How the Light Gets In

THIRTEEN

Olivier and Gabri brought the luggage in and took it to the bedrooms, then left.

“Merci, patron.” Gamache stepped onto the cold verandah with them.

“You’re welcome,” said Olivier. “You played your role well on the phone. I almost believed you were annoyed.”

“And you were very convincing,” said Gamache. “Worthy of the Olivier award.”

“Well, as luck would have it,” said Gabri, “I planned to reward him tonight.”

Gamache watched them cross to the bistro, then he closed the door and faced the room. And smiled.

He could finally relax.

Thérèse and Jérôme were safe.

And Jean-Guy was safe. He’d monitored the Sûreté frequency the entire drive down and heard no calls for ambulances. Indeed, what chatter he picked up led him to believe the bunker had been abandoned. The Rock Machine was no longer there.

The informant had lied. Or, more likely, there was no informant.

Gamache was both relieved and grim as he absorbed that news.

Jean-Guy was safe. For now.

Gamache looked at Emilie Longpré’s home.

Two sofas faced each other on either side of the stone fireplace. They were slip-covered in faded floral fabric. A pine blanket box sat in the space between them. On it was a game of cribbage and some playing cards.

A couple of armchairs were tucked in a corner, a table between them and a hassock in front, to be shared by weary feet. A standing lamp with tasseled shade was on and held the chairs in soft light.

The walls were painted a soothing light blue, and one had floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

It felt quiet and calm.

Olivier had spent the morning finding out who now owned Emilie’s home, and whether he could rent it. Seemed a distant niece in Regina owned the home and hadn’t yet figured out what to do with it. She readily agreed to rent it over Christmas.

Olivier then called Gamache and gave him the agreed-upon phrase—Gabri asked me to call to make sure you still want your room for tonight—that would tell Gamache he could have Emilie’s home.

Then Olivier had rounded up others in the village to help. The result was this.

Sheets had been pulled off the furniture, beds were made and clean towels put out, the home was vacuumed and dusted and polished. A fire was laid in the grate, and judging by the aroma, dinner was warming in the oven.

It was as though he and the Brunels had just stepped out for a few hours and were returning home.

Two of Sarah’s fresh-baked baguettes sat in a basket on the marble kitchen counter, and Monsieur Béliveau had stocked the pantry and fridge with milk and cheese and butter. With homemade jams. Fruit sat in a wooden bowl on the harvest table

There was even a Christmas tree, decorated and lit.

Gamache loosened his tie, knelt down and struck a match to the wood and paper in the hearth, watching mesmerized as it caught and flared.

He exhaled. It felt as though a cloak, like the ghostly sheets over the furniture, had been lifted from him.

“Thérèse,” he called. “Jérôme.”

“Oui?” came the distant response.

“I’m going out.”

He put on his boots and coat and walked quickly through the crisp evening, toward the little cottage with the open gate and winding path.

“Armand,” said Clara, opening the door to his knock. Henri was so excited he didn’t know whether to jump up or curl into a ball at Gamache’s feet. Instead, the shepherd threaded his way in and out and around Gamache’s legs, crying with excitement.

“I beat him, of course,” said Clara, looking with mock disgust at Henri.

Gamache knelt down and played with Henri for a moment.

“You look like you could use a Scotch,” said Clara.

“Don’t tell me I look like Ruth,” said Gamache, and Clara laughed.

“Just around the edges.”

“Actually, I don’t need anything, merci.” He took off his coat and boots and followed her into the living room, where a fire was lit.

“Thank you for looking after Henri. And thank you for helping to get Emilie’s home ready for us.”

There was no way to explain how that home looked to weary travelers who’d come to the end of the road.

He wondered, in a moment that startled him, whether that’s what this little village was. The end of the road? And, like most ends, not an end at all.

“A pleasure,” said Clara. “Gabri combined it with a rehearsal for the Christmas concert and had us sing ‘The Huron Carol’ over and over. I suspect if you hit one of the pillows that song will come out.”

