How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #9)
by Louise Penny
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As with all my books, How the Light Gets In would not have been written without the help and support of Michael, my husband. No Michael, no books. It’s simple and true, and I will be grateful to him through this life and into the next.
There are, in fact, many people who helped with this quite complex book. My friend Susan McKenzie and I spent two days at Hovey Manor, beside a lake in Québec, in a classic journalists’ “story meeting” … hashing out ideas, thoughts, connections. Tossing out ideas, some crazy, some too sane and safe. Picking them up, examining each, taking out the best bits and building on them. When you find someone good at it, it’s a magical process. But it demands being creative and constructive. Not finding flaws, but finding that hidden gem, recognizing a step to the better idea. It demands being an active and respectful listener. Susan is all those things. We’re a great team and she helped make this book so much better.
I was also helped in many of the technical issues by Cassie Galante, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Paul Hochman, and Denis Dufour. Merci, mille fois.
Lise Page, my assistant, is invaluable. She’s an early reader, a constant cheerleader, a tireless workmate, a creative soul. I know my books and my career would not be where they are without Lise—and they sure wouldn’t be as much fun!
My brother Doug is also an early reader, a gentle critic, and a wonderful support. You know, after a while in a career filled with blessings, it’s difficult to keep calling up friends with more and more great news. I know without a doubt they’re happy for me, but it can slip over into what might feel like (and might very well be) bragging. But still, when great things happen, I want to talk about them. Doug is the person I call. A man always happy for me (or kind enough not to tell me to be quiet and go away).
Linda Lyall designs and manages my website and newsletter and puts in long hours making sure the public face of the series does Gamache et al. justice. Thank you, Linda!
My agents, Teresa Chris and Patricia Moosbrugger, have shepherded the Gamache books over the sometimes rocky, and deeply unpredictable, terrain of today’s publishing world. They’ve been sure and courageous and chosen their battles wisely … which allowed me to concentrate on my only real job. To write a book I’d be proud of.
I have no children. These Gamache books are not trivial to me. They’re not a pastime, they’re not cash cows. They are my dream come true. My legacy. My offspring. They are precious to me, and I put them into the hands of the great people at Minotaur Books and St. Martin’s Press. Hope Dellon, my longtime editor and friend, who never fails to make the books far better. Andrew Martin, the publisher, who took a tiny book set in a little Québec village, and put it on the New York Times list. Sarah Melnyk, my publicist at Minotaur, who knows the books, knows me, and has been a ferocious and effective promoter of Chief Inspector Gamache.
Thank you!
And thank you to Jamie Broadhurst, Dan Wagstaff, and the people at Raincoast Books in Canada, who’ve put Gamache on bestseller lists in my own country. So exciting.
And thanks to David Shelley, the publisher of Little, Brown UK, for taking over the series. I know the books are in good hands with him.
Finally, I’d like to thank Leonard Cohen. The book is named after an excerpt from his poem/song—“Anthem.”
Ring the bells that still can ring,
Forget your perfect offering,
There’s a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.
I first used that stanza in my second book. When I contacted him to ask permission and find out what I’d have to pay for it, he got back through his agent to say he would give it to me for free.
Free.
I’d paid handsomely for other poetry excerpts, and rightly so. I’d expected to pay for this, especially given that at the time, six years ago, Mr. Cohen had just had most of his savings stolen by a trusted member of his team.
Instead of asking for thousands—he asked for nothing.
I cannot begin to imagine the light that floods into that man.
And now you’re holding my imperfect offering. It was written with great love and gratitude and awareness of how very lucky I am.
[page]ONE
Audrey Villeneuve knew what she imagined could not possibly be happening. She was a grown woman and could tell the difference between real and imagined. But each morning as she drove through the Ville-Marie Tunnel from her home in east-end Montréal to her office, she could see it. Hear it. Feel it happening.
The first sign would be a blast of red as drivers hit their brakes. The truck ahead would veer, skidding, slamming sideways. An unholy shriek would bounce off the hard walls and race toward her, all-consuming. Horns, alarms, brakes, people screaming.
And then Audrey would see huge blocks of concrete peeling from the ceiling, dragging with them a tangle of metal veins and sinews. The tunnel spilling its guts. That held the structure up. That held the city of Montréal up.