How the Light Gets In

FOURTEEN

After a dinner of coq au vin, green salad, and fruit and meringue, the three of them washed up. Chief Inspector Gamache was up to his elbows in suds in the deep enamel sink, while the Brunels dried.

It was an old kitchen. No dishwasher, no special mixer taps. No upper cabinets. Just dark wood shelves for plates, over the marble counters. And dark wood cabinets underneath.

A harvest table, where they’d eaten, doubled as the kitchen island. The windows looked out onto the back garden, but it was dark outside, so all they could see were their own reflections.

The place felt like what it was. An old kitchen, in an old home, in a very old village. It smelled of bacon and baking. It smelled of rosemary and thyme and mandarin oranges. And coq au vin.

When the dishes were done Gamache looked at the Bakelite clock above the sink. Almost nine o’clock.

Thérèse had returned to the living room with Jérôme. He stoked the embers of the fire while she found the record player and turned it on. A familiar violin concerto started playing softly in the background.

Gamache put his coat on and whistled for Henri.

“Evening stroll?” asked Jérôme, who stood by the bookcase, browsing.

“Want to come?” Gamache clipped Henri onto the leash.

“Not me, merci,” said Thérèse. She sat by the fire and looked relaxed, but tired. “I’m going to have a bath and head for bed in a few minutes.”

“I’ll come with you, Armand,” said Jérôme, and laughed at the look of surprise on the Chief’s face.

“Don’t let him stand still for too long,” Thérèse called after them. “He looks like the bottom half of a snowman. Kids are constantly trying to put big snowballs on top of him.”

“That’s not true,” said Jérôme, as he got into his coat. “Once it happened.” He closed the door behind them. “Let’s go. I’m curious to see this little village you like so much.”

“It won’t take long.”

The cold hit them immediately, but instead of being shocking or uncomfortable, it felt refreshing. Bracing. They were well insulated against it. A tall man and a small, round man. They looked like a broken exclamation mark.

Once down the wide verandah steps, they turned left and strolled along the plowed road. The Chief unclipped Henri, tossed a tennis ball, and watched as the shepherd leapt into the snow bank, furiously digging to retrieve the precious ball.

Gamache was curious to see his companion’s reaction to the village. Jérôme Brunel, as Gamache had grown to appreciate, was not easily read. He was a city man, born and bred. Had studied medicine at the Université de Montréal, and before that he’d spent time at the Sorbonne in Paris, where he’d met Thérèse. She’d been deep into an advanced degree in art history.

Village life and Jérôme Brunel did not, Gamache suspected, naturally mix.

After one quiet circuit, Jérôme stopped and stared at the three huge pine trees, lit up and pointing into the sky. Then, while Gamache threw the ball to Henri, Jérôme looked around at the homes surrounding the village green. Some were redbrick, some were clapboard, some were made of fieldstone, as though expelled from the earth they sat on. A natural phenomenon. But instead of commenting on the village, Jérôme’s glance returned to the three huge pines. He tilted his head back, and followed them. Up, up. Into the stars.

“Do you know, Armand,” he said, his face still turned to the sky, “some of those aren’t stars at all. They’re communication satellites.”

His head, and gaze, dropped to earth. He met Gamache’s eyes. Between them there was a haze of warm breath in the freezing air.

“Oui,” said Armand. Henri sat at his feet staring at the tennis ball, encrusted with frozen drool, in Gamache’s gloved hand.

“They orbit,” Jérôme continued. “Receiving signals and sending them. The whole earth is covered.”

“Almost the whole earth,” said Gamache.

In the light from the trees the Chief saw a smile on Jérôme’s moon face.

“Almost,” Jérôme nodded. “That’s why you brought us here, isn’t it? Not just because it’s the last place anyone would think to look for us, but because this village is invisible. They can’t see us, can they?” He waved to the night sky.

“Did you notice,” Gamache asked, “as soon as we drove down that hill, our cell phones went dead.”

“I did notice. And it’s not just cells?”

“It’s everything. Laptops, smart phones. Tablets. Nothing works here. There’s phone service and electricity,” said Gamache. “But it’s all landlines.”

“No Internet?”

“Dial-up. Not even cable. Not worth it for the companies to try to get through that.”