Gamache smiled. The idea of a home infused with music appealed to him.

“It’s nice to see lights in Emilie’s home again,” said Clara.

Henri crawled onto the sofa. Slowly. Slowly. As though, if he crept up and averted his eyes, no one would see. He laid out his full length, taking up two thirds of the sofa, and slowly put his head in Gamache’s lap. Gamache looked at Clara apologetically.

“It’s OK. Peter was never a fan of the dogs getting up on the furniture, but I like it.”

This provided Gamache the opening he was hoping for.

“How are you doing without Peter?”

“It’s the strangest feeling,” she said, after a moment’s reflection. “It’s like our relationship isn’t dead, but neither is it alive.”

“The undead,” said Gamache.

“The vampire of marriages,” laughed Clara. “Without all the fun blood-sucking part.”

“Do you miss him?”

“The day he left, I watched him drive out of Three Pines and then I came back here and leaned against the door. I realized I was actually pushing against it, in case he returned and wanted back in. The problem is, I love him. I just wish I knew if the marriage was over and I needed to get on with my life,” said Clara, “or if we can repair it.”

Gamache looked at her for a long moment. Saw her graying hair, her comfortable and eclectic clothes. Her confusion.

“May I make a small suggestion?” he asked quietly.

She nodded.

“I think you might try leading your life as though it’s just you. If he comes back and you know your life will be better with him, then great. But you’ll also know you’re enough on your own.”

Clara smiled. “That’s what Myrna said too. You’re very alike, you know.”

“I’m often mistaken for a large black woman,” Gamache agreed. “I’m told it’s my best feature.”

“I never am. It’s my one great failing,” said Clara.

Then she noticed his thoughtful brown eyes. His stillness. And the hand that trembled, just a little. But enough.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He smiled, nodded, and rose. “I’m fine.”

He clipped Henri onto his leash and slung Henri’s bag over his shoulder.

They walked back across the village, man and dog, in the red and green and golden light of the three huge Christmas pines, making prints in the stained-glass snow. Gamache realized he’d just said to Clara the exact words he’d said to Annie.

When everything had failed—the counseling, the intervention, the pleas to return to treatment—Annie had asked Jean-Guy to leave their home.

Armand had sat in the car that damp autumn evening, across the street from their apartment. Wet leaves were falling from the trees, caught in gusts of wind. They scudded across the windshield and the road. He’d waited. Watched. There in case his daughter needed him.

Jean-Guy had left without needing to be forced, but as he left he’d seen Gamache, who wasn’t trying to hide. Beauvoir had stopped, in the middle of the glistening street, dead leaves swirling around him, and had poured all his venom into a look so vile it had shocked even the Chief Inspector of homicide. But it had also comforted him. Gamache knew in that moment that if Jean-Guy was going to hurt any Gamache, it would not be Annie.

It was with relief that he’d driven home that night.

That was several months ago and as far as he knew Annie had had no further contact with Jean-Guy. But that didn’t mean she didn’t miss him. The man Beauvoir once was, and might be again. Given a chance.

As Gamache entered Emilie’s home, Thérèse struggled out of her seat by the fire.

“Someone knows you well,” she said, handing a cut glass to Armand. “They left a fine bottle of Scotch on the sideboard and a couple of bottles of wine and beer in the fridge.”

“And coq au vin in the oven,” said Jérôme, coming in from the kitchen carrying a glass of red wine. “It’s just warming up.”

He raised his glass. “À votre santé.”

“To your good health,” Gamache echoed, raising his own glass to the Brunels.

Then, after Thérèse and Jérôme had resumed their seats, Gamache sat down with a grunt, trying not to spill his Scotch in the descent. A soft pillow sat on the sofa beside him and, on a whim, he fluffed it.

No sound came out, but he softly hummed the first few notes of “The Huron Carol.”

“Armand,” said Thérèse. “How did you find this place?”

“Henri found it,” said Gamache.

“The dog?” Jérôme asked.

