Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(123)

CHAPTER 34

Armand Gamache and Maureen Corriveau sat together in the quiet office.

They could hear time ticking away on the clock on the desk.

It was just after eight in the morning, a week to the day after the events at the border.

A man slightly older than Gamache sat at the desk. Looking first at the judge, then at the head of the S?reté.

Gamache’s face was beaten and bruised, but the swelling had gone down.

“How is Chief Inspector Lacoste?” the Premier Ministre du Québec asked.

“We’ll know soon,” said Gamache. “They’ve put her in a coma. The bullet damaged her brain, but we don’t know how badly.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Premier. “And the villagers? Three Pines, is it?”

“Oui.”

“Funny, but I’d never heard of it. I’d like to go there, when this is all cleared up.”

“I think they’d like that, sir. They’re—we’re—trying to get back to normal.”

He chose not to mention that there was nothing normal about Three Pines at the best of times, and the recent events did not get it any closer. But he did know that a strange sort of peace had settled over the village. A quietude.

It had never felt more like home than it did now. And the villagers had never felt more like family, than now.

“There were injuries, I know,” said the Premier.

“The owner of the bistro, Olivier Brulé, was shot in the arm, but his partner acted quickly and stemmed the bleeding. Others were hurt by flying glass and shards of wood. Everyone’s out of the hospital now. The gravest injury was to Chief Inspector Lacoste.”

“I asked you a few months ago, Armand, to tell me what was going on. You refused. You asked me to trust you. I did.” He paused to stare at the man. “And I’m glad I did.”

Gamache nodded very slightly, his thanks.

“But it’s time. Tell me what happened.”

When Gamache had finished, the Premier Ministre just stared at him.

He’d read the reports, of course. Those in the media. But also the confidential ones, stacked on his desk.

And he’d seen the video, from Lacoste’s camera attached to her helmet. Her point of view, even as she’d fallen.

The video had left him ashen. He didn’t think he could ever look at this man again without some part of him seeing Armand Gamache leaping forward. Throwing himself at the two men.

And the knife.

It was an image, a knowledge, the Premier could never erase. What this man, this thoughtful, calm, even kindly man, was capable of doing. What he had done.

“I’m sorry I have to ask these questions.”

“I understand.”

“Were you across the border, Armand, when you killed the American?”

“I believe I was. It’s difficult to tell in the forest exactly where the border is. There’s a marker that was put there during Prohibition, though I doubt the rum runners were worried about complete accuracy. But I believe I crossed the line, yes.”

The Premier Ministre du Québec shook his head slightly and gave him a wry smile.

“You choose now to tell the truth?”

He refrained from saying that Gamache had indeed crossed a line. Several, in fact. So many that the politician had stopped counting, or caring, though the Departments of Justice in both countries had not.

“And you did it knowing you had no jurisdiction?”

“I didn’t even think of jurisdiction at that moment, and if I had I’d have done it anyway.”

“You’re not making this easy, Armand.”

Gamache didn’t say anything. Though he did sympathize with the Premier, who was, he suspected, trying to help.

*

He’d dragged the body of the cartel leader back past the faded old marker. Hauling the dead weight, step by step. His own body leaning forward, toward Québec, toward home.

The firefight up ahead had stopped and he heard Jean-Guy, calling him.

It was over.

But there was no celebration in his heart. He was too shattered.

When he was sure he’d crossed back into Québec, Gamache fell to his knees in exhaustion, so that when Beauvoir found him, he saw a man covered in blood, apparently praying over the body he had created.

With Jean-Guy’s help, they dragged the American back to where Toussaint was turning chaos into order.

Jean-Guy had sustained an injury to his leg, but it was minor and quickly bandaged. His was the only injury among the S?reté team. Except, of course, for Isabelle.

The cartel members, from both sides, had almost managed to wipe each other out. Those who survived were being handcuffed, while paramedics sorted through the rest.

It looked, in those old-growth forests, like what it was. A battlefield. Sirens, from more ambulances and police, could be heard.

Anton had his hands secured behind his back.

“You did my job for me, Armand,” said Anton, nodding toward the body. “You think you’ve won back the province, don’t you? Just wait for it.”

“I should’ve killed him,” said Jean-Guy, as they’d made their way back to Three Pines.

Gamache wiped blood, now congealing, from his eyes. But said nothing. In that moment, he agreed with Jean-Guy. It would have been better, far better.