Part of Armand railed against the notion of fate, preferring to think they had at least some control over their lives. But another part of him found comfort in the idea of predestination.
So far the Fates had been kind. Though not everyone, looking at events in his life, especially recent ones, would agree.
But any agency that allowed him to spend a month by the lake with his family, then return home to this village, to have breakfast with close friends, his beloved wife by his side, was kind indeed.
“Armand?” said Myrna.
“Wake up, Clouseau,” said Ruth.
A car had stopped at the crest of the hill down into the village. The driver got out and stood, staring down.
The one investigator Armand had invited to join them at the cabin by the lake was Isabelle Lacoste.
“You know, patron,” she’d said as they strolled down the dirt road, the sound of laughing and screaming children fading into the distance, “this isn’t a social call. I’m here to question you, as part of the investigation.”
“I know. It’s all right.”
The last time she’d seen him was very different. She and her team from homicide had arrived in Three Pines, afraid of what they’d find.
What Inspector Lacoste found was Agent Choquet working on a badly wounded young man in the living room, another woman kneeling beside him, holding his hand and rocking back and forth. Whispering that it would be all right.
Chief Inspector Gamache was holding a bandage to Beauvoir’s bleeding head.
And a wild woman was standing in the middle of the room, clutching a tree branch.
“Oh, Isabelle. Thank God,” said Reine-Marie.
Lacoste scanned the room, making sure there were no threats, then turned to Gamache.
“Ambulances are on their way, patron,” said Lacoste. “Are you all right?”
Armand didn’t know how to answer that, so he said nothing. Isabelle understood. She went over and bent down beside the wounded man.
“I shot him,” whispered Choquet, trying to stem the bleeding.
Lacoste took her bloody hand and adjusted the pressure. “You were told to wait for backup.”
“Sorry. Next time.”
As Lacoste got up, she whispered, “Well done, Agent Choquet.”
Isabelle Lacoste had taken charge of the situation. Issuing orders, coordinating the collection of evidence. Placing the victims and witnesses in the kitchen, away from the shambles.
“John Fleming’s in the basement, Isabelle,” Gamache said to her quietly. “I killed him.”
It was a simple statement of fact that gave the man no pleasure. At all.
She’d gone into the basement and found the body. John Fleming was clearly dead. Still, as she’d approached him, Isabelle had slowed, then stopped.
The eyes, open, glassy, glaring, seemed to be inviting her closer. Trying to create an intimacy, into which he could place all the horrors of the world.
She did not back away. She did not blink. Isabelle Lacoste did the one thing she knew was a defense against this monster. Not prayer. Not singing.
Isabelle Lacoste smiled.
Then she stepped forward and closed those lunatic eyes for good.
Days later, she drove up to the lake house to debrief Beauvoir, Madame Gamache, and the Chief Inspector again. They’d been through it once, that night. But often the second time through was more useful, when the shock wore off.
She was just about to ask the first question when the Chief began to talk. His hands behind his back, his face forward, Armand told her what had happened. It felt a bit like he was relating a Grimms’ Tale, or a fable de La Fontaine.
A tale of demons and witches, hidden rooms and unexpected saviors.
Of Fate both cruel and kind.
Armand left his friends on the bistro terrasse and walked past their home, past the church. Up the hill, to greet the young woman he’d invited down.
Amelia Choquet had parked the Sûreté vehicle and was now standing on the grass verge, looking out past the village, to the forests and hills. To the endless expanse of what seemed wilderness but was not.
To find the wilderness, they had to look inward, not outward.
Amelia knew that. Had learned that on the streets. Here, now, she felt only peace.
“I’m glad you came,” said Armand.
They sat side by side on the bench in silence, warmed by the July sun.
Below them the villagers had gathered on the green. Armand and Amelia watched as Ruth and Rosa, Olivier and Gabri, Clara and Reine-Marie and Harriet formed a circle around Myrna. Monsieur Béliveau and Sarah the baker left their shops to join them.
Myrna lit something and passed it around.
“Looks like a huge joint,” said Amelia and heard the Chief Inspector grunt with amusement.
They both knew what it really was. A sage stick.
Each villager took the thick bundle of bound-up sage and sweetgrass and wafted the smoke over themselves. Smudging themselves. Cleansing themselves of any ill spirits, in a ritual as old as the hills and forests and streams.
“Well, that’s just weird,” said Amelia.
“Glass houses,” said Armand and saw her smile.
They watched for a little longer before he turned to her.
“Thank you. You saved our lives. My life. My family’s life.”
She looked at him. Saw the terrible scar at his temple. Saw the lines down his face. Saw the hurt, the pain, in his eyes as he thought of what might have been.
But there was something else in those eyes. A bright spot. Maybe from the sun.
Below them, the villagers were just making their way to the little chapel. Once there, Myrna wafted the sage toward the white clapboard building, taking extra care with the stained-glass boys.
Only when they disappeared inside did Amelia speak.
“I know it doesn’t make us even. But maybe it helps.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t make us even.” He turned to her again. “I am indebted to you. And I owe you an apology.”
She cocked her head, confused, but said nothing.
He took a breath. “When you first applied to the Sûreté Academy, I turned you down. Not because I didn’t think you’d make a good, even an exceptional, agent. But out of revenge.”
Instead of rushing his words, he spoke clearly, precisely. “I wanted to hurt you, to hurt your father.”
“Because of the death of your parents,” she said. “Because of what my father did.”
He exhaled a long, long breath. “Oui. I suspected if I turned you down, you’d remain on the streets.” He paused and gathered himself. “You would die on the streets.” He held her eyes. “I’m sorry. It was a terrible thing to do and I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Are you asking for forgiveness?”
He nodded. “I am.”
“I don’t see why. You did save me. You admitted me to the Academy.” She thought for a moment. “If you hadn’t, I couldn’t have saved you. Funny how that works.”
“Yes.” He watched the procession walk back across the village green and into the bookstore, where they would cleanse the loft. “Funny that.”
He looked down at his hands. He was clutching a book, and now he offered it to her.
“It belonged to my father. I want you to have it. I think he’d want it too. As thanks.”
She hesitated, but finally took it.
“Merci. It will be treasured. And for what it’s worth, patron, I forgive you too.”
The procession below them was now heading for the Gamache home, trailed by Henri, Fred, and Gracie. Harriet disengaged herself and approached JJ, the shining youth.
“Will you join us for Sunday dinner?” Armand asked Amelia. Who nodded.