How the Light Gets In

THIRTY

“I think you’ll want to see this, sir.”

Tessier caught up with Chief Superintendent Francoeur, and ordered everyone else out of the elevator. The doors closed and Tessier handed him a sheet of paper.

Francoeur quickly scanned it.

“When was this recorded?”

“An hour ago.”

“And he sent everyone home?” Francoeur began to hand the paper back to Tessier, but changed his mind. Instead, he folded it and put it in his pocket.

“Inspector Lacoste is still there. They seem focused on the Ouellet case, but everyone else has gone.”

Francoeur looked straight ahead and saw his imperfect reflection in the scuffed and pocked metal door of the elevator.

“He’s had it,” said Tessier.

“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Francoeur. “According to the files you picked off the therapist’s computer, Gamache still thinks we have him under surveillance.”

“But no one believes him.”

“He believes it, and he’s right. Don’t you think this might be for our benefit?” Francoeur tapped his breast pocket, where the transcription now sat. “He wants us to know he’s resigning.”

Tessier thought about that. “Why?”

Francoeur stared ahead. At the door. He remembered when it had been new. When the stainless steel gleamed, and the reflection was perfect. He took a deep breath and tipped his head back, closing his eyes.

What was Gamache about? What was he doing?

Francoeur should have been pleased, but alarms were sounding. They were so close. And now this.

What’re you up to, Armand?

The parish priest met him with keys to the old stone church.

Long gone were the days when churches were unlocked. Those days disappeared along with the chalices and crucifixes and anything else that could be stolen or defaced. Now the churches were cold and empty. Though not all of that could be laid at the feet of the vandals.

Gamache brushed the snow from his coat, took off his hat, and followed the priest. Father Antoine’s Roman collar was hidden beneath a worn scarf and heavy coat. He hurried, not happy to be taken from his lunch and his hearth on this snowy day.

He was elderly, stooped. Closing in on eighty, Gamache guessed. His face was soft, the veins in his nose and cheeks purple and protruding. His eyes were tired. Exhausted from looking for miracles in this hardscrabble land. Though it had produced one miracle within living memory. The Ouellet Quints. But perhaps, thought Gamache, one was worse than none. God had visited once. And then not returned.

Father Antoine knew what was possible, and what was passing him by.

“Which one do you want?” Father Antoine asked when they were in his office at the back of the church.

“The 1930s forward, please,” said the Chief. He’d called ahead and spoken to Father Antoine, but still the priest seemed put out.

He looked around the room, as did Gamache. Books and files were everywhere. Gamache could see that it had once been a comfortable, even inviting, room. There were two easy chairs, a hearth, bookcases. But now it felt neglected. Filled, but empty.

“It’ll be over there.” The priest pointed to a bookcase by the window, dropped the keys on the desk, and left.

“Merci, mon père,” the Chief called after him, then closed the door, turned on the lamp on the desk, took off his coat, and got to work.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur handed the paper to his lunch companion and watched as he read, folded it back up, and placed it on the table beside the bone china plate with the warm whole-grain roll. A curl of shaved butter sat beside a sterling silver knife.

“What do you think it means?” his companion asked. His voice, as always, was warm, friendly, steady. Never flustered, rarely angry.

Francoeur didn’t smile, but he felt like it. Unlike Tessier, this man wasn’t fooled by Gamache’s plodding attempt to throw them off.

“He suspects we’ve bugged his office,” said Francoeur. He was hungry, but he didn’t dare appear distracted in front of this man. “That”—he nodded toward the paper on the linen tablecloth—“was meant for us.”

“I agree. But what does it mean? Is he resigning or not? What message is he sending us? Is this”—he tapped the paper—“a surrender, or a trick?”

“To be honest, sir, I don’t think it matters.”

Now Francoeur’s companion looked interested. Curious.

“Go on.”

“We’re so close. Having to deal with that woman at first seemed a problem—”

“By ‘deal with,’ you mean throwing Audrey Villeneuve off the Champlain Bridge,” the man said. “A problem you and Tessier created.”

Francoeur gave him a thin smile and composed himself. “No, sir. She created it by exceeding her mandate.”

He didn’t say that she should never have been able to find the information. But she had. Knowledge might be power, but it was also an explosive.

“We contained it,” said Francoeur. “Before she could say anything.”

“But she did say something,” his companion pointed out. “It was only good luck that she went to her supervisor, who then came to us. It was very nearly a catastrophe.”

The use of that word struck Francoeur as interesting, and ironic, considering what was about to happen.

“And we’re sure she didn’t tell anyone else?”

