Chapter 9

C HAPTER 9

The meeting was over.

After half an hour together, Gamache had gotten almost nothing out of this "Charles," except some vague allusions to something larger in the works.

No facts, no evidence, no names. Not even this stranger's name.

As he followed "Charles" to the door, Gamache was troubled and frustrated. And felt he had not done a very good job.

Since he had no facts or evidence, he had to rely on his instincts. Oddly enough, though Gamache fought against it, his instincts told him "Charles" had been sincere when he'd said he was trying to help. Though the young man was clearly deeply conflicted. And he hadn't actually been any help. In fact, quite the opposite. He'd created a house of specters, of partly seen, insubstantial threats, and then thrown Gamache into it.

Once outside, they paused on the sidewalk.

"Why did you wonder if you could trust me?" Gamache asked.

He was squinting into the sun and moved slightly. From that angle he could see Beauvoir standing across the street, and behind him an SUV parked half a block away. Probably an unmarked S?reté vehicle.

Lacoste was just coming out of Open Da Night, followed closely by a woman who glanced around, looking for someone or for an empty table on the packed terrasse.

"Charles" hadn't answered his question. Instead, he continued to stare at him. And Armand understood.

"You're afraid the S?reté is compromised."

"I'm sure of it. And yes, Chief Inspector, I'm afraid."

"Who? Who in the S?reté?"

"Charles" shook his head. "I don't know. And that's the least of it."

"The least of what?" demanded Gamache, his patience far exceeded.

"Charles" thought for a moment, considering and weighing his answer. "I gave up drugs and booze, and now everyone is telling me that to be healthy I should drink more water, but you know, I don't think that's true."

He stared at Gamache as though expecting the Chief Inspector to understand.

"Come on, son. I need more."

Armand didn't know why he just called this young man "son," except that he wasn't that far off Daniel's age. In fact, "Charles" and Daniel had a lot in common. Not least of all drug use. And managing to claw back their lives.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gamache saw the woman behind Lacoste raise her hand and wave cheerily toward the SUV. It began moving to pick her up.

Instead of answering Gamache's question, "Charles" said, "I'll be in touch."

"You've given me nothing!"

"I've given you more than I meant to. More than was wise. I need to find something out. I'll let you know. I promise."

"I'll leave my coat by the door."

"Charles" laughed and turned away. But Gamache had one more question.

"What's your name?"

The man turned back and smiled. "Actually, it really is Charles."

A movement over Charles's shoulder caught Gamache's eye.

The SUV was moving toward Open Da Night. But instead of slowing down to pick up the woman, it was gathering speed, accelerating toward them. Aiming for the sidewalk. The terrasse. Them. And anyone in between.

Gamache's eyes widened. Seeing this, Charles began to turn, to look behind him. But there was no time.

Between them and the SUV sat the man and his granddaughter. The girl was coloring in a book, and he was reading the newspaper. Oblivious.

It all happened so fast, and yet in slow motion. The SUV was so close now Gamache locked eyes with the driver.

And then…

Too late, Jean-Guy Beauvoir saw what was happening, though he could never have done anything anyway.

His first, and only, warning was the look on Gamache's face. His surprise. His body tensing. Preparing.

And then the flash of black across Beauvoir's vision as the vehicle sped by.

Isabelle Lacoste had just left the café and was checking her messages to see if there were any updates. Her earpiece was still in, picking up the last of the conversation between the Chief and this man. Whose name—she smiled—turned out to be Charles after all.

She could just imagine Gamache shaking his head in self-deprecating exasperation.

But the smile froze when she heard a gasp. His gasp. A half shout. She looked up just as there was a terrible sound.

Jean-Guy ran toward the sudden chaos. Of chairs and tables overturned.

Of bodies on the ground.

There had been silence, for a moment, after the initial rending crash. As though life and death were suspended. All mashed up. Fate trying to decide.

And then the screaming started. The vehicle had plowed into the terrasse, into the people, then sped off. Rounding the corner and disappearing onto avenue Fairmount.

Tires screeched and sirens wailed, joining the screaming on the terrasse, as S?reté vehicles took off after the SUV.

Beauvoir raced over just as Gamache shoved the heavy table off himself. He was protecting the child with his body, while bracing on the pavement. Her eyes were wide. There was blood on her face and in her hair. The girl and the Chief Inspector stared at each other for a moment.

And then she started crying. Huge, gusty wails. The cries of a terrified but healthy child. It was the best sound ever. Armand pushed himself to his knees and ran expert eyes over her thin body. It wasn't broken. He checked her head. She had a scrape, nothing more.

" Patron? " shouted Beauvoir, clearing off more debris.

