The Cruellest Month (48 page)

Suddenly Armand Gamache was back at home, his cheek resting on the back of the rough sofa, eyes trained on the road. Waiting for Mom and Dad. Every other night they’d come home. But tonight a strange car drove in. Two men got out. A knock on the door. His grandmother’s hand finding his, the suddenly strong scent of mothballs from her sweater as she shoved his head into her side, to shield him from the words. But still the words found him and washed over him and clung to him for the rest of his life.

A terrible accident.

And his little friend Michel Brébeuf had been there for him even then. It had been somehow comforting as he grew to know that almost certainly nothing would ever be that devastating again.

Until now.

Now he stood facing the man he loved most in the world. The
horsemen were loose and pounding down the slope, horses screaming, weapons raised. There would be no prisoners.

‘
Bonjour, Michel.
’

‘You knew, didn’t you? I saw it in your face as I left the elevator this afternoon.’

Gamache nodded.

‘How?’ Brébeuf asked.

Gamache looked round and found Agent Lemieux standing by the door.

‘He stays, Armand.’

Gamache stared at Lemieux, searching his face. But all he found was a cold, hard stare.

‘It’s not too late,’ said Gamache.

‘It’s way too late,’ said the young man. ‘For both of us.’

‘I didn’t mean you,’ said Gamache.

‘How did you know?’ Brébeuf stood up.

‘Secrets,’ said Gamache, surprised to hear his own voice so normal. It seemed like so many conversations he’d had with Michel. Reasonable, thoughtful, gentle even. ‘It’s our secrets that make us sick. You said that to me in the elevator.’

‘So?’

‘You said it’s one of the phrases I tell trainees. But that’s not true. I’ve only ever said it once and that was here, in the old Hadley house. I said it to Agent Lemieux.’

Brébeuf thought for a moment.

‘You knew then that he was working for me?’

‘I knew he was working for someone other than me. I knew he was the spy.’

‘How?’ Despite himself Brébeuf was curious.

‘It’s how Arnot worked. Simple and effective. Put someone trusted into a situation and let them do their worst.
Un agent provocateur.
I realized if Arnot’s people were going to try to bring me down, it would be from the inside. Put someone on my own team. But Arnot used thugs. You’re much more clever. You chose someone engaging, someone designed to insinuate himself easily.’

Gamache turned to Lemieux.

‘You’re easily liked. The whole team took to you. You’re smart and nicely self-deprecating. You fit in. Far more insidious than a thug. You kill with a kiss.’

Agent Robert Lemieux’s cold eyes never left Gamache’s. Gamache stared back. ‘Be careful, young man. You’re playing with things you can’t begin to understand.’

‘You think not?’ Lemieux stepped forward. ‘You think I’m young Agent Lemieux, naïve, unsophisticated, slightly stupid? You think I’ve been led astray perhaps with extravagant promises by the Superintendent? You think I’ve been seduced?’

As he spoke he walked closer to Gamache, deliberately, slowly, his voice smooth and honeyed, enticing. Enchanting. But the blush of youth was falling away and what approached Gamache was growing older and more decayed by the step until he stopped within inches of the Chief Inspector’s face. Gamache had the impression this thing was going to lick him, with a rancid, slimy tongue. It was all he could do not to fall back, gagging.

‘You think I’ll regret this one day, don’t you?’ Lemieux’s foul breath was on Gamache’s cheek. ‘You’re predictable, Chief Inspector. You need to save people, just as you’ve been saved. Given a second chance. The Superintendent here’s told me about your parents. That would have scarred most boys, but somehow you survived and even flourished. But the deal you made was that you’d help others. No one drowns on your watch. Quite a burden.’

Gamache could feel his heart pounding.

‘The things boys share with each other. I can see you, Gamache. A solid, strapping, earnest boy telling his best friend of his solemn oath to help people. And Brébeuf here pledged to help you, didn’t he? Like Lancelot and Arthur. And in the end, the one betrays the other. What was it your first chief taught both of you? Matthew 10:36. You didn’t think I was paying attention, did you?’ he asked Gamache.

‘Oh, I always knew you were paying attention.’ Gamache turned to Brébeuf. He could feel himself losing control, and if he lost that, all was gone. ‘I can see attacking me, but my family, Michel? Why Daniel? Annie, your own goddaughter?’

‘I was sure you’d know it was me then. Who else knew so much about your family? But still you were blind. So loyal.’ Brébeuf shook his head. ‘You never suspected, did you? Kept thinking it was Francoeur.’

Gamache made a move toward Brébeuf but Lemieux stepped between them. Gamache couldn’t remember Lemieux being so large. He stopped, but just, and his eyes never left Brébeuf.

‘I knew something had changed between us,’ said Gamache. ‘You were distant, polite but no more. It was small things, nothing I could quite put my finger on. Nothing worth mentioning, but it was one tiny thing after another. A birthday forgotten, a party missed, a flippant remark that seemed designed to insult. But I couldn’t believe it. I chose not to believe it.’
I was afraid to believe it
, thought Gamache.
Afraid it was true and somehow I’d lost my best friend. Like Hazel lost
Madeleine
. ‘I thought you were preoccupied with family problems. I never dreamed…’ He ran out of words. But one last one formed and fell from his mouth. ‘Why?’

‘Do you remember right after Arnot and the others were sentenced? The case was over, but you were in disgrace. Tossed out of the council. Catherine and I invited you and Reine-Marie for dinner, supposedly to cheer you up. But you were in fine spirits. We went into my study for a cognac and you told me then you didn’t care. You’d done what you had to. Your career was in tatters, but still you were happy. After you left, I sat reading. Some obscure book you probably gave me. In it I found a quote that devastated me. I copied it out that night and put it in my wallet, so I’d never forget.’

