At their front door, he paused.
“Open it, Armand.”
Even before stepping inside, he heard the dogs barking from behind the study door.
Then he saw Sam standing over Jean-Guy, who was slumped against the wall. His hands and legs bound up in Christmas tinsel. Blood streamed down his face, and a brick lay on the floor. But he was alive.
Sam was holding a gun. Beauvoir’s Glock.
“Jean-Guy,” said Reine-Marie, and tried to move forward, but Fleming held her fast. Sam cocked the gun and placed it to Beauvoir’s head.
Armand stared at Jean-Guy, who stared back. His eyes were bleary as he tried to focus.
“Désolé,” Jean-Guy whispered.
“Welcome home.”
Armand turned to the voice. Fiona was standing by the fireplace, holding the framed picture that had hung on the wall. It was done by his granddaughter, Florence, during the pandemic.
The little girl had drawn a cheerful rainbow and beneath it the words Ça va bien aller.
All will be well.
“You know my daughter,” said Fleming. “I want to thank you for looking after her. Making sure she was safe in prison. Getting the École Polytechnique to admit her into distance learning. People are kind. And then you vouched for her and got her released on parole. I am grateful.”
Fleming’s eyes flickered to the clock on the mantelpiece. As did Armand’s.
It was 11:21.
“And while Sam isn’t my biological son, he is family in every way that matters. I recognized that early on. I think you did too.” Fleming looked around. “I’ve always liked this room. Cheerful, welcoming. Filled with your treasures. A microcosm of a life fully lived, as the historians would say. Books. Family photographs. Art. That’s a Morrow, isn’t it? Some of this stuff no doubt picked up in galleries and flea markets on your travels together. Les Puces? You didn’t pick up on that, did you?” He nodded toward the framed drawing that Fiona held. “Done by one of your grandchildren, I imagine. I’ll be meeting them soon.”
“Don’t you—” began Reine-Marie.
Beauvoir shouted an expletive and struggled against his bonds. Sam placed his boot on Jean-Guy’s chest and pushed him roughly back against the wall.
“Ahhh, careful now,” Fleming whispered into Reine-Marie’s ear. His breath hot. Moist. “Best to learn from your husband. If you do nothing, there’s a possibility I’ll lose focus and then you’ll have your chance. That is what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Armand. What you’re waiting for?”
Armand was silent and Fleming sighed.
“I’ve planned meticulously. No piece out of place. Nothing extraneous. A purpose for everything. It took me years, but finally I knew I could predict your every move. Suspecting poor Monsieur Godin. He had to go, of course. Hiring poor Boisfranc. He was so grateful. Even the attack on Mongeau in the church. Sam did it, of course. A glancing blow, but enough to draw a lot of blood. I knew there was no way you’d let me go home alone. Not after that. I knew you’d have to invite me here. Into your home. Kindness kills. Remember that.”
Gamache felt physically sick. If it really was that well planned, then …
“Sylvie was Mountweazel, wasn’t she?” he finally said.
He’d at first thought their only real chance was to engage Fleming long enough for the Sûreté to arrive. Now he knew he didn’t have to. And he saw a tiny glimmer of hope.
The very thing that brought them to this could help them get out of it.
John Fleming was not only a planner, he was an overplanner. The details he was so proud of had allowed him to escape from the SHU, had brought them here, to this moment, but they also imprisoned him. He would not deviate from his plan.
Armand knew that John Fleming could have already killed them many times over. That much was obvious. But what was also now obvious was that he was waiting for the perfect time.
The right time. Eleven thirty.
Armand shifted his eyes to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, by where Fiona was standing. Her hand was resting on Florence’s drawing as though she enjoyed sullying one of their treasures.
Eleven twenty-two.
Eight minutes.
Think, think. Think.
Fleming’s eyes followed Armand’s. Then returned.
“All will not be well, of course.” It took Armand a fraction of a second to figure out what he was talking about. Fleming thought he was looking at Florence’s drawing. Not the clock.
Fleming didn’t realize Gamache knew the significance of the time.
“For you or, sadly, little Florence,” said Fleming. “Or Zora. Or Honoré, or even Idola.”
Jean-Guy shrieked, struggling, flailing against his restraints. “Fuck you. Fuck you!” he screamed. “I’ll kill you!!”
Fleming was smiling. Clearly fed and made plump by rage and terror.
“You didn’t think I’d stop with you? I’d hoped they’d all be here, but you were smart enough, Armand, to send everyone to the lake house. Lac Manitou. You didn’t pick up on that either, did you? In our conversation in the chapel I mentioned Lac Manitou. And even intimated I knew that Reine-Marie was in London. You’d sent out word that she was in Gaspé with a sister, so how could I possibly know she was in England? I wondered if I’d gone too far. But you didn’t notice. You were blinded by my grief, my sorrow at losing Sylvie. And so you missed the very clues that could have saved your wife. Your whole family. You were too slow.”
Armand was silent. Thinking. Thinking.
“If you loved her, why did you kill her?” asked Reine-Marie.
“I bet you can guess.” When Reine-Marie was silent, he turned to Armand. Who also remained quiet. “Guess!” Fleming shrieked.
The dogs set up more barking, throwing themselves against the study door.
Fleming’s restraints were weakening, Gamache could see. The outbursts coming more frequently, with greater and greater force.
Whether this was in their favor or not, he didn’t know.
“Release Reine-Marie, let her come over here, and I’ll tell you.”
Fleming grinned. “Really? That’s your idea of bargaining? Telling me something I already know in exchange for a hostage?” He looked at Reine-Marie. “Did you know you married not just a coward but an idiot? I’ll tell you what, Armand. I won’t slit her throat right now if you tell me. But make sure you’re right. If you’re wrong…”
Armand stared at him for a moment. His mind working fast. “You killed her because she’d invited Myrna over for tea.”
He’d considered this before, but with all that had happened in the meantime, he had to recall the details. The theory.
“Sylvie made it sound like it was for the book, but you knew you weren’t even halfway through the one you were reading together, so why would Sylvie ask for another? You were afraid it was about something else. You were afraid of what Sylvie was going to say to Myrna. A therapist.” As he said that he could see that it was wrong. Regroup. Regroup. “But more than that, she’s Harriet’s aunt. You were afraid that Sylvie, so close to death, might be trying to make amends. It wouldn’t be much, could not right the balance of what you and she have done, but it might save at least one life. She would warn Myrna about Sam.”
He looked over at the young man, smirking.
“Did you kill her?” Armand asked. “Harriet.”
“What do you think?”
Reine-Marie groaned, and took several quick, shallow breaths.
“You were afraid that, doped up on painkillers, she’d even confess who you really are,” Armand continued. “And so you killed her.”