Gamache looked around, spotting the grandfather just sitting up, dazed. The elderly man screamed, "Patricia!" His voice high with panic. Then, seeing his granddaughter, he reached for her, wincing as he did.

"Ambulances."

"On it, patron ," said Lacoste, who'd run over.

"Look after them," Gamache commanded as he stumbled, scrambling, half crawling, half tripping over the debris, to the body in the middle of the road.

Dropping to his knees, Armand whispered, "Charles?"

Others were crowding around now. He half heard Lacoste shouting into her phone for paramedics. But his attention was focused on the broken man sprawled unnaturally on the asphalt.

Charles was lying on his side, and Gamache didn't dare turn him. Not for fear of doing more damage—it was clear the man was either dead or dying—but if he was still alive, Gamache did not want to inflict even more pain.

He laid himself down on his side so that his body was within inches of the other man's. Charles's grey eyes were glassy, staring. Blood bubbled on his lips. He was breathing. Barely.

Gamache reached for his hand and held it.

"Charles," he said softly. "Charles."

He repeated the name, hoping it would comfort the dying man to know he was not alone. For just an instant, the eyes focused. And the lips moved.

Gamache inched closer. He could smell the hot tar of the road and the slight scent of sweet whipped cream on Charles's weak breath. He felt the asphalt warm beneath him and the late-afternoon sun on his face.

And he knew he had to do it. He had to ask one more, one last, time.

"A name. Give me a name, son."

"Family," whispered Charles.

"I will," said Armand. "I'll tell your family. I promise." He felt Charles squeeze his hand and saw, just for an instant, panic in those eyes.

Then the panic left. Everything left.

And Charles was gone. And everything he knew was gone.

" Patron , are you all right?"

It was Lacoste's voice. She was kneeling beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

"Sir, are you all right?" Now it was the voice of a paramedic, and Gamache realized he was lying in the road, giving every impression of being far from "all right."

He struggled to his feet. After giving him a quick once-over, including shining a light into his eyes to see if there was a concussion, the paramedic's firm hand moved him aside to better examine the man who would not get up.

Lacoste was saying something. There were screams and shouts from the sidewalk.

Gamache realized that the ambulance must have already been waiting. He wondered whether it was Lacoste or Beauvoir who'd thought to order one out. Just in case…

"He's dead," snapped the paramedic and, leaving the body, she rushed to others who could be helped.

Gamache looked around. Men and women were just beginning to sit up, some staggering to their feet, holding parts of their body that were in pain.

The attack had happened, what? A minute earlier? Only that. If that.

The SUV was gone. The wailing of the police sirens receding.

"Did you get it?" He turned to Lacoste.

"On video, yes." She followed him as he walked quickly, limping slightly, into the chaos.

"Our people took off after him, and the Montréal cops are alerted. We'll get him."

Onlookers were already taking out their phones to record and post. Some no doubt live-streaming on the internet. Gamache was tempted to go over and unload his rage on them. Instead, he pointed at one of his agents.

"You there. Stand in front of them. Try to block their view of the body."

" Oui, patron. "

"Here." Gamache took off his jacket and was a little surprised to see it torn. "Put it over him. Wait."

Taking the jacket back, Armand removed what was in the pockets, including the two notes. "Now, go. Stand guard over the body."

"Yessir."

"His name is Charles," Gamache called after the agent. It seemed important that she know.

The agent ran over, spread the coat. Then she opened her arms to make herself as big as possible. To hide the broken man, Charles, from this final assault.

Family , thought Gamache.

How horrific if they found out by seeing it online. Those filming had a right, though perhaps not a perfect right, to video, but Gamache wondered if they realized that with every second they posted, they lost pieces of their humanity.

Family , Charles had muttered. Just that. His last thought was, as Armand knew his would have been, had been, for his family. A few years earlier, as he lay on the factory floor bleeding and dying, Armand had whispered to Isabelle Lacoste what they both believed would be his last words.

Reine-Marie.

He'd placed all his love into Lacoste, trusting it would be delivered.

He had not, of course, died. But that moment had bound him to Lacoste. Just as Charles's last moment bound him to Gamache. There was now an agreement, a contract, between the living man and the newly dead.

Gamache could have saved Charles, but had let him die. Choosing instead to knock the child out of the way. And now he had to go and tell Charles's family. Was he married? Did he have a young daughter? Son?

And yet something was off. When he'd assured Charles that he'd speak to his family, he hadn't looked relieved. Just the opposite. He'd looked panicked.

Armand had thought it was that last desperate awareness that he really was going to die. But the head of homicide had seen enough people die, had held them. Reassured them in their final moments that they were not alone.

He'd said the rosary over some, those he knew it would comfort. Seen broken lips move with his. Held those hands, held their eyes, until the light left. He'd absorbed their pain, their fear, their sorrow. Their love.

