beauvoir watched as one of Francoeur’s agents carried something from the van into the schoolhouse.

Beauvoir said nothing. He simply stared ahead of him.

“What’s so interesting over there?” Ruth asked him.

Olivier had tried to stop her from going outside, but when Ruth saw Beauvoir sit on the bench alone, she put on her coat, picked up her duck, and left, saying, “Don’t you think he’d find it strange if the village was completely deserted? I won’t tell him anything. What do you think I am? Crazy?”

“As a matter of—”

But it was too late. The old poet had left the building. Olivier watched with trepidation. Myrna and Clara watched from the window of the bookstore. In the loft, Gabri, Nichol, and the Brunels watched as Ruth crossed the road and joined Beauvoir on the cold bench.

“Is this going to be a problem?” Thérèse asked Gabri.

“Oh, no. It’ll be fine,” said Gabri, and grimaced.

“I have a clear shot,” said Nichol, her voice hopeful.

“I think Nichol and the crazy poet might be related,” Jérôme said to Thérèse.

Down below, Ruth, Rosa and Jean-Guy sat side by side, watching the activity at the schoolhouse.

“Who hurt you once,”
Ruth whispered to the young man,
“so far beyond repair?”

Jean-Guy roused, as though finally noticing he wasn’t alone. He looked at her.

“Am I, Ruth?” he asked, using her first name for the first time. “Beyond repair?”

“What do you think?” She stroked Rosa, but looked at him.

“I think maybe I am,” he said softly.

Beauvoir stared at the old schoolhouse. Instead of taking the computers out, new equipment was being brought in from the van. Boxes and wires and cables. It looked familiar, but Beauvoir couldn’t be bothered to dig through his memory for the information.

Ruth sat quietly beside him, then she lifted Rosa from her lap, feeling it warm where the duck had been. She carefully placed Rosa on Jean-Guy’s lap.

He seemed not to notice, but after a few moments he brought his hand up and stroked Rosa. Softly, softly.

“I could wring her neck, you know,” he said.

“I know,” said Ruth. “Please don’t.”

She watched Rosa, holding her dark duck eyes. And Rosa looked at Ruth, as Jean-Guy’s hand caressed the feathers of Rosa’s back, coming closer and closer to the long neck.

Ruth held fast to Rosa’s eyes.

Finally Jean-Guy’s hand stopped, and rested.

“Rosa came back,” he said.

Ruth nodded.

“I’m glad,” he said.

“She took the long way home,” said Ruth. “Some do, you know. They seem lost. Sometimes they might even head off in the wrong direction. Lots of people give up, say they’re gone forever, but I don’t believe that. Some make it home, eventually.”

Jean-Guy lifted Rosa from his lap and attempted to return her to Ruth. But the old woman held up her hand.

“No. You keep her now.”

Jean-Guy stared at Ruth, uncomprehending. He tried again to give Rosa back, and again Ruth gently, firmly declined.

“She’ll have a good home with you,” she said, now not looking at Rosa at all.

“But I don’t know how to look after a duck,” he said. “What would I do with her?”

“Isn’t the question more what’ll she do with you?” asked Ruth. She got up and fished in her pocket. “These are the keys to my car.” She gave them to Beauvoir and nodded toward an old beat-up Civic. “I think Rosa would be better off away from here, don’t you?”

Beauvoir stared at the keys in his hand, then at the thin, wrinkled, wretched old face. And the rheumy eyes that, in the bright sunshine, seemed to be leaking light.

“Leave here,” she said. “Take Rosa. Please.”

She bent down slowly, as though each inch was agony, and kissed Rosa on the top of her head. Then she looked into Rosa’s bright eyes and whispered, “I love you.”

Ruth Zardo turned her back on them and limped away. Her head erect, she walked slowly forward. Toward the bistro and whatever was coming next.

*   *   *

“It’s a joke, right?” the fat cop on the other side of the counter said to Isabelle Lacoste. “Someone’s gonna blow this up?”

He waved at his monitors and all but called her “little lady.”

Lacoste didn’t have time for diplomacy. She’d shown him her Sûreté ID and told him what was about to happen. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t been eager to close the bridge.

Now she walked around the counter and stuck her Glock under his chin. “It’s no joke,” she said, and saw his eyes widen in terror.

“Wait,” he begged.

“Explosives are attached to the piers and will be set off any moment now. The bomb squad will be here in a few minutes but I need you to close the bridge, now. If you don’t, you’ll go down with it.”

When the Chief Inspector had told her the target and ordered her to close the bridge, she’d been faced with a problem. Who to trust?

Then it struck her. The security guards on the bridge. They couldn’t know what was about to happen, or they’d have gotten out of there fast. Anyone still working on the bridge could be trusted. The question now was, could they be convinced?

“Call your squad cars back in.”

She waited, her gun still trained on him, while he radioed the cars and ordered them back.

“Download this.” She handed the guard a USB key and watched as he put it in his computer and opened the files.

“What are these?” he asked, scanning them. But Lacoste didn’t answer, and slowly, slowly his face went slack.