How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9)

How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) Page 161

“Do you know Chief Inspector Gamache?”

Billy nodded and picked up his fork.

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“Norfolk and chance.”

“Pardon?”

“Norfolk and chance,” said Billy, clearly.

“I’m trying to find Chief Inspector Gamache.” Francoeur switched from French to English and spoke very, very slowly to this rustic. “I’m a friend of his.”

Billy paused, and spoke equally slowly. “Whale oil beef hooked.”

Francoeur stared at Billy, then turned away.

“Does he speak French or English?” Francoeur asked.

Olivier watched as Billy took a huge mouthful of pie, and quietly blessed him. “We’re not sure.”

“Do you know the B and B?” Francoeur asked Beauvoir, who nodded. “Take me there.”

“Can I get you a coffee before you go? Have you had lunch?”

But Olivier was talking to their backs. He walked around the bar, not letting his guard down. Not daring to show how shattered he was.

Olivier Brulé knew he’d looked into the eyes of a man who could kill him, if need be. And maybe, Olivier knew, without need. But just because.

“Whale oil beef hooked,” he whispered.

*   *   *

An accident just off the bridge had backed up the traffic. A little fender-bender had caused a massive tie-up.

But Gamache cleared it, and watched as Danny, his sister and parents peeled off the highway, toward Brossard. Safe.

But other Dannys were just approaching the bridge. Other parents and grandparents and happy holiday children. He hoped Isabelle Lacoste would arrive soon.

Chief Inspector Gamache pressed down on the gas. He was an hour away from Three Pines, even on dry pavement. He went as fast as he dared. And then some.

*   *   *

Francoeur and Tessier searched the B and B. There was evidence of only one guest, and that was Chief Inspector Gamache. They found toiletries in his bathroom. The walls of the shower and the soap were still damp and clothes were hung in the closet and folded in the drawer. The room smelled slightly of sandalwood.

Francoeur looked out the window to the village green and the road that circled it. A few cars were parked, but not Chief Inspector Gamache’s Volvo. But they knew that already. He’d been tracked to the penitentiary, then the Villeneuve home in Montréal. And then came word he’d emailed a large file to Inspector Lacoste, from the home next to Villeneuve.

Agents were on their way, to Lacoste’s home, and to Villeneuve and his neighbor. And the search was on to find Gamache. They had his cell phone and the tracking device in his car, and they’d have him any moment now.

Francoeur turned to Beauvoir, who was standing in the middle of the room like a mannequin.

“Was the owner of the bistro lying?” Francoeur asked.

The direct question roused Beauvoir. “He might’ve been. He lies about a lot of things.”

They heard swearing and turned to see Tessier punching his finger at his device.

“It’s a fucking dead zone,” he said, grabbing for the landline.

While Tessier called Sûreté headquarters, Francoeur turned to Beauvoir.

“Gamache was here, but where’re the others?”

Beauvoir looked blank. “What others?”

“We’re also looking for Superintendent Brunel and her husband. I think that man in the bistro was lying.” Francoeur’s voice was pleasant, reasonable. “Gamache might have left, but I think they’re still here. We need to convince him to tell us the truth.”

“The squads are closing in,” Tessier whispered to Francoeur as they walked down the stairs toward the front door. “They have Gamache’s signal. They’ll get him in the next few minutes.”

“They know what to do?”

Tessier nodded.

“That last message Gamache sent, in reply to the Granby Zoo,” Francoeur asked, once they were on the porch. “What was it again?”

“See Emilie.”

“Right.” Francoeur looked at Beauvoir and demanded, “Who’s Emilie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then what did Gamache mean when he told the Brunels to see Emilie?” snapped Francoeur. “Is there an Emilie in this village?”

Beauvoir’s brows drew together. “There was one, but she’s been dead for a few years.”

“Where did she live?”

Beauvoir pointed to the right. There, just across the Old Stage Road, was Emilie Longpré’s home, with its wide front verandah, wood cladding, mullioned windows, and brick chimney.