“It would’ve come out by now,” said Francoeur.

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“She didn’t really know what she’d found,” said Francoeur.

“No, Sylvain. She knew, but she couldn’t quite believe it.”

Instead of anger in his companion’s face, Francoeur saw satisfaction. And felt a frisson of that himself.

They’d counted on two things. Their ability to conceal what was happening and, if found, that it would be dismissed as inconceivable. Unbelievable.

“Audrey Villeneuve’s files were immediately overwritten, her car cleaned out, her home searched,” said Francoeur. “Anything even remotely incriminating has disappeared.”

“Except her. She was found. Tessier and his people missed the water. Hard to do, wouldn’t you say, given it’s such a large target? Makes me wonder how good their aim must be.”

Francoeur looked around. They were alone in the dining room, except for a cluster of bodyguards by the door. No one could see them. No one could record them. No one could overhear them. But still, Francoeur lowered his voice. Not to a whisper. That felt too much like plotting. But he dropped his voice to a discreet level.

“That turned out to be the best possible outcome,” said Francoeur. “It’s still listed as a suicide, but the fact that her body was found under the bridge allowed Tessier and his people to get under there too. Without questions being asked. It was a godsend.”

Francoeur’s companion raised his brows and smiled.

It was an attractive, almost boyish expression. His face held just enough character, just enough flaws, to appear genuine. His voice held a hint of roughness, so that his words never came across as glib. His suits, while tailored, were just that little bit off, so that he looked like both an executive and a man of the people.

One of us, to everyone.

There were few people Sylvain Francoeur admired. Few men he met he didn’t immediately want to piss on. But this man was one. More than thirty years they’d known each other. They’d met as young men and each had risen in his respective profession.

Francoeur’s lunch companion ripped the warm bun in half and buttered it.

He’d come up the hard way, Francoeur knew. But he’d come up. From a worker on the James Bay hydro dams to one of the most powerful men in Québec.

It was all about power. Creating it. Using it. Taking it from others.

“Are you saying God is on our side?” his companion asked, clearly amused.

“And luck,” said Francoeur. “Hard work, patience, a plan. And luck.”

“And was it luck that tipped Gamache to what we were doing? Was it luck that he stopped the dam collapse last year?”

The conversation had taken a turn. The voice, so warm, had solidified.

“Years we worked on that, Sylvain. Decades. Only to have you bungle it.”

Francoeur knew the next few moments were critical. He couldn’t look weak, but neither could he confront. So he smiled, picked up his own roll, and tore it in half.

“You’re right, of course. But I think that’ll prove a godsend too. The dam was always problematic. We didn’t know for sure it would actually come down. And it would’ve caused so much damage to the power grid it would’ve taken years to recover. This is much better.”

He looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows, through the falling snow.

“I’m convinced it’s even better than the original plan. It has the very great advantage of being visible. Not happening in the middle of nowhere, but right here, in the center of one of the biggest cities in North America. Think of the visuals.”

Both men paused. Imagining it.

It wasn’t an act of destruction they were contemplating, but creation. They would manufacture rage, an outrage so great it would become a crucible. A cauldron. And that would produce a cry for action. And that would need a leader.

“And Gamache?”

“He’s no longer a factor,” said Francoeur.

“Don’t lie to me, Sylvain.”

“He’s isolated. His division’s a shambles. He all but destroyed it himself today. He has no more allies, and his friends have turned away.”

“Gamache is alive.” Francoeur’s companion leaned forward and lowered his voice. Not to conceal what he was about to say. But to drive home a point. “You’ve killed so many, Sylvain. Why hesitate with Gamache?”

“I’m not hesitating. Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to get rid of him. But even people no longer loyal to him would ask questions if he suddenly turned up in the St. Lawrence or was a hit-and-run. We don’t need that now. We’ve killed his career, his department. We’ve killed his credibility and broken his spirit. No need to kill the man, just yet. Not unless he gets too close. But he won’t. I have him distracted.”

“How?”

“By dangling someone he cares about over the edge. Gamache is desperate to save this man—”

“Jean-Guy Beauvoir?”

Francoeur paused a moment, surprised his companion knew that. But then another thought occurred to him. While he was spying on Gamache, was this man spying on him?

It doesn’t matter, thought Francoeur. I’ve nothing to hide.

But still, he felt a sentry rise inside him. A guard went up. He knew what he himself was capable of. He took pride in it even. Thought of himself as a wartime commander, not shrinking from difficult decisions. From sending men to their deaths. Or ordering the deaths of others. It was unpleasant but necessary.

