How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (53 page)

Tessier placed Gamache’s gun in Francoeur’s outstretched hand.

“Where’s Beauvoir?” Gamache demanded.

“He’s in the village with the others,” said Tessier. “Working.”

“Let him be,” said Gamache. “I’m the one you want.”

Francoeur smiled. “‘I’m the one you want,’ as though this begins and ends with the great Armand Gamache. You really haven’t grasped what’s happening, have you? You even had your resignation broadcast, as though it was important. As though we might care.”

“And you don’t?” asked Gamache. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” said Tessier, pointing his weapon at Gamache’s chest.

Gamache ignored him and continued to watch Francoeur.

There was more buzzing and Francoeur checked his texts.

“We’ve picked up Isabelle Lacoste and her family. And Villeneuve and the neighbor. You’re like the plague, Armand. Everyone you’ve come in contact with is either dead or soon will be. Including Beauvoir. He’ll be found among the remains of the schoolhouse, trying to dismantle the bomb you connected to all those computers.”

Gamache looked from Francoeur to Tessier and back to Francoeur.

“You’re trying to decide whether to believe me,” said Francoeur.

“For chrissake,” said Tessier. “Let’s get this over with.”

Francoeur turned to his second in command. “You’re right. Get that satellite dish down. I’ll finish up here. Walk with me, Armand. I’ll let you go ahead, for once.”

Francoeur pointed down the path, and Gamache started to walk, slipping slightly in the snow. It was the trail that he and Nichol had made when they’d lugged the cable through the woods, back to Three Pines. It was, in effect, a shortcut to the old schoolhouse.

“Are they still alive?” Gamache asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” said Francoeur.

“Beauvoir? Is he still alive?”

“Well, I haven’t heard an explosion yet, so yes. For now.”

Gamache took another few steps.

“And the bridge? Shouldn’t you have heard about the bridge by now?” Gamache asked, breathing heavily and grabbing a branch to catch his balance. “Something’s wrong, Sylvain. You can feel it.”

“Stop,” said Francoeur, and Gamache did. He turned around and saw Francoeur bring out his cell phone. He touched it with his finger, then beamed.

“It’s done.”

“What’s done?”

“The bridge is down.”

*   *   *

At St. Thomas’s Church the celebrations were short-lived.

“Look,” said Myrna. She and Clara were peering through the stained-glass window.

The other gunman had come out the door of the old schoolhouse. His back was to them and he seemed to be working on the handle.

Locking it? Clara wondered.

Then he stood on the stoop and looked around, as his colleague had done a few minutes ago.

“He’s looking for him.” Olivier pointed to their handcuffed and gagged prisoner, guarded by Nichol.

As they watched, the gunman walked over to the van. He slung a large canvas bag into the back and slammed the door closed. Then he surveyed the village again. Perplexed.

At that moment, Thérèse Brunel left the bookstore. She wore a heavy coat, and a large tuque pulled down over her hair and forehead. Her arms were full of books and she walked slowly toward the Sûreté agent, as though infirm.

“What’s she doing?” Clara asked.

“Twas in the moon of wintertime,”
Gabri sang loudly. They turned to look at him.
“When all the birds had fled.”

The gunman turned toward the singing coming from the church.

This village was giving him the creeps. It seemed so pretty, and yet was deserted. There was a menace about the place. The sooner he found Beauvoir and his partner and got out, the better.

He started toward the church. Clearly there were people in there. People who, with some persuasion, might tell him where Beauvoir was. Where his colleague was. Where everyone was.

An old woman with books was walking toward him, but he ignored her and made for the small clapboard chapel on the hill.

The gunman followed the sound of the singing, up the steps.

He didn’t notice that the woman with the books had also changed direction, and was following him.

He opened the door and looked in. At the front of the church a bunch of people stood in a semi-circle singing.

An old woman in a cloth coat sat in a pew a few rows back. The singing stopped and the large man who seemed to lead the choir waved to him.

“Close the door,” he called. “You’re letting the cold in.”

But the gunman didn’t move. He stood on the threshold, taking in the scene. There was something wrong. They were looking at him strangely, except the hunched old woman, still wearing her tuque. She hadn’t turned around.

He reached for his gun.

“Sûreté.”

