Chapter 36

C HAPTER 36

"You can leave me now," said Gamache once they'd entered the waiting room. "Thank you for your help."

"A pleasure, patron . I'll just wait and make sure you get in," said Sargent Gauthier.

"Not necessary."

"I know. It's the least I can do."

Gamache hoped he looked more grateful than he felt.

The receptionist's desk was empty. Gamache took a seat and waited, while the Mountie looked at the photos on the walls.

Taking in his surroundings, Gamache thought this office was a perfect reflection of Caron. Polished and impressive on the outside; shabby, dirty, broken on the inside. The desk looked like it had been found in a dumpster. The framed photos on the walls, which Gauthier was glancing at, were out of date, showing many politicians, now dead, shaking hands with other politicians, now disgraced.

Armand tried to order his thoughts, concerned that when he actually saw Jeanne Caron his mind would go blank. Taken hostage by an old and powerful grievance.

He could not let that happen. He needed a strategy. Some way to get this woman to tell him what was going on. Preferably without his having to draw his weapon.

Though he was willing to, and suspected it would be necessary. Time and events had overtaken him. Had run roughshod over and wiped out a lifetime of trying to do the right thing in the face of great temptation to do the easy thing.

This, what might be his last act, was what he'd be remembered for. His own travesty. The history he loved would judge him badly. But it didn't matter. He needed answers. Quickly.

Armand looked at his phone. Messages were pouring in. Though still nothing from Assistant Commissioner Lavigne or Lacoste.

Jean-Guy was setting up the call. Once that was made, the machinery would be set in motion, and nothing would ever be the same. He was about to pull the trigger and start the panic.

That panic would lead to chaos. And chaos would lead to the breaking down of civil society, of civility. Order would ultimately be restored, but it would be a strict, restrictive order. A new world order would be in place. Where rights were limited. Privacy was a thing of the past. Movement, travel denied. Elections suspended.

All for the public good. All with public consent. That passenger beside him babbling away on the flight was right about one thing. When scared, people would readily agree to things that hours earlier would have appalled them.

But there was one chance. If he could get Jeanne Caron to talk.

Just then, the door to Caron's private office opened. Gamache got to his feet.

A young man was standing there.

"My name is—"

"I know who you are, Monsieur Gamache. They called up from reception. I explained that Madame Caron can't see you."

He was polite but officious.

" Merci. " But instead of leaving, Gamache pushed past the assistant—

"Hey!"

—and into the Chief of Staff's private office.

It was empty.

"She's not here," said the smug voice behind him.

"Where is she?"

"I can't say."

"You had better, young man, or I'll charge you with obstruction of justice."

It was an empty threat and pretty soon this fellow would realize that Chief Inspector Gamache of the S?reté du Québec had no authority there. But for now, for this split second…

Gamache didn't dare look at the RCMP officer, who knew full well he had no way to follow through.

"She left."

"I can see that. Where did she go?"

"I don't know."

"You must. You keep her agenda, don't you?"

"She's supposed to be in a meeting in ten minutes, but—"

"So her leaving was unexpected?"

"Yes. Some old fellow showed up an hour or so ago and she went with him. Told me she wouldn't be back today."

"Describe the man."

"Slender. Short white hair. He looked like a vagrant. Pants too short and the jacket too tight. It's like he grew a few inches overnight. Don't old people get smaller?"

He looked at the Chief Inspector as though expecting him to shrink in front of his eyes.

"Hey!" the assistant protested again as Gamache went over to the desk. "Stop him!"

But Sargent Gauthier just folded his arms across his chest and watched Gamache pull open drawers and flip through notebooks. The only thing he found was an agenda at the back of one of the drawers. It was a year old. He shoved it into his pocket, then walked up to the assistant.

"I need to see Monsieur Lauzon."

"The Deputy Prime Minister?"

"Yes. Now." Gamache softened his voice. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but this is a matter of national security. Tell me where he is. Through there?"

Gamache stepped toward what was likely a connecting door. The COS would have offices close to, and probably connecting to, her minister.

"He's not here either. Didn't you see the news? He's in Washington for talks on a bilateral agreement on the environment."

Gamache studied the young man and realized that as soon as they left, he would contact Caron. "What's your name?"

"Frederick Castonguay."

"Well, Monsieur Castonguay, you're coming with me."

"I am not. I have dinner plans."

It was so mundane a protest it was almost laughable.

"I'll buy you dinner."

"I won't go."

"Then I'll place you under arrest."

Now Caron's assistant smiled. "You have no authority here, Chief Inspector."

"But I do," said the Mountie. "You're coming with us."

Gamache stared at the RCMP officer, Diane's older brother, in surprise. At this beau geste . This noble act.

At this beau risque . This great gamble.

"Give me your phone," Gamache said to Castonguay.

"No."

The Mountie patted him down and took it.

"Fucker."

Gauthier went to put it on the desk, but Gamache stopped him. "We need to take it with us."

"But they'll be able to trace where we are."

"Maybe. But if we leave it here, and he's gone, they'll know for sure something's happened. And we're the last ones seen with him."

