How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (54 page)

*   *   *

Jean-Guy’s hand quivered and the gun wavered, sending his shots off the mark. He’d been aiming at the Chief’s legs. Hoping, praying, to graze him. Enough to bring him down. But it wasn’t working.

“Stop, oh, please stop.”

Beauvoir’s vision was blurred. He dragged his sleeve across his face, then tilted his head back, for a moment, and looked through the bare limbs. To the blue sky above.

“Oh, please.”

Gamache was almost out of the woods. Almost at the schoolhouse.

Beauvoir closed his eyes briefly.

“Please,” he begged.

He brought his gun up again. His hands steady now. The gun unwavering. The aim sure. No longer for Gamache’s legs.

*   *   *

“Stop,” screamed Lacoste, her gun trained on Beauvoir’s back.

She could see, ahead through the woods, the Chief Inspector racing toward Three Pines. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir about to gun him down.

“Drop it,” she commanded.

“No, Isabelle,” Beauvoir called. “I have to.”

Lacoste braced herself and took aim. From there it would be impossible to miss. But still, she hesitated.

There was something in his voice. Not pleading, not begging, not madness.

Beauvoir’s voice was strong and certain. His old voice.

She had no doubt what he intended to do. Jean-Guy Beauvoir was going to shoot Chief Inspector Gamache.

“Please, Isabelle,” Beauvoir called, his back still to her, his weapon raised.

Isabelle Lacoste steadied herself. Steadied her gun with both hands. Her finger pressed against the trigger.

*   *   *

Jean-Guy Beauvoir had Armand Gamache in his sights.

The Chief was at the tree line, just steps from the schoolhouse.

Beauvoir took a deep breath in. A deep breath out.

And pulled the trigger.

*   *   *

Armand Gamache could almost touch the schoolhouse now. The shooting had stopped.

He’d make it, he knew. He’d get Jean-Guy out.

He had just cleared the trees when the bullet hit. The force lifted him off his feet and spun him around. In the instant before he hit the ground, in the split second before the world disappeared, he met the eyes of the man who’d shot him.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

And then Armand Gamache fell, spread-eagled, as though making an angel in the bright snow.

FORTY-TWO

St. Thomas’s Church in Three Pines was quiet, just a slight rustle of paper as the guests read the order of service. Four monks walked in, heads bowed, and formed a semi-circle in front of the altar.

There was a pause, and then they began to sing. Their voices blending, joining. Swirling. Then becoming one. It was like listening to one of Clara’s paintings. With colors and swirls and the play of light and dark. All moving around a calm center.

A plainchant, in a plain church.

The only decoration in St. Thomas’s was a single stained-glass window, of perpetually young soldiers. The window was positioned to catch the morning light, the youngest light.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir bowed his head, weighed down by the solemnity of the moment. Then, behind him, he heard a door open and everyone rose to their feet.

The chant came to an end and there was a moment of quiet before another voice was heard. Beauvoir didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Gabri stood at the front of the church, looking down the aisle, past the wooden pews, and sang in his clear tenor,

Ring the bells that still can ring,

Forget your perfect offering,

Around Beauvoir, the congregation joined in. He heard Clara’s voice. Olivier’s and Myrna’s. He even made out Ruth’s thin, reedy, unwavering voice. A doughboy voice. Unsure but unyielding.

But Jean-Guy had no voice. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He looked down the aisle, and waited.

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.

He saw Madame Gamache first, walking slowly. And beside her, Annie.

Radiant in her wedding dress. Walking down the aisle on her mother’s arm.

And Jean-Guy Beauvoir began to cry. With joy, with relief. With sorrow for all that had happened. For all the pain he’d caused. He stood in the morning light of the boys who never came home, and he wept.

He felt a nudge on his arm and saw a linen handkerchief being offered. Beauvoir took it, and looked into the deep brown eyes of his best man.

“You need it.” Jean-Guy gave it back.

“I have another.” Armand Gamache brought one from his breast pocket and wiped his eyes.

The two men stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the front of the packed chapel, weeping and watching as Annie and her mother walked down the aisle. Annie Gamache was about to marry her first, and last, love.

