Fleming’s face had grown hard, his grip on the knife had tightened. Armand had to do something. Say something.
“But finally, you did it out of love and kindness. As you say, kindness kills.”
Sam, Fiona, Jean-Guy, Reine-Marie, and even Fleming all looked at him, astonished.
“Sylvie was facing a long, painful death.” Armand glanced at Jean-Guy, then continued. “It wasn’t murder, it was a mercy killing.”
“It wasn’t a mercy killing,” Jean-Guy shouted. “It wasn’t love. It was the cold-blooded act of a lunatic.”
Sam made a move, but Fleming stopped him. Recognizing what Jean-Guy was trying to do. Perhaps even seeing the collusion between the two Sûreté officers.
Beauvoir was trying to provoke one of them into hitting him. And that would be the distraction, the moment Armand needed.
The focus would shift, and in that split second he would make his move.
Armand had worked it out. Everything that would happen.
Fleming would be, for just a moment, distracted by the attack on Jean-Guy. Allowing Armand to rush forward, grabbing Fleming’s hand and yanking the knife away from Reine-Marie’s throat.
Run! Run! he’d shout.
By then Sam would have turned the gun on him.
Fleming was older. Smaller. If he could just reach him, Armand was confident he could easily overpower the man and use him as a shield. Sam would shoot, but the bullet would hit Fleming. Armand would push the body forward, onto Sam. That would give him the seconds he’d need to tackle the younger man.
Sam was fitter, younger, stronger. But Armand had the great advantage of experience. And desperation. He would subdue Sam.
But none of that happened.
CHAPTER 38
There was no reception. No signal. No signal.
Amelia kept stopping to check.
She had to get to the Chief Inspector. She’d seen the message from the coroner telling him that Boisfranc was Fleming. But he wasn’t.
The caretaker, now disemboweled, was one of his victims.
She knew what must’ve happened. The glass she’d picked up from the caretaker’s room had someone else’s DNA. The only other person who used the basement kitchen was the minister, Robert Mongeau.
Could he have done it on purpose? Handling things in the caretaker’s small bedroom so his DNA would be on it and forensics would mistake it for Boisfranc’s? They’d see the match with Fiona and assume Boisfranc was Fleming.
That’s exactly what had happened.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Robert Mongeau was the escaped serial killer. He was in Gamache’s home and the Chief Inspector had no idea.
No signal. No signal.
She and Harriet raced, then stopped. Raced forward through the forest, then stopped to check her phone.
No signal. No …
One bar.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” said Amelia, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hit the right icon for Gamache’s number.
It rang. And rang.
No answer. No answer.
“Ffffffuck.” She called headquarters and spoke to the duty officer. Giving him the information even as she ran.
He already knew. Had received a message from the Chief Inspector minutes ago saying Robert Mongeau, the minister, was John Fleming. Amelia then found the same message on her phone.
Gamache knew, so there was a chance …
But the message said no more. If the Chief Inspector could, he would have issued orders. Instructions. More information.
But there was nothing beyond those few words: Mongeau is Fleming.
Fortunately, Agent Choquet knew exactly where John Fleming was, and she told the duty officer.
“His home?” said the agent, unable to conceal his shock. “The serial killer is in Chief Inspector Gamache’s home?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sending every agent down and alerting the local detachment. I’ll trace his phone and let you know where the Chief is.”
But Amelia feared it was already too late. Feared what the silence from the Chief Inspector meant. Feared what they would find once there. Not just Gamache, but Beauvoir and Madame Gamache as well.
As soon as she’d gotten to the lake house, Amelia had been told that Madame Gamache had returned to Three Pines. Amelia had immediately rushed back.
Now she could feel the panic rising, threatening to overwhelm her. She tamped it down.
“My aunt,” said Harriet. “We can call her. She can go over.”
“And then what?” They were running again. Tripping, helping each other up. Holding each other’s arms as they ran through the forest toward the car. “If she goes over there, she’ll be killed.”
She’d almost said “too.” Killed too.
Six minutes.
A phone rang. It was Beauvoir’s. It was lying on the floor where it had fallen when Sam hit him.
Sam picked it up. “Amelia Choquet,” he read on the screen. “There’s a text from her too, and an earlier one from”—he turned to Gamache—“you.”
Fleming raised his brows. “Now, what could you have said? Open it.”
Jean-Guy shook his head.
Fleming grabbed Reine-Marie again. “Open it,” he shouted.
“You’ll have to untie me,” said Beauvoir.
Armand held his breath. Do it. Do it.
He tried to keep his expression blank. His body unchanged. Even as he prepared to move.
Do it.
Fleming nodded, and Sam walked over to Gamache, holding the phone out.
“I hope you have the code.” Fleming needed to say no more.
Resigned, Armand took the phone and punched in the numbers. He’d hoped and prayed this wouldn’t happen. But there was nothing he could do now. They had one chance and now it seemed even that was gone.
Sam grabbed the phone back and read the two texts. Amelia’s first.
“Well, looks like they found Boisfranc. They must think Godin is you,” he said to Fleming.
Then Sam’s face grew hard, his eyes narrowed, as he read the next text. From Gamache.
“What is it?” said Fiona.
Sam turned the phone around and showed the message to Fleming. It was—it should have been—the distraction Armand needed, but Sam was blocking his view of Reine-Marie. He couldn’t see the knife. Couldn’t see, or get to, Fleming.
He had to let it pass. Time and patience. He was running out of both.
When Sam stepped aside, Armand saw Fleming’s eyes drilled into him. “Seems, Armand, you were slightly smarter than I thought. You figured it out.”
“What did he figure out?” Fiona demanded.
“He sent a text to his entire team telling them that I’m Fleming. They’ll have alerted the local Sûreté.”
“Shit,” she said, heading for the door. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“Where’re you going?” demanded Sam.
“To look out for them, where do you think?”
They both looked at Fleming, who nodded to her. “Go. Warn us when you see them.”
This was unexpected. The first wrench in the works. And the meticulous Fleming hated wrenches. He had very little ability, or need, to pivot.
Until now.
Gamache’s body tingled, every nerve jangling. How would Fleming react? Would he slaughter them all now and run, like any sensible lunatic? Or stick to the plan?
“Fuck,” said Sam. “We have to do it now. Then get out.”
“No,” shouted Fleming. “Not yet. Four minutes. But”—he stared at Gamache—“we can make a start. I believe you have those photographs in your pocket. Take them out, Armand.”
When he hesitated, Fleming screamed, “Take them out!”
Armand took a deep breath, then put his hand in his pocket and brought out the pictures. Used in court. The ones that, like Medusa, changed anyone who looked at them forever.