“There’s one more,” said Myrna. “In the schoolhouse.”
“And the other two who went into the woods,” said Clara. She looked at the gun in Myrna’s hand, and the one in Nichol’s. They were terrifying and repulsive, and Clara wanted one.
“So what do we do?” Gabri turned to Nichol, who managed to look both in charge and out of control at the same time.
*
Martin Tessier stripped the coat from Gamache and took his weapon, leaving him in his shirtsleeves.
Tessier placed Gamache’s gun in Francoeur’s outstretched hand.
“Where’s Beauvoir?” Gamache demanded.
“He’s in the village with the others,” said Tessier. “Working.”
“Let him be,” said Gamache. “I’m the one you want.”
Francoeur smiled. “‘I’m the one you want,’ as though this begins and ends with the great Armand Gamache. You really haven’t grasped what’s happening, have you? You even had your resignation broadcast, as though it was important. As though we might care.”
“And you don’t?” asked Gamache. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” said Tessier, pointing his weapon at Gamache’s chest.
Gamache ignored him and continued to watch Francoeur.
There was more buzzing and Francoeur checked his texts.
“We’ve picked up Isabelle Lacoste and her family. And Villeneuve and the neighbor. You’re like the plague, Armand. Everyone you’ve come in contact with is either dead or soon will be. Including Beauvoir. He’ll be found among the remains of the schoolhouse, trying to dismantle the bomb you connected to all those computers.”
Gamache looked from Francoeur to Tessier and back to Francoeur.
“You’re trying to decide whether to believe me,” said Francoeur.
“For chrissake,” said Tessier. “Let’s get this over with.”
Francoeur turned to his second in command. “You’re right. Get that satellite dish down. I’ll finish up here. Walk with me, Armand. I’ll let you go ahead, for once.”
Francoeur pointed down the path, and Gamache started to walk, slipping slightly in the snow. It was the trail that he and Nichol had made when they’d lugged the cable through the woods, back to Three Pines. It was, in effect, a shortcut to the old schoolhouse.
“Are they still alive?” Gamache asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” said Francoeur.
“Beauvoir? Is he still alive?”
“Well, I haven’t heard an explosion yet, so yes. For now.”
Gamache took another few steps.
“And the bridge? Shouldn’t you have heard about the bridge by now?” Gamache asked, breathing heavily and grabbing a branch to catch his balance. “Something’s wrong, Sylvain. You can feel it.”
“Stop,” said Francoeur, and Gamache did. He turned around and saw Francoeur bring out his cell phone. He touched it with his finger, then beamed.
“It’s done.”
“What’s done?”
“The bridge is down.”
*
At St. Thomas’s Church the celebrations were short-lived.
“Look,” said Myrna. She and Clara were peering through the stained-glass window.
The other gunman had come out the door of the old schoolhouse. His back was to them and he seemed to be working on the handle.
Locking it? Clara wondered.
Then he stood on the stoop and looked around, as his colleague had done a few minutes ago.
“He’s looking for him.” Olivier pointed to their handcuffed and gagged prisoner, guarded by Nichol.
As they watched, the gunman walked over to the van. He slung a large canvas bag into the back and slammed the door closed. Then he surveyed the village again. Perplexed.
At that moment, Thérèse Brunel left the bookstore. She wore a heavy coat, and a large tuque pulled down over her hair and forehead. Her arms were full of books and she walked slowly toward the S?reté agent, as though infirm.
“What’s she doing?” Clara asked.
“Twas in the moon of wintertime,” Gabri sang loudly. They turned to look at him. “When all the birds had fled.”
The gunman turned toward the singing coming from the church.
This village was giving him the creeps. It seemed so pretty, and yet was deserted. There was a menace about the place. The sooner he found Beauvoir and his partner and got out, the better.
He started toward the church. Clearly there were people in there. People who, with some persuasion, might tell him where Beauvoir was. Where his colleague was. Where everyone was.
An old woman with books was walking toward him, but he ignored her and made for the small clapboard chapel on the hill.
The gunman followed the sound of the singing, up the steps.
He didn’t notice that the woman with the books had also changed direction, and was following him.
He opened the door and looked in. At the front of the church a bunch of people stood in a semi-circle singing.
An old woman in a cloth coat sat in a pew a few rows back. The singing stopped and the large man who seemed to lead the choir waved to him.