And he saw Gamache’s agony, at having to do it.
The view changed and they fol owed the team, chasing gunmen through corridors. Exchanging fire. A Sûreté officer wounded. A gunman hit.
Then Gamache taking the stairs two at a time, in pursuit, the man turning to fire. Gamache throwing himself at him and the two struggling, fighting hand to hand. From the screen came a confusion of arms and torsos, gasps, as they fought. Final y the Chief grabbed for the weapon that had been knocked out of his hand. Swinging it at the terrorist he caught him with a terrible crunch to the head. The man dropped.
As the cameras watched, Gamache col apsed to his knees beside the man and felt for a pulse, then he cuffed him and dragged him down the stairs. At the bottom the Chief staggered a bit, catching himself.
Struggling to stand upright, Gamache turned.
Beauvoir was sprawled against the wal across the room. A bloody bandage in one hand and a gun in the other.
There was a rasping, gasping.
“I . . . have . . . one,” Gamache was saying, trying to catch his breath.
Émile hadn’t moved since the video began. He’d only twice in his career had to fire his gun. Both times he’d kil ed someone. Hadn’t wanted to, but he’d meant to.
And he’d taught his officers wel . It was an absolute, you never, ever take out your gun unless you mean to use it. And when you use it, aim for the body, aim to stop. Dead, if need be.
And now he watched Armand, his face bloody from the fight, sway a bit, then step forward. From his belt he grabbed his pistol. The gunman was unconscious at his feet. Shots continued al round. Émile saw the Chief Inspector turn, react to shooting above him.
Gamache took another step forward, raised his gun and took shots in quick succession. A target was hit.
The shooting stopped.
For a moment. Then there was a rapid fire.
Gamache’s arms lifted. His whole body lifted. And twisted. And he fel to the ground.
Beauvoir held his breath. It was what he’d seen that day. The Chief lying, unmoving, on the floor.
“Officer down,” Beauvoir heard himself rasp. “The Chief’s down.”
It seemed forever. Beauvoir tried to move, to drag himself forward, but he couldn’t. Around him he heard gunfire. In his headphones officers were cal ing to each other, shouting instructions, locations, warnings.
But al he saw was the stil form in front.
Then there were hands on him and Agent Lacoste kneeling, bending over him. Her face worried and determined.
He saw her eyes move down his body, to his bloody hand clutching his abdomen. “Here, over here,” she shouted and was joined by a medic.
“The Chief,” Beauvoir whispered and motioned.
Lacoste’s face fel as she looked.
As medics leaned over Beauvoir, putting pressure bandages on his wound, sticking needles into him, cal ing for a stretcher, Beauvoir watched Lacoste and a medic run to the Chief. They moved toward him but shooting erupted and they had to take cover.
Gamache lay motionless on the concrete floor just beyond their reach.
Final y Lacoste raced up the stairs and from her camera they saw her trace the shots to a gunman in a doorway above. She engaged him, eventual y hitting him. Grabbing his gun she shouted, “Clear!”
The medic ran to Gamache. Across the floor Beauvoir strained to see.
Émile watched as the medic leaned over Gamache.
“Merde,” the medic whispered. Blood covered the
side of the Chief Inspector’s head and ran into his ear and down his neck.
The medic looked up as Lacoste joined him. The Chief was coughing slightly, stil alive. His eyes were half closed, glazed, and he gasped for breath.
“Chief, can you hear me?” She put her hands on either side of his head and lifted it, looking into his eyes. He focused and struggled to keep his eyes open.
“Hold this.” The medic grabbed a bandage and put it over the wound by Gamache’s left temple. Lacoste pressed down, holding it there, trying to stop the bleeding.
The Chief stirred, tried to focus, fighting for breath.
The medic saw this, his brow furrowed, perplexed.
Then he ripped open the Chief’s tactical vest and exhaled.
“Christ.”
Lacoste looked down. “Oh, no,” she whispered.
The Chief’s chest was covered in blood. The medic tore Gamache’s shirt, exposing his chest. And there, on the side, was a wound.
From across the room Beauvoir watched, but al he could see were the Chief’s legs, his polished black leather shoes on the floor moving slightly. But it was his hand Beauvoir stared at. The Chief’s right hand, bloody, tight, taut, straining. And in the headset he heard gasping. Struggling for breath. Gamache’s right arm outstretched, fingers reaching. His hand grabbing, trembling, as though the breath was just out of reach.
As medics lifted Beauvoir onto a stretcher he whispered over and over again, pleading, “No, no.
Please.”
He heard Lacoste shout, “Chief!”
There was more coughing, weaker. Then silence.
And he saw Gamache’s right hand spasm, shudder. Then softly, like a snowflake, it fel .
And Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew Armand Gamache was dying.
On the uncomfortable plastic chairs, Beauvoir let out a smal moan. The video had moved on. Shots of the squad engaging the remaining gunmen.
Ruth stared at the screen, her Scotch untouched.
“Chief!” Lacoste cal ed again.
Gamache’s eyes were open slightly, staring. His
lips moved. They could barely hear what he was saying. Trying to say.
“Reine . . . Marie. Reine . . . Marie.”
“I’l tel her,” Lacoste whispered into his ear and he closed his eyes.
“His heart’s stopped,” the medic cal ed and leaned over Gamache, preparing for CPR. “He’s in cardiac arrest.”
Another medic arrived and kneeling down he grabbed the other’s arm.
“No wait. Get me a syringe.”
“No fucking way. His heart’s stopped, we need to start it.”
“For God’s sake do something,” Lacoste shouted.
The second medic rifled through the medical kit.
Finding a syringe he plunged it into the Chief’s side and broke the plunger off.
There was no reaction. Gamache lay stil , blood on his face and chest. Eyes closed.
The three stared down. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Then, then. There was a slight sound. A smal rasp.
They looked at each other.
Émile final y blinked. His eyes felt dry as though they’d been sandblasted and he took a deep breath.
He knew the rest of the story, of course, from cal s to Reine-Marie and visits to the hospital. And the Radio-Canada news.
Four Sûreté officers kil ed, including the first by the side of the road, four others wounded. Eight terrorists dead, one captured. One critical y wounded, not expected to survive. At first the news had reported the Chief Inspector among the dead. How that leaked out no one knew. How any of it leaked out no one knew.
Inspector Beauvoir had been badly hurt.
Émile had arrived that afternoon, driving straight from Quebec City to Hôtel-Dieu hospital in Montreal.
There he found Reine-Marie and Annie. Daniel was on a flight back from Paris.
They looked wrung out, nothing left.
“He’s alive,” Reine-Marie had said, hugging Émile, holding him.
“Thank God for that,” he’d said, then seen Annie’s expression. “What is it?”
“The doctors think he’s had a stroke.”
Émile had taken a deep breath. “Do they know how bad?”
Annie shook her head and Reine-Marie put her arm