* * *
Beauvoir looked at his watch. Ten minutes to three. He was plastered against a brick wall. Three Sûreté officers were behind him.
“Stay here,” he whispered, and stepped around the corner. He had a brief glimpse at the surprise in their faces. Surprise and concern. Not about the biker gang they were about to raid, but the officer who was supposed to lead them.
Beauvoir knew they had reason to be afraid.
He leaned his head again the brick, hitting it lightly. Then he crouched down so that his knees were against his chest, and he began rocking himself. As he rocked he heard the rhythmic squeaking of his heavy boots on the snow. Like a rocking horse in need of oiling. In need of something.
Eight minutes to three.
Beauvoir reached into the pocket of his Kevlar vest. The one that held bandages and tape to staunch wounds. He pulled out two pill bottles and, twisting the top off one, he quickly swallowed two OxyContin. He’d thrown up the earlier ones and now he could barely think for the pain.
And the other. The other. He stared at the pill bottle, and felt like a man halfway across a bridge.
Afraid to take the pill and afraid not to. Afraid of going into the bunker, afraid of running away. He was afraid of dying and he was afraid of living.
Mostly, he was afraid that everyone would find out just how frightened he really was.
Beauvoir twisted off the cap and shook the bottle. Pills cascaded out, bouncing off his trembling hand, and were lost in the snow. But one was saved. It sat in the center of his palm. His need was so great, and it was so tiny. He couldn’t get it into his mouth fast enough.
Five minutes to three.
* * *
Gamache sat at a desk in the archive room, reading and making notes. Captivated by what he’d found so far. Diaries, personal letters, photographs. But now he took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the books and documents still to be read. There was no way he’d get through them that afternoon.
Madame Dufour had shown him the buzzer, and now he pressed it. Three minutes later he heard footsteps on the sealed concrete floor.
“I’d like to take it with me.” He nodded to the stacks on the desk.
She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. And considered.
“Constance Ouellet really was murdered?” she asked.
“She was.”
“And you think something in there”—she looked at the documents on the desk—“might help you?”
“I think it might.”
“I retire next August, you know. Mandatory retirement.”
“I’m sorry,” he said as she looked around her.
“Shelved,” she said with a smile. “I suspect neither I, nor that file, will be missed. Feel free to take it, monsieur. But please bring it back. Quite a steep fine, you know, if you lose it, or your dog eats it.”
“Merci,” he said, and wondered if Madame Dufour had met Henri. “There’s something else I need from you.”
“A kidney?”
“A code.”
A few minutes later they stood by the rear door. Gamache had his coat on, and held the heavy box in both hands.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Chief Inspector. Give my best to Reine-Marie when you see her. Joyeux Noël.”
But before the door closed and locked, she called him back.
“Be careful,” she said. “Light and moisture can do permanent damage.” She regarded him for a moment. “And I think, monsieur, you know something about permanent damage.”
“Oui,” he said. “Joyeux Noël.”
* * *
It was dark by the time Armand Gamache reached Three Pines. He parked not far from the B and B and barely had time to open the door before Olivier and Gabri appeared from the bistro. It seemed to Gamache that they must have been watching for his arrival.
“How was the drive?” Gabri asked.
“Not bad,” said Gamache, picking up his satchel and the heavy cardboard box. “Except for the Champlain Bridge, of course.”
“Always hellish,” agreed Olivier.
“Everything’s ready for you,” said Gabri, leading the way up the steps and along the verandah to the front door. He opened it, and Chief Inspector Gamache, instead of stepping inside, stepped aside to let his two companions in first.
“Welcome,” said Olivier.
Thérèse and Jérôme Brunel walked into Emilie Longpré’s home. The home Henri had found for them.