How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,42

and deeper into the system. Partly to see what he could find, but also to see if he could attract the watcher. If there was one. He wanted to tempt him out into the open.

And he had. The watcher appeared, but not where Jérôme Brunel expected. Not behind him, following, but in front of him. Luring Jérôme on, and in.

Trapping him.

Jérôme Brunel had fled, erasing, erasing, erasing his electronic footprints. But still the watcher followed. With sure, swift, relentless steps. He’d followed Jérôme Brunel right to their home.

There was no if about it. He’d found something. And he’d been found.

“A safe place,” said Thérèse. “I didn’t think one existed.”

“And now?” Armand asked.

She looked around and smiled.

Jérôme Brunel, though, did not smile.

* * *

The debriefing was over and the Sûreté teams were heading home.

Beauvoir sat at his desk, his head lolling. His mouth open, each shallow breath unnaturally loud. His eyes were partly open and he felt himself sliding forward.

The raid was over. There were no bikers. He’d almost wept with relief, and would have, right there in that shithole of a bunker, had no one been watching.

It was over. And now he was back, safe in his office.

Tessier walked by, then backed up and looked in.

“I was hoping to catch you, Beauvoir. The informant fucked up, but what can we do? The boss feels badly about that, so he’s put you on the next raid.”

Beauvoir stared at him, barely focusing. “What?”

“A drug shipment heading for the border. We could let Canada Customs or the RCMP intercept it, but Francoeur wants to make up for today. Rest up. It looks big.”

Beauvoir waited until he no longer heard footsteps down the corridor. And when there was only silence he put his head in his hands.

And cried.

FOURTEEN

After a dinner of coq au vin, green salad, and fruit and meringue, the three of them washed up. Chief Inspector Gamache was up to his elbows in suds in the deep enamel sink, while the Brunels dried.

It was an old kitchen. No dishwasher, no special mixer taps. No upper cabinets. Just dark wood shelves for plates, over the marble counters. And dark wood cabinets underneath.

A harvest table, where they’d eaten, doubled as the kitchen island. The windows looked out onto the back garden, but it was dark outside, so all they could see were their own reflections.

The place felt like what it was. An old kitchen, in an old home, in a very old village. It smelled of bacon and baking. It smelled of rosemary and thyme and mandarin oranges. And coq au vin.

When the dishes were done Gamache looked at the Bakelite clock above the sink. Almost nine o’clock.

Thérèse had returned to the living room with Jérôme. He stoked the embers of the fire while she found the record player and turned it on. A familiar violin concerto started playing softly in the background.

Gamache put his coat on and whistled for Henri.

“Evening stroll?” asked Jérôme, who stood by the bookcase, browsing.

“Want to come?” Gamache clipped Henri onto the leash.

“Not me, merci,” said Thérèse. She sat by the fire and looked relaxed, but tired. “I’m going to have a bath and head for bed in a few minutes.”

“I’ll come with you, Armand,” said Jérôme, and laughed at the look of surprise on the Chief’s face.

“Don’t let him stand still for too long,” Thérèse called after them. “He looks like the bottom half of a snowman. Kids are constantly trying to put big snowballs on top of him.”

“That’s not true,” said Jérôme, as he got into his coat. “Once it happened.” He closed the door behind them. “Let’s go. I’m curious to see this little village you like so much.”

“It won’t take long.”

The cold hit them immediately, but instead of being shocking or uncomfortable, it felt refreshing. Bracing. They were well insulated against it. A tall man and a small, round man. They looked like a broken exclamation mark.

Once down the wide verandah steps, they turned left and strolled along the plowed road. The Chief unclipped Henri, tossed a tennis ball, and watched as the shepherd leapt into the snow bank, furiously digging to retrieve the precious ball.

Gamache was curious to see his companion’s reaction to the village. Jérôme Brunel, as Gamache had grown to appreciate, was not easily read. He was a city man, born and bred. Had studied medicine at the Université de Montréal, and before that he’d spent time at the Sorbonne in Paris, where he’d met Thérèse. She’d been deep into an advanced