But what her sense of sight lacked, her hearing made up for.
Every snap of a twig became a gunshot. The claws of chipmunks running up trees became monsters approaching. All around her there were howls as one creature chased another. And shrieks when they were caught.
But the loudest sounds were the pounding of her heart and the chattering of her teeth as the cold settled into her bones.
Above her there was a cry and the scrape of sharp nails.
Harriet got up and ran. And ran.
Amelia gave the cutlery and glass to the coroner.
The cutlery was labeled, Sam Arsenault and Fiona Arsenault, and had come from the bistro. The glass she’d lifted from the caretaker’s makeshift bedroom in the church basement.
It had taken Amelia just a moment to realize that the Chief Inspector’s fingers hitting the table wasn’t involuntary. He was tapping out a message. One he knew she’d be able to follow from all the times she’d used her tongue stud to send some Morse code message.
Generally Fucking liar. Sometimes Shithead. Never directed at the Chief Inspector himself, often about some suspect.
She hadn’t realized that he’d understood. Now she did, and she’d clicked out her reply.
I understand.
Amelia had left the bistro, gone quietly to the church to do as he’d ordered, then driven directly to the coroner to drop the items off.
“Do you want to wait for the results?” Dr. Harris asked. “Shouldn’t take too long.”
“Non, merci. You can message them to the Chief.”
Dr. Harris looked over, but the young agent was already gone. She shook her head. What Gamache had been thinking admitting her into the Academy, then into homicide, was beyond her.
It was just after ten p.m.
Beauvoir was upstairs, keeping watch on Mongeau, while Armand settled into his office after checking and double-checking the doors and windows. Again. All were locked. No one could get in.
And no one could get out.
Sam Arsenault wondered if he dared risk breaking the glass ball but decided against it.
It would be more fun to do it in front of Gamache. So that the cop could see. Could slowly grasp. Could understand what was about to happen.
He looked at his watch and settled in.
Not long now. Time was almost up.
He tossed the Christmas ornament back and forth, then bobbled it and reached out. But it slipped between his fingers.
Armand heard a sound.
It seemed to be coming from the basement.
Getting up, he cocked his head. Listening closely. He looked toward the wall safe, hidden behind the bookcase, where he kept his service gun.
Should he?
He, better than most, knew the dangers of a loaded gun in a private residence. While he knew how to use it, and how to defend himself, Armand also knew how often even cops were disarmed. With catastrophic results, and not just for the cop.
Still, this wasn’t just any night. He stepped toward the safe, then paused.
He looked over at Henri, who’d been curled at his feet and had lifted his head, his prodigious ears now folded against the underside of the desk.
Gracie was snoring away on the sofa in the living room. Fred was nowhere to be seen. Armand smiled. This had happened before. Fred, being considerably smarter than Henri, which was not actually difficult, had long ago realized the stash of dog food and treats was kept in the basement. Albeit well beyond his reach, but still there.
It was, for the old dog, his sacred place.
If the basement door was left even slightly ajar, Fred managed to get down, but being arthritic and almost blind, could not get back up.
That must be it.
Armand left the gun locked in place and headed for the basement. Sure enough, the door was open, Fred-width wide.
“Fred?”
Sam froze.
Fuck. He turned off the flashlight app, took out the hunting knife, and got into crouching position.
Armand started down, flicking on the lights.
Sure enough, there at the bottom was the old dog, smiling up at him. Front paws on the lowest step, his tail swished back and forth, back and forth.
“Silly boy,” said Armand, going down.
Sam gripped the knife and pressed his back to the wall, ducking beside the huge box of Christmas ornaments. It was an imperfect hiding place, but the best he could do.
In the dark he hadn’t seen the dog. Hadn’t even heard him. Which was a good thing for the dog.
Now he made himself small, compact, coiled. Ready. Steady.
If Gamache turned in this direction and saw him, Sam knew he could get across the space before the cop had a chance to react.
It would be over in seconds.
Please, please, please turn.
Armand got to the bottom and scooped up the old dog, holding him securely in his arms. Then he turned.
Sam braced.
Armand’s eyes went to the closed door at the far end of the room.
It was still closed, but was it locked?
He considered going over to check, but his arms were full of Fred, and he had no reason to believe the door wasn’t locked since he was the one with the code.
Armand turned back and walked up the stairs, using his elbow to turn off the lights.
Sam exhaled, though he was disappointed.
He’d imagined plunging the knife into the man. He’d done it before. Felt the knife go in, so easily. He’d seen the shock in the eyes. Not pain. Not right away. Just surprise, as the man, the woman, had looked at the handsome young fellow they’d trusted. Who’d just killed them.
He’d remove the knife and strike again. And again. Feeling the breath, the life, leave.
He’d done it to strangers and near strangers. But never had he killed anyone he actually hated.
Until tonight.
Sam knew it would be far more satisfying if it didn’t come as a complete surprise to the cop. If Gamache knew, for a while, what was going to happen.
Still, he could not help but be disappointed.
Armand returned Fred to the living room, lowering him onto his favorite place at the other end of the sofa from where Gracie lay snorting. Then he kissed Fred’s smelly head.
When he returned to his office, he found a message from Amelia.
She’d dropped off the items and was heading up to Lac Manitou. She’d be there in twenty minutes.
Armand then went back over the reports, the photographs, the conversations. He considered returning downstairs and consulting, yet again, the files in his private archive. But decided that wouldn’t get him anywhere.
He knew them by heart. Wished he didn’t. But did.
He sat back and stared out the window. Three Pines was going to sleep.
Time’s up.
He glanced at Myrna’s bookstore. Then lifted his eyes to her loft.
Gabri was right. It all started when they’d opened the wall and found the room. Found what was in there.
Found what Fleming wanted them, him, to see.
There is always another story / There is more than meets the eye.
There must be something he’d missed. And if that something was anywhere, it was in the painting.
He told Beauvoir he was returning, briefly, to the Incident Room. Then, just before he left, his phone buzzed with a message from Dr. Harris. The coroner had the results of the DNA tests.