“Put them on the table.”
Armand did.
“Back up. Further.”
Armand did.
Fleming nodded to Sam. “Give them each one.”
Reine-Marie took it but didn’t look. Instead, she kept her eyes on her husband. She saw in him a profound sadness, and apology.
“Look at it!” Fleming screamed, tightening his grip until she could barely breathe.
“Fleming,” shouted Armand.
“Stay where you are. Look at the photograph. Look at what’s about to happen to you.”
And Reine-Marie did. And Jean-Guy did.
Armand watched their faces pale. Watched fear turn to terror turn to horror. Watched as the size of the monster in the room with them became clear.
Agent Choquet and Harriet stopped, gasping for breath, at the top of the hill that overlooked Three Pines. A message had come through.
“Gamache’s phone is in the Old Train Station,” said Amelia.
Harriet took off. Maybe this, she thought, was why she’d spent her adult life running. She’d thought it was to get away, but maybe she’d been in training to run toward.
Amelia chased after the wild woman, who was still clinging to the tree branch as though it were a club. It looked like Amelia had stumbled across the missing link in the forest outside Three Pines. There was something primal not just in Harriet’s appearance, but in her being.
Her lifelong flight response had turned to fight.
“Three minutes. I, of course, will be the one to finish what you started, Armand, so many years ago. When you broke your promise to me. But I promised young Sam here that he could help. And I keep my word.”
He nodded to Sam, who tucked Beauvoir’s gun into his belt and approached Gamache with the hunting knife.
“I’ve hated you from the first moment you came into our house,” said Sam. “When you ruined everything.”
Armand kept his eyes on Reine-Marie, and she on him. But he could see Sam getting closer.
Come on. Come on, Armand begged. Come get me.
“Look at me!” shouted Sam. His arm shot out, bringing the blade to Gamache’s throat. But Armand did not move his eyes from Reine-Marie.
Closer. Come closer. Come on, you little shit. Just one more step.
Another few inches and Armand could grab the gun from Sam’s belt.
Come on. Come on.
He could shoot Fleming before the man knew what was happening. And he could overpower Sam. He knew he could. The adrenaline was rushing through him. His senses in overdrive. True, the knife might slash his throat, but Gamache knew there’d be a few precious seconds of consciousness. And that was all he’d need.
He didn’t drop his eyes, didn’t want Sam or Fleming to know what he was about to do.
Come on.
“Wait, stop,” commanded Fleming. “Step away. Give me the gun.”
Sam did.
Fleming held it up and looked at Armand. “Well, that was close.”
Armand knew then that Fleming had done it on purpose. Allowed Sam to get within inches. Allowed Armand to hope, hope, that there was a chance.
Only to take it away.
Seeing this, Jean-Guy began to flail. Struggling to get his hands free. But he could not. The cords were tied too tight. In knots, he realized, he’d taught Sam after the boy had been kicked out of Scouts.
Jean-Guy had asked Sam why, but hadn’t asked the Scout leader. If he had, he’d have discovered that it wasn’t because Sam wet his bed during a sleepover, as Sam claimed. It was because the boy, all of twelve, had killed a cat, and the Scout leader had found out.
Had the Scout leader not taken pity on the boy, knowing his background, had the Scout leader warned the authorities, had the authorities warned the foster home. Had the foster home looked in the crawl space, they’d have found the other creatures Sam Arsenault had eviscerated.
Then none of this would have happened.
But none of that happened.
Instead, Jean-Guy had taken it upon himself to teach the boy some of the things he might have learned in Scouts. Like tying knots.
Armand had warned him not to get too close. But Jean-Guy did not agree with Gamache. He knew that Sam was the victim and Fiona was the dangerous one. The psychopath.
They were both right, and both wrong.
Jean-Guy rolled and thrashed, fighting to get loose. Honoré, Idola. Annie.
Annie. Honoré. Idola. Jean-Guy bucked and fought and struggled.
Tears of frustration and rage and terror blinded him. He howled his outrage.
Henri and Fred and Gracie were barking and scratching and throwing themselves against the study door.
Armand’s eyes fell on the picture his granddaughter had made when all seemed so dark, so hopeless, during the pandemic. When something as simple as going to the grocery store was a life-and-death act.
When something as simple as an act of kindness by children could give hope.
Ça va bien aller.
There was always hope. If he was right, if he was right. If …
It was a huge “if.” He feared it was magical thinking. But Armand Gamache believed in magic.
Amelia’s phone rang.
“Where are you?” the voice demanded.
The person didn’t identify herself, didn’t have to. It was Isabelle Lacoste, Inspector Lacoste, who shared second-in-command duties with Inspector Beauvoir.
“Almost at the Incident Room in Three Pines.”
“The local Sûreté is still seven minutes away. I’m right behind them. Are you armed?”
“Oui.”
“Wait for backup.”
“Oui.”
“Eleven thirty, Armand. You know the significance.”
“Non.”
He did, of course, but wanted to shove Fleming closer to the edge. To give him the impression that something so significant to him meant nothing to the man he hated.
It also kept Fleming’s attention on him. Away from Reine-Marie. Away from Jean-Guy.
Think. Think. Come on.
Gamache’s eyes now gripped Fleming’s.
He could see this insult was working. Fleming, wildly unpredictable, was becoming more unbalanced.
Come on.
“You fucker. You do know. I know you know.”
Gamache just shrugged. “Désolé, but that time means nothing to me.”
He saw Fleming’s eyes narrow. The risk, the terrible risk, was that in pushing Fleming so far, the man would first do harm to Reine-Marie before turning on him.
He could see it in Fleming’s eyes. In his grip on the knife. His grip on Reine-Marie tightening.
“Oh, wait. Is that the time when you left the SHU?” he asked, pulling Fleming back from the cliff.
Fleming glared at him and loosened his grip, slightly. “It’s the time you dragged me back in.”
“Right. But for a brilliant man, you must’ve known I’d never let you out.”
Gamache was scrambling to keep Fleming focused and occupied. And just off-balance enough.
Push, recover. Push, recover.
“The very fact that you thought I would proves your insanity,” Gamache continued. “And now you think you’ve bested me? Do I look like a man in despair? You know, somewhere in that lunatic brain of yours, that there’s something you’ve forgotten, John.”
The room had grown quiet. Beauvoir had stopped shouting. Even the dogs were silent. Time had suspended. The earth had stopped moving.
Armand could see it in Fleming’s eyes. Finally. Finally.
If Fleming could get into Gamache’s head, and he could, then Gamache could get into Fleming’s.