Morning, noon and night he did his exercises to regain his strength. Not too much. He could tell when he did too much. But sometimes he felt it was worth it. He’d rather die trying to escape than be trapped much longer.
“Cookie?” she sang down.
“Yes, Cupcake?” he replied. It was their little joke. He heard her laugh and wondered how much it would hurt to cut his hand off with the jigsaw. But not his gun hand, he might need that later.
“No, do you want a cookie? I thought I’d do a batch.”
“Sounds great. Merci.”
Beauvoir had never particularly wanted children, but now he was desperate for them. Maybe then Enid would transfer her love to them. The kids would save him. He felt momentarily bad for them, being dragged under by her unconditional, undying, unrelenting love, but, well, sauve qui peut.
Then the phone rang.
And his heart stopped. He’d thought, hoped, with time it would stop doing that. It was inconvenient having a heart that halted every time there was a call. Especially annoying when it was a wrong number. But instead of going away it seemed to be getting worse. He heard Enid hurrying to answer it and he knew she was running because she knew how much the sound upset him.
And he hated himself, for hating her.
“Oui, allô?” he heard her say and immediately Beauvoir was back there, to that day.
“Homicide.” The Chief’s secretary had answered the phone in the office. It was a large, open space taking an entire floor of the Sûreté du Québec headquarters in Montreal. There were, however, a few enclosed spaces. There was a private conference room with Beauvoir’s beloved Magic Markers, and long sheets of paper on the walls, and blackboards and corkboards. All neatly organized.
He had his own office, being the second in command.
And the Chief had a large office in the corner, with windows looking out over Montreal. From there Armand Gamache ran the province-wide operation, looking into murders in a territory that stretched from the Ontario border to the Atlantic Ocean, from the frontier with Vermont and New York to the Arctic Circle. They had hundreds of agents and investigators in stations across the province and special teams that went into areas without a homicide squad.
All coordinated by Chief Inspector Gamache.
Beauvoir had been in Gamache’s office discussing a singularly gnarly case in Gaspé when the phone had rung. Gamache’s secretary had answered it. Inspector Beauvoir glanced at the clock on the Chief’s wall just as the phone rang. 11:18 A.M.
“Homicide,” he’d heard her say.
And nothing had been the same since.
A small tapping on the door brought Elizabeth MacWhirter out of her reverie. She’d been staring down at the list of members, putting off the time she’d have to phone them. But she knew that time had already come and gone. She should have made the calls an hour ago. Already messages were coming in from members of the English community, including CBC Radio and the weekly English newspaper, the Chronicle-Telegraph. She, Winnie and Porter had tried to be coy, but had only succeeded in sounding secretive.
Reporters were on their way.
And still Elizabeth put off phoning, clinging, she knew to the last moments of anything that resembled normalcy. Of their quiet, uneventful lives, volunteering to be custodians of a dusty and all but irrelevant past, but a past precious to them.
The knocking sounded again. No louder, but not going away either. Were the reporters here already? But they, she suspected, would pound at the door as would the police. This tapping was a request, not a demand.
“I’ll get it,” said Winnie, walking across the large room and up the two steps to the door. At their desks in front of the large Palladian windows Elizabeth and Porter watched. Winnie was speaking with someone they couldn’t see, nor could they hear her conversation but she seemed to be trying to explain something. Then she seemed to be trying to close the door. Then she stopped, and opening it wide she turned into the room.
“Chief Inspector Gamache wants to speak to you,” she said to Elizabeth, almost in a daze.
“Who?” asked Porter, popping up at his desk, taking charge, now that the elderly woman had answered the door.
Winnie swung the door wide and there stood Armand Gamache. He looked at the people, but took in his surroundings. The office had a cathedral ceiling, huge arched windows and was sunken a few steps from the door. It was paneled in wood, with wood floors