“Please,” he begged.
He brought his gun up again. His hands steady now. The gun unwavering. The aim sure. No longer for Gamache’s legs.
*
“Stop,” screamed Lacoste, her gun trained on Beauvoir’s back.
She could see, ahead through the woods, the Chief Inspector racing toward Three Pines. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir about to gun him down.
“Drop it,” she commanded.
“No, Isabelle,” Beauvoir called. “I have to.”
Lacoste braced herself and took aim. From there it would be impossible to miss. But still, she hesitated.
There was something in his voice. Not pleading, not begging, not madness.
Beauvoir’s voice was strong and certain. His old voice.
She had no doubt what he intended to do. Jean-Guy Beauvoir was going to shoot Chief Inspector Gamache.
“Please, Isabelle,” Beauvoir called, his back still to her, his weapon raised.
Isabelle Lacoste steadied herself. Steadied her gun with both hands. Her finger pressed against the trigger.
*
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had Armand Gamache in his sights.
The Chief was at the tree line, just steps from the schoolhouse.
Beauvoir took a deep breath in. A deep breath out.
And pulled the trigger.
*
Armand Gamache could almost touch the schoolhouse now. The shooting had stopped.
He’d make it, he knew. He’d get Jean-Guy out.
He had just cleared the trees when the bullet hit. The force lifted him off his feet and spun him around. In the instant before he hit the ground, in the split second before the world disappeared, he met the eyes of the man who’d shot him.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir.
And then Armand Gamache fell, spread-eagled, as though making an angel in the bright snow.
FORTY-TWO
St. Thomas’s Church in Three Pines was quiet, just a slight rustle of paper as the guests read the order of service. Four monks walked in, heads bowed, and formed a semi-circle in front of the altar.
There was a pause, and then they began to sing. Their voices blending, joining. Swirling. Then becoming one. It was like listening to one of Clara’s paintings. With colors and swirls and the play of light and dark. All moving around a calm center.
A plainchant, in a plain church.
The only decoration in St. Thomas’s was a single stained-glass window, of perpetually young soldiers. The window was positioned to catch the morning light, the youngest light.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir bowed his head, weighed down by the solemnity of the moment. Then, behind him, he heard a door open and everyone rose to their feet.
The chant came to an end and there was a moment of quiet before another voice was heard. Beauvoir didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Gabri stood at the front of the church, looking down the aisle, past the wooden pews, and sang in his clear tenor,
Ring the bells that still can ring,
Forget your perfect offering,
Around Beauvoir, the congregation joined in. He heard Clara’s voice. Olivier’s and Myrna’s. He even made out Ruth’s thin, reedy, unwavering voice. A doughboy voice. Unsure but unyielding.
But Jean-Guy had no voice. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He looked down the aisle, and waited.
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
He saw Madame Gamache first, walking slowly. And beside her, Annie.
Radiant in her wedding dress. Walking down the aisle on her mother’s arm.
And Jean-Guy Beauvoir began to cry. With joy, with relief. With sorrow for all that had happened. For all the pain he’d caused. He stood in the morning light of the boys who never came home, and he wept.
He felt a nudge on his arm and saw a linen handkerchief being offered. Beauvoir took it, and looked into the deep brown eyes of his best man.
“You need it.” Jean-Guy gave it back.
“I have another.” Armand Gamache brought one from his breast pocket and wiped his eyes.
The two men stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the front of the packed chapel, weeping and watching as Annie and her mother walked down the aisle. Annie Gamache was about to marry her first, and last, love.
*
“Now there will be no more loneliness,” said the minister, as he gave his final blessing on the couple.
Go now to your dwelling place to enter into
the days of your togetherness.
And may your days be good and long upon the earth.
The party on the sunny village green started in mid-morning on the early July day, and lasted well into the night. A bonfire was lit, fireworks set off, a barbeque was held and all the guests brought salads and desserts, patés and cheeses. Fresh bread. Beer and wine and pink lemonade.
As the first song started, Armand, in morning coat, gave his cane to Clara and limped slowly to the very center of the circle of guests, the center of the green, the center of the village, and put out his hand.
It was steady, not a quiver, as Annie placed her hand in his. He bent over and kissed it. Then he held her to him, and they danced. Slowly. In the shadow of the three huge trees.