with pity, or sympathy. Not even with understanding, though Jean-Guy understood.
His expression held one thing. Reassurance. That what Benedict felt then, now, how he reacted, what he did or did not do, was natural and normal.
Freeze. Run. Cry. Scream.
Jean-Guy had done all those things himself. And he was trained. This boy was a carpenter. A builder.
“I know,” said Myrna. “I froze too. When the place started to fall down. It was—”
“I was alone.”
Myrna’s mouth, open with the next words prepared, remained open. And silent.
“I was alone,” Benedict repeated, in a whisper now.
And there was the difference. The gulf. Between their horror and his. They’d also faced death, but together.
He’d been alone.
Benedict’s lower lip trembled, his chin puckering with the effort to hold it in.
“I was so afraid,” he whispered. “When I finally did move, I saw the doorway and prayed it was under a support beam. I jumped in and got down. And waited. Everything fell around me.” As he spoke, he hunched his shoulders. “And then the crashing stopped, but I was trapped. I shouted and shouted, but there was nothing. And then it got really, really cold. And dark. I’d dropped my iPhone, so I couldn’t call or text. I didn’t have any light. And then it got real quiet.”
He was hugging himself and staring into the fire.
“But you had matches,” said Armand.
Benedict nodded. “I’d forgotten about them. I made a little pile of wood. It was so old and dry that it burned easily. Every once in a while, there’d be more shifting, but I kinda got used to it, and once I had the fire, I felt better. I talked to myself. Telling myself how well I was doing. How great everything was. How smart I was. How lucky I was. And that someone would come find me.” He looked at Billy. At Myrna. At Armand. “And you did.”
“You never heard another sound?” asked Jean-Guy. “A human sound?”
“No. Not until you came.”
They nodded, thinking. Imagining. Remembering.
And in at least one case, wondering.
“Why were you there?” Armand asked Benedict.
“To get my truck.”
“Yes. But you promised not to drive it without snow tires. You gave me your word. So why did you?”
Benedict dropped his eyes from Armand. “I’m sorry.” He heaved a sigh. “It sounds so stupid now, but after a couple of beers it seemed such a good idea. It’s pathetic, I know, but there’re two things I really care about. My girlfriend and my truck. I miss her. And I was worried about it. When Billy here offered me a lift, I took it.”
He raised his eyes to Armand.
“I was going to call you in the morning. Tell you where I was. I’m sorry. I really am.”
It was exactly the kind of reckless behavior a cop, and the father of a son, recognized. Armand nodded but kept his eyes on Benedict. Armand did not find it difficult to believe that this young man might have lapses in judgment. Witness the hair and sweater, the business card. Nor that he could be reckless. Witness trying to navigate a brutal Québec winter without snow tires.
But he found it difficult to believe that Benedict broke promises. And especially one he knew was being taken seriously.
And yet he had.
Which, Armand knew, meant he’d been wrong about the young man. In that. But in other things too?
The sun was setting, and Annie quietly got up to turn on some lights.
“Could anyone else use a drink?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” said Myrna, getting up.
“I’ll help,” said Clara.
“Can we talk?” Jean-Guy asked Armand. “In your study?”
Once there, Jean-Guy closed the door.
“There’s more, patron. Something I can’t tell the others yet,” he said. “The medical examiner doesn’t think Anthony Baumgartner died in the collapse of the house.”
“Then how?”
“His skull was crushed. There was concrete and plaster dust on the wound, but none actually embedded there.”
“Internal bleeding?”
“None.”
“Lungs?”
“Clear.”
Gamache gave a curt nod and waved Beauvoir to a chair, sitting down himself.
“He was dead before the place collapsed,” said Gamache, grasping the implication immediately. “Could it have been a heart attack or a stroke?”
“Dr. Harris considered both and doesn’t think so,” said Beauvoir. “She’s ready to say the cause of death was the wound on the head, before the house came down.”
“That’s the phone call you made.”
“Oui. I’ve classified it as a homicide and assigned Inspector Dufresne to the case. I’ll be leading the investigation.”
“Good,” said Gamache.
“What can you tell me about your meeting with Baumgartner yesterday?”
Gamache thought. He’d already told Jean-Guy about it, and the will, but