How the Light Gets In

“We don’t need to do damage,” he said. “We just need to sneak past the guards.”

  “That’s the hope,” said Nichol, and gave a great sigh. “I don’t think it’ll work, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Jeez,” said Thérèse. “It’s like living with a Greek chorus.”

  “My programs will make it difficult for them to see us, but we need a security code to even get in, and they’ll know as soon as you log in with your own codes.”

  “And what could stop them from finding us?” Gamache asked.

  “I told you that before. A different security code. One that won’t draw any attention. But even that won’t stop them for long. As soon as we break into a file they’re trying to protect, they’ll know it. They’ll hunt us down, and they’ll find us.”

  “How long will that take, do you think?”

  Nichol’s thin lips pouted as she thought. “Finesse won’t matter at that stage. All that’ll matter is speed. Get in, get what we need, and get out. It’s unlikely we’ll have more than half a day. Probably less.”

  “Half a day from the time we break into the first secure file?” Gamache asked.

  “No,” said Jérôme. He spoke to Gamache, but was looking at Nichol. “She means twelve hours from our first effort.”

  “Maybe less,” said Nichol.

  “Twelve hours should be enough, don’t you think?” asked Thérèse.

  “It wasn’t before,” said Jérôme. “We’ve had months and still haven’t found what we need.”

  “But you didn’t have me,” said Nichol.

  They looked at her, marveling at the indestructibility, and delusion, of youth.

  “So when do we start?” asked Nichol.

  “Tonight.”

  “But, Armand—” Thérèse began. Jérôme’s hand had tightened over hers, to the point of hurting her.

  “Gilles was right,” said the Chief, his voice decisive. “There’s a reason thieves work at night. Fewer witnesses. We have to get in and get out while everyone else sleeps.”

  “Finally,” said Nichol, getting up.

  “We need more time,” said Thérèse.

  “There is no more time.” Gamache consulted his watch. It was almost one in the morning.

  “Jérôme, you have an hour to get your notes together. You know where the alarm was tripped last time. If you can get there fast, we might be in and out with the information in time for breakfast.”

  “Right,” said Jérôme. He released his grip on his wife’s hand.

  “You get some sleep,” Gamache said to Nichol. “We’ll wake you in an hour.”

  He went to the kitchen, and heard the door close behind him.

  “What’re you doing, Armand?” asked Thérèse.

  “Making fresh coffee.” His back was to her as he counted the spoons of coffee into the machine.

  “Look at me,” she demanded. Gamache’s hand stopped, the heaping spoon was suspended and a few grains fell to the counter.

  He lowered the spoon to the coffee can and turned.

  Thérèse Brunel’s eyes were steady. “Jérôme’s exhausted. He’s been going all day.”

  “We all have,” said Gamache. “I’m not saying this is easy—”

  “You’re suggesting Jérôme and I are looking for ‘easy’?”

  “Then what are you looking for? You want me to say we can all go to sleep and forget what’s happening? We’re close, we finally have a chance. This ends now.”

  “My God,” said Thérèse, looking at him closely. “This isn’t about us. This’s about Jean-Guy Beauvoir. You don’t think he’ll survive another raid. That’s why you’re pushing us, pushing Jérôme.”

  “This isn’t about Beauvoir.” Gamache reached behind him and clutched the marble countertop.

  “Of course it is. You’d sacrifice all of us to save him.”

  “Never,” Gamache raised his voice.

  “That’s what you’re doing.”

  “I’ve been working at this for years,” said Gamache, approaching her. “Long before the raid on the factory. Long before Jean-Guy got into trouble. I’ve given up everything to see this through. It ends tonight. Jérôme will just have to dig deeper. We all will.”

  “You’re not being rational.”

  “No, you aren’t,” he seethed. “Can’t you see Jérôme’s frightened? Scared sick? That’s what’s draining his energy. The longer we wait, the worse it’ll get.”

  “You’re saying you’re doing this to be kind to Jérôme?” demanded Thérèse, incredulous.

