A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12)(135)

“You say you killed Serge Leduc so that I didn’t have to. As a favor.”

“An amend,” said Brébeuf.

“And yet, you put my partial prints on the weapon. You implicated me.”

“No. Never. I used yours because I knew you were beyond suspicion.”

“And yet I was, I am, suspected.”

For the first time, Brébeuf looked baffled. “Yes. I could see that. The RCMP officer, Gélinas. Your own people wouldn’t, of course.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Gamache. “It’s a little humbling to realize the pedestal isn’t quite so high after all.”

Brébeuf chuckled. “Welcome to earth, Armand. It’s a little dirty down here.”

“And the map, Michel? The one in Leduc’s drawer? It also had my prints, and showed my village. You placed it there, didn’t you? More herding.”

“But not toward you.”

Gamache studied Brébeuf, searching the nooks, the crannies, the crevices of his face. The geography and history created by time and worry and loneliness. By too much drink and not enough peace.

And there, finally, he found the truth.

“You said that the first night here you made two discoveries. One was the game of Russian roulette. What was the other?”

Brébeuf stared back at Armand. Studying the roads radiating from his eyes and mouth. Some made by stress and sorrow, but most created by laughter. By contentment. By sitting beside a fireplace, watching his family and friends, and smiling.

That could have been his face. Had he turned left instead of right. Had he stepped forward instead of stepping aside. Had he locked the gate, instead of opening it.

Michel Brébeuf had long hated Armand. But he had loved him even longer.

“I think you know what it was,” said Michel.

“Tell me.”

“Amelia Choquet.”

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.