And then he falls, as I do.
‘And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,’ said Gamache in a whisper.
‘Never to hope again.’ Reine-Marie finished the quote. ‘Are you that great, Armand, that your fall is legend?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I miss you.’
‘And I miss you, dear heart. And yes, Armand, you did the right thing. But I understand your doubts. They’re what make you a great man, not your certainties.’
‘Fucking Thomas. Did you see that?’ Beauvoir was standing in front of the television, his hands on either side of his head, looking round. ‘Trade him!’ he shouted at the screen.
‘Now, who’d you rather be tonight?’ Reine-Marie asked. ‘Armand Gamache or Carl Thomas?’
Gamache laughed. It wasn’t often he let his doubts wash over him, but they had that night.
‘The Arnot case isn’t over, is it?’ said Reine-Marie.
Agent Nichol came down the staircase and caught his eye, smiling. She nodded then joined the group, who were too preoccupied to notice.
‘Non, ce n’est pas fini.’
THIRTY-SIX
One by one the lights went out in the homes of Three Pines and eventually the huge Christmas tree went out as well, and then the village was in darkness. Gamache got out of his chair. He’d turned the lights out in the living room after everyone had gone to bed, and had sat there quietly, enjoying the peace, enjoying watching the village put its head to the pillow. He quietly put on his coat and boots and went outside, his feet munching the snow. Émilie Longpré had said Environment Canada had issued a storm warning for the next day, but it was hard to believe. He walked to the middle of the road.
All was silent. All was bright. He tilted his head to stare at the stars. The entire sky was brilliant with them. He thought perhaps this was his favorite part of the day. Standing under a winter’s sky, the stars looking as though God had stopped a storm and the millions of flakes were suspended in the air. Bright and cheerful.
He didn’t feel like walking, had no need to pace. He had his answers. He’d just come out to be with himself in the middle of Three Pines, in the middle of the night. So at peace.
They woke up next morning to a storm. From his bed Gamache could see it. Or, more precisely, he could see nothing. Snow had plastered itself against his window and even created a small drift on the wood floor where flakes had rushed through the open window and landed in the room. The room was freezing and dark. And silent. Totally silent. He noticed his alarm clock was off. He tried a light.
Nothing.
The power had been knocked out. Climbing out of bed he closed his window, put on his dressing gown and slippers and opened his door. He could hear some hushed voices down below. On the main floor he met a magical sight. Gabri and Olivier had lit oil lamps and hurricane candles. The room was made up of pools of amber light. It was exquisite, a world lit only by fire. The fireplace was on and threw flickering light and heat. He moved closer to it. The furnace must have been off for hours and the house had chilled.
‘Bonjour, monsieur l’inspecteur,’ came Olivier’s cheerful voice. ‘The heat’s back on, thanks to our emergency generator, but it’ll take an hour or so for the house to warm up.’
Just then the place gave a shudder. ‘Mon Dieu,’ said Olivier. ‘It’s really kicking up outside. News last night said we could get fifty centimeters, almost two feet.’
‘What time is it?’ Gamache asked, trying to get his watch close to an oil lamp.
‘Ten to six.’
Gamache woke the others and they breakfasted as the original inhabitants of this old stagecoach inn might have. By firelight. On toasted English muffins, jam and café au lait.
‘Gabri plugged the oven and the espresso machine into the generator,’ explained Olivier. ‘No lights, but we have the necessities.’
The electricity was back on but flickering by the time they fought their way across to the Incident Room. The snow slashed out of the sky, hitting them sideways. Leaning into it and bowing their heads they tried not to lose their way in the short slog across the familiar village. The snow drove into them, finding its way up their sleeves and down their collars, into their ears and into every cranny of their clothing as though searching for skin. And finding it.
At the Incident Room they unwound their scarves, shook packed snow from their sodden tuques and kicked their boots against the building to get the worst of the snow off.
Lacoste was stuck in Montreal with the storm and would spend the day at headquarters. Beauvoir spent the morning on the phone and finally found a pharmacist in Cowansville who had recorded selling niacin in the last few weeks. He decided to head over there, even though the snow made the roads almost impassable.
