Gamache looked down at the paw and boot prints in the snow. The front walk hadn’t been shoveled. The steps up to the verandah hadn’t been cleaned. The home was dark. And empty.
No one lived there, he was sure, and probably hadn’t in the years since Emilie Longpré had died. When Armand and Reine-Marie had decided to adopt the orphan puppy.
Henri hadn’t forgotten. Or more likely, thought Gamache as he climbed the snowy steps to retrieve the dog, he knew this home by heart. And now the shepherd waited, his tail swishing back and forth, for a woman long dead to let him in and give him a cookie, and tell him he was a good boy.
“Good boy,” whispered Gamache into the immense ears, as he bent down and clipped the leash on Henri. But before going back down the stairs, the Chief peered into a window.
He saw furniture covered in sheets. Ghost furniture.
Then he and Henri stepped off the porch. Under a canopy of stars he and Henri walked slowly around the village green.
One of them thinking, one of them remembering.
* * *
Thérèse Brunel got up on one elbow and looked over the lump in the bed that was Jérôme, to the clock on the bedside table.
It was past one in the morning. She lowered herself onto the mattress and watched her husband’s easy breathing, and envied him his calm.
She wondered if it was because he really didn’t grasp the seriousness of the situation, though he was a thoughtful man and should.
Or, perhaps most likely, Jérôme trusted his wife and Armand to know what to do.
For most of their married life, Thérèse had been comforted by the thought that as an emergency room physician Jérôme would always be able to help. If she or one of the children choked. Or hit their head. Or were in an accident. Or had a heart attack. He’d save them.
But now she realized the roles were reversed. He was counting on her. She hadn’t the heart to tell him she had no idea what to do. She’d been trained to deal with clear targets, obvious goals. Solve the crime, arrest the criminal. But now everything seemed blurry. Ill-defined.
As Superintendent Brunel stared at the ceiling, listening to the heavy, rhythmic breathing of her husband, she realized it came down to two possibilities. That Jérôme had not been found in cyber space. Had not been followed. That it was a mirage.
Or that he had been found. And followed.
Which meant someone high up in the Sûreté had gone to a great deal of trouble to cover up what they were doing. More trouble than a viral video, no matter how vile, warranted.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, she thought the unthinkable. What if the creature they hunted had been there for years, growing and scheming? Putting patient plans in place?
Is that what they’d stumbled upon? In following the hacked video, had Jérôme found something much larger, older, even more contemptible?
She looked at her husband and noticed that he was awake after all and also staring at the ceiling. She touched his arm and he rolled over, bringing his face very close to hers.
Taking both her hands in his, he whispered, “It’ll be all right, ma belle.”
She wished she could believe him.
* * *
On the far side of the village green, the Chief Inspector paused. Henri, on his leash, stood patiently in the cold as Gamache studied the dark and empty house where Henri had been raised. Where Henri had taken him that evening.
And a thought formed.
After a minute or so Gamache noticed that the shepherd was raising and lowering his front paws, trying to get them away from the snow and ice underfoot.
“Let’s go, mon vieux,” he said, and walked rapidly back to the B and B.
In the bedroom, the Chief found a plate of thick ham sandwiches, some cookies, and a hot chocolate. He could hardly wait to crawl into bed with his dinner.
But first he knelt down and held Henri’s cold paws in his warm hands. One after the other. Then into those ears he whispered, “It’ll be all right.”
And Henri believed him.
TEN
A tap on the door awakened Gamache at six thirty the next morning.
“Merci, patron,” he called, then threw off the duvet and went gingerly across the cold room to shut the window.
After showering, he and Henri headed downstairs, following the scent of strong coffee and maple-smoked bacon. A fire popped and leapt in the grate.
“One egg or two, patron?” called Gabri.
Gamache looked into the kitchen. “Two eggs, please. Thank you for the sandwiches last night.” He put the empty plates and mug in the sink. “They were delicious.”