He brought out his wallet. From the billfold he withdrew a folded piece of paper, softened and worn as a love letter might be. He unfolded it and started reading. ‘It’s from
AD
960. Supposedly said by Abd-er-Rahman the Third, of Spain.’

He sounded like a nervous schoolboy in front of the class. Gamache almost gasped with the pain of it. Brébeuf cleared his throat and read on.

‘
I have now reigned about fifty years in victory or peace, beloved by my subjects, dreaded by my enemies, and respected by my allies. Riches and honors, power and pleasure have waited on my call, nor does any earthly blessing appear to have been wanting. In this situation I have diligently numbered the days of pure and genuine happiness which have fallen to my lot: they amount to fourteen.
’

Robert Lemieux laughed. But Armand Gamache’s heart broke.

Brébeuf carefully refolded the paper and placed it back in his wallet.

‘All our lives I’ve been smarter, faster, better at tennis and hockey than you,’ said Brébeuf. ‘I got better grades and found love first. Had three sons. Five grandchildren to your one. I won seven commendations. How many have you?’

Gamache shook his head.

‘You don’t even know, do you? I beat you out for Superintendent and became your boss. I watched as you ruined your career. So why are you the happy one?’

The question pierced Gamache, thrusting through his chest and through his heart, and burst into his head forcing him to close his eyes. When he opened them again he thought he was seeing things. Standing slightly behind Lemieux was someone else. In the shadows.

Then the one shadow separated from the whole and became Agent Nichol, like a ghost caught between worlds.

‘What do you want?’ he asked Brébeuf.

‘He wants you to resign,’ said Lemieux, still apparently unaware of Nichol. ‘But we both know that won’t be enough.’

‘Of course it’s enough,’ Brébeuf snapped. ‘We’ve won.’

‘And then what?’ asked Lemieux. ‘You’re a weak man, Brébeuf. You’ve promised to sponsor my rise through the ranks, but how can I trust a man who’ll betray his own best friend? No, my only guarantee is to hold something so hideous over you there’ll be no going back.’ He took out his gun and looked at Gamache. ‘You told me right here in this house never to draw my gun unless I mean to use it. It’s a lesson I took to heart. But I don’t mean to use it. You do.’

He thrust the revolver at Brébeuf. ‘Take it.’ Lemieux’s boyish voice was smooth and reasonable.

‘I will not. You’re telling me to shoot my friend?’

‘Your friend? You’ve already killed that relationship. Why not the man? He won’t let you go, you know. Look at what he did to Arnot. There’s no way even if he resigned he’d let this drop. He’d spend the rest of his life trying to bring you down.’

Brébeuf dropped his hands to his sides. Lemieux sighed and cocked the gun.

‘Lemieux,’ called Gamache, starting forward, trying to keep his eye on both Lemieux and Nichol behind him. He saw Nichol reach for her hip.

‘Stop.’

A gun walked out of the darkness, with Jean Guy Beauvoir attached to it. He held it steady, his eyes hard and staring at Lemieux. Nichol dissolved back into the shadows.

‘You all right?’ he asked Gamache without losing his focus.

‘Fine.’

Like ancient enemies Beauvoir and Lemieux stared at each other, their guns thrust forward, pointing. Beauvoir’s at Lemieux and Lemieux’s at Gamache.

‘You know I have nothing to lose, Inspector,’ said the reasonable young voice. ‘There’s no way I’m going to walk out of here your prisoner. If you don’t lower your gun by the count of five I’ll kill Gamache. If you even breathe, if I get the faintest hint you’re preparing to shoot, I’ll shoot first. In fact, what the hell.’ He turned his head slightly to Gamache.

‘No! No, wait!’ Beauvoir dropped his revolver.

‘Weak.’ He shook his head. ‘All your people are weak.’

He turned to Gamache and fired.

   FORTY-THREE   

C
lara Morrow jumped to her feet at the sound of the shot. For the last fifteen minutes they’d heard muffled voices sometimes raised in argument, though at least they were human. But the gunshot was something else. Something most Canadians never ever hear. It was grotesque and signaled death was again loose in the old Hadley house.

‘Should we see?’ she asked.

‘Are you nuts?’ asked Myrna, her eyes wide with terror. ‘What’re we going to do? Someone has a gun, for God’s sake. We should get out of here.’

‘I’m with you,’ said Gabri, already on his feet.

‘We should stay,’ said Jeanne. ‘The Chief Inspector asked us to.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sandon demanded. ‘If he asked you to jump from the window would you?’

‘But he didn’t and he wouldn’t,’ said Jeanne. ‘We need to stay.’

Armand Gamache was on the floor, scrambling for the gun. Beauvoir was on his hands and knees desperately trying to find his own gun and calling to the chief.

‘You all right? What happened?’

‘Get the gun,’ yelled Gamache, straining against Lemieux who was writhing to get away. In the darkness on the floor every foot, every hand, every chair leg felt like a weapon. Gamache’s hand closed around a rock.

‘You can stop now.’

Above them a young voice spoke. All three men, writhing on the
floor together, looked up. Agent Yvette Nichol stood with a gun in her hand.

Slowly the men got up. Lemieux brought his hand to the back of his head. It came away with blood.

‘Give it to me.’ He put his hand out for her gun.

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Nichol.

‘Listen, you stupid bitch, give it to me.’

But Nichol stood stock-still, her gun steady. Lemieux shifted his gaze to Brébeuf, who’d slunk into the shadows.

‘What’s your game, Brébeuf? Call her off.’

‘I can’t.’ The voice high, almost squeaking, as though suppressing hysteria.

‘I’m warning you, Brébeuf.’