“It’s done.”
“What’s done?”
“The bridge is down.”
* * *
At St. Thomas’s Church the celebrations were short-lived.
“Look,” said Myrna. She and Clara were peering through the stained-glass window.
The other gunman had come out the door of the old schoolhouse. His back was to them and he seemed to be working on the handle.
Locking it? Clara wondered.
Then he stood on the stoop and looked around, as his colleague had done a few minutes ago.
“He’s looking for him.” Olivier pointed to their handcuffed and gagged prisoner, guarded by Nichol.
As they watched, the gunman walked over to the van. He slung a large canvas bag into the back and slammed the door closed. Then he surveyed the village again. Perplexed.
At that moment, Thérèse Brunel left the bookstore. She wore a heavy coat, and a large tuque pulled down over her hair and forehead. Her arms were full of books and she walked slowly toward the Sûreté agent, as though infirm.
“What’s she doing?” Clara asked.
“Twas in the moon of wintertime,” Gabri sang loudly. They turned to look at him. “When all the birds had fled.”
The gunman turned toward the singing coming from the church.
This village was giving him the creeps. It seemed so pretty, and yet was deserted. There was a menace about the place. The sooner he found Beauvoir and his partner and got out, the better.
He started toward the church. Clearly there were people in there. People who, with some persuasion, might tell him where Beauvoir was. Where his colleague was. Where everyone was.
An old woman with books was walking toward him, but he ignored her and made for the small clapboard chapel on the hill.
The gunman followed the sound of the singing, up the steps.
He didn’t notice that the woman with the books had also changed direction, and was following him.
He opened the door and looked in. At the front of the church a bunch of people stood in a semi-circle singing.
An old woman in a cloth coat sat in a pew a few rows back. The singing stopped and the large man who seemed to lead the choir waved to him.
“Close the door,” he called. “You’re letting the cold in.”
But the gunman didn’t move. He stood on the threshold, taking in the scene. There was something wrong. They were looking at him strangely, except the hunched old woman, still wearing her tuque. She hadn’t turned around.
He reached for his gun.
“Sûreté.”
He heard the word. Heard the metallic click. Felt the muzzle against the base of his skull. He heard the books drop and saw them scattered at his feet.
“Lift your hands where I can see them.”
He did as he was told.
He turned to see the old woman who’d followed him. The books she’d been carrying had been replaced by a service revolver. It was Superintendent Thérèse Brunel.
She was pointing her gun at him, and she meant business.
* * *
“The bridge is down?” Gamache gaped at Francoeur.
“Right on time,” said the Chief Superintendent.
A voice drifted to them from the village below, singing an old Québécois carol. It sounded like a lament.
“I don’t believe it,” said Gamache. “You’re lying.”
“You want proof?”
“Call Renard. Call the Premier. Confirm it with him,” said Gamache.
“With pleasure. I’m sure he’d like a word with you too.”
Francoeur hit a button on his cell. Gamache could hear the ringing. Ringing.
But no one answered.
“He’s probably busy,” said Gamache.
Francoeur gave him a sharp look and tried another number. Lambert in Cyber Crimes.
Ringing, ringing.
“Nothing?” asked Gamache.
Francoeur lowered the phone. “What’ve you done, Armand?”
“‘Have Lacoste in custody. Family being held,’” Gamache recited. “A couple of minutes later you received another message, “‘Villeneuve offered some resistance, but no longer.’”
Francoeur’s face tightened.
“You didn’t really think I’d let my department be destroyed, did you?” Gamache’s eyes were penetrating, his voice hard, anger flaring. “All those agents who quit. All those agents who requested transfers. All over the Sûreté.”
He spoke slowly, so that every word would hit its mark.