“She was a child herself. Even if she did those things, was she likely to be able to make rational decisions? I don’t think so.”
“But still…” Mongeau struggled. He looked around and settled on the brittle boys before turning back to Gamache. “If she did those things, if she couldn’t tell right from wrong then, are you sure she can now? I know you believe in second chances. So do I. God knows, I’ve been given one. But there is a limit, isn’t there? Could she still … be a danger?”
Armand lifted his hands in resignation. “I don’t think she ever was.”
He’d fought the prosecutor’s decision. He’d been appalled, infuriated, that they’d tried Fiona Arsenault as an adult. That they’d tried her at all. He’d argued that even if what Sam said was true, Fiona was clearly not responsible for her actions. She’d been hurt, abused, raised in a twisted environment without a moral compass or a role model. She needed help, not punishment.
He’d argued, even shouted at the prosecutor. To the point where he’d been threatened with expulsion from his office.
Not only was it patently unfair to try Fiona as an adult, there was another reason the head of homicide fought so hard to have the charges reduced or dropped completely.
He didn’t believe Fiona had acted alone. In fact, he came to believe that Fiona hadn’t even conceived the plan. Sam had. And he suspected Sam had hurt himself in that alley, banging his head against a wall to create injuries that looked much worse than they were. Head wounds bled, and there was a lot of blood. But they were, finally, superficial.
It was not a murder attempt. It was an attempt to shift blame.
He did not tell Robert Mongeau this. Only Beauvoir knew his suspicions. Ones that could never be proved.
And so the case had gone to trial. Sam had, at the very least, been an accomplice in the murder of his mother. That was not denied. But he was deemed too young, too fragile, too damaged to know what he was doing. The prosecution argued that he’d been controlled, abused, assaulted by his older sister.
Sam Arsenault was sent to what was apparently a happy and calm foster home, where he was followed closely and received psychiatric help.
Fiona was convicted and sentenced to fifteen years in prison.
“But if Sam was cleared of all charges,” Mongeau asked, “why that look between you last night? He looked…” The minister searched for the word. “I honestly don’t know how he looked. But it wasn’t pleasant. And you.” He stared at Gamache, bathed in the light through the stained-glass boys. “Forgive me, Armand, and I might be very wrong, but just for a moment there you looked frightened.”
Armand was about to deny it, then stopped himself. Robert Mongeau was right. He was afraid of Sam Arsenault. Yesterday had confirmed what Armand had suspected. The boy, now the man, could still get into his head. Could still mess around in there.
Only one other person had been able to do that. A serial killer, a psychopath named John Fleming. A genuine lunatic who was now in prison for life. Not the person you want wandering around in your thoughts. And since thoughts can drive feelings, he’d invaded those as well.
Armand checked once a year to be sure Fleming was still in the Special Handling Unit, reserved for the most dangerous criminals. Though no one would ever release such a maniac.
And now, Sam Arsenault was not just in his head, he was in the village where Armand lived. Where his family and friends lived.
Yes, Armand was frightened. It was a free-floating fear. As though an arrow had been shot but hadn’t yet found its target.
“You might be right” was all he said to the minister, and made a note that not much got by this man. “I seem to have dominated the conversation. I meant to ask how you are.”
Mongeau took a deep breath and exhaled. “Honestly? I’m frightened too. What a pair we make.” He gave a small laugh, then looked around. “As long as I’m here, in this space, I feel at peace. I know what’s happening to Sylvie is God’s will.” He could not bring himself to say exactly what was happening. “And that thought comforts me, while I’m here. But as soon as I leave, go through that door, I’m lost and terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Of losing her, of course.”
“But there’s more,” said Armand, quietly.
The minister looked at his companion and seemed to come to a decision. “I’m afraid of not being enough. Not being able to do it. I’m afraid it’ll get so bad I’ll run away. Not physically but emotionally. I’m afraid I already am, when I come here. To hide.” He appealed to Armand. “You know?”
Armand nodded. He knew that feeling. The fear of not being strong enough. Not being able to do what was needed.
“This isn’t hiding, this is comfort. This is respite. It gives you the strength you need to go back and be there with Sylvie. For her. It’s natural to feel as you do. It would be strange if you didn’t. Believe me, you won’t run away.” He remembered the dance from the night before. The intimacy. “If you ever feel you want to, come to me. We’ll talk. Sylvie knows she’s loved. What more do any of us want?”
“Time?” Robert looked around again as though surprised to find himself there. Then, placing his hands on his knees, he pushed himself up. “Merci, mon ami. I might take you up on that. But only if you promise to come to me when you’re afraid.”
“Deal.”
“Shall we go back and join our wives?”
Now you will feel no rain / For each of you will be shelter for the other, Armand thought as he too got to his feet. It was the First Nations blessing he and Reine-Marie had had read at their wedding.
Now there is no more loneliness.
Go now to your dwelling place / To enter into the days of your togetherness.
He and Robert emerged into the sunshine of the early June day. In this village that seemed to defy time. If only, thought Armand, that were true.
And may your days be good and long upon this earth.
Clara, Ruth, Myrna, and Billy Williams sat on the terrasse with a pitcher of iced tea, and waved as Armand and the minister walked across the green. Armand waved back, then noticed Harriet sitting at another table. Wearing dark glasses. He was about to go over and find out how her head was when Fiona and Sam emerged from the bistro with three lemonades and joined her.
Sam looked at him, and in an instant Armand was back in the courtroom.
Chief Inspector Gamache remembered one thing above all else from that day. It wasn’t the verdict. It wasn’t even Fiona being led away.
No, what lived in the longhouse of Armand’s memory was Sam Arsenault when the verdict was read.
The boy had turned to him and winked.
And he did it again now.
CHAPTER 13
“So,” said Clara, turning to Myrna. “I have to ask. What’s with the brick?”
“Yes,” said Ruth. “Exactly. I was going to ask but thought it might be rude.”
They stared at her.
“Don’t you mean not rude enough?” asked Gabri.
He’d brought over another pitcher of iced tea and what looked like a scotch for Ruth but was actually also tea and had pulled up a chair to join them.
“I think the brick was a kindness,” said Ruth.
Now their eyes widened. Shocked she even knew the word, never mind claimed to recognize an act of kindness.
“Harriet must know you’re one brick short of a—”
“There it is,” said Clara.
“Either that, or that you’re as thick as a—”
“So,” Clara asked Myrna. “What’s the story?”
“Starving student?” said Gabri. “Couldn’t afford anything, so she gave you—”
“A brick?” said Clara.