  “I’m doing this because one more day and he’ll crack,” said Gamache. “And then we’ll all be lost, including him. If you can’t see it, I can.”

  “He’s not the one who’s falling apart,” she said. “He’s not the one who was in tears today.”

  Gamache looked as though she’d hit him with a car.

  “Jérôme can and will do it tonight. He’ll go back in and get us the information we need to nail Francoeur and stop whatever’s planned.” Gamache’s voice was low and his eyes glared. “Jérôme agrees. He, at least, has a backbone.”

  Gamache opened the door and left, going up to his room and staring at the wall, waiting for the trembling in his hand to subside.

  * * *

  At two in the morning Jérôme stood up.

  Armand had awoken Nichol and come downstairs. He didn’t look at Thérèse and she didn’t look at him.

  Nichol descended, disheveled, and put on her coat.

  “Ready?” Gamache asked Jérôme.

  “Ready.”

  Gamache signaled Henri, and they quietly left the home. Like thieves in the night.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Nichol marched ahead, the only one anxious to get to the schoolhouse. But her rush was futile, Gamache knew, since he had the key.

  Jérôme held Thérèse’s hand. Both wore puffy black coats and puffy white mitts. They looked like Mickey and Minnie Mouse out for a stroll.

  Chief Inspector Gamache brushed past Superintendent Brunel and unlocked the schoolhouse door. He held it open for them, but instead of entering himself, he let it drift shut.

  He saw the light go on through the frosted window and heard the metallic clank as the top of the woodstove was lifted and logs were fed to the dying embers.

  But outside, there was only a hush.

  He tipped his head back and looked into the night sky. Was one of the bright specks not a star at all, but the satellite that would soon transport them from this village?

  He brought his gaze back to earth. To the cottages. The B and B, the bakery. Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. Myrna’s bookstore. The bistro. The scene of so many great meals and discussions. He and Jean-Guy. Lacoste. Even Nichol.

  Going back years.

  He was about to order the final connection made, and then there’d be no turning back. As Nichol so clearly pointed out, they’d be found eventually. And traced back here.

  And then no number of woodsmen, of huntsmen, of villagers, of demented poets, of glorious painters and innkeepers could stop what would happen. To Three Pines. To everyone in it.

  Armand Gamache turned his back on the sleeping village, and went inside.

  Jérôme Brunel had taken his seat in front of one of the monitors, and Thérèse was standing behind him. Yvette Nichol sat beside Dr. Brunel at her own keyboard and monitor, her back already slumped, like a widow’s hump.

  They all turned to look at him.

  Gamache did not hesitate. At his nod, Yvette Nichol slid under the desk.

  “OK?” she asked.

  “Oui,” he said, his voice clipped, determined.

  There was silence, then they heard a click.

  “Done,” she called, and crawled back out.

  Gamache met Jérôme’s eyes, and nodded.

  Jérôme reached out, surprised to see his finger wasn’t trembling, and pressed the power button. Lights flashed on. There was a slight crackling and then their screens flashed alive.

/>   Gamache reached into his pocket and brought out a neatly folded piece of paper. He smoothed it out and placed it in front of Jérôme.

  Agent Nichol looked at it. At the insignia. And the line of letters and numbers. Then she looked up at the Chief.

  “The national archives,” she whispered. “My God, it might work.”

  “OK, everything’s live and we’re online,” Jérôme reported. “All the encryption programs and sub-programs are running. Once I log in, the clock starts.”

  While Dr. Brunel slowly, carefully, typed in the long access code, Gamache turned away to look at the wall, and the ordnance map. So detailed. Even so, it would not have shown where they now stood had some child years ago not put that dot on the page and written, in careful, clear letters, Home.

  Gamache stared at it. And he thought of St. Thomas’s Church across the way. And the stained-glass window made after the Great War, showing bright young soldiers walking forward. Not with brave faces. They were filled with fear. But still they advanced.

  Below them was the list of the young men who never made it home. And below the names the inscription They were our children.

  Gamache heard Jérôme type in the sequence of numbers and letters. Then he heard nothing. Only silence.