*   *   *

“Now there will be no more loneliness,”
said the minister, as he gave his final blessing on the couple.

Go now to your dwelling place to enter into

the days of your togetherness.

And may your days be good and long upon the earth.

The party on the sunny village green started in mid-morning on the early July day, and lasted well into the night. A bonfire was lit, fireworks set off, a barbeque was held and all the guests brought salads and desserts, pâtés and cheeses. Fresh bread. Beer and wine and pink lemonade.

As the first song started, Armand, in morning coat, gave his cane to Clara and limped slowly to the very center of the circle of guests, the center of the green, the center of the village, and put out his hand.

It was steady, not a quiver, as Annie placed her hand in his. He bent over and kissed it. Then he held her to him, and they danced. Slowly. In the shadow of the three huge trees.

“You’re sure you know what you’re taking on?” he asked.

“Did Mom?” his daughter replied with a laugh.

“Well, she was lucky. I happen to be perfect,” said Gamache.

“Shame. I hear that things are strongest where they’re broken,” she said, as her father moved her slowly around the village green, and she rested her head on his strong shoulder. The place he reserved for people he loved.

They danced past Gabri and Olivier, past Myrna and Clara, past the shopkeepers and villagers. Past Isabelle Lacoste and her family, past the Brunels, standing beside Agent Nichol. Yvette Nichol.

They smiled and waved as Armand and his daughter danced by. Across the green Jean-Guy and Reine-Marie danced past Daniel and Roslyn and the Gamache grandchildren, who were stroking Henri.

“You know how happy we are, Jean-Guy,” Reine-Marie said.

“Are you really?”

He still needed reassurance.

“None of us is perfect,” she whispered.

“I tried to kill your husband,” said Jean-Guy.

“No. You tried to save him, to stop him. And you did. I will be forever in your debt.”

They danced in silence, as both thought of that moment. When Jean-Guy had been faced with a choice.

To continue shooting at, and missing, Gamache’s legs. Or to raise his sights, and aim for his back. A shot that might kill the very man he was trying to save. But to not shoot would mean the Chief would certainly die. Be blown up as soon as he reached the door to the schoolhouse. Believing he was saving Jean-Guy.

It had been a terrible, terrible choice.

As had Isabelle Lacoste’s.

She’d gone with her instincts, and lowered her gun. And watched in horror as Beauvoir had fired, and the Chief had fallen.

The only thing that had saved Gamache was the presence of Jérôme Brunel, the former emergency room physician. He’d raced from the church while others called 911.

Reine-Marie wondered, as her new son-in-law led her around the sunny village green, what she’d have done. Could she have taken that shot, knowing she’d almost certainly kill the man she loved?

And yet, not to would condemn him.

Could she have lived with herself either way?

When she’d heard the story, she knew then that if he got to rehab, and Annie still wanted him, she would consider herself blessed to have such a man in her family. And now, in her arms.

Annie was safe with him. Reine-Marie knew that, as few mothers ever could.

“Shall we?” Jean-Guy asked, and indicated the other couple, dancing closer.

“Oui,”
said Reine-Marie, and released Beauvoir.

A moment later, Armand Gamache felt a tap on his shoulder.

“May I?” asked Jean-Guy, and Gamache stepped aside, bowing slightly.

Beauvoir looked at Annie with such tenderness, Gamache felt his own heart skip a beat, surprised by joy.

Then Jean-Guy turned and took Gamache in his arms, while Reine-Marie danced with Annie.

There was a whoop of laughter and applause from the guests. Gabri and Olivier were the first to join them, followed by the entire village. Even Ruth, with Rosa in her arms, danced with Billy Williams, whispering sweet swear words in each other’s ears.

“Is there something you need to tell me, young man?” Gamache asked, as he felt Jean-Guy’s strong hand on his back.

Beauvoir laughed, then paused before speaking. “I want to say I’m sorry.”

“For shooting me?” asked Gamache. “I forgive you. Just don’t do it again.”

“Well, that too. But I meant I’m sorry you’ve retired from the Sûreté.”

“When senior officers start shooting each other, it’s time to leave,” said Gamache. “I’m sure it’s somewhere in the regulations.”

