Beauvoir was more expert. He fired. Three quick shots. Boom, boom, boom. And the man dropped.
When the ringing from the shots stopped bouncing off the walls, he heard Gamache beside him, still counting. Not losing a beat.
“Twenty-nine. Thirty.”
The medics arrived.
Gamache bent lower and gave Amelia two breaths.
“Carfentanil,” he said, continuing the compressions while Beauvoir watched the door into the lab and counted for him.
“Seven. Eight. Nine.”
“I gave her the antagonist,” said Gamache as he rocked back and forth, keeping the rhythm of the compressions.
“Which one?” asked the medic, kneeling beside him and preparing the defibrillator.
“Naloxone. Less than a minute ago.”
“Okay,” said the medic. “Step aside.”
Gamache did, watching as the medics worked on Amelia. And other medics moved forward into the factory. To care for the wounded. Even as the shots continued. And more wounded were made.
Gamache looked over at Jean-Guy, who was now kneeling beside the young man he’d shot. And killed.
CHAPTER 37
“You look awful,” said Isabelle’s husband with a sympathetic smile. “Here.”
He handed Gamache a scotch and offered Beauvoir a coffee.
“Merci,” said Armand, accepting the drink but putting it down. “Where is she?”
It was well past midnight, and he felt like he’d been hit by a truck, but the evening wasn’t over yet.
“In our daughter’s room,” said Isabelle. “Would you like to see?”
“Please. Do you know her name?”
“No. She hasn’t spoken.”
“Social services?”
“I thought I’d wait ’til morning.”
“Good.”
Gamache and Jean-Guy followed Isabelle down the hall.
Her husband stayed behind in the living room, watching the three of them go. Recognizing that while he and the children would always be the most important parts of Isabelle’s life, these three also formed a family.
The door was open, and a night-light was on. In one bed lay Sophia, Isabelle’s daughter. Fast asleep.
In the other was the little girl. On her side, curled into a tight ball under the comforter. Eyes staring. Her hands clutching the pillow at her head.
Armand walked in quietly and knelt down.
When last he’d seen the girl, her hair was matted and caked with filth. Now it was clean and brushed. She’d had a bath and smelled very faintly of lavender.
“It’s Armand,” he spoke softly. “We met earlier. I’m the police officer.”
She cringed away, her eyes widening.
“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. No one will. You’re safe.” He was careful not to approach further. Not to touch her. “You can go to sleep now.”
He smiled in a way that, he hoped and prayed, didn’t betray how his heart ached for her.
But she continued to stare at him, in terror.
“May I?” he asked, turning to Isabelle and indicating a book on the bedside table.
Isabelle nodded.
Armand brought over a chair and opened the book.
“‘… in which we are introduced to Winnie-the-Pooh and some bees,’” he read, his voice deep and soft and tranquil. He looked up then, into her wide eyes. “‘And the stories begin.’”
* * *
“Amelia?” Isabelle asked Jean-Guy.
They’d left the Chief Superintendent reading to the girl and had returned to the living room.
“We just came from the hospital,” said Jean-Guy, dropping into an armchair. “They got her heart going, and she’s breathing on her own.”
“Brain damage?” asked Isabelle.
“They’re doing tests, but we won’t know until she wakes up. We’re going back there right after we leave here.”
She nodded. “If there’s anything I can do.”
“There may be. Thank you. I’ll let you know.”
“So she was working with the Chief all along? Did … anyone know?”
“No.”
“Not even you?”
“No. I knew he’d expelled Amelia in hopes she’d lead him to the carfentanil, but I had no idea she was in on it.”
Isabelle looked at Jean-Guy closely. “Are you okay with that? With not being told?”
He lifted his fingers off the arms of the chair, then dropped them. What could he say? What could he do? It was, he knew, the nature of the job.
Secrecy. Secrets.
Lacoste had them. All senior officers had things they kept close to the chest.
God knows, he himself had his secrets. One in particular.
He knew he’d have to tell his father-in-law soon. And this one hit closer to home and was far more personal than the secret Gamache had kept from him.
“The carfentanil?” asked Isabelle.
“Looks like we got it all, except for what was used in the experiments.”
“What experiments?” Isabelle’s husband asked.
“This particular opioid’s so new that no one really knows the safe dose. And, of course, that also depends on weight, body type. Health. So many addicts have weak hearts, and very little will push them over the edge. This guy—”
Boom, boom, boom. Beauvoir saw, in a flash, the