Louise Penny - The Beautiful Mystery

Then he’d followed him out the front door of the abbey.

Frère Luc had opened it without a word, though his eyes were filled with all sorts of questions. But Armand Gamache had no answers to offer.

Besides, the Chief had questions of his own, first among them whether it was wise to follow Francoeur. Not because of what the Superintendent might do, but what Gamache was afraid he himself might do.

But he had to find out what was so secret that Francoeur had to actually leave the abbey, and clearly not for an early morning stroll. Gamache stepped into the cold, dark morning and looked about. It wasn’t yet six o’clock and the fog of the night before had become a heavy mist, as the frigid air hit the lake, and rose.

Francoeur had stopped in a copse of trees. He might have disappeared against the murky forest, but a soft bluish-white glow in his hand betrayed him.

Gamache paused, and watched. Francoeur’s back was to him, and with the Superintendent’s head bowed over his device it looked as though he might be consulting a crystal ball. But, of course, he wasn’t. The Superintendent was writing, or reading, a message.

One so secret he’d had to leave the monastery, for fear of being found out. But he had been found, the message itself, in the deep dark of the morning, a beacon. Giving him away.

Gamache would give a lot to get that BlackBerry.

For a moment he contemplated quickly covering the ground between them and grabbing it from Francoeur’s hand. Whose name would he see there? What was so important that Francoeur would risk the bears and wolves and coyotes waiting in these woods for something vulnerable to make a mistake.

But Gamache wondered if that something vulnerable was himself. If the mistake was his.

Still he stood, and still he stared. And made up his mind.

He couldn’t get the device out of Francoeur’s hand, and even if he did, it wouldn’t tell the full story. And at this stage, Gamache needed the full story. Patience, Gamache reminded himself. Patience.

And another tack.

“ Bonjour , Sylvain.”

Gamache almost smiled as he saw the glowing slab bobble in Francoeur’s hand. Then the Superintendent spun around and any amusement left Gamache’s face. Francoeur wasn’t just furious, he was murderous. The phone, still on, made his face look grotesque.

“Who’re you writing to?” Gamache asked, walking forward, keeping his pace and his voice even.

But Francoeur seemed incapable of speech and as he approached, Gamache could see that there was fury there, but there was also fear. Francoeur was terrified.

And even more, the Chief wanted to grab that BlackBerry. To see who the message was to, or from, that an interruption would cause such distress.

For it was clear the Superintendent wasn’t most afraid of Gamache.

In a split second Gamache knew this was his chance after all. He decided to make a grab for the phone. But Francoeur had anticipated him and with a swift movement, turned off his device and pocketed it.

The two men stared at each other, their breaths coming in puffs, obscuring the air, as though a ghost was forming between them.

“Who were you writing to?” Gamache repeated. Not expecting an answer, but wanting to make it clear that there was no more hiding. “Or were you reading a message? Come on, Sylvain, it’s just us.” Gamache opened his arms and looked around. “All alone.”

It was true. The silence was so great it almost ached. It felt like they’d strolled into a void. No sounds. Few sights. Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups had even disappeared. The mist had swallowed even the stone monastery.

Only two men left in the world.

And now they faced each other.

“We’ve known each other since the academy. We’ve circled each other since then,” said Gamache. “It’s time to stop. What’s this about?”

“I came to help.”

“I believe that. But help who? Not me. Not Inspector Beauvoir. On whose orders are you here?”

Was there just the slightest flicker on those last words?

“You’re too late, Armand,” said Francoeur. “You missed your chance.”

“I know. But it wasn’t just now. I made my mistake years ago when I was investigating Chief Superintendent Arnot. I should’ve waited before arresting him, until I could get all of you.”

Francoeur didn’t bother to deny it. If it was too late for Gamache to stop whatever was happening, it was also way too late for Francoeur to issue denials.

“Was it Arnot?”

“Arnot’s in prison for life, Armand. You know that. You put him there.”

Now the Chief did smile, though it was weary. “And we know that means nothing. A man like Arnot will always get what he wants.”

“Not always,” said Francoeur. “It wasn’t his idea to be arrested, tried and sentenced.”

It was a rare admission by Francoeur that Gamache, for a moment, had actually bested Arnot. But then had stumbled. Hadn’t finished the job. Hadn’t realized there were more to be gotten.

And so the rot had remained, and grown.

Arnot was a powerful figure, Gamache knew. Had powerful friends. And a reach well beyond prison walls. Gamache had had a chance to kill him, but had chosen not to. And sometimes, sometimes, he wondered if that wasn’t also a mistake.

But now another thought struck him. Francoeur wasn’t texting Arnot. The name, while respected by Francoeur, didn’t evoke terror. It was someone else. Someone more powerful than the Superintendent. Someone more powerful even than Arnot.

“Who were you writing to, Sylvain?” Gamache asked for the third time. “It’s not too late. Tell me, and we can wrap this up together.” Gamache’s voice was even, reasonable. He held out his hand. “Give me that. Give me your codes. That’s all I need, and it’s over.”

And Francoeur seemed to hesitate. Moved his hand to his pocket. Then let it fall, empty, to his side.

“You’ve misunderstood again, Armand. There’s no grand conspiracy. It’s all in your head. I was texting my wife. As I suspect you write to your wife.”

“Give it to me, Sylvain.” Gamache ignored the lie. He kept his hand out and his eyes on his superior. “You must be tired. Exhausted. It’ll be over soon.”

The two men’s eyes locked.

“You love your children, Armand?”

It was as though the words had physically shoved him. Gamache felt himself momentarily off balance. Instead of answering he continued to stare.

“Of course you do.” Francoeur’s voice held no rancor now. It was almost as though they were old friends, chatting over a scotch at a brasserie on St-Denis.

“What’re you saying?” Gamache demanded, his voice no longer reasonable. He could feel all reason escaping him, disappearing into the thick, dark forest. “Leave my family out of this.” Gamache spoke in a low growl, and the part of his brain that could still reason realized the wild creature he thought was in the woods, wasn’t. It was in his skin. He’d become feral, at the very thought of his family threatened.

“Did you know that your daughter and your Inspector are having an affair? Maybe you’re not as in control of everything as you seem to think. What else don’t you know, if that could get by you?”

The rage Gamache had been trying to control died out completely with those words. To be replaced by something glacial. Ancient.

Armand Gamache felt himself grow very quiet. And he could sense a change in Francoeur as well. He knew he’d gone too far. Had stepped too far from the reeds.

Gamache knew about Jean-Guy and Annie. Had known for months. From the day he and Reine-Marie had visited Annie and seen the little jug of lilacs on her kitchen table.

They’d known, and been immeasurably happy for Annie, who’d loved Jean-Guy from the moment she’d met him more than a decade earlier. And for Jean-Guy, who so clearly loved their daughter.