How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,91

as you’re told,” she said, as though speaking to a willful child.

Both Jérôme and Nichol crawled out from under the desk, Jérôme still gripping the black cable. Behind them they could hear the hiss as Gilles, still outside, sprayed the hole he’d made with foam insulation.

“What’s the problem?” Gamache asked.

“We can’t connect it,” said Jérôme.

“Yes we ca—”

But the Chief raised his hand and cut Nichol off.

“Why not?” he asked Jérôme. They’d come so far. Why not the last few inches?

“Because we don’t know what’ll happen once we do.”

“Isn’t tha—”

But again, Nichol was cut off. She shut her mouth, but fumed.

“Why not?” Gamache asked again, his voice neutral, assessing the situation.

“I know it sounds overcautious, but once this is plugged in, we have the ability to connect to the world. But it also means the world can connect to us. This”—he held up the cable—“is a highway that goes in both directions.”

Agent Nichol looked like she was about to wet her pants.

Chief Inspector Gamache turned to her and nodded.

“But the power isn’t on.” The dam broke and the words rushed from her. “That might as well be rope for all the connecting it’ll do. We have to attach it to the computers and we have to turn the power on. We have to make sure it works. Why wait?”

Gamache felt a chill on his neck and turned to see Gilles walking into the tense atmosphere. He shut the door, took off his tuque and mitts and coat, and sat by the door as though guarding it.

Gamache turned to Thérèse.

“What do you think?”

“We should wait.” On seeing Nichol open her mouth again, Thérèse headed off any comment. Looking directly at the young agent she spoke. “You’ve just arrived, but we’ve been living with this for weeks, months. We’ve risked our careers, our friendships, our homes, perhaps even more. If my husband says we pause, then we pause. Do you understand?”

Nichol gave in with bad grace.

As they left, Gamache turned the key in the Yale lock and put it in his breast pocket. Gilles joined him for the short walk through the dark, back to Emilie’s home.

“You know that young woman’s right?” Gilles said, his voice low and his eyes on the snowy ground.

“We need to test it?” said Gamache, also in a whisper. “Oui, I know.”

He watched Nichol, up ahead, and behind her Jérôme and Thérèse.

And he wondered what Jérôme was really afraid of.

* * *

After a dinner of beef stew, they took their coffees into the living room, where a fire had been laid.

Thérèse put a match to the newspaper and watched it flare and burn bright. Then she turned to the room. Gamache and Gilles sat together on one of the sofas and Jérôme sat across from them. Nichol was in the corner, working on a jigsaw puzzle.

After plugging in the lights on the Christmas tree, Thérèse joined her husband.

“Wish I’d thought to bring gifts,” she said, gazing at the tree. “Armand, you look pensive.”

Gamache had followed her gaze and was looking under the tree. Something had twigged, some little thought to do with trees, or Christmas, or presents. Something triggered by what Thérèse just said, but the direct question had chased it away. He furrowed his brow and continued to look at the cheerful Christmas tree in the corner of the room. Bare underneath. Barren of gifts.

“Armand?”

He shook his head and met her gaze. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

Jérôme turned to Gilles. “You must be exhausted.”

Jérôme looked exhausted himself.

Gilles nodded. “Been a while since I climbed a tree.”

“Do you really hear them talk?” Jérôme asked.

The woodsman studied the rotund man across from him. The man who’d stayed at the base of the white pine in the bitter cold, calling encouragement, when he could have left. He nodded.

“What do they say?” Jérôme asked.

“I don’t think you want to know what they’re saying,” said Gilles with a smile. “Besides, mostly I just hear sounds. Whispers. Other stuff.”

The Brunels looked at him, waiting for more. Gamache held his coffee, and listened. He knew the story.

“Have you always been able to hear them?” Thérèse finally asked.

In the corner, Agent Nichol looked up from the puzzle.

Gilles shook his head. “I was a lumberjack. I cut down hundreds of trees with my chain saw. One day, as I cut into an old-growth oak, I heard it cry.”

Silence met the remark. Gilles stared into the fireplace, and the burning wood.

“At first I ignored it. Thought I was hearing things. Then it spread, and I could hear