Gamache pointed and Jérôme looked beyond the small circle of light that was Three Pines. Into the darkness.

The mountains. The forest. The impenetrable woods.

That was the glory of this place, Jérôme realized. From a telecommunications point of view, from a satellite’s point of view, this would be complete darkness.

“A dead zone,” said Jérôme, returning his eyes to Gamache.

The Chief tossed the ball again, and again Henri bounded into the snow bank, only his furiously wagging tail visible.

“Extraordinaire,” said Jérôme. He’d started walking again, but now he looked down, concentrating on his feet. Walking and thinking.

Finally he stopped.

“They can’t trace us. They can’t find us. They can’t see us and they can’t hear us.”

There was no need for Jérôme to explain who “they” were.

Gamache nodded toward the bistro. “Would you like a nightcap?”

“Are you kidding, I’d like the entire outfit.” Jérôme rolled quickly toward the bistro, as though Three Pines had suddenly tilted. Gamache was delayed by a minute or two when he noticed that Henri was still bottom up in the snow drift.

“Honestly,” said Armand when Henri popped his head out, covered in snow. But without the ball. Gamache dug down with his hands and finally found it. Then he made a snowball and tossed it into the air, watching as Henri jumped, grabbed it, bit down and was, yet again, surprised when it disappeared in his mouth.

No learning curve at all, marveled Gamache. But he realized Henri already knew all he’d ever need. He knew he was loved. And he knew how to love.

“Come along,” he said, handing the tennis ball to Henri and clipping him back on his leash.

Jérôme had secured seats in the far corner, away from the other patrons. Gamache greeted and thanked a few of the villagers, whom he knew had helped get Emilie’s home ready for them, then he took the armchair beside Jérôme.

Olivier showed up almost immediately to wipe the table and take their order.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“It’s perfect, thank you.”

“My wife and I are deeply grateful to you, monsieur,” said Jérôme, solemnly. “I understand you were the one who arranged for us to stay here.”

“We all helped,” said Olivier. But he looked pleased.

“I was hoping to see Myrna.” Gamache looked around.

“You just missed her. She had dinner with Dominique but left a few minutes ago. Want me to call her?”

“Non, merci,” said the Chief. “Ce n’est pas nécessaire.”

Gamache and Jérôme ordered, then the Chief excused himself and returned a few minutes later to find cognacs on their table.

Jérôme looked content, but thoughtful.

“Something troubling you?” asked the Chief, as he warmed his glass between his hands.

The older man took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Do you know, Armand, I can’t remember the last time I felt safe.”

“I know what you mean,” said Gamache. “It feels as though this has been going on forever.”

“No, I don’t mean just this mess. I mean all my life.” Jérôme opened his eyes, but didn’t look at his companion. Instead he looked at the beamed ceiling with its simple Christmas pine boughs. He took a deep, deep, profound breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled. “I think I’ve been afraid most of my life. Schoolyards, exams, dating. Medical school. Every time an ambulance rolled into my ER I was afraid I’d screw up and someone would die. I was afraid for my children, afraid for my wife. Afraid something would happen to them.”

Now he dropped his gaze to Gamache.

“Yes,” said the Chief. “I know.”

“Do you?”

The two men held each other’s gaze, and Jérôme realized that the Chief knew something about fear. Not terror. Not panic. But he knew what it was to be afraid.

“And now, Jérôme? Are you feeling safe?”

Jérôme closed his eyes and leaned back in his armchair. He was quiet so long, Gamache thought maybe he’d nodded off.

The Chief sipped his cognac, leaned back in his own chair, and let his mind wander.

“We have a problem, Armand,” said Jérôme after a few minutes, his eyes still closed.

“And what’s that?”

“If they can’t get in, we can’t get out.”

Jérôme opened his eyes and leaned forward.

“It’s a beautiful village, but it’s a little like a foxhole at Vimy, isn’t it? We might be safe, but we’re stuck. And we can’t stay here forever.”

Gamache nodded. He’d bought them time, but not eternity.

“I don’t want to spoil the moment, Armand, but Francoeur and whoever’s behind him will find us eventually. Then what?”

Then what? It was a good question, Gamache knew. And he didn’t like the answer. He knew, as a man used to fear, the great danger of letting it take control. It distorted reality. Consumed reality. Fear created its own reality.

