How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,117

beau,” she said in her most patronizing tone.

Gamache watched her for a moment. “Is Jérôme all right?”

“You mean, is he ready?” asked Thérèse.

“Oui.”

“He won’t let us down. He knows it all depends on him.”

“And on Agent Nichol,” Gamache pointed out.

“Oui.” But it was said without conviction.

Even drowning people, Gamache realized, when tossed a life preserver by Nichol, hesitated. He couldn’t blame them. He did too.

He hadn’t forgotten seeing her in the B and B when she had no business being there. No business, that is, of theirs. But there was clearly another agenda she was following.

No. Armand Gamache had not forgotten that.

After Thérèse Brunel had gone upstairs, Gamache put another log on the fire, made a fresh pot of coffee, and took Henri for a walk.

Henri bounced ahead, trying to catch the snowballs Gamache was throwing to him. It was a perfect winter night. Not too cold. No wind. The snow was still falling, but more gently now. It would stop before midnight, Gamache thought.

He tipped his head back, opened his mouth, and felt the huge flakes hit his tongue. Not too hard. Not too soft.

Just right.

He closed his eyes and felt them hit his nose, his eyelids, his wounded cheek. Like tiny kisses. Like the ones Annie and Daniel used to give him, when they were babies. And the ones he gave them.

He opened his eyes and continued his walk slowly around and around the pretty little village. As he passed homes, he looked through the windows throwing honey light onto the snow. He saw Ruth bent over a white plastic table. Writing. Rosa sat on the table, watching. Maybe even dictating.

He walked around the curve of the green and saw Clara reading by her fireplace. Curled into a corner of her sofa, a blanket over her legs.

He saw Myrna, moving back and forth in front of her window in the loft, pouring herself a cup of tea.

From the bistro he heard laughter and could see the Christmas tree, lit and cheerful in the corner, and patrons finishing late dinners, enjoying drinks. Talking about their days.

He saw Gabri in the B and B, wrapping Christmas gifts. The window must have been open slightly, because he heard Gabri’s clear tenor singing “The Huron Carol.” Rehearsing for the Christmas Eve service in the little church.

As Gamache walked, he hummed it to himself.

Every now and then a thought about the Ouellet murder entered his head. But he chased it out. Ideas came to mind about Arnot, and Francoeur. But he chased those away too.

Instead he thought about Reine-Marie. And Annie. And Daniel. And his grandchildren. About what a very fortunate man he was.

And then he and Henri returned to Emilie’s home.

* * *

While everyone slept, Armand stared into the fire, thinking. Going over and over the Ouellet case in his mind.

Then, just before eleven, he started making notes. Pages and pages.

The fire died in the hearth, but he didn’t notice.

Finally, he placed what he’d written into envelopes and put on his coat and boots and hat and mitts. He tried to wake Henri, but the shepherd was snoring and muttering and catching snowballs in his dreams.

And so he’d gone out alone. The homes of Three Pines were dark now. Everyone sound asleep. The lights on the huge trees were off and the snow had stopped. The sky was again filled with stars. He dropped two envelopes through a mail slot and returned to Emilie’s home with one regret. That he hadn’t had the chance to get Christmas gifts for the villagers. But he thought they’d understand.

* * *

An hour later, when Jérôme and Thérèse came downstairs, they found Gamache asleep in the armchair, Henri snoring at his feet. A pen in his hand and an envelope, addressed to Reine-Marie, on the floor where it had slid off the arm of the chair.

“Armand?” Thérèse touched his arm. “Wake up.”

Gamache snapped awake, almost hitting Thérèse with his head as he sat up straight. It took him just a moment to gather his wits.

Nichol came clomping down the stairs, not really disheveled since she was rarely “sheveled.”

“It’s time,” said Thérèse. She seemed almost jubilant. Certainly relieved.

The wait was over.

THIRTY-THREE

Agent Nichol crawled under the desk, her hands and knees on the dusty floor. Picking up the cable, she guided it to the metal box.

“Ready?”

Up above, Thérèse Brunel looked at Armand Gamache. Armand Gamache looked at Jérôme Brunel. And Dr. Brunel did not hesitate.

“Ready,” he said.

“Are you sure this time?” came the petulant voice. “Maybe you want