Where he’d grabbed a shovel and Billy a tire iron, Myrna had quietly picked up the jack from Armand’s car and now had it wedged under a beam. And was leaning on the arm.
The beam was lifting, inch by precarious inch.
“I need help,” she called.
The two men joined her and leaned into the arm of the jack. One. Two pumps. More snow drifted down, and they paused. Three.
There was a cracking as rafters and crossbeams shifted.
Gamache, his breathing shallow, his eyes sharp, his hearing keen, waited. For it to either collapse or stabilize.
Then he heard, through the shifting debris, more tapping. Increasingly frantic.
“Stop,” he called. One sharp word. And the tapping stopped.
Myrna, with their help, had jacked up the beam as high as they dared. The opening was about eighteen inches.
Gamache stared at it, then at Myrna.
“You’re not leaving me behind,” she said, reading his thoughts.
“You won’t make it through.”
“And you will?”
Armand was taking off his heavy parka. “I will.”
“Then so will I. We go together.” She took off her coat and hugged it to her.
“Ego?” asked Armand.
“Practicality,” she said. “You need me.”
“If I have a choice, I’d take her over you any day,” said Billy, smiling at Myrna. “Mighty fine woman.”
“What did he say?” asked Armand.
She told him.
“You must’ve misheard,” said Armand. But he was smiling.
“Oh for fook’s sake,” said Billy. “Let’s try again. Another coupla inches should do it.”
He grabbed the lever and pushed. Armand and Myrna joined him.
More groaning. Some from the house. Most from them.
But it shifted. Just enough. They figured. They hoped.
“I’ll go first,” said Armand.
He glanced behind him, down the narrow, rubble-strewn passage they’d just come through. They were, he knew, in what had been the kitchen. Heading, it seemed, toward the dining room. Via the second-floor bathroom.
He turned again toward the opening. It looked like a mouth, ready to clamp shut. Every survival instinct cried out for him not to do it.
Getting onto his back, faceup, he pushed himself into the opening. His eyes within centimeters of shards of wood and rusted nails, like teeth. Turning his head, closing his eyes, exhaling to make himself as flat as possible. He inched forward.
The scent of fresh-cut grass. Walking along the Seine, holding the little hands of Flora and Zora. Reine-Marie in his arms on a lazy Sunday morning.
His face was through. Then his neck. He twisted his shoulders. His chest made it through.
And then his progress stopped. His shirt was snagged on the nails.
He was too far in for Myrna or Billy to be able to help.
The place shifted again, and he felt it drop. The nails now touched his chest every time he took a shallow breath.
“Armand?” called Myrna.
“Just a moment,” he said.
Closing his eyes again, he steadied his breathing. Steadied his mind.
Laundry on the line. The scent of Honoré. Sitting in the garden with an iced tea. Reine-Marie. Reine-Marie. Reine-Marie.
He pushed again and felt the nails ripping his shirt.
Tiny pieces of rubble fell onto his face, peppering his lids and lips. As he breathed, they went into his nose, and he could feel himself on the verge of a cough. Smothering it, fighting it, he pushed harder, more frantically.
The ripping stopped, and he broke free.
Scrambling to his knees, Armand bent double, hacking and coughing.
“Armand?” called Myrna, more insistent.
“I’m okay,” he said, his voice raspy. “Don’t come yet.”
He looked around, and, finding a piece of concrete, he reached into the opening and used it to flatten the nails.
“It should be okay now.”
With some effort, Myrna also made it through, then Billy, who pushed their parkas in ahead of himself.
“What’s that?” asked Myrna. Her head was lifted, nose in the air.
Armand had just caught it too. A whiff of something acrid. It was familiar. Comforting, even. Except—
Wood, charred. Charring.
He and Myrna locked eyes, then over to Billy, who looked genuinely alarmed for the first time.
Gamache felt the hairs go up on his neck.
The place was on fire.
“We need to move.”
“Come on, come on,” said Jean-Guy, staring at the farmhouse.
His focus was so complete he barely breathed. Didn’t blink. Didn’t hear the vehicles arrive.
Nothing existed except the house.
The time for caution was past.
“Hello,” Myrna shouted. “Where are you?”
“Here, I’m here” came the reply. The voice hoarse. Unfamiliar.
They looked in the direction of the shout. There was another barrier of debris between them and the voice.
Scrabbling with their hands, they cleared chunks of concrete and wood until they’d made a hole. Armand lay on his stomach and peered through.
And saw the long, thin tail of a tuque.
And then a familiar face.
“It’s Benedict,” he called to the others.
“Oh thank God,” said Myrna, and hugged Billy.
Benedict had his back against a doorway. His eyes were wide, barely daring to believe that what he’d prayed for, cried out for, had actually happened.
The young man brought his hand up to his face, not able to hold back tears.
“You came. You came.”
Billy enlarged the opening, and when Armand crawled through, Benedict gripped him in a tight embrace, sobbing.
Armand held him for a moment, then stepped back so he could see Benedict’s face. His body. He seemed unhurt.
“There’s someone else here,” said Gamache. “Where is he?”
“There is?” asked Benedict. “I don’t think so. I can’t believe you came—”
“There’s another car in the drive,” said Myrna, who’d joined them, as had Billy.
“Yes, I saw that, but when I came in, I called and no one answered.”
Armand noticed a small circle of smoldering wood on the floor. Benedict had survived the bitter-cold night by burning whatever wood he could lay his hands on.
That had been the smell. The house wasn’t on fire after all.
He began to point it out to Myrna, just as Billy touched Armand’s arm. For quiet. Billy’s face was tilted up, his head cocked to one side. Listening.
“Is it the rescuers?” Myrna asked.
“Rescuers?” asked Benedict. “Aren’t you the—”
“Shh,” hissed Billy, and they hushed.
Billy stared at the ceiling. Then Armand saw his eyes widen, at the same moment he heard a great rending. Like a scream. The house was shrieking.
“No,” Jean-Guy shouted.
He started forward, but hands held him. He twisted and bucked, struggling to break free.
Members of the local Sûreté rescue team dragged him back, as the farmhouse disappeared into a cloud of snow.
“Holy hell,” whispered one of the agents.
As the structure fell, Benedict pulled Armand toward him.
“Get into the doorway,” the young man shouted.
Billy grabbed Myrna and just managed to leap in there before there was an almighty splitting sound.
They sank to their knees, eyes screwed shut. Clinging to each other. The violence was overwhelming. The din deafening. Disorienting. Banging, booming. Scraping. Screaming. From the house. From them. As the house came crashing down on top of them.
Rubble fell against Armand, pushing him sideways, but there was nowhere to go. Debris, wreckage, was closing in on both sides of them now. Pinning them there. Crushing them there.
Benedict pulled him closer, and he heard the sobbing of the boy, whose body was folded over his. Protecting him from the inevitable.
He could barely breathe now. There was room for only one thought. One feeling.