advice. Stay away from here.”
But, of course, he couldn’t leave. As the prostitute watched, he walked up one side of the street, then down the other.
His face grew numb in the bitter cold. He had to turn his back now and then against the wind, to catch his breath. But he kept on.
Talking to near-frozen junkies and trannies and whores.
But while most knew who he was talking about, none knew where the little girl was.
And then he saw. A bit of red. Down an alley. Disappearing into a doorway.
He followed, quickly. Once at the door, he yanked it open and saw a man holding the girl by the hand. Leading her down the corridor and into a room.
Gamache shouted, and the man, looking back and seeing him, shoved the girl into the room and slammed the door.
Breaking into a run, Gamache got to the door. It was locked. He pounded on it.
“Open up.”
When there was no response, he threw himself against it. Again. And again.
Finally he broke through and stumbled into the room.
A man stood there. Middle-aged, or at least aged. Disheveled. Eyes sunken and red.
He held the girl in front of him, his large hand around her small throat.
“Give her to me,” said Gamache, advancing into the room.
“I found her.” His hand tightened around her throat. “She’s mine.”
“You need to let her go.”
“I won’t.”
Gamache knelt down and looked into the little girl’s eyes. But they were unfocused. Staring blankly ahead. Her mouth was open, and she was breathing rapidly. The Canadiens tuque had fallen off, and Gamache could see her hair, blond, filthy, matted.
“Can you close your eyes?” he asked her gently. She just continued to stare. “It’s going to be all right. No one will hurt you.”
But he suspected she’d heard that before. Just before she’d been hurt. Maybe beyond repair.
“I’m here to help,” he said. “I know you might not believe it, but I am.”
Then he stood back up.
“I won’t hurt her,” he said to the man. “But I will hurt you unless you let her go, right now.”
“Fuck o—” was as far as he got.
Gamache took a long, rapid stride forward and hit the man so hard in the face that his nose broke. He dropped to the floor, bleeding, as Gamache grabbed the girl and lifted her into his arms.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, holding her tight and averting her fixed gaze from the broken man on the floor. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
Behind him he heard the man screaming. But the sound got fainter and fainter as Gamache and the girl went down the corridor and out into the cold night.
He got her buckled into his car and gave her a chocolate bar from his glove compartment. Jean-Guy thought he didn’t know about the stash, but he did.
The girl just held it in front of her. Like a celebrant holding the cross.
“My name’s Armand,” he said, swinging the car back onto Ste.-Catherine. His voice was calm. Intentionally authoritative. “I’m with the police. You’re safe now. I promise. I have a granddaughter your age. She lives in Paris. Her name’s Florence. We call her Florie. She has a younger sister named Zora. What’s your name?”
But she remained mute. Frozen in place. Barely even blinking.
Just then the cell phone burst into life.
“We’ve got it,” said the agent. “The factory’s in an abandoned building down a side street just off St.-André, north of Ste.-Catherine. She’s gone inside. Should we go in?”
Gamache pulled over and hit his phone, about to say no, but the Montréal commander got there first.
“No” came the crisp voice. “Wait for us. We’re five minutes away. Chief Superintendent, I have you even closer.”
Gamache knew exactly the area the agents were talking about. And he was close.
He looked at the little girl. He couldn’t leave her alone in the car. But neither could he take her with him.
He scanned the street and saw the answer.
“Chief Superintendent Gamache?” came the voice of the Montréal tactical commander.
“I’ll be there in two minutes,” he said, and then, stopping the car in the middle of the street, he bundled the girl in his arms, whispering calmly, gently, “Everything’s fine. You’re safe.”
But he wondered, even as he spoke, if that was the biggest lie so far.
Pushing open the door into the diner, he looked around, then walked up to the waitress who’d served him two days earlier.
“My name’s Gamache, I’m with the Sûreté. I have to go. Please look after her until either I return or someone from the Sûreté