He'd never ever seen that exact look.

"For what it's worth, we have the license plate." Lacoste was following Gamache, the two of them helping people to their feet. Comforting. Assessing injuries. "It'll be stolen, of course. I sent the video to our people."

" Bon. " But even as he said that, Gamache realized he no longer knew for sure who their "people" were. Not after what Charles had said. A thought sped across his mind as he reached out to help a woman to her feet—

"Are you hurt?"

Had that been the true purpose of this meeting? To sow doubt in the Chief Inspector's mind?

"My arm, but it's okay. Just a bruise, I think."

"Stay here." Gamache righted a chair and patted the seat. "A medic will come by."

Was he close to something in one of his investigations? Too close?

"I'm a doctor, Monsieur Gamache."

Had someone wanted to undermine his investigation by sending this young man to him? Making him doubt his colleagues? Was that what Charles was supposed to do?

Did do? Did Charles know, or was he being used?

"I can help," she said.

Why kill him, then? But the Chief Inspector had the answer.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

They'd do it to drive home the point. That Charles was telling the truth. They'd do it so that Gamache would believe that he could not trust his colleagues in the S?reté. So that he would believe the lie.

"Absolutely." The doctor pushed past him, not waiting for permission that was not his to give anyway.

Dear God, thought the Chief. What was worse? That Charles was lying, and they were dealing with people who would murder their own? Or that Charles was telling the truth?

"Because of the angle, we don't have the driver's face," said Lacoste.

" Pardon? " said the man she was helping.

"Not talking to you. Are you okay?"

"You asking me?" the man said.

She nodded and so did he. "I'm okay, I guess."

"I saw him," said Gamache.

"You did?" She stood up and stared at the Chief Inspector.

His greying hair was disheveled, as were his clothes. His white shirt untucked and smeared with blood. His tie was loose and off to one side. The knees were torn from his slacks and slightly bloody. His right hand was bleeding from scrapes on his palm where he'd braced for the impact. He was clearly not seriously hurt. Not what it could have been. What she'd thought it would be, in that terrible instant.

"Can you describe him?" she asked.

"I can do better, Isabelle. I can show you a photo. It was the man who dropped off the package this morning. I'm sure of it."

Dear God, was it only this morning?

It took her just a beat to understand what he was saying.

"Shit." She scrolled through her images, found the photo, and sent it out. There was no clear shot of the man's face, but it gave an impression.

"There was a woman on the terrasse," said Armand as he helped someone else. "You might not have seen her. She came out behind you and waved at the vehicle. She must've signaled it." He scanned the scene. "I can't see her now."

"We had cameras outside," said Lacoste. "I'll find her."

Gamache assessed the situation. The chaos had settled down. Beauvoir had gotten it under control quickly and was organizing the medical efforts. More ambulances and paramedics were arriving.

The damage was not as bad as it looked, not as bad as it could have been. Most of the injuries had happened when people fell off their chairs, knocking the heavy tables over on top of themselves as they scrambled out of the way of the vehicle. People had cuts and bruises and were more shocked than hurt.

Though shock was itself an injury.

"I have some photos," said Lacoste.

Gamache swiped through them quickly. "That's her."

Lacoste got the picture out with a message to pick the woman up but approach with caution, while Gamache made his way back to the man and his granddaughter.

Paramedics had put a bandage on the girl's head and were now working on the grandfather.

She was just a little older than Armand's own granddaughter Florence.

He knelt, placing himself so that he blocked her view of the lump lying in the street, though of course she'd already seen it. Him. Only Charles's twisted legs were visible, sprawling out from under Gamache's suit jacket. Charles's shoes had been knocked off in the impact and were lying on the road.

The girl had stopped crying and was looking, in some amazement, at the scene around her.

"Is your name Patricia?" Armand asked.

She nodded.

"You are very brave."

She nodded again, agreeing with him. He took out his clean handkerchief and licked it, making it moist so that he could wash the tears and congealing blood off her face.

Her deep blue eyes were watching him. Then they dropped, and she smiled.

He followed her gaze and noticed a smear of whipped cream sticking to the back of his hand. He stared at it, then looked over at Charles lying in a heap, alone in the street. It must have come from his hand, as he'd held it.

The paramedics had left Charles where he'd landed, quite reasonably choosing to leave the dead and look after the living. As Gamache had made his choice, to save the girl and not the young man. As the SUV plowed by, Armand had felt it graze his leg. It had been that close.

But he was alive, and Charles was dead. Killed by the SUV driver, and Armand's choice.

Using his handkerchief, stained with the little girl's blood, Armand carefully wiped the whipped cream off his hand.