A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12) - Louise Penny Page 0,10

cadets to agents, streaming into the Sûreté like water through a cracked hull. “It’s not a ‘police kindness.’ It’s a police force. It’s called that for a reason. We use force. We are a force. And one to be reckoned with.”

That always brought wild applause from the students and slight unease from the families gathered in the auditorium.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur didn’t care. His words weren’t for the parents and grandparents.

During the term, Francoeur would visit the academy once a month, staying overnight in the lavish quarters reserved for him. After dinner he’d invite a select few to join him for drinks in the large living room overlooking the vast playing field. He’d regale the wide-eyed cadets with harrowing tales of great danger, of investigations wildly perilous, expertly leavened by the odd story of ridiculous criminals and silly mistakes.

And then, when Francoeur judged the time was right, he’d insinuate the real message into his stories. That the Sûreté du Québec wasn’t there to be on guard for the population, but to be on guard against them. The citizens were the enemy.

The only ones the recruits could really trust were their confrères in the Sûreté. And even then, they had to be careful. There were some intent on weakening the force from within.

Serge Leduc would watch the unlined faces and wide eyes, and over the course of the months, the years, he’d see them change. And he would marvel at the skill of the Chief Superintendent, who could so easily create such little monsters.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur was gone now but his legacy remained, in flesh and blood and in glass and steel. In the cold hard surfaces and sharp edges of the academy and the agents he’d designed.

The new academy itself appeared simple, classic even. It was placed on land appropriated from the community of Saint-Alphonse, the Sûreté’s needs judged far greater than the population’s.

It was designed as a quadrangle, with a playing field in the middle, enclosed by gleaming buildings on all four sides. The only way in was through a single gate.

It gave the appearance of both transparency and strength. But in actuality, it was a fortress. A fiefdom.

Serge Leduc stared out at the quadrangle. This was, he now suspected, his last day in that office. This was his final view of those fields.

The knock on the door had confirmed that.

But he would not leave meekly. If the new commander thought he could walk in there and take over his territory without a fight, then he wasn’t simply weak, he was stupid. And stupid people got what they deserved.

Adjusting the holster on his belt and putting on his suit jacket, Leduc walked to his door and opened it. And came face-to-face with Armand Gamache. Though Leduc had to tilt his head back a little.

“May I help you?”

He’d never met the man in person, though he’d seen him often enough at a distance and in news reports. Now Leduc was surprised by how solid he was, though unlike Francoeur, Gamache did not exude force.

But there was something there, something unusual about him. It was probably the scar at the temple, Leduc thought. It gave the impression of strength, but all it really meant was that the man was plodding and hadn’t ducked quickly enough.

“Armand Gamache,” said the new commander, putting out his hand and smiling. “Do you have a moment?”

At a subtle signal, the two large Sûreté agents stepped back across the corridor, but the man himself didn’t move, didn’t walk right by Leduc and lay claim to the office.

Instead he stood there, politely waiting to be invited in.

Leduc almost smiled. It would be all right after all.

Here was the new commander, no better than the old one. One relic replaced by another. Put Gamache into a dress uniform and he would look impressive. But blow and he’d fall down.

But then Serge Leduc met Gamache’s eyes, and in that instant he understood what Gamache was really doing.

The new commander could, especially with the help of the large agents, force his way into Leduc’s office. But what Gamache was in fact doing was much more cunning and far more insidious. And for the first time, Serge Leduc wondered if Francoeur had been wrong.

Gamache had killed the Chief Superintendent with Francoeur’s own gun. It was an act that was both final and symbolic.

And now Serge Leduc looked into those calm, confident, intelligent eyes and he realized Gamache was doing the same thing to him. Not killing him. Not physically anyway. Armand Gamache was