Like Churchill, allowing the bombing of Coventry. Sacrificing a few for the many. Francoeur slept at night knowing he was far from the first commander to walk this road. For the greater good.

The man across the table took a sip of red wine and watched him over the rim. Francoeur knew what he himself was capable of. And he knew what his companion was capable of, and had already done.

Sylvain Francoeur doubled his guard.

Armand Gamache found the parish registers, in thick leather-bound volumes, exactly where the priest thought they’d be. He pulled a couple from the dusty stacks, taking the one from the 1930s with him to the desk.

He put his coat back on. It was cold and damp in the office. And he was hungry. Ignoring the grumbling in his stomach, he put on his reading glasses and bent over the old book listing births and deaths.

Francoeur cut through the puff pastry of his salmon en croute and saw the flaky pink fish, with watercress on top. Lemon and tarragon butter dripped out of the pastry.

He took a forkful as his companion ate his braised lamb shank with garlic and rosemary. Silver salvers of baby green beans and spinach sat between them on the table.

“You didn’t answer my question, Sylvain.”

“Which one?”

“Is the Chief Inspector really resigning? Is he signaling his surrender, or trying to lead us astray?”

Francoeur’s eyes went again to the paper, neatly folded on the table. The transcription of the conversation in Gamache’s office earlier that day.

“I began to say that, in my opinion, it doesn’t matter.”

His companion put down his fork and touched the linen napkin to his lips. He managed to make an effete mannerism look quite masculine.

“But you didn’t explain what you meant by that.”

“I mean, he’s too late. It’s all in place from our end. All we need is for you to say the word.”

Francoeur’s fork hovered just above his plate, as he looked across the table.

If the word was given now, they were just minutes from finishing what began decades ago. What started as two idealistic young men, and a whispered conversation, would end here. Thirty years later. With gray in their hair, and liver spots on their hands, and lines on their faces. With crisp linen and polished silver, red wine and fine food. Not with a whisper, but a bang.

“Soon, Sylvain. We’re within hours, perhaps a day. We stick to the plan.”

Like his companion, Chief Superintendent Francoeur knew patience was power. He’d need just a little more of one to achieve the other.

They were all there.

Marie-Virginie.

Marie-Hélène.

Marie-Josephine.

Marie-Marguerite.

And Marie-Constance.

He’d found the register of their birth. A long list of names, under Ouellet. And he’d found their deaths. Isidore, Marie-Harriette, and their children. Constance’s, of course, hadn’t yet been entered, but soon would be. Then the register would be complete. Birth, then death. And the book could be closed.

Gamache sat back in the chair. Despite the disorder, this room was calming. He knew it was almost certainly the quiet and the scent of old books.

He replaced the long, heavy books and left the church. As he walked across to the rectory, he passed the graveyard. The field of old gray stones was partly buried under snow, giving it a tranquil feel. More snow was falling, as it had all day. Not heavily, but steadily. Straight down, in large, soft flakes.

“Oh, what the hell,” he said out loud to himself, and stepped off the path. He immediately sank to mid-shin and felt snow tumble down his boots. He trudged forward, occasionally sinking up to his knees as he moved from stone to stone. Until he found them.

Isidore and Marie-Harriette. Side by side, their names written in stone for eternity. Marie-Harriette had died so young, at least by today’s standards. Shy of forty. Isidore had died so old. Just shy of ninety. Fifteen years ago.

The Chief tried to clear the snow from the front of the tombstone, to read the other names and dates, but there was too much of it. He looked around, then retraced his steps.

He saw the priest approaching and greeted him.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Father Antoine.

He sounded friendlier now. Perhaps, Gamache thought, he suffered more from low blood sugar than ill temper or chronic disappointment in a God who had dropped him here, then forgotten about him.

“Sort of,” said Gamache. “I tried to look at the graves but there’s too much snow.”

“I’ll get a shovel.”

Father Antoine returned a few minutes later and Gamache cleared a path to the monument, then dug out the stone itself.

Marie-Virginie.

Marie-Hélène.

Marie-Josephine.

Marie-Marguerite.

And Marie-Constance. Her birthdate was there, just not yet her death. There was a presumption that she’d be buried with her siblings. In death as in life.

“Let me ask you this, mon père,” said Gamache.

“Oui?”

“Would it be possible to fake a funeral? And fake the registry?”

Father Antoine was taken aback by the question. “Fake it? Why?”

“I’m not sure why, but is it possible?”

The priest thought about that. “We don’t enter a death in the registry without seeing the death certificate. If that’s not accurate, then yes, I suppose the registry would be wrong too. But the funeral? That would be more difficult, non? I mean, we’d have to bury someone.”