He heard the word. Heard the metallic click. Felt the muzzle against the base of his skull. He heard the books drop and saw them scattered at his feet.

“Lift your hands where I can see them.”

He did as he was told.

He turned to see the old woman who’d followed him. The books she’d been carrying had been replaced by a service revolver. It was Superintendent Thérèse Brunel.

She was pointing her gun at him, and she meant business.

*   *   *

“The bridge is down?” Gamache gaped at Francoeur.

“Right on time,” said the Chief Superintendent.

A voice drifted to them from the village below, singing an old Québécois carol. It sounded like a lament.

“I don’t believe it,” said Gamache. “You’re lying.”

“You want proof?”

“Call Renard. Call the Premier. Confirm it with him,” said Gamache.

“With pleasure. I’m sure he’d like a word with you too.”

Francoeur hit a button on his cell. Gamache could hear the ringing. Ringing.

But no one answered.

“He’s probably busy,” said Gamache.

Francoeur gave him a sharp look and tried another number. Lambert in Cyber Crimes.

Ringing, ringing.

“Nothing?” asked Gamache.

Francoeur lowered the phone. “What’ve you done, Armand?”

“‘Have Lacoste in custody. Family being held,’” Gamache recited. “A couple of minutes later you received another message, “‘Villeneuve offered some resistance, but no longer.’”

Francoeur’s face tightened.

“You didn’t really think I’d let my department be destroyed, did you?” Gamache’s eyes were penetrating, his voice hard, anger flaring. “All those agents who quit. All those agents who requested transfers. All over the Sûreté.”

He spoke slowly, so that every word would hit its mark.

“Into the Traffic division. Serious Crimes. Public Safety. Emergency Response. Cyber Crime.”

He paused, making sure Francoeur was with him, before he delivered the
coup-de-grâce.

“The safety of public officials. The team that guards the Premier. You yourself dismantled my department and spread my agents into every division. My agents, Sylvain. Mine. Never yours. I didn’t fight it because it served my purposes. While your plan progressed, so did mine.”

Francoeur went as white as the snow.

“My people have taken over those departments and arrested any agents loyal to you. The Premier’s in our custody, along with his staff. Had we been on water, this would’ve been called a mutiny.

“The announcement that I’d resigned was the signal for my officers to move in. I had to wait until I knew what you had planned, and had proof. There was no response to your phone calls because there was no one there to answer. And those texts you received? About the bridge? About the people picked up? Inspector Lacoste sent them. The bridge has been secured.”

“Impossible.”

Francoeur looked again at the device, just a quick glance down, but it was enough.

Gamache made his move.

*   *   *

Jean-Guy Beauvoir parked behind Gamache’s Volvo. He cracked the window a little, to give Rosa air, then he got out.

He stood on the road, uncertain where to go. He’d thought to head right into Three Pines. He knew now what that equipment was he’d seen in the van. He’d probably known all along. It was explosives. And detonators. And trip wires.

They were attaching the wires to the door of the schoolhouse. When opened, it would detonate.

His plan had been to go into the village, to stop the agents, but the sight of the familiar car left him unsure.

He looked at the ground, at the fresh path into the woods, and he followed it.

*   *   *

Gamache plowed into Francoeur, grabbing for the gun, but it flew from Francoeur’s hand and was buried in the snow.

Both men fell hard. Gamache brought his forearm to Francoeur’s throat, leaning against it, trying to pin Francoeur. Francoeur lashed out, bucking and punching. His hand, grasping for the gun, closed around something hard and he swung with all his might, catching Gamache on the side of the head.

The Chief fell sideways, stunned by the rock. Francoeur scrambled to his knees and clawed at his parka, trying to get it open. Trying to get at the Glock on his belt.

*   *   *

“Tessier?”

Beauvoir’s voice surprised Martin Tessier as he climbed down the ladder. The satellite dish was on the ground where he’d tossed it from the platform, and Jean-Guy Beauvoir was standing beside it.

“Beauvoir,” said Tessier, recovering himself and stepping off the last rung. His back to Beauvoir, he reached for his gun. “We’ve been looking for you.”

But he got no further. Beauvoir’s gun pressed into his neck.

“Where’s Gamache?” he whispered into Tessier’s ear.

