And who knew? Maybe people would understand. Would see that the why overrode the how.
But walk as he might, he couldn’t escape the reality. If he did this thing, if he threw in with Gamache, it would be the end. He’d be pilloried. And rightly so.
It went against everything he believed in. Everything he stood for. Everything Gamache believed in too, to be fair.
So great was the threat that both men had to be willing to compromise their deepest beliefs.
Would he regret joining Gamache? Would he regret not?
What were the chances of success? Pretty low, he knew. But the chances were zero if he didn’t try.
And Gamache had no other options. He was it, Zalmanowitz knew. Because of his position. Because of the respect he commanded in his profession. He would use it all up, empty the well of goodwill. In this one act.
Zalmanowitz stopped and watched the boats in Halifax Harbour, and felt the bracing sea air on his face.
Charlotte had loved going down to the old port of Montréal, to stare at the ships. Wide-eyed. She’d ask her dad where each was going and where each was from. Barry, of course, didn’t know, so he made it up. Choosing the most exotic-sounding places.
Zanzibar.
Madagascar.
The North Pole.
Atlantis.
St.-Crème-Glacée-de-Poutine.
“You made that up,” said Charlotte, laughing so hard she’d started to cry.
Well, he thought, if he could make up a story for his little girl, he could make up one for everyone else in Québec.
“Come along,” he whispered. “We’re going on a journey.”
He’d walked back to the diner, where Gamache was waiting. A tall, quivering slice of lemon meringue pie in front of each of them.
Zalmanowitz sat down.
While Armand Gamache hadn’t mentioned Charlotte, Zalmanowitz suspected he knew. And he both hated the man across from him for asking this thing. And almost loved him, for asking this thing.
“I’ll do it.”
Gamache had nodded, holding his eyes. “We have to move quickly.”
And they had.
That had been months ago, in November.
Charges were laid, preliminary hearings were held.
And now it was July and they were into the second day of the murder trial.
It was almost impossible to tell if things were going their way. It seemed like such a long shot, and yet they’d made it this far. Still, the plan could fail. The ground could fall out from underneath them.
If it did, they’d go down together. But the consolation for Zalmanowitz was that at least his hands would be around Gamache’s throat when they hit bottom.
“How did Patrick Evans take the news of his wife’s death?” he asked the Chief Superintendent.
CHAPTER 18
“Tell me here,” said Patrick Evans, as his friends closed ranks beside him.
Not unlike, Gamache thought, what they had done the evening before, when protecting the cobrador.
“Non, monsieur,” said Chief Inspector Lacoste, gently but firmly. “Please come with us.”
She pointed to what she knew was a back room, reserved for private functions. Like birthdays. And homicide investigations.
“May we?” asked Lea.
“Yes, of course,” said Lacoste, allowing Matheo and Lea to stay with their friend.
They walked into the back room and Beauvoir closed the door.
There was no fireplace here to spread both warmth and cheer. The bank of French doors looked out over a bleak back garden and the Rivière Bella Bella beyond, in full flow.
The air outside seemed to have congealed, forming a heavy mist that almost obscured the forest beyond.
Beauvoir found the light switches and turned them all on, then he turned up the heat, to take the chill off the room.
Lacoste looked at Patrick Evans and saw him brace. As did Matheo Bissonette. As did Lea Roux. As though she were the firing squad and they the target.
Without preamble, she broke the news. Quietly, softly, with compassion but also with clarity.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your wife is dead.”
Isabelle Lacoste had learned long ago that simplicity was best. A short, sharp declaration of the fact. So that there could be no doubt, no back door through which denial could slip.
There was no gentle way to break news. To break hearts. And doing it slowly simply added to the trauma.
Matheo took a step closer to his friend and, placing a hand on his arm, he squeezed.
Despite the fact Patrick Evans must’ve known, it still came as a shock. Apparently.
He sat down slowly, his mouth opening as his body lowered.
There was a tap on the door and Beauvoir opened it. Olivier was there with a bottle of scotch and some glasses. And a box of tissues.