Henri raised his head upon hearing his name, then lowered it again.

The Brunels exchanged glances. Henri, while a handsome dog, would never get into Harvard.

“It was his home, you see,” said Gamache. “He’d been adopted from a shelter by Madame Longpré, when he was a puppy. So he knew the house. Madame Longpré died shortly after I met her. That’s how Reine-Marie and I came to have Henri.”

“Who owns the house now?” asked Thérèse.

Gamache explained about Olivier and the sequence of events that morning.

“You’re a sneak, Armand.” She leaned back in her seat.

“No more sneaky than that little charade in your office.”

“Oui,” she admitted. “Sorry about that.”

“What did you do?” Jérôme asked his wife.

“She called me into her office and gave me a dressing-down,” said Gamache. “Told me I was delusional and she wasn’t going to be sucked in anymore. She even threatened to go to Francoeur and tell him everything.”

“Thérèse,” said Jérôme, impressed. “You tormented and tricked this poor feeble man?”

“Had to, in case anyone was listening.”

“Well, you had me convinced,” said Gamache.

“Did I really?” She seemed pleased. “Good.”

“He is easily fooled, I hear,” said Jérôme. “Famous for his credulity.”

“Most homicide detectives are,” agreed Gamache.

“How’d you finally catch on?” Jérôme asked.

“Years of training. A keen knowledge of human nature,” said Gamache. “And she gave me this.”

From his pocket he took a piece of paper, neatly folded, and handed it over.

If Jérôme really has found something, I have to presume our home and my office are bugged. Have told Jérôme to pack for Vancouver, but don’t want to involve our daughter. Suggestions?

“After Olivier called and said we could use this home, I wrote a note on the one Thérèse gave me,” said Gamache, “and asked Inspector Lacoste to show it to her.”

Jérôme turned the note on its side. Scribbled there, in Gamache’s hand, was Go to the airport for your flight, but don’t board. Take a taxi to the Dix-Trente mall in Brossard. I’ll meet you there. I know a safe place.

Dr. Brunel handed the note back to Gamache. He’d noticed the first line of his wife’s message. If Jérôme really has found something …

As the other two talked, he sipped his wine and looked into the fireplace. It was no longer a matter of if.

He hadn’t told Thérèse, but after she’d finally fallen back to sleep, he’d done something foolish. He’d gone to his computer and tried again. He’d dug deeper and deeper into the system. Partly to see what he could find, but also to see if he could attract the watcher. If there was one. He wanted to tempt him out into the open.

And he had. The watcher appeared, but not where Jérôme Brunel expected. Not behind him, following, but in front of him. Luring Jérôme on, and in.

Trapping him.

Jérôme Brunel had fled, erasing, erasing, erasing his electronic footprints. But still the watcher followed. With sure, swift, relentless steps. He’d followed Jérôme Brunel right to their home.

There was no if about it. He’d found something. And he’d been found.

“A safe place,” said Thérèse. “I didn’t think one existed.”

“And now?” Armand asked.

She looked around and smiled.

Jérôme Brunel, though, did not smile.

The debriefing was over and the Sûreté teams were heading home.

Beauvoir sat at his desk, his head lolling. His mouth open, each shallow breath unnaturally loud. His eyes were partly open and he felt himself sliding forward.

The raid was over. There were no bikers. He’d almost wept with relief, and would have, right there in that shithole of a bunker, had no one been watching.

It was over. And now he was back, safe in his office.

Tessier walked by, then backed up and looked in.

“I was hoping to catch you, Beauvoir. The informant fucked up, but what can we do? The boss feels badly about that, so he’s put you on the next raid.”

Beauvoir stared at him, barely focusing. “What?”

“A drug shipment heading for the border. We could let Canada Customs or the RCMP intercept it, but Francoeur wants to make up for today. Rest up. It looks big.”

Beauvoir waited until he no longer heard footsteps down the corridor. And when there was only silence he put his head in his hands.

And cried.