Her heart pounded, her head pounded.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
After what seemed hours, she’d exhausted herself. No one answered. No one came. But they must have been looking for them. A search party? Someone would know they were missing.
Myrna sat in the bistro with Ruth and Clara.
They were silent. Ruth had told them what had happened to Robert.
“Something’s wrong,” she now said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.
“I’d call murder and attempted murder more than wrong,” said Clara.
“I need to find Harriet,” said Myrna. “I need to make sure she’s all right.”
“She is,” said Gabri, joining them. “Fiona came and got them some dinner. They’re eating at the B&B.”
“I guess she’s not ready to see you yet,” said Clara.
She glanced over at Ruth, who was staring into the fire.
“Well, they’re not starving,” said Gabri. “Chicken thighs for him, roasted cauliflower and grilled salmon for her.”
“That’s not right,” said Myrna. “Must be the other way around. Harriet hates fish.”
“Guess so,” said Gabri. “I must’ve heard wrong.”
“You need to eat,” said Armand.
He’d warmed up some broth and cut a slice of fresh bread for Robert, placing a slab of aged cheddar on the side of the dish. All bland, but nourishing.
Robert picked up the mug of soup, then put it down again, as though it were too heavy.
“I’d like to get some sleep if that’s all right with you, Armand.”
He helped Robert upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms, the minister leaning heavily on his arm. After getting him showered, Armand put Robert into fresh pajamas, then tucked him into bed. The meds had kicked in, and the minister had become groggy.
Armand had read the doctor’s instructions. He was to waken Robert every couple of hours, to make sure he was all right.
Armand checked the windows. Where normally he’d have opened one for fresh air, now he made sure they were closed and locked.
He then went through the rest of the house, checking and double-checking. Turning on all the lights. He was not sure if it was for strategic purposes or because he knew, from childhood, that monsters hate the light.
He suspected the latter. He also found himself singing softly as he went.
“Hooray for Captain Spaulding…”
Jean-Guy had texted. He was on his way back. While the early June sun was still just over the horizon in the village, it had gotten too dark in the forest to continue. The searches for Godin and Boisfranc would have to pick up at first light.
Once every room had been searched, every closet opened, the underside of every bed inspected, every window locked, every light turned on, Armand returned to the living room.
Reine-Marie and Amelia’s flight would be landing soon.
He wrote both to say an agent would meet them at the airport and drive them straight to the lake house in the Laurentians where the rest of the family was staying.
He then wrote separately to Agent Choquet.
Do not leave Madame Gamache. You are to guard her and the family. Confirm.
Twenty minutes later Jean-Guy returned. They did not eat dinner. Neither was especially hungry, but there was another reason. Both knew if there were injuries, if surgery was needed, it was best to have an empty stomach.
Messages came through twenty minutes later, from both Reine-Marie and Amelia. They were on their way to the cabin.
Armand’s shoulders dropped a little. One less worry.
He and Jean-Guy spent the early evening going over and over the evidence. They discussed, but mostly they waited.
For Fleming.
And then, at almost nine p.m., there was a knock on the door.
CHAPTER 35
Chief Inspector Gamache stared at Agent Choquet in disbelief.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I came back to help—”
“You disobeyed orders,” snapped Beauvoir, striding over. Blood was traveling up his cheeks, like a cartoon thermometer. Half of her expected his head to explode. The other half was aware that blood was also mounting her own cheeks.
Beyond Amelia, Armand saw Fiona and Sam walking to the bistro. His mind worked quickly.
“Come with me,” he said to Amelia, then turned to Jean-Guy. “Stay here and make sure Robert is all right. We’ll be at the bistro. You’re armed?”
“Oui.”
“I won’t be long.”
As they walked down the path toward the road and the village green, Amelia could feel the Inspector’s eyes boring into her back.
“You promised,” said the Chief, not looking at her as he strode across the green.
“Pardon?” she said, jogging beside him.
“You said you’d protect Madame Gamache, but you didn’t. You left her.” His voice was soft, calm. It was this very calm that chilled her core.
“Désolée,” she said. “But Madame Gamache—”
He stopped abruptly and turned to her, on her, as she skidded to a halt. “Is not the head of homicide. Madame Gamache does not have the information I have.” The effort to keep his voice down, and keep his anger in check, made the words raspy. “Madame Gamache does not give you orders. Madame Gamache”—he paused, marshaling himself—“must. Be. Protected.”
The Gamaches’ feelings for each other were plain for anyone to see, but in that instant Amelia saw more. She saw into his soul. And there, smiling, her arms open, was Madame Gamache.
And Amelia almost burst into tears, so painful was the thought of one losing the other. And it being her fault.
Madame Gamache had told her to return. To protect her husband.
And Amelia had done it. Partly because Madame Gamache had insisted, and partly because of what she owed this man. But now she realized her great mistake.
If “Désolée” ever described anyone, it was Amelia Choquet at that moment.
“I’ll leave right now,” she said. “I’ll go back up.”
“You’ll stay right here until I tell you to leave.”
Gamache stepped away, turned away, and brought out his phone.
Robert Mongeau was right. While he often told Reine-Marie that he loved her, he hesitated to say that he missed her, out of fear she’d feel guilty when she left to visit family or friends.
He never, ever wanted her to feel that. And so he’d kept that last bit to himself. But now he saw he’d been wrong. Whatever happened, and Armand knew that it would be soon, he wanted nothing left unsaid.
I love you, he typed. I miss you. Terribly.
He erased the “terribly.” Then put it back in and quickly hit send before he spent half the night erasing and adding, erasing and adding that one word. And never sending the message.
Then he turned back to Agent Choquet. “Let’s go.”
Myrna and Clara were standing by their table, and Myrna glanced at Gamache and Choquet when they arrived in the bistro, but her eyes were drawn to Sam Arsenault, who was sitting with his sister.
“Don’t,” said Clara. “You’ll just make it worse.”
But it was too late. Myrna was already on the move.
“Where’s Harriet?” she demanded when she was only halfway across the room.
Seeing her weaving between tables, patrons lurched forward to protect their wineglasses and plates from the juggernaut.
Sam stood up, looking confused. “She’s at the B&B. I thought you knew.”
“Why isn’t she here?”
“She didn’t want to come over. She was afraid to see you. You know her. She hates confrontation.”