A gun walked out of the darkness, with Jean Guy Beauvoir attached to it. He held it steady, his eyes hard and staring at Lemieux. Nichol dissolved back into the shadows.
‘You all right?’ he asked Gamache without losing his focus.
‘Fine.’
Like ancient enemies Beauvoir and Lemieux stared at each other, their guns thrust forward, pointing. Beauvoir’s at Lemieux and Lemieux’s at Gamache.
‘You know I have nothing to lose, Inspector,’ said the reasonable young voice. ‘There’s no way I’m going to walk out of here your prisoner. If you don’t lower your gun by the count of five I’ll kill Gamache. If you even breathe, if I get the faintest hint you’re preparing to shoot, I’ll shoot first. In fact, what the hell.’ He turned his head slightly to Gamache.
‘No! No, wait!’ Beauvoir dropped his revolver.
‘Weak.’ He shook his head. ‘All your people are weak.’
He turned to Gamache and fired.
FORTY-THREE
Clara Morrow jumped to her feet at the sound of the shot. For the last fifteen minutes they’d heard muffled voices sometimes raised in argument, though at least they were human. But the gunshot was something else. Something most Canadians never ever hear. It was grotesque and signaled death was again loose in the old Hadley house.
‘Should we see?’ she asked.
‘Are you nuts?’ asked Myrna, her eyes wide with terror. ‘What’re we going to do? Someone has a gun, for God’s sake. We should get out of here.’
‘I’m with you,’ said Gabri, already on his feet.
‘We should stay,’ said Jeanne. ‘The Chief Inspector asked us to.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sandon demanded. ‘If he asked you to jump from the window would you?’
‘But he didn’t and he wouldn’t,’ said Jeanne. ‘We need to stay.’
Armand Gamache was on the floor, scrambling for the gun. Beauvoir was on his hands and knees desperately trying to find his own gun and calling to the chief.
‘You all right? What happened?’
‘Get the gun,’ yelled Gamache, straining against Lemieux who was writhing to get away. In the darkness on the floor every foot, every hand, every chair leg felt like a weapon. Gamache’s hand closed around a rock.
‘You can stop now.’
Above them a young voice spoke. All three men, writhing on the floor together, looked up. Agent Yvette Nichol stood with a gun in her hand.
Slowly the men got up. Lemieux brought his hand to the back of his head. It came away with blood.
‘Give it to me.’ He put his hand out for her gun.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Nichol.
‘Listen, you stupid bitch, give it to me.’
But Nichol stood stock-still, her gun steady. Lemieux shifted his gaze to Brébeuf, who’d slunk into the shadows.
‘What’s your game, Brébeuf? Call her off.’
‘I can’t.’ The voice high, almost squeaking, as though suppressing hysteria.
‘I’m warning you, Brébeuf.’
From the shadows came a brief eruption of laughter before it was strangled.
‘I’m not his to call off,’ said Nichol, her eyes cold and hard.
‘Francoeur,’ Lemieux hissed at Brébeuf. ‘I thought you had him under control.’
‘Give me the gun, Agent Nichol.’ Gamache stepped forward, his hand out.
‘Shoot,’ yelled Lemieux. ‘Shoot him.’
Just then her cell phone rang. To their astonishment, she answered it, her eyes never leaving them.
‘Yes, I understand. He’s with me now.’
She thrust the cell phone at Gamache. He hesitated then took it.
‘Oui, allô?’
‘Chief Inspector Gamache?’ the heavily accented voice asked.
‘Oui.’
‘It’s Ari Nikolev. I’m Yvette’s father. I hope you’re looking after my daughter. Every time I call she tells me she’s solving the case for you. Is that true?’
‘She’s a remarkable young woman, sir,’ said Gamache. ‘I must go now.’
He handed the phone to Nichol. She handed him her gun. Lemieux watched, slack-jawed.
‘What is this?’ He turned once again to Brébeuf, the sputtering in the shadows. ‘You said she’s with us.’
‘I said she served a purpose.’ Brébeuf’s voice was strained, fighting to control the hysteria that gripped him. ‘When Francoeur transferred her back to homicide I knew Gamache would suspect she was a spy for Francoeur. Why else would he send her back? But Francoeur was never anything but a bully and a fool. He dropped Arnot as soon as things got difficult. Nichol was our scapegoat. The obvious suspect, if Gamache got suspicious.’