The Chief stirred, tried to focus, fighting for breath. The medic saw this, his brow furrowed, perplexed. Then he ripped open the Chief’s tactical vest and exhaled.
“Christ.”
Lacoste looked down. “Oh, no,” she whispered.
The Chief’s chest was covered in blood. The medic tore Gamache’s shirt, exposing his chest. And there, on the side, was a wound.
From across the room Beauvoir watched, but all he could see were the Chief’s legs, his polished black leather shoes on the floor moving slightly. But it was his hand Beauvoir stared at. The Chief’s right hand, bloody, tight, taut, straining. And in the headset he heard gasping. Struggling for breath. Gamache’s right arm outstretched, fingers reaching. His hand grabbing, trembling, as though the breath was just out of reach.
As medics lifted Beauvoir onto a stretcher he whispered over and over again, pleading, “No, no. Please.”
He heard Lacoste shout, “Chief!”
There was more coughing, weaker. Then silence.
And he saw Gamache’s right hand spasm, shudder. Then softly, like a snowflake, it fell.
And Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew Armand Gamache was dying.
On the uncomfortable plastic chairs, Beauvoir let out a small moan. The video had moved on. Shots of the squad engaging the remaining gunmen.
Ruth stared at the screen, her Scotch untouched.
“Chief!” Lacoste called again.
Gamache’s eyes were open slightly, staring. His lips moved. They could barely hear what he was saying. Trying to say.
“Reine . . . Marie. Reine . . . Marie.”
“I’ll tell her,” Lacoste whispered into his ear and he closed his eyes.
“His heart’s stopped,” the medic called and leaned over Gamache, preparing for CPR. “He’s in cardiac arrest.”
Another medic arrived and kneeling down he grabbed the other’s arm.
“No wait. Get me a syringe.”
“No fucking way. His heart’s stopped, we need to start it.”
“For God’s sake do something,” Lacoste shouted.
The second medic rifled through the medical kit. Finding a syringe he plunged it into the Chief’s side and broke the plunger off.
There was no reaction. Gamache lay still, blood on his face and chest. Eyes closed.
The three stared down. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Then, then. There was a slight sound. A small rasp.
They looked at each other.
Émile finally blinked. His eyes felt dry as though they’d been sandblasted and he took a deep breath.
He knew the rest of the story, of course, from calls to Reine-Marie and visits to the hospital. And the Radio-Canada news.
Four Sûreté officers killed, including the first by the side of the road, four others wounded. Eight terrorists dead, one captured. One critically wounded, not expected to survive. At first the news had reported the Chief Inspector among the dead. How that leaked out no one knew. How any of it leaked out no one knew.
Inspector Beauvoir had been badly hurt.
Émile had arrived that afternoon, driving straight from Quebec City to Hôtel-Dieu hospital in Montreal. There he found Reine-Marie and Annie. Daniel was on a flight back from Paris.
They looked wrung out, nothing left.
“He’s alive,” Reine-Marie had said, hugging Émile, holding him.
“Thank God for that,” he’d said, then seen Annie’s expression. “What is it?”
“The doctors think he’s had a stroke.”
Émile had taken a deep breath. “Do they know how bad?”
Annie shook her head and Reine-Marie put her arm around her daughter. “He’s alive, that’s all that matters.”
“Have you seen him?”
Reine-Marie nodded, unable now to speak. Unable to tell anyone what she’d seen. The oxygen, the monitors, the blood and bruising. His eyes closed. Unconscious.
And the doctor saying they didn’t know the extent of the damage. He could be blind. Paralyzed. He could have another one. The next twenty-four hours would tell.
But it didn’t matter. She’d held his hand, smoothed it, whispered to him.
He was alive.
The doctor had also explained the chest wound. The bullet had broken a rib which had punctured the lung causing it to collapse and collapsing the second. Crushing the life out of him. The wound must have happened early on, the breathing becoming more and more difficult, more labored, until it became critical. Fatal.
“The medic caught it,” the doctor said. “In time.”
