Bury Your Dead
Page 144“Well,” she finally said. “I don’t believe a word of it. All done on a soundstage I bet. Good effects, but the acting sucked. Popcorn?”
Beauvoir looked at her, holding out the plastic bowl.
He took a handful. Then they walked slowly through the blizzard, heads bowed into the wind, across the village green to Peter and Clara’s home. Halfway across, he took her arm. To steady her, or himself, he wasn’t really sure.
But she let him. They made their way to the little cottage, following the light through the storm. And once there, they sat in front of the fireplace and ate dinner. Together.
Armand Gamache rose.
“Are you all right?” Émile got up too.
Gamache sighed. “I just need time alone.” He looked at his friend. “Merci.”
He felt nauseous, physically sickened. Seeing those young men and women, shot. Killed. Again. Gunned down in dark corridors, again.
They’d been under his command. Hand-picked by him against Chief Superintendent Francoeur’s protests. He’d taken them anyway.
And he’d told them there were probably six gunmen in the place. Doubling what he’d been told. What Agent Nichol had told him.
He’d taken six officers, all he could muster, plus Beauvoir and himself.
He thought it was enough. He was wrong.
“You can’t do this,” Chief Superintendent Francoeur had said, his voice low with warning. The Chief Superintendent had burst into his office as he’d prepared to leave. In his ear Paul Morin was singing the alphabet song. He sounded drunk, exhausted, at the end.
“Once more please,” Gamache said to Morin then whipped off his headset and Chief Superintendent Francoeur immediately stopped talking.
“You have all the information you need,” the Chief Inspector glared at Francoeur.
“Gleaned from an old Cree woman and a few sniff-heads? You think I’m going to act on that?”
“Information gathered by Agent Lacoste, who’s on her way back. She’s coming with me, as are six others. For your information, here are their names. I’ve alerted the tactical squad. They’re at your disposal.”
“To do what? There’s no way the La Grande dam is going to be destroyed. We’ve heard nothing about it on the channels. No one has. Not the feds, not the Americans, not even the British and they monitor everything. No one’s heard anything. Except you and that demented Cree elder.”
Francoeur stared at Gamache. The Chief Superintendent was so angry he was vibrating.
Gamache’s voice, instead of rising, had lowered.
“You don’t give me orders,” Francoeur snarled. “You know nothing I don’t and I know no reason to go there.”
Gamache went to his desk and took out his gun. For an instant Francoeur looked frightened, then Gamache put the pistol on his belt and walked quickly up to the Chief Superintendent.
They glared at each other. Then Gamache spoke, softly, intensely.
“Please, Sylvain, if I have to beg I will. We’re both too old and tired for this. We need to stop this now. You’re right, it’s not my place to give you orders, I apologize. Please, please do as I ask.”
“No way. You have to give me more.”
“That’s all I have.”
“But it doesn’t make sense. No one would try to blow up the dam this way.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too rough. Like throwing a rock at an army.”
“And how did David slay Goliath?”
“Come on, this isn’t biblical and these aren’t biblical times.”
“But the same principle applies. Do the unexpected. This would work precisely because we won’t be expecting it. And while you might not see it as David and Goliath, the bombers certainly do.”
“What are you? Suddenly an expert in national security? You and your arrogance, you make me sick. You go stop that bomb if you really believe hundreds of thousands of lives are at stake.”
“No. I’m going to get Paul Morin.”
“Morin? You’re saying you know where he is? We’ve been looking all night,” Francoeur waved to the army of officers in the outer office, trying to trace Morin. “And you’re telling me you know where he is?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">