How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,137
wanted to impress him.”
Villeneuve looked at his daughters, building a snowman on the small front yard. Armand shook Gaétan Villeneuve’s hand, waved to the girls, and got in his car.
He sat there for a moment, putting it together. The target, he suspected, was the Ville-Marie Tunnel.
Audrey Villeneuve had almost certainly realized something was wrong, as she’d entered the reports. After years and years of working on repair files, she knew the difference between work genuinely done, or badly done. Or not done at all.
It was possible she’d even turned a blind eye, like so many of her colleagues. Until finally she couldn’t anymore. Then what would Audrey Villeneuve have done? She was organized, disciplined. She’d have gathered proof before saying anything.
And in doing that, she’d have found things she shouldn’t have. Worse things than willful neglect, than corruption, than desperately needed repairs not done.
She’d have found suggestions of a plan to hurry the collapse.
And then what? Gamache’s mind raced as he put it together. What would any midlevel worker do upon finding massive corruption and conspiracy? She’d have gone to her boss. And when he didn’t believe her, her boss’s boss.
But still, no one acted.
That would explain her stress. Her short temper.
And her happiness, finally?
Audrey Villeneuve, the organizer, had a Plan B. She’d make herself a new dress for the Christmas party, something an aging politician might notice. She’d wander up to him, casually. Perhaps flirt a little, perhaps try to get him on his own.
And then she would tell him what she’d found.
Premier Renard would believe her. She was sure of it.
Yes, thought Gamache as he started his car and headed toward downtown Montréal, Renard would have known she was telling the truth.
After a few blocks he stopped to use a public phone.
“Lacoste residence,” came the little voice. “Mélanie speaking.”
“Is your mother home, please?”
Please, Gamache begged. Please.
“One moment, s’il vous plaît.” He heard a scream, “Mama. Mama. Téléphone.”
A few seconds later he heard Inspector Lacoste’s voice. “Oui?”
“Isabelle, I can’t talk long. The target’s the Ville-Marie Tunnel.”
“Oh my God,” came the hushed response.
“We need to close it down, now.”
“Got it.”
“And Isabelle. I’ve handed in my resignation.”
“Yes sir. I’ll tell the others. They’ll want to know.”
“Good luck,” he said.
“And you? Where’re you going?”
“Back to Three Pines. I left something there.” He paused before he spoke again. “Can you find Jean-Guy, Isabelle? Make sure he’s all right today?”
“I’ll make sure he’s far away from what’s about to happen.”
“Merci.”
He hung up, called Annie to warn her to stay away from downtown, then got back in his car.
* * *
Sylvain Francoeur sat in the backseat of the black SUV. Tessier sat beside him, and in the rearview mirror Francoeur could see the unmarked van, carrying two more agents and the equipment they’d need.
Francoeur had been happy to get out of the city, given what was about to happen. Far from the trouble and far from any possible blame. None of it would stick to him, as long as he got to the village in time.
It was coming down to the wire.
“Gamache didn’t go to headquarters,” Tessier whispered, checking his device. “He was tracked to east-end Montréal. The Villeneuve place. Should we pick him up?”
“Why bother?” Francoeur had a smile on his face. This was perfect. “We searched it. He won’t find anything there. He’s wasting what little time’s left. He thinks we’ll follow him. Let him think that.”
Tessier hadn’t been able to find Three Pines on any map, but it didn’t matter. They knew approximately where it was, from where Gamache’s signal always disappeared. But “approximately” wasn’t good enough for the careful Francoeur. He needed no delays, no unknowns. So he’d found a certainty. Someone who did know where the village could be found.
Francoeur looked over at the haggard man behind the wheel.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir held tight to the steering wheel, his face blank, as he drove them straight to Three Pines.
* * *
Olivier looked out the window. From Myrna’s loft they had a panoramic view over the village, past the three huge pine trees and up the main road out of Three Pines.
“Nothing,” he said, and returned to sit beside Gabri, who put his large hand on Olivier’s slender knee.
“I canceled choir practice,” said Gabri. “Probably shouldn’t have. Best to keep everything normal.” He looked at Olivier. “I might’ve blown it.”
“It?” asked Nichol.
After a surprised and strained pause, Gabri laughed.
“Atta girl,” said Ruth.
And then the quiet descended again. The weight of waiting.
“Let me tell you a story,” said Myrna, pulling her chair closer to