“Could it be an empty casket?”

“Well, that’s not likely. The funeral home hardly ever delivers empty caskets for burial.”

Gamache smiled. “I suppose not. But they wouldn’t necessarily know who was in it. And if you didn’t know the parishioner, you could be fooled too.”

“Now you’re suggesting there was someone in the casket, but the wrong person?”

Father Antoine was looking skeptical. And well he should be, thought the Chief.

Still, so much of the Ouellet Quintuplets’ lives had been faked, why not their deaths too? But to what end? And which one might still be alive?

He shook his head. By far the most reasonable answer was the simplest. They were all dead. And the question he should be asking himself was not if they were dead, but if they were murdered.

He looked at the neighboring gravestones. To the left, more Ouellets. Isidore’s family. To the right, the Pineaults. Marie-Harriette’s family. All the Pineault boys’ names began with Marc. Gamache leaned closer and wasn’t surprised to see that all the girls’ names started with Marie.

His gaze was drawn back to Marie-Harriette.

Long dead and buried in another town, / my mother hasn’t finished with me yet.

Gamache wondered what the unfinished business was, between mother and daughters. Mama. Ma.

“Has anyone been by lately asking about the Quints?” Gamache asked as they walked single-file back down the narrow path he’d cleared.

“No. Most people have long ago forgotten them.”

“Have you been priest here long?”

“About twenty years. Long after the Quints had moved away.”

So this tired priest never even got the benefit of the miracle. Just the bodies.

“Did the girls ever come back for a visit?”

“No.”

“And yet they’re buried here.”

“Well, where else would they be buried? In the end, most people come home.”

Gamache thought it was probably true.

“The parents? Did you know them?”

“I knew Isidore. He lived a long time. Never remarried. Always hoped the girls would come back, to look after him in his old age.”

“But they never did.”

“Only for his funeral. And then to be buried themselves.”

The priest accepted the old keys from Gamache and they parted. But he had one more stop to make before returning to Montréal.

A few minutes later Chief Inspector Gamache pulled into a parking spot and turned the car off. He looked at the high walls, with the spikes and curls of barbed wire on top. Guards in their towers watched him, their rifles across their chests.

They needn’t have worried. The Chief had no intention of getting out, though he was tempted.

The church was just a few kilometers from the SHU, the penitentiary where Pierre Arnot now lived. Where Gamache had put him.

His intention, after he’d spoken to the priest and looked at the register, had been to drive straight back to Montréal. Instead, he found himself tempted here. Drawn here. By Pierre Arnot.

They were just a few hundred meters apart, and with Arnot were all the answers.

Gamache was more and more convinced that whatever was coming to a head, Arnot had started it. But Gamache also knew that Arnot would not stop it. That was up to Gamache and the others.

While tempted to confront Arnot, he would not betray his promise to Thérèse. He started his car, put it in gear and drove away. But instead of heading back to Montréal, he turned in the other direction, back to the church. Once there, he parked by the rectory and knocked on the door.

“You again,” said the priest, but he didn’t seem unhappy.

“Désolé, mon père,” said Gamache, “but did Isidore live in his own home until his death?”

“He did.”

“He cooked and cleaned and cut firewood himself?”

“The old generation,” smiled the priest. “Self-sufficient. Took pride in that. Never asked for help.”

“But the older generation often had help,” said Gamache. “At least in years past. The family looked after the parents and grandparents.”

“True.”

“So who looked after Isidore if not his children?”

“He had help from one of his brothers-in-law.”

“Is he still here? Can I speak with him?”

“No. He moved away after Isidore died. Old Monsieur Ouellet left him the farm, as thanks I guess. Who else was he going to give it to?”

“But he’s not living at the farm now?”

“No. Pineault sold it and moved to Montréal, I think.”

“Do you have his address? I’d like to talk with him about Isidore and Marie-Harriette and the girls. He’d have known them all, right? Even their mother.”

Gamache held his breath.

“Oh yes. She was his sister. He was the girls’ uncle. I don’t have his address,” said Father Antoine, “but his name’s André. André Pineault. He’d be an old man now himself.”

“How old would he be?”

Père Antoine thought. “I’m not sure. We can check the parish records if you like, but I’d say he’d be well into his seventies. He was the youngest of that generation, quite a few years younger than his sister. The Pineaults were a huge family. Good Catholics.”

“Are you sure he’s alive?”

“Not sure, but he isn’t here.” The priest looked past Gamache, toward the graveyard. “And where else would he go?”

Home. No longer the farmhouse but the grave.