* * *
At two in the morning Jérôme stood up.
Armand had awoken Nichol and come downstairs. He didn’t look at Thérèse and she didn’t look at him.
Nichol descended, disheveled, and put on her coat.
“Ready?” Gamache asked Jérôme.
“Ready.”
Gamache signaled Henri, and they quietly left the home. Like thieves in the night.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Nichol marched ahead, the only one anxious to get to the schoolhouse. But her rush was futile, Gamache knew, since he had the key.
Jérôme held Thérèse’s hand. Both wore puffy black coats and puffy white mitts. They looked like Mickey and Minnie Mouse out for a stroll.
Chief Inspector Gamache brushed past Superintendent Brunel and unlocked the schoolhouse door. He held it open for them, but instead of entering himself, he let it drift shut.
He saw the light go on through the frosted window and heard the metallic clank as the top of the woodstove was lifted and logs were fed to the dying embers.
But outside, there was only a hush.
He tipped his head back and looked into the night sky. Was one of the bright specks not a star at all, but the satellite that would soon transport them from this village?
He brought his gaze back to earth. To the cottages. The B and B, the bakery. Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. Myrna’s bookstore. The bistro. The scene of so many great meals and discussions. He and Jean-Guy. Lacoste. Even Nichol.
Going back years.
He was about to order the final connection made, and then there’d be no turning back. As Nichol so clearly pointed out, they’d be found eventually. And traced back here.
And then no number of woodsmen, of huntsmen, of villagers, of demented poets, of glorious painters and innkeepers could stop what would happen. To Three Pines. To everyone in it.
Armand Gamache turned his back on the sleeping village, and went inside.
Jérôme Brunel had taken his seat in front of one of the monitors, and Thérèse was standing behind him. Yvette Nichol sat beside Dr. Brunel at her own keyboard and monitor, her back already slumped, like a widow’s hump.
They all turned to look at him.
Gamache did not hesitate. At his nod, Yvette Nichol slid under the desk.
“OK?” she asked.
“Oui,” he said, his voice clipped, determined.
There was silence, then they heard a click.
“Done,” she called, and crawled back out.
Gamache met Jérôme’s eyes, and nodded.
Jérôme reached out, surprised to see his finger wasn’t trembling, and pressed the power button. Lights flashed on. There was a slight crackling and then their screens flashed alive.
Gamache reached into his pocket and brought out a neatly folded piece of paper. He smoothed it out and placed it in front of Jérôme.
Agent Nichol looked at it. At the insignia. And the line of letters and numbers. Then she looked up at the Chief.
“The national archives,” she whispered. “My God, it might work.”
“OK, everything’s live and we’re online,” Jérôme reported. “All the encryption programs and sub-programs are running. Once I log in, the clock starts.”
While Dr. Brunel slowly, carefully, typed in the long access code, Gamache turned away to look at the wall, and the ordnance map. So detailed. Even so, it would not have shown where they now stood had some child years ago not put that dot on the page and written, in careful, clear letters, Home.
Gamache stared at it. And he thought of St. Thomas’s Church across the way. And the stained-glass window made after the Great War, showing bright young soldiers walking forward. Not with brave faces. They were filled with fear. But still they advanced.
Below them was the list of the young men who never made it home. And below the names the inscription They were our children.
Gamache heard Jérôme type in the sequence of numbers and letters. Then he heard nothing. Only silence.
The code was in place. Only one thing left to do.
Jérôme Brunel’s finger hovered above the enter button.
Then he brought it down.
“Non,” said Armand. He gripped Jérôme’s wrist, stopping the finger millimeters from the button. They stared at it, not daring to breathe, wondering if Jérôme had actually hit enter before Gamache had stopped him.
“What’re you doing?” Jérôme demanded.
“I made a mistake,” said Gamache. “You’re exhausted. We all are. If this’s going to work we need to be sharp. Rested. There’s too much at stake.”