*   *   *

Gamache saw Francoeur pull the gun out of the holster. He lunged before Francoeur could take aim, knocking him to the ground. But the gun remained in Francoeur’s grip.

Now both men fought for the weapon, punching and twisting and thrashing.

Francoeur had hold of it, and Gamache had hold of Francoeur, grasping with both hands, but the snow was wet and he could feel his grip slipping.

*   *   *

Beauvoir gave a savage shove and ground Tessier’s face into the bark of the tree.

“Where’s Gamache?” Beauvoir repeated. “Does he know you plan to blow up the schoolhouse?”

Tessier nodded, feeling the flesh scrape off his cheeks and onto the bark. “He thinks you’re in the schoolhouse.”

“Why does he think that?”

“Because we thought that.”

“You were going to kill me?”

“You and most of the people in the village, when that bomb explodes.”

“What did you tell Gamache?”

“That the schoolhouse was wired to explode, and that you were in it,” said Tessier.

Beauvoir turned him around and stared into Tessier’s eyes, trying to get at the truth.

“Does he know the bomb’s attached to the door?” Beauvoir demanded.

Tessier shook his head. “But it doesn’t matter. He won’t get that far. Francoeur’s taking care of him in the woods.”

*   *   *

Gamache could feel his grip slipping. He let go, and brought both hands down on Francoeur’s nose. He felt it snap and blood gushed from it. Francoeur howled and heaved his body, sending Gamache sideways into the snow.

He twisted around just as Francoeur got to his knees.

Gamache saw something dark poking through the snow. It could be a rock, or a stick. Or the butt of a gun. He rolled toward it. And rolled once more, looking up just in time to see Francoeur raise his weapon and take aim.

And Armand Gamache fired. And fired. And shot again.

Until Chief Superintendent Sylvain Francoeur, his face blank, slumped sideways.

Dead.

Gamache got to his feet, wasting no more time on Francoeur, and ran.

*   *   *

Beauvoir heard the rapid-fire shots. A Glock.

“That’s Gamache,” said Tessier. “Dead.”

Beauvoir turned his head toward the sound, and Tessier lurched, grabbing for the gun.

Beauvoir pulled the trigger. And saw Tessier fall.

Then he ran. And ran. Into the forest. Toward what was now silence.

*   *   *

Armand Gamache ran as though chased by the Furies. He ran as though the woods were on fire. He ran as though the devil was on his back.

He ran through the woods, between the trees, stumbling over fallen trunks. But he got up and ran. Toward the old schoolhouse. Toward the explosives. Toward Jean-Guy.

*   *   *

Jean-Guy Beauvoir saw a body facedown in the snow and ran to it, falling onto his knees.

Oh, no, no, no.

He turned it over.

Francoeur. Dead.

Beauvoir got to his feet and looked around, frantic. Then he forced himself to calm down. To listen. As the quiet of the forest descended, he heard it. Up ahead. Someone running. Away from him. Toward Three Pines.

Toward the schoolhouse.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir took off. Running. Screaming. Screaming. Running.

“Stop! Stop!” he screamed.

But the man ahead didn’t hear. Didn’t stop.

Beauvoir ran as fast as he could, but there was too great a distance between them. Gamache would reach the schoolhouse. Believing Beauvoir was inside. Believing Beauvoir was in danger.

Gamache would take the stairs two at a time, rip the door open, and …

“Stop! Stop!” Beauvoir screamed. And then he shrieked. Not words, just a sound. All his fear, all his rage, everything he had left he put into that howl.

But still the Chief ran, as though pursued by demons.

Beauvoir stumbled to a stop. Sobbing.

“No. Stop.”

He couldn’t catch him. Couldn’t stop him. Except …

*   *   *

Isabelle Lacoste knelt beside Tessier but sprang to her feet at that godawful sound. She’d never heard anything like it. It was like something breaking, being torn apart. She ran toward it, following the unholy scream deeper into the forest.

*   *   *

Armand Gamache heard the shot. Saw the bark fly off the tree ahead of him. But still he ran, and he ran. Unswerving. As fast and as true as he could.

Straight for the schoolhouse.

He could see it now, red through the white and gray of the forest.

Another shot hit the snow beside him, but still he ran. Tessier must have found Francoeur, and was now trying to stop him. But Gamache would not be stopped.