Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(29)

All of Beauvoir’s rage had dissipated as he looked at Chief Superintendent Gamache. Struggling with that question.

“People will die, Jean-Guy, when that fentanyl hits the streets. Young people. Older people. Children, perhaps. It will be a firestorm.”

Gamache thought of his visit to Coventry with Reine-Marie, many years after the bombing. The city had been rebuilt, but they’d kept the shell of the cathedral. It had become a symbol.

He and Reine-Marie had stood a long time in front of the altar of the ruined cathedral.

Just days after the bombing, someone had etched words into one of the walls.

Father Forgive.

But forgive whom? The Luftwaffe? Goering, who unleashed the bombers, or Churchill, who chose not to stop them?

Was it courage or a terrible misjudgment on the part of the British leaders, safe in their homes and offices and bunkers hundreds of miles away?

As he was safe, high above the streets of Montréal. Far from the firestorm he was about to unleash. Saint Michael, he remembered. Coventry Cathedral had been dedicated to the archangel. The gentle one who came for the souls of the dying.

He glanced down at his index finger and was surprised to see a bright blue line. As though the eighty kilos of fentanyl would be traveling straight through him on its way south.

Armand Gamache stood astride the route from the Magdalen Islands to the U.S. border. A line that passed through an insignificant little village in a valley.

He had a chance, now, the power to stop it.

Gamache knew he would be marked for the rest of his life by the decision he was making this night.

“Isn’t there something you can do?” asked Jean-Guy, his voice hushed.

Gamache remained silent.

“Have a quiet word with the DEA? Warn them?” Jean-Guy suggested.

But he knew that wouldn’t happen.

Gamache’s jaw was tight, and he swallowed, but said nothing. His deep brown eyes remained on his second-in-command. His son-in-law.

“How long do you think it will take the fentanyl to reach the border?” Gamache asked.

“If it left immediately? It should cross tomorrow night. Maybe sooner. It might already be on its way.”

Gamache nodded.

“But there’s probably still time to intercept,” said Beauvoir, though he knew what he really meant was that there was time for Gamache to change his mind.

But he also knew that would not happen. And deep down, Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew it should not happen.

The fentanyl had to cross the border. Their secret had to be protected.

To be used later. In the final coup de grace.

Armand Gamache nodded and, getting up, he headed to the door. And he wondered if, when he left his office that night to return to the small apartment he and Reine-Marie kept in Montréal, a dark figure would detach itself from the shadows and follow him.

Come to collect a debt Chief Superintendent Gamache knew he could never repay.

All he could really hope for was forgiveness.





CHAPTER 8

“I thought you said this was going to be a fast trial,” said Judge Corriveau’s wife, Joan. “Will we be able to go away this weekend?”

Maureen Corriveau moaned. “I don’t know. Can we get out of the reservations if we have to?”

“I’ll call the inn and see. Don’t worry, we can always go away another weekend. Vermont will be there.”

Maureen grabbed a piece of toast, kissed Joan, and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Off you go, and play nice,” said Joan.

“It’s my sandbox. I don’t have to play nice.”

She looked outside. It was barely seven in the morning and already the sun was beating down.

Getting in her car, she yelped and lifted her bottom off the scorching seat.

“Shit, shit,” she muttered, throwing on the AC and lowering herself slowly.

She could see heat distorting the air above the hood and wondered what the courtroom would be like.

But Judge Corriveau knew that, even without the heat wave, it would be suffocating.

*

“All rise,” she heard.

The door was opened by the guard, and Judge Corriveau stepped across the threshold.

There was a hubbub as all rose. Then sat, as she sat.

Everyone looked slightly disheveled. Already.

She nodded to the Crown, who recalled his witness from the day before.

As Chief Superintendent Gamache walked up to the witness box, Judge Corriveau noticed he seemed composed, wearing a tailored suit that might not look quite so good by the end of the day.

The AC had been turned off and already the room was close.

She also noticed, as he took his seat, that very slight scent of sandalwood.

The gentle aroma sat with her for just a moment before dissipating. Then Judge Corriveau turned her attention to the defendant, who was watching the Chief Superintendent.

There was a sharp focus, and a plea in the eyes. Aimed at Gamache.

It was intense. And only two people in the courtroom could see it. Herself. And the Chief Superintendent.

But what was the defendant pleading for? Mercy? No, that was not Gamache’s to give.

The defendant wanted something from Gamache, was desperate for it.

Forgiveness? But again, surely, that wasn’t his to give either.

What could the Chief Superintendent offer the defendant, a person he himself had arrested, at this point?