And there it was. There she was.
“When Leduc was talking about the pathetic new crop of cadets, he mentioned her specifically. The name was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. But when Leduc told me that he’d rejected her application, and that you’d reversed the decision and accepted her, it fell into place. I knew who she was and I knew why she was here.”
“Why?”
“Service. Integrity. Justice. You were handed the means, finally, for justice.”
“You think I meant to hurt her?”
“Didn’t you? Why else bring her here? Why else admit a girl so clearly unsuited to police work?”
“Unsuited? Why? Because she’s different? Non, Michel. The purpose wasn’t revenge or even justice. It wasn’t to hurt her. It was to save her.”
Michel Brébeuf stared. Blank. Uncomprehending.
“And to save myself,” admitted Armand. “The only way I could really be free wasn’t to add hurt to hurt, but to do something decent. I won’t say it was easy. You have no idea how many times I returned her dossier to the rejected pile. Knowing what it would mean for her. A life of despair. And finally Amelia Choquet would be found in an alley or gutter or rooming house. Dead.”
Armand looked down at his hands, at the tiny scar on the one finger.
“You did it to save her?” asked Michel, dumbfounded. “Her?”
“Oui. And you know what, Michel? She’s the brightest, the most remarkable young woman. She’ll be running the S?reté one day.”
And still Michel stared.
Gamache leaned in. “You put her partial prints on the gun, knowing she’d be suspected. You stole her copy of the map and placed it in Leduc’s bedside table. And that was the other reason I knew it was you. The scene was so beautifully set. Everything subtle, suggestive. No glaring finger pointing her way. Just tiny crumbs through a forest of evidence. Leading to Amelia Choquet. With me as a temporary way station. But they’d have gotten to her eventually.”
Michel Brébeuf moved his hand to the gun, slowly closing it around the grip.
“And that was your plan. You wanted her charged and found guilty of the murder of Serge Leduc.”
“I did it so that you didn’t have to.”
He stood up and raised the gun.
Armand got to his feet and held out his hand.
“The gun, please, Michel.”
Brébeuf stepped back and, tightening his grip on the weapon, he put it to his temple.
“Non,” said Gamache, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, trying to bring reason into a situation that was spinning out of control.
The look on Michel’s face was the same one he’d had when Armand had pressed the handkerchief to his bleeding knee. Such pain.
And once again, Armand was desperate to stanch the wound.
His hand, still held out, had begun to tremble, and he forced himself to steady it. “Do you remember at my parents’ funeral, the gathering in my home after? With the finger food and the silence. All the adults moving about like zombies. Avoiding me because they had nothing to say.” He spoke quickly, urgently, trying to form a bridge with his words, to bring Michel back. “I just sat there. You came over and sat beside me, and then you whispered so that no one else heard. Do you remember what you said?”
The gun lowered just a little.
“You’re a dirty rascal,” Michel whispered.
Armand nodded. “You made me smile. I didn’t think I’d ever do that again, but you showed me I could. You gave me hope that it would get better.”
The gun lowered a little more.
“It seems hopeless now, I know,” said Armand. “It feels like there’s no way out. I understand. You know I do.”
Michel nodded.
“But it will get better. Even this. I promise.”
“I followed you home, you know, one night,” said Michel. “To your village.”
“That was you?”
“I wanted to see where you lived.” He paused. “It was so peaceful. I sat in the car and longed to drive down and join you. To maybe buy a little cottage and have drinks every evening in that brasserie. Maybe join a book club.”
This was the worst ghost story yet. The phantom life that might have been.
“I’ll die in prison. You know that. Of old age. Or someone, one night, will beat me to death. Someone who knows who I used to be. How is it better to die there than here?”
The gun was raised again, and now Armand brought up both hands. Not reaching for the gun, but for the man, just out of reach.
“Give me your hand,” he pleaded. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. Come with me. Please, Michel.”
Michel dropped his eyes to the outstretched hands, then raised his gaze to Armand’s eyes as he pressed the gun to his temple.
“For God’s sake,” Armand whispered. “Don’t. I’m begging you. Please.” He searched his mind for something, anything, to say. To stop this. “Would you condemn me to seeing this for the rest of my life?”
“Then turn your back, Armand.”
*
At the sound of the shot, Jean-Guy Beauvoir leapt up.
He and Jacques had gone to Commander Gamache’s rooms, where Jacques splashed water on his face while Beauvoir secured the gun and poured them each a Coke. They’d just sat down when the shot rang out.
“Stay here.”
Jean-Guy was out the door and into the corridor, where the sound was still reverberating. He skidded to a stop in front of Brébeuf’s rooms and yanked the door open.
Armand Gamache stood in the middle of the little room. Specks of blood on his face. A figure crumpled at his feet. Gamache squeezed his eyes shut then. But it was too late.
He had not turned his back on Michel.
CHAPTER 43
A wail filled the air, followed quickly by an expletive and a familiar voice. “Oh, for God’s sake. Does the crying ever stop?”
“Probably just thirsty,” said Clara. “Sounds like you when you want a drink.”
“Jeez.” Myrna turned around from the pew in front of them. “I thought that was Ruth.”
There was another piercing wail.
“Nope,” Myrna said. “Not loud enough.”
Ruth cackled. “I could use a shot of Liebfraumilch.”
Shhhh, said the rest of the congregation.
“Me?” said Ruth. “You’re telling me to shush? Tell that to the kid.”
She thrust Rosa, her appendage, toward the altar.
It was a warm morning in late spring, and Three Pines was gathered in St. Thomas’s Church.
Armand stood at the front and looked out at the congregation.
Daniel and Roslyn were there from Paris, with their daughters Florence and Zora.
Jean-Guy’s family were elbowing each other in the front pew.
And beyond them, friends, sitting and standing. At the very back stood the four cadets.
Jacques, Huifen, Nathaniel, and Amelia.
The graduation ceremony had been held at the academy the day before. It was more solemn than most, given the events of that term.
The cadets had stood as one, somber, erect, silent, when Commander Gamache entered the auditorium and walked alone across the stage.
He gripped the podium and stared out at them, in their dress blues. Those about to graduate and enter service, and those returning the following year.
The uniforms were perfectly pressed, the creases sharp, the buttons polished, the young faces shiny and clean.
He stared in silence, and they stared back. The specter of the tragedies filling the space between them. Filling the room. Darkening the past, dimming the present, and eclipsing their bright futures.
And then he smiled.
Armand Gamache’s face broke into a radiant smile.
He smiled. And he smiled.
First one, then a few, then they all smiled back. They beamed at each other, Commander and cadets. Until the darkness was banished. And finally he spoke.
“Things are strongest where they’re broken,” said Commander Gamache, his voice deep and calm and certain. The words entered each of the cadets. And their families. And their friends. And filled the void.