  The code was in place. Only one thing left to do.

  Jérôme Brunel’s finger hovered above the enter button.

  Then he brought it down.

  “Non,” said Armand. He gripped Jérôme’s wrist, stopping the finger millimeters from the button. They stared at it, not daring to breathe, wondering if Jérôme had actually hit enter before Gamache had stopped him.

  “What’re you doing?” Jérôme demanded.

  “I made a mistake,” said Gamache. “You’re exhausted. We all are. If this’s going to work we need to be sharp. Rested. There’s too much at stake.”

  He glanced again to the map on the wall. And the mark that was almost invisible.

  “We’ll come back tomorrow night and start fresh,” said Gamache.

  Jérôme Brunel looked like a man who’d had his execution stayed. Not sure if this was a kindness, not sure if this was a trick. After a moment his shoulders rolled forward and he sighed.

  With what felt like the last of his energy, Dr. Brunel erased the code and handed the paper back to Gamache.

  As he returned it to his pocket, Gamache caught Thérèse’s eye. And nodded.

  “Can you unplug us, please?” Jérôme asked Nichol.

  She was about to argue, but decided against it, too tired herself to fight. Once again she slid off her chair and crawled under the desk.

  When the cable was unplugged, they turned the lights out and Gamache relocked the door. Hoping he hadn’t made a mistake. Hoping he hadn’t just given Francoeur that critical twenty-four hours to complete his plan.

  As they trudged back to Emilie Longpré’s home, Gamache caught up with Thérèse.

  “You were right. I—”

  Thérèse held up her Minnie Mouse hand and Gamache fell silent.

  “We were both wrong. You were afraid to stop and I was afraid to go.”

  “You think we’ll have less fear tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Not less fear,” she said. “But perhaps more courage.”

  Once in the warm house, they went to bed, falling asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow. Just before drifting off, Gamache heard Henri groan contentedly, and the house creak in ways that felt like home.

  * * *

  Gamache opened his eyes and found himself staring directly into Henri’s face. How long the dog had been sitting there, his chin on the side of the bed, his wet nose within inches of Gamache’s face, was impossible to say.

  But as soon as Armand’s eyes fluttered open, Henri’s entire body began to wag.

  The day had begun. He looked at the bedside clock.

  Almost nine. He’d had six hours of sleep, and felt as though he’d had double that. Rested and refreshed, he was certain now he’d come close to making a disastrous decision the night before. They’d rest up today, and go back that night, no longer battling fatigue and confusion and each other.

  As he dressed, Gamache could hear the scrape of shovels. He drew back the curtains and saw the whole village covered in white, and the air filled with it. Flakes drifted down and piled up on the three gigantic pines, on the forest, on the homes.

  There was no wind at all, and the snow fell straight down. Gentle and relentless.

  He could see Gabri and Clara, out clearing their paths. He first heard, then saw, Billy Williams’s plow coming down the hill into the village. Past the small church, past the schoolhouse. And around the village green.

  Parents skated on the frozen pond with shovels, clearing away the snow, while children with hockey sticks and ants in their pants waited on the makeshift benches.

  He went downstairs and found he was the first one up.

  While Henri ate, Gamache put on a pot of coffee and laid a new fire in the living room hearth. Then they went for a walk.

  “Come on over to the bistro for breakfast,” Gabri called. He wore a tuque with an immense pom-pom and was leaning on his snow shovel. “Olivier will make you blueberry crêpes with some of Monsieur Pagé’s maple syrup.”

  “And bacon?” asked Gamache, knowing he was already lost.

  “Bien sûr,” said Gabri. “Is there any other way to eat crêpes?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Gamache hurried home, wrote a note for the others, then he and Henri returned to the bistro. The Chief settled in by the fireplace and had just taken a sip of café au lait when Myrna joined him.

  “Do you mind company?” she asked. But she was already in the armchair opposite him and had signaled for a coffee of her own.

  “I was going to come over to your shop after breakfast,” explained the Chief Inspector. “I’m looking for gifts.”