The Mountie gave the phone to Gamache, and the three of them walked quickly back down the hall. When the elevator doors opened, the RCMP officer politely asked everyone to get out, and the three of them got in.

"I can't think that went to plan, patron ," said the Mountie when the doors closed.

" Pardon ," said Gamache, who was scanning his messages, then looked up. " Non. But it could have been worse. You do know your career is over. You'll be charged, along with me, with kidnapping."

"Too fucking right," said Caron's assistant.

"But at least I didn't have to shoot you. That is why you brought the gun, isn't it? To use on Caron."

"What?" demanded Castonguay.

"Don't look so surprised, Chief Inspector," said the Mountie. "It didn't take a genius to work out what you planned. Why else would you come in here armed? Diane told me you didn't wear a gun unless you thought you'd have to use it. And yet you came here, to a public building, with a weapon. And then there was the look on your face. I know that look."

Gamache studied the officer. "Is that why you came with me? To stop me?"

"No. To help. I owe Diane that. And for what it's worth, Madame Caron is so despised, I might've missed you and hit her." He smiled. "Then there was the small fact that Commissioner Lavigne told me you were headed this way. He ordered me to stay with you. To protect you. He chose me because of Diane. He knows how I feel about you."

Gamache took a deep breath and exhaled. That was one worry behind him. Lavigne was firmly on their side. Though it was the end of his career too. He was leaving quite a lot of wreckage in his wake.

"What has Caron done to make you do this?" the Mountie asked. "It must be pretty bad."

"I'll tell you when we're out of here."

"Come quickly!"

Lacoste and Dussault had just turned yet another corner in the stone labyrinth that was Grande Chartreuse, when they heard the commotion.

"Hurry! Hurry!" The words bounced off the walls and floors, filling the space, making it impossible to tell where exactly they should hurry to.

"It's coming from there." Isabelle gestured down another of the long halls.

"No, no, down here." They looked behind them. Sister Irene was gesturing. "Come on."

They followed her. Footsteps, shouts for help, were all around them. Hurling, it seemed, out of the old stone.

Cries, trapped in the walls for centuries, were escaping.

The three of them ran up worn stairs. Then along more corridors, and climbed increasingly narrow and winding staircases, finally emerging at the top of a turret.

They were on a parapet high above the ground. It was dark, but they recognized the Abbot. He and two lay monks were staring over the side, their black robes flapping in the wind.

Lacoste's heart sank.

"What is it?" Frère Sébastien arrived just behind them.

Splayed at the base of the wall was a dark shape outlined by wildflowers. It was in the unmistakable shape of a body, spread-eagled. It looked, from on top of the turret, like a hatchling that had left the nest too early. Tried to fly too soon.

Or, perhaps, a dead monk.

Sister Irene sank to her knees, her forehead resting against the stone wall. Her eyes screwed shut. But it was too late. She'd seen the unthinkable, and now the Dominican nun would never stop seeing the body of her friend.

No one on the top of the wall had any doubt who was at the bottom.

"Did he fall?" asked the Abbot, shaken. "He must've fallen. It must be an accident." He looked from Lacoste to Dussault but did not get the reassurance he was searching for.

The investigators knew what the Abbot could not bring himself to believe. Someone had thrown Brother Robert from his sanctuary. His prayers, his God, his hiding place had failed him.

From the moment he'd agreed to take confession for a priest "too tired" to do his duty, Brother Robert's life was running out. He was heading to this place, this moment.

"Why was he up here?" said the Abbot. "No one ever comes here. There's no need."

"We have to go to him," said Sister Irene.

Lacoste turned to Claude Dussault. "Will you take them down?"

When they left, she sent off a quick message to Gamache.

Beauvoir saw the Chief approaching. He looked like a cabinet minister leaving Parliament. Authoritative but unremarkable. The same could not be said for the man with him.

For a terrible moment, Beauvoir thought Gamache had been arrested. Walking next to him was an RCMP officer in his impressive scarlet uniform. And between them was a young man in a sharp suit.

The officer held the man's arm in a tight grip.

Tourists were taking pictures and videos of the Mountie, excited to see the famous dress uniform. All that was missing was a horse.

There was no stopping the photos, or the fact the images would soon be posted on social media. Tomorrow all social media would probably be blacked out except for government-controlled sources. All news would be censored. Until then, images of the Mountie on Parliament Hill would be up. And with him, unintended and unmistakable, would be Chief Inspector Gamache and some strange man. For all the world, including the conspirators, to see.

Gamache got in the car, and after quickly introducing the two men who were now in the back seat, he gave Beauvoir back his gun. Jean-Guy sniffed it.

"Unused," said Armand. Then he texted David Lavigne a simple Merci .

The deputy commissioner had not replied to any of his recent messages. Lavigne had gone silent, gone to ground. He hoped by his own choice.

"Get across the border into Québec," said Gamache. "Quickly."

"Québec?" demanded the young man in the back seat. "Let me out."

Jean-Guy pulled into the traffic on Wellington Street as Gamache locked the doors.

Their guest was now unmistakably a hostage. And all three cops had just crossed a boundary.