“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.
* * *
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.