He leaned forward in his seat, toward Jérôme, and lowered his voice.

“Then we’ll just have to find them first.”

Jérôme held his eyes, not wavering. “And how do you propose to do that? Telepathy? We’re fine here, for now. For tomorrow even. Maybe for weeks. But as soon as we arrived a clock started ticking. And no one, not you, not me, not Thérèse, not even Francoeur, knows how long we have before they find us.”

Dr. Brunel looked around the bistro, at the villagers lingering over their drinks. Some chatting. Some playing chess or checkers. Some just sitting, quietly.

“And now we’ve dragged them into this,” he said softly. “When Francoeur finds us, that’ll be it for our peace and quiet. And theirs.”

Gamache knew Jérôme wasn’t being melodramatic. Francoeur had proven he was willing to do anything to achieve his goal. What preoccupied the Chief, what gnawed at him, was that he hadn’t yet figured out what that goal was.

He needed to keep his fear at bay. A little was good. Kept him sharp. But fear, unchecked, became terror and terror grew into panic and panic created chaos. And then all hell broke loose.

What he needed, what they all needed, and what they could only find here in Three Pines, was peace and peace of mind and the clarity that came with it.

Three Pines had given them time. A day. Two. A week. Jérôme was right, it wouldn’t last forever. But please, Lord, prayed Gamache, let it be enough.

“The problem, Armand,” Jérôme continued, “is that the very thing that keeps us safe is what will eventually be our undoing. No telecommunications. Without that, I can’t make any progress. I was getting close, that much is certain.”

He lowered his eyes and swirled his cognac in the bulbous glass. Now was the time to tell Armand what he’d done. What he’d found. Who he’d found.

He looked up into Gamache’s thoughtful eyes. Beyond his companion, Dr. Brunel saw the cheerful fire, the frosted mullioned windows, the Christmas tree with the presents underneath.

Dr. Brunel realized he had no desire to stick his head out of this pleasant foxhole. Just for this one night, he wanted peace. Even if it was pretend peace. An illusion. He didn’t care. He wanted just this one quiet night, without fear. Tomorrow he’d face the truth and tell them what he’d found.

“What do you need to continue the search?” Gamache asked.

“You know what I need. A high-speed satellite link.”

“And if I could get you one?”

Dr. Brunel studied his companion. Gamache was looking relaxed. Henri lay at his feet beside the chair and Armand’s hand was stroking the dog.

“What’re you thinking?” asked Jérôme.

“I have a plan,” said Gamache.

Dr. Brunel nodded thoughtfully. “Does it involve spaceships?”

“I have another plan,” said Gamache, and Jérôme laughed.

“You said we can’t stay and we can’t leave,” said the Chief, and Jérôme nodded. “But there’s another option.”

“And what’s that?”

“Create our own tower.”

“Are you mad?” Jérôme glanced furtively around and dropped his voice. “Those towers go up hundreds of feet. They’re engineering marvels. We can hardly ask the schoolchildren of Three Pines to make one out of Popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners.”

“Not Popsicle sticks perhaps,” said Gamache with a smile. “But you’re close.”

Jérôme downed the last of his cognac, then examined Gamache. “What’re you thinking?”

“Can we talk about it tomorrow? I’d like to run it by Thérèse at the same time. Besides, it’s getting late and I still need to speak with Myrna Landers.”

“Who?”

“She owns the bookstore.” Gamache nodded toward the internal door connecting the bistro with the bookstore. “I popped by while Olivier was getting our drinks. She’s expecting me.”

“Is she going to give you a book on building your tower?” Jérôme asked as he put on his parka.

“She was friends with a woman who was killed yesterday.”

“Oh, oui, I’d forgotten you’re actually here on business. I’m sorry.”

“Not at all. The sad fact is, it’s a perfect cover. If anyone asks, it explains why I’m in Three Pines.”

They said their good nights, and while Jérôme walked back to Emilie Longpré’s and a warm bed next to Thérèse, Armand and Henri entered the bookstore.

“Myrna?” he called, and realized he’d done exactly the same thing, at almost exactly the same time, the night before. But this time he wasn’t bringing news of Constance Ouellet’s murder—this time he came bearing questions, and lots of them.