How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,101

soon as you get it, please.”

“I’ll do that.”

She walked with him to the door to his office. He offered her his hand, as he had in their first meeting.

“Not a day goes by when I’m not proud of you, Inspector Lacoste.”

She felt his hand, strong. None of the weariness he’d shown the other agents. No defeat, or resignation. He was resolute. He held her hand and looked at her with complete focus.

“Trust your instincts. You understand?”

She nodded.

He opened the door and left without a backward glance. Walking slowly but without hesitation from the department he’d created and this day destroyed.

THIRTY

“I think you’ll want to see this, sir.”

Tessier caught up with Chief Superintendent Francoeur, and ordered everyone else out of the elevator. The doors closed and Tessier handed him a sheet of paper.

Francoeur quickly scanned it.

“When was this recorded?”

“An hour ago.”

“And he sent everyone home?” Francoeur began to hand the paper back to Tessier, but changed his mind. Instead, he folded it and put it in his pocket.

“Inspector Lacoste is still there. They seem focused on the Ouellet case, but everyone else has gone.”

Francoeur looked straight ahead and saw his imperfect reflection in the scuffed and pocked metal door of the elevator.

“He’s had it,” said Tessier.

“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Francoeur. “According to the files you picked off the therapist’s computer, Gamache still thinks we have him under surveillance.”

“But no one believes him.”

“He believes it, and he’s right. Don’t you think this might be for our benefit?” Francoeur tapped his breast pocket, where the transcription now sat. “He wants us to know he’s resigning.”

Tessier thought about that. “Why?”

Francoeur stared ahead. At the door. He remembered when it had been new. When the stainless steel gleamed, and the reflection was perfect. He took a deep breath and tipped his head back, closing his eyes.

What was Gamache about? What was he doing?

Francoeur should have been pleased, but alarms were sounding. They were so close. And now this.

What’re you up to, Armand?

* * *

The parish priest met him with keys to the old stone church.

Long gone were the days when churches were unlocked. Those days disappeared along with the chalices and crucifixes and anything else that could be stolen or defaced. Now the churches were cold and empty. Though not all of that could be laid at the feet of the vandals.

Gamache brushed the snow from his coat, took off his hat, and followed the priest. Father Antoine’s Roman collar was hidden beneath a worn scarf and heavy coat. He hurried, not happy to be taken from his lunch and his hearth on this snowy day.

He was elderly, stooped. Closing in on eighty, Gamache guessed. His face was soft, the veins in his nose and cheeks purple and protruding. His eyes were tired. Exhausted from looking for miracles in this hardscrabble land. Though it had produced one miracle within living memory. The Ouellet Quints. But perhaps, thought Gamache, one was worse than none. God had visited once. And then not returned.

Father Antoine knew what was possible, and what was passing him by.

“Which one do you want?” Father Antoine asked when they were in his office at the back of the church.

“The 1930s forward, please,” said the Chief. He’d called ahead and spoken to Father Antoine, but still the priest seemed put out.

He looked around the room, as did Gamache. Books and files were everywhere. Gamache could see that it had once been a comfortable, even inviting, room. There were two easy chairs, a hearth, bookcases. But now it felt neglected. Filled, but empty.

“It’ll be over there.” The priest pointed to a bookcase by the window, dropped the keys on the desk, and left.

“Merci, mon père,” the Chief called after him, then closed the door, turned on the lamp on the desk, took off his coat, and got to work.

* * *

Chief Superintendent Francoeur handed the paper to his lunch companion and watched as he read, folded it back up, and placed it on the table beside the bone china plate with the warm whole-grain roll. A curl of shaved butter sat beside a sterling silver knife.

“What do you think it means?” his companion asked. His voice, as always, was warm, friendly, steady. Never flustered, rarely angry.

Francoeur didn’t smile, but he felt like it. Unlike Tessier, this man wasn’t fooled by Gamache’s plodding attempt to throw them off.

“He suspects we’ve bugged his office,” said Francoeur. He was hungry, but he didn’t dare appear distracted in front of this man. “That”—he nodded toward the paper on