How the Light Gets In

“He never explained himself?”

“Said there was nothing to explain.”

“Where is he now?”

“In the shoe.”

“Pardon?”

“The shoe. It’s where the worst offenders are kept,” said Thérèse.

“You keep them in a shoe? Is that really wise?”

Thérèse stared at her husband, then for the first time since this conversation started, she laughed.

“I mean the Special Handling Unit at the maximum security penitentiary. The SHU.”

“That would make more sense,” agreed Jérôme. “And Francoeur?”

“He—”

Thérèse Brunel began to answer but stopped. There was another sound. Coming toward them, out of the darkness.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Neither fast, nor slow. Not hurried, but neither was it leisurely.

They stopped, two elderly people frozen in place. Jérôme drew himself up to his full height. He stared into the night and tried not to think that the very mention of the name had conjured the man.

And still the steps approached. Measured. Assured.

“That was where I made my mistake.”

The voice came out of the darkness.

“Armand,” said Thérèse with a nervous laugh.

“Christ,” said Jérôme. “We almost needed the pooper-scooper.”

“Sorry,” said the Chief.

“How did it go with Madame Zardo?” asked Jérôme.

“We talked a bit.”

“About what?” Thérèse asked. “The Ouellet case?”

“No.” The three of them, and Henri, walked back toward Emilie Longpré’s home. “About Jean-Guy. She wanted to know what happened.”

Thérèse was silent. It was the first time Armand had mentioned the young man’s name, though she suspected he thought about him almost constantly.

“I couldn’t tell her much, but I felt I owed her something.”

“Why?”

“Well, she and Jean-Guy had developed a particular loathing for each other.”

Thérèse smiled. “I can see that happening.”

Gamache stopped and looked at the Brunels. “You were discussing the Arnot case. Why was that?”

Thérèse and Jérôme exchanged looks. Finally Jérôme answered.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you right away, but I was too…”

Afraid, admit it. Afraid.

“… afraid,” he said. “In my last search, I came across his name. It was in a file deeply buried.”

“About the murders in the Cree territory?” asked Gamache.

“No. A more recent file.”

“And you said nothing?” Armand’s voice was clear and calm and dark like the night.

“I found his name just before we came here. I thought it was over. That we’d stay here for a while, lie low so Francoeur and the others would know we weren’t a threat.”

“And then what?” asked Gamache. He wasn’t angry. Just curious. Sympathetic even. How often had he wished for the same thing? To offer his resignation and walk away. He and Reine-Marie would find a small place in Saint-Paul de Vence, in France. Far away from Québec. From Francoeur.

Surely he’d done enough. Surely Reine-Marie had done enough.

Surely it was someone else’s turn.

But it wasn’t. It was still his turn.

And he’d involved the Brunels. And neither they, nor he, could put down this burden just yet.

“It was a fool’s dream,” admitted Jérôme wearily. “Wishful thinking.”

“What did the files say about Pierre Arnot?” Gamache asked.

“I didn’t have a chance to read them.”

Even in the dark, Jérôme could feel Gamache scrutinizing him.

“And Francoeur?” asked the Chief. “Was he mentioned?”

“Just suggestions,” said Jérôme. “If I can get back online I can look deeper.”

Gamache nodded toward the road. A vehicle drove slowly around the green, then came to a stop directly in front of them. It was a beat-up old Chevy truck, with cheap winter tires and rust. The door shrieked as it opened and the driver stepped out. Male or female, it was impossible to say.

Henri, who barely ever made a sound, emitted a low growl.

“Hope this is worth it,” said the voice. Female. Petulant. Young.