A Rule Against Murder (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #4)

A Rule Against Murder (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #4) Page 121

“There’s a service road,” said Madame Dubois. “Little more than a track, at the back. We use it for heavier equipment.”

“But it puts out onto the main road?” asked Gamache. Madame Dubois nodded. “Where is it?”

She pointed and he ran outside into the rain and climbed into the huge RCMP pickup, finding the keys in the ignition, as he expected. Soon he was clear of the lodge, heading down the service road. He had to find a narrowing of the woods where he could leave the truck and seal off the property.

The murderer was still with them, he knew. As was Bean. He needed to keep them there.

He parked the truck across the track and was just jumping out when another vehicle rounded the corner in his wake and skidded to a stop. Gamache couldn’t see the driver’s face. The bright orange hood put it in shadow. It looked as though a specter was driving the car. But Gamache knew it was no spirit, but flesh and blood behind the wheel.

Spinning tires spewed mud and dead leaves as the car strained to back up. But it was sunk into the mud. Gamache raced forward just as the door opened and the murderer leapt out and began running, the orange raincoat flapping madly.

Gamache skidded to a halt and thrust his head into the car. “Bean?” he shouted. But the car was empty. His heart, thudding, stopped for a moment. He turned and raced after the orange figure, just disappearing into the lodge.

Within a moment Gamache also plunged through the door, pausing only long enough to tell the women to lock themselves in the inner office and to get on the walkie-talkie to tell the others to return.

“What about Elliot?” Colleen shouted after him.

“He’s not in the woods,” said Gamache, not looking back. He was looking down, following the line of drips, like transparent blood.

Up the polished old stairs they went, along the hall, and puddled in front of one of the bookcases.

The door to the attic.

He yanked it open and took the stairs two at a time. In the dim light he followed the drops to an opening. He knew what he’d find.

“Bean?” he whispered. “Are you here?” He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

Stuffed cougars, hunted almost to extinction, stared glassy-eyed at him. Little hunted hares, moose and delicate deer and otters. All dead, for sport. Staring.

But no Bean.

Downstairs he heard boots and masculine voices, raised. But in this room there was only a hush, as though a breath had been held for hundreds of years. Waiting.

And then he heard it. A slight thumping. And he knew what it was.

Ahead of him a square of light and water hit the floor. The grimy skylight was open. He scrambled toward it, and stuck his head out. And there they were.

Bean, and the murderer, on the roof.

Gamache had seen terror many times. On the faces of men and women newly dead, and those about to die, or believing they were. He saw that look now, in Bean’s face. Mouth covered with tape, book clutched in little tied hands, feet dangling. Gamache had seen terror, but never like this. Bean was literally in the clutches of the murderer, standing on the very peak of the rain-slick metal roof.

Without thinking Gamache clutched the sides of the skylight and hoisted himself through, his feet immediately slipping on the wet metal. He fell on one knee, feeling the jar.

And then the world started to spin and he grabbed hold of the edge of the open skylight. He could barely see, blinded by the rain in his eyes and the sheer panic in his head. It shrieked at him to get off the roof. Either through the hole into the attic, or over the edge.

Do it, shove yourself off, his howling head pleaded. Do it.

Down below people were yelling and waving and he dragged his eyes up.

To Bean.

And Bean too looked into the face of terror. The two of them stared at each other, and slowly, with wet, trembling hands, Gamache dragged himself to his feet. He took a tentative step along the peak of the steep roof, one unhappy foot on either side. His head spinning, he kept himself low, so that he could grab hold. Then he shifted his eyes, from Bean, to the murderer.

“Get away from me, Monsieur Gamache. Get away or I’ll throw the kid over.”

“I don’t think you will.”

“Going to risk it? I’ve killed already. I have nothing to lose. I’m at the end of the world. Why’d you block the roads out? I could’ve gotten away. By the time you found the child tied up in the attic I’d have been halfway to . . .”

The voice faltered.

“To where?” Gamache called, over the moaning wind. “There was nowhere to go, was there? Don’t do this. It’s over. Bring Bean to me.”