As the ringing continued, he stared out the windshield, his view obscured by the now-heavy snow, so that he saw the world imperfectly.
He wondered if, in future, whenever he saw an old farmhouse, or heard the soft tapping of snowflakes, or smelled damp wool, this moment would be conjured and, if so, would it be with a sense of relief or horror?
“Oui, allô?”
The man stood by the window, straining to see out.
It was distorted by frost, but he had seen the car arrive and had watched, with impatience, as the man parked, then just sat there.
After a minute or so, the new arrival got out but didn’t come toward the house. He was standing beside his car, a cell phone to his ear.
This was the first of les invités.
The man recognized this first guest, of course. Who wouldn’t? He’d seen him often enough, but only in news reports. Never in person.
And he’d been far from convinced this guest would show up.
Armand Gamache. The former head of homicide. The current Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté du Québec, on suspension.
He felt a slight frisson of excitement. Here was a celebrity of sorts. A man both highly respected and reviled. Some in the press held him up as a hero. Others as a villain. Representing the worst aspects of policing. Or the best. The abuse of power. Or a daring leader, willing to sacrifice his own reputation, and perhaps more, for the greater good.
To do what no one else wanted to do. Or could do.
Through the distorted glass, through the snow, he saw a man in his late fifties. Tall, six feet at least. And substantial. The parka made him look heavy, but parkas made everyone look heavy. The face, not pudgy, was, however, worn. With lines from his eyes, and, as he watched, two deep furrows formed between Gamache’s brows.
He was not good at understanding the faces faces made. He saw the lines but couldn’t read them. He thought Gamache was angry, but it could have been simply concentration. Or surprise. He supposed it could even have been joy.
But he doubted that.
It was snowing more heavily now, but Gamache had not put on his gloves. They’d fallen to the ground when he’d gotten out of the car. It was how most Québécois lost mitts and gloves and even hats. They rested on laps in the car and were forgotten when it came time to get out. In spring the land was littered with dog shit, worms, and sodden mitts and gloves and tuques.
Armand Gamache stood in the falling snow, his bare hand to his ear. Gripping a phone and listening.
And when it was his turn to talk, Gamache bowed his head, his knuckles white as he tightened his hold on the phone, or from incipient frostbite. Then, taking a few steps away from his car, he turned his back to the wind and snow, and he spoke.
The man couldn’t hear what was being said, but then one phrase caught a gust and made its way across the snowy yard, past possessions once prized. And into the house. Once prized.
“You’ll regret this.”
And then some other movement caught his attention. Another car was pulling in to the yard.
The second of les invités.
CHAPTER 2
“Armand?”
The smile of recognition and slight relief froze on her face as she took in his expression.
His movement as he’d turned to face her had been almost violent. His body tense, prepared. As though bracing for a possible attack.
While she was adept at reading faces and understood body language, she could not quite get the expression on his face. Except for the most obvious.
Surprise.
But there was more there. Far more.
And then it was gone. His body relaxed, and as she watched, Armand spoke a single word into his phone, tapped on it, then put it into his pocket.
The last expression to leave that familiar face, before the veneer of civility covered it completely, was something that surprised her even more.
Guilt.
And then the smile appeared.
“For God’s sake, Myrna. What’re you doing here?”
Armand tried to modulate his smile, though it was difficult. His face was numb, almost frozen.
He didn’t want to look like a grinning fool, overdoing it. Giving himself away to this very astute woman. Who was also a neighbor.
A retired psychologist, Myrna Landers owned the bookstore in Three Pines and had become good friends with Reine-Marie and Armand.
He suspected she’d seen, and understood, his initial reaction. Though he also suspected she would not grasp the depth of it. Or ever guess who he’d been speaking with.
He had been so engrossed in his conversation. In choosing his words. In listening so closely to the words being spoken to him. And the tone. And modulating his own tone. That he’d allowed someone to sneak up on him.
Granted, it was a friend. But it could just as easily have not been a friend.
As a cadet, as a Sûreté agent. As an inspector. As head of homicide, then head of the whole force, he’d had to be alert. Trained himself to be alert, so that it became second nature. First nature.
It’s not that he walked through life expecting something bad to happen. His vigilance had simply become part of who he was, like his eye color. Like his scars.
Part DNA, part a consequence of his life.
Armand knew that the problem wasn’t that he’d let his guard down just now. Just the opposite. It had been up so high, so thick, that for a few crucial minutes nothing else penetrated. He’d missed hearing the car approach. He’d missed the soft tread of boots on snow.
Gamache, not a fearful man, felt a small lick of concern. This time the consequences were benign. But next?
The threat didn’t have to be monumental. If it were, it wouldn’t be missed. It was almost always something tiny.
A signal missed or misunderstood. A blind spot. A moment of distraction. A focus so sharp that everything around it blurred. A false assumption mistaken for fact.
And then—
“You okay?” Myrna Landers asked as Armand approached and kissed her on both cheeks.
“I’m fine.”
She could feel the cold on his face and the damp from the snow that had hit and melted. And she could feel the tension in the man, rumbling below the cheerful surface.
His smile created deep lines from the corners of his eyes. But it did not actually reach those brown eyes. They remained sharp, wary. Watchful. Though the warmth was still there.
“Fine,” he’d said, and despite her disquiet she smiled.
They both understood that code. It was a reference to their neighbor in the village of Three Pines. Ruth Zardo. A gifted poet. One of the most distinguished in the nation. But that gift had come wrapped in more than a dollop of crazy. The name Ruth Zardo was uttered with equal parts admiration and dread. Like conjuring a magical creature that was both creative and destructive.
Ruth’s last book of poetry was called I’m FINE. Which sounded good until you realized, often too late, that “F.I.N.E.” stood for “Fucked-Up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical.”
Yes, Ruth Zardo was many things. Fortunately for them, one of the things she was not was there.
Armand stooped and picked up the mitts that had fallen off Myrna’s substantial lap, into the snow. He whacked them against his parka before handing them back to her. Then, realizing he was also missing his own, he went to his car and found them almost buried in the new snow.
The man watched all this from the questionable protection of the house.
He’d never met the woman who’d just arrived, but already he didn’t like her. She was large and black and a “she.” None of those things he found attractive. But worse still, Myrna Landers had arrived five minutes late, and instead of hurrying inside, spouting apologies, she was standing around chatting. As though he weren’t waiting for them. As though he hadn’t been clear about the time of the appointment.