Beauvoir laughed. He could feel the older man leaning on him, tiring a bit and still uncertain on his feet without his cane. Allowing Jean-Guy to take his weight. Trusting that Jean-Guy would not let him fall.

“Did it feel strange,” Beauvoir asked, “seeing Madame Gamache walk Annie down the aisle?”

“You must call her Reine-Marie,” said Gamache. “Please. We’ve asked you before.”

“I’ll try.” It was difficult to break the habit of years, just as he found it almost impossible to call the Chief Inspector Armand. But one day, perhaps, when the children were born he might call him “Papa.”

“I walked Annie down the aisle in her first wedding,” said Armand. “It seemed only fair for her mother to do it this time. I’ll do it at her next wedding.”

“Wretched man,” whispered Beauvoir.

He held the Chief and thought about the moment he’d pulled the trigger and seen Gamache propelled from the forest by the force of it. He’d dropped his gun and run and run and run. Toward the prone man, and the red stain spreading on the snow, like wings.

“My heart broke, you know,” Beauvoir whispered, and resisted the urge to lower his head onto Gamache’s shoulder. “When I shot you.”

“I know,” said Armand softly. “And my heart broke when I left you in that factory.” There was silence for a few steps before Gamache spoke again. “There really is a crack in everything.”

“Yes.”

*   *   *

By midnight Armand and Reine-Marie were sitting on the wide verandah of Emilie’s home. They could see Annie and Jean-Guy, silhouetted against the bonfire on the village green, swaying in each other’s arms to the soft music.

Clara and Myrna had joined Armand and Reine-Marie on the porch. Daniel, Roslyn and the grandchildren were asleep upstairs, and Henri was curled up by Reine-Marie’s feet.

No one spoke.

It had taken several months for Gamache to recover enough to leave the hospital. While he was there, Jean-Guy had been in rehab.

There was, of course, an inquiry into the plot to bring down the bridge and a Royal Commission had been struck to investigate the corruption.

Arnot, Francoeur, and Tessier were dead. Georges Renard was in the SHU awaiting trial, along with all the others who’d plotted and colluded. At least the ones they’d caught so far.

Isabelle Lacoste was the acting Chief Inspector of homicide, and would soon be confirmed. Jean-Guy was on part-time duty, and continued, as he would the rest of his life, to recover from his addictions.

Thérèse Brunel was the acting Chief Superintendent. They’d offered Gamache the job but he’d refused. He might recover physically, but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever recover in other ways. And he knew Reine-Marie would not.

It was someone else’s turn now.

When it came to deciding what to do next, it had been an easy decision. They’d bought Emilie Longpré’s house on the village green in Three Pines.

Armand and Reine-Marie Gamache had come home.

He held her hand now, stroking it with his thumb, while a single fiddler played a soft familiar tune, and Armand Gamache knew he was fine where he was.

Reine-Marie held her husband’s hand and watched her daughter and son-in-law on the village green and she thought about her conversation with Jean-Guy, as they’d danced. He’d told her how much he’d miss Armand. How much the Sûreté would miss him.

“But everyone understands his decision to retire,” Jean-Guy had hurriedly reassured her. “He’s earned his rest.”

She’d laughed, and Jean-Guy had pulled back to study her.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Armand was made to do what he was doing. He might retire, but he can’t quit.”

“Really?” asked Jean-Guy, not exactly convinced. “’Cause the Chief seems pretty sure.”

“He doesn’t know it yet.”

“And you? Would you be all right if he wants to rejoin the Sûreté one day? If you said no, he’d listen to you.”

The look on her face told Jean-Guy that he wasn’t the only one to face a terrible choice.

And now Reine-Marie held her husband’s hand and looked at him as he watched Jean-Guy and Annie dance.

“What’re you thinking of,
mon beau
?” she asked.

“Now there is no more loneliness,”
Gamache said, and met her eyes.

Go now to your dwelling place to enter into

the days of your togetherness.

When he’d handed Beauvoir back to Annie, in the middle of the first dance, Armand had seen something in Jean-Guy’s eyes. Beyond the happiness, beyond the sharp intelligence, beyond even the suffering, Armand Gamache had seen something luminous. A glint. A gleam.

And may your days be good and long upon the earth.