Jean-Guy and Myrna took off their hats and listened.
Nothing.
Gamache strode over to his car and hit the horn. Two quick blasts, then stopped. And listened.
But there was only grim silence.
Nothing. Nothing.
Something.
A knock. A crack?
They looked at one another.
“It could be a beam breaking, patron.”
“Or it could be Benedict,” said Myrna. “Or someone else, trying to signal. What do we do? We can’t just stand here.”
Help was on the way, but it could be twenty or thirty minutes before it arrived. The difference, in this cold, between life and death. If someone had survived this long through the bitter night, they must be close to the end.
“We have to make sure that someone’s alive in there before we decide what to do,” said Armand. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Benedict!”
“Allô!” called Beauvoir.
They fell silent. Listening.
There was a knock. Definite this time. Then another. A rat-a-tat. No mistaking it. Someone was alive. And afraid.
It reminded Gamache, just for a moment, of someone else. Amelia and her tongue stud. Rat-a-tat. Her tell.
Save Our Souls.
“He has to stop,” said Myrna, her eyes wide, her breathing rapid. “He’ll bring the whole place down.” She shouted, “Stop it.”
“We hear you,” Gamache called. “We’re coming. Stop knocking.”
He turned to them and saw the fear in their faces.
“We have to go in, don’t we?” said Beauvoir.
Armand nodded. Their fear, and one he shared, was that the place they were about to enter would collapse completely. But while he and Myrna were afraid, Jean-Guy was terrified.
He had claustrophobia. This was, quite literally, his nightmare.
Beauvoir gave a curt nod, gripped the shovel even tighter, and took a step toward the ruin.
“I think you should—” Gamache began, but stopped when he heard a sound.
They turned to look back down the drive. A pickup truck had arrived. Jean-Guy lowered his shovel and almost wept.
Help. Rescuers. Who actually knew what they were doing. Who could go in instead of them.
The truck stopped, and a single man got out. And Beauvoir could have wept again.
It wasn’t help. It was Billy Williams.
“Heard the boy was missing. Came to see if I could help.” He stood beside his vehicle and stared at the house. Then said something else that sounded to Gamache like “Whale oil beef hooked.”
Gamache turned to Myrna. “What did he say?”
For reasons that baffled Gamache, he seemed the only person on earth who could not understand a word Billy Williams said. Not a word. Not even close.
“Not important,” she said.
“Boy alive in there?”
“We think so,” said Myrna. “Someone is. Either Benedict or someone else. Was that here when you dropped him off last night?” She pointed to the car, parked off to the side.
“Not so’s I noticed.” He turned to the house again. “But it were dark. Right. I should go in and get him. My fault he’s here.”
Gamache, trying to follow this exchange, looked at Myrna. “Ask if he has any training. In rescuing people out of buildings. Does he know what he’s doing?”
Now Billy turned to Gamache. “You think I don’t understand you? I understand perfectly.”
Billy’s face was so weathered and worn that it was impossible to say if he was thirty-five or seventy-five. His body was cord-thin, and even through the heavy winter clothing there was a sense of taut muscle and sinew.
But his eyes were soft as he looked at Armand, with an expression of tenderness. Billy smiled.
“One day, old son, you’ll understand me.”
But Gamache did understand.
What he understood, and had from the first moment he’d met the man, was that Billy Williams had more than the average measure of the divine.
Billy’s face grew grim as he studied the heap of house, and then he turned back to Armand.
“When this is over,” he said, picking up a huge tire iron from his truck, “you owe me a lemon meringue pie.”
Myrna didn’t bother to translate that.
Billy took a step forward, and Gamache reached out to stop him, but Billy shook him off.
“I dropped the kid here last night. Boosted his truck to get it going. Then I left. I should never have left him. So I’ve come back. To get him. To bring him home.”
Gamache didn’t need Myrna this time to translate. It didn’t matter what Billy said—all that mattered now were actions.
“You can’t go in alone. You need help. I’ll come with you.” Armand turned to Jean-Guy and Myrna. “Wait for the emergency team. They should be here soon. Let them know what’s happening.”
“If you’re going, so am I,” said Myrna.
“No you’re not.”
“There’re two people trapped in there,” she said. “You need more help.” When Armand still hesitated, she said, “This isn’t your decision, Armand. It’s mine. Besides, I’m stronger than I look.”
His brows rose. She looked pretty strong.
Gamache nodded. She was right. They would need her. And it wasn’t his decision.
“Patron?” said Jean-Guy. He looked in torment.
“You get the heights, mon vieux,” said Armand quietly. “And I get the holes. Remember? That’s the deal.”
“Are you coming?” called Billy, already at the front steps. “Hurry up.”
Beauvoir stepped back.
“He says be careful,” said Jean-Guy, but Armand had already squeezed into the semicollapsed doorway behind Billy and Myrna.
It was darker in there, though shafts of sunlight from openings above them were hitting the floor. Snow trickled down in drifts as it slid off the roof and through the jagged holes.
It was quiet too. Except for their breathing and the sound of their footfalls as they made their way forward, squeezing along narrow, debris-clogged passages.
They moved as quickly and quietly as possible.
And then came to a halt.
A bathroom above had fallen into what had been the kitchen. The debris, including a claw-foot tub, blocked their way forward.
Gamache tapped his shovel, softly, on the tub and waited.
There was silence, and just as Armand’s heart was sinking, there was a knock. Then another.
Billy pointed in the direction of the sound.
Exactly where the debris blocked their path.
Billy muttered something that Gamache completely understood. Some oaths needed no translation.
Then Gamache watched in surprise as Billy dropped to his knees. Catching Myrna’s eyes, Armand saw she was thinking the same thing.
Was the man praying? Armand was all for that, but now might not be the time. Besides, he suspected that God knew exactly how they felt and how they wanted this to go.
But he also knew praying was more to steady the person than inform the deity.
Then he noticed that Billy had shoved his tire iron under the tub and was trying to get leverage. He put down his shovel and went to help. The two men leaned. Armand straining, pushing down with all his might.
The cast-iron tub moved, but only slightly.
“Wait, hold it,” said Armand, stepping back and catching his breath. Then he nodded to Billy, and the two of them went at it again.
But the tub, crushed under tons of debris, barely budged.
“Can you help over here?” asked Myrna.
“Just. A. Moment,” said Armand, through gritted teeth. Pushing. Pushing. Before staggering back. Defeated. Staring at the solid barrier between them and whoever was alive behind it.
There was a creaking, groaning sound. The wall of rubble was moving. Shifting.
Gamache took a half step back, sweeping Billy back with him.
He turned to warn Myrna. But stopped. His face opening in astonishment. It looked as though Myrna was single-handedly lifting the debris. Then he looked more closely.