The carol was more spoken than sung, but it calmed his frantic mind just enough.
“That mighty Gitchi Manitou sent angel choirs instead.”
His hand banged against the old wooden platform, and without hesitation he scrambled through the hole and lay flat on his stomach, his cheek buried in the snow, his right arm around the tree trunk. His heavy breath propelled snowflakes away, in a tiny blizzard. He slowed his breathing, afraid of hyperventilating, then crept to his knees and crouched low as though something just over the edge might reach up and yank him over.
But Gamache knew the enemy wasn’t just over the edge. It was on the platform with him.
Pulling the flashlight from his pocket, he turned it on. The dish was locked on a small tripod, which Gilles had screwed to the railing of the hunting blind.
It was pointing up.
“Oh, Christ,” said Gamache, and briefly wondered how bad Francoeur’s plan could really be. Maybe they didn’t have to stop it. Maybe they could go back to bed and pull the covers up.
“Twas in the moon of wintertime,” he mumbled as he moved forward, on his knees. The platform felt like it was tilting and Gamache felt himself pitching forward, but he shut his eyes, and steadied himself.
“Twas in the moon of wintertime,” he repeated. Get the snow off the dish, and get down.
“Armand.”
It was Thérèse, standing at the foot of the tree.
“Oui,” he called down, and turned the flashlight in that direction.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he said, and scrambled as far from the edge as possible, his boots scraping at the snow. His back banged against the tree and he grabbed at it. Not for fear he’d fall, but the fear that had been clawing at him as he climbed had finally wrapped itself around him. And was dragging him to the edge.
Gamache was afraid he’d throw himself over.
He pressed his back harder against the trunk.
“I called Gilles, but he can’t be here for half an hour.” Her voice came to him out of the darkness.
The Chief cursed himself. He should have asked Gilles to stay with them, in case this very thing happened. Gilles had offered the night before and he’d told him to go home. And now the man was half an hour away, when every moment counted.
Every moment counted.
The words cut through the shriek in his head. Cut through the fear, cut through the comforting carol.
Every moment counts.
Letting go of the tree, he jammed the flashlight into the snow, pointed at the satellite dish, and moved forward on his hands and knees, as fast as he could.
At the wooden railing, he stood up and looked into the satellite dish. It was filled with snow. He dropped his gloves to the platform and carefully, rapidly, scooped the snow out of it. Trying not to knock it off its beam. Trying not to dislodge the receptor at the very center of the dish.
Finally, it was done and he lunged away from the edge, and back to the tree, putting his arms around it, grateful there was no one to see him doing it. But honestly, at that stage Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t care if the image went viral. He wasn’t going to let go of that tree.
“Thérèse,” he called, and heard the fear in his voice.
“Here. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“The snow’s off the dish.”
“Agent Nichol’s on the road,” said Thérèse. “When Jérôme connects she’ll turn her flashlight on and off.”
Gamache, still gripping the tree, turned his head and stared across the treetops toward the road. All he saw was darkness.
“Twas in the moon of wintertime,” he whispered to himself. “When all the birds had fled.”
Please, Lord, please.
“Twas in the moon of winter—”
And then he saw it.
A light. Then the darkness. Then a light.
They were connected. It had begun.
* * *
“Is it working?” Thérèse asked as soon as they opened the door of the old schoolhouse.
“Perfectly,” said Jérôme, his voice almost giddy. He typed in a few instructions and images popped up and disappeared, and new ones came on. “Better than I’d imagined.”
Gamache looked at his watch. One twenty.
The countdown had begun.
“Holy shit,” said Nichol, her eyes round and bright. “It works.”
Chief Inspector Gamache tried to ignore the surprise in her voice.
“What now?” Thérèse asked.
“We’re in the national archives,” Jérôme reported. “Agent Nichol and I talked about it and decided to split up. Double our chances of finding something.”