Both men stood stock-still, staring into the sky, Gamache still clasping the abbot’s robes.
“It’s coming back,” Dom Philippe shouted.
* * *
“Shit,” yelled Beauvoir, above the straining engines.
“Christ,” yelled Frère Antoine.
The straw hats had been blown from the monks’ heads and lay on the plants, breaking some of the vines.
“It’s coming back,” shouted Frère Antoine.
Beauvoir stared into the sky. It was maddening, only being able to see the patch of blue directly over their heads. They could hear the plane banking, straining, approaching. But couldn’t see it.
And then it was upon them again, even lower this time. Apparently heading straight for the bell tower.
“Oh, shit,” said Frère Antoine.
* * *
Dom Philippe grabbed at Gamache’s jacket and the two men ducked again.
“Damn.”
Gamache heard the abbot, even above the straining engines.
“They almost hit the monastery,” screamed Dom Philippe. “It’s the press. I’d hoped we’d have more time.”
* * *
Beauvoir slowly stood but remained alert, listening.
The sound grew momentarily louder, disappeared, then there was a mighty splash.
“Christ,” said Beauvoir.
“Merde,” said Frère Antoine.
The monks and Beavoir ran to the door, back into the monastery. Their floppy hats abandoned in the garden.
* * *
Damn, thought Gamache, leaving the garden with the abbot.
He’d scanned the plane as it zoomed over the garden within feet, it seemed, of their heads. At the last moment it banked to miss the bell tower.
In that moment, before it disappeared again, he’d seen an insignia on the door of the plane.
They joined the parade of monks walking quickly down the corridors, picking up more monks and more speed as they progressed through the halls, across the Blessed Chapel, and into the final corridor. Gamache could see Beauvoir just ahead, walking rapidly beside Frère Antoine.
Young Frère Luc stood in front of the locked door holding the wrought-iron key in his hand. He stared at them.
Gamache, alone among the men, knew exactly what was on the other side of that door. He’d recognized the insignia on the plane. It wasn’t the press. Nor was it curiosity seekers, come to gawk at the famous monastery, made infamous by a terrible crime.
No, this was another creature entirely.
Smelling blood.
SEVENTEEN
At a nod from the abbot, Frère Luc put the key in the lock. It turned easily and the door opened, letting in a breeze of pine-scented air, and sunshine, and the sound of a float plane taxiing to the dock.
The monks clustered around the open door. Then the abbot stepped forward.
“I’ll ask them to leave,” he said, his voice determined.
“Perhaps I should come along,” said Gamache.
Dom Philippe studied the Chief, then nodded.
Beauvoir made to join them but was stopped by a subtle wave of Gamache’s hand. “It would be better if you stayed here.”
“What is it?” Beauvoir asked, seeing the look on the Chief’s face.
“I’m not really sure.”
Gamache turned back to the abbot and motioned toward the wharf. “Shall we?”
The plane had almost reached the dock. The pilot cut power, the props slowed, and the plane, on its pontoons, drifted the last few feet to the dock. Gamache and the abbot grabbed the struts and steadied the plane. Then the Chief reached for the ropes dangling in the cold lake.
“I wouldn’t bother,” said the abbot. “They won’t be staying long.”
The Chief turned, the wet line in his hand. “I think they might.”
“You forget who’s in charge here.”
Gamache knelt and made a couple of quick knots, securing the float plane to the dock, then he stood back up.
“I don’t forget. It’s just that I think I know who’s in the plane. It’s not the press, you know.”
“No?”
“I wasn’t completely sure I’d seen it right, when the plane flew over. That’s why I wanted to come with you.”
The Chief pointed to the crest on the door. It showed four fleurs-de-lys. And above them was stenciled MJQ.
“MJQ?” asked the abbot.
The small door opened.
“Ministère de la Justice du Québec,” said Gamache and stepped forward, offering his hand to steady the visitor as he squeezed out of the float plane.