  “For Reine-Marie?”

  “No, for everyone here. To say thank you.”

  “There’s no need, you know,” said Myrna.

  Gabri brought her coffee, then pulled up a chair and joined them.

  “What’re we talking about?” he asked.

  “Gifts,” said Myrna.

  “For me?” he asked.

  “Who else?” asked Myrna. “You’re all we ever think about.”

  “We have that in common, ma chère,” said Gabri.

  “What’re we talking about?” asked Olivier, as he placed two plates of blueberry crêpes and maple-smoked bacon in front of Myrna and Gamache.

  “Me,” said Gabri. “Me, me, me.”

  “Oh, good,” said Olivier, bringing over another chair. “It’s been thirty seconds since we visited that subject. So much must have happened.”

  “Actually, there is something I want to ask you two,” said Gamache. Myrna passed him the jug of maple syrup.

  “Oui?” asked Olivier.

  “Did you open Constance’s gifts?” the Chief asked.

  “No, we put them under the tree. Would you like us to open them?”

  “No. I already know what she gave you.”

  “What?” asked Gabri. “A car? A pony?”

  “I won’t tell you, but I will say that I think it’s something you can use.”

  “A muzzle?” asked Olivier.

  “What’re we talking about?” asked Clara, dragging over a chair. Her cheeks were red and her nose was running and Gamache, Gabri, Myrna and Olivier all handed her a napkin, just in time.

  “Gifts,” said Olivier. “From Constance.”

  “We’re not talking about you?” Clara asked Gabri.

  “I know. An abomination of nature. Though, to be fair, we have been talking about the gifts Constance gave me.”

  “Us,” said Olivier.

  “Yes, she gave me one too,” said Clara, and turned to Gamache. “You dropped it off the other day.”

  “Did you open it?”

  “I’m afraid I did,” Clara admitted, and took a piece o
f Myrna’s bacon.

  “That’s why I keep your presents under my tree until Christmas morning,” said Myrna, moving her plate away.

  “What did Constance give you?” asked Gabri.

  “This.”

  Clara unwound the scarf from her neck and gave it to Myrna, who took it, admiring the bright and cheerful lime green.

  “What’re these? Hockey sticks?” Myrna pointed to a pattern at either end of the scarf.

  “Paintbrushes,” said Clara. “Took me a while to figure it out.”

  Myrna passed it back to Clara.

  “Oh, let’s get ours,” said Gabri. He rushed off, and by the time he returned Myrna and Gamache had finished their breakfasts and were on their second cafés au lait. Gabri handed one of the packages to Olivier and kept the other for himself. They were identical, both wrapped in bright red paper with candy canes all over it.

  Gabri ripped the wrapping off his. “Mitts,” he exclaimed, as though they were a pony and a car rolled into one magnificent present.

  He tried them on. “They even fit. It’s so hard to find ones for hands this large. And you know what they say about big hands…”

  No one pursued that.

  Olivier tried on his mitts. They also fit.

  There was a bright yellow crescent moon pattern on each mitt.

  “What do you think the pattern means?” Clara asked.

  They all thought.

  “Did she know about your habit of mooning?” Myrna turned to Gabri.

  “Who doesn’t?” said Gabri. “But a half moon?”

  “It’s not even a half moon,” said Clara. “It’s a crescent moon.”

  Gabri laughed. “A croissant moon? My two favorite things. Croissants and mooning.”

  “Sadly, this is true,” Olivier confirmed. “And he has such a full moon.”

  “Paintbrushes for Clara and croissants for the guys,” said Myrna. “Perfect.”

  Gamache watched them admiring the gifts. Then the thought that had eluded him last night drifted into his consciousness, like a snowflake, and landed.

  He turned to Myrna. “She didn’t give you a present.”

  “Well, just coming down was more than enough,” said Myrna.

  Gamache shook his head. “We found these gifts in her suitcase, but nothing for you. Why not? It doesn’t make sense that Constance would make gifts for everyone else, but not bring anything for you.”