He was surprised to find he wanted to watch it again. This horrible video.
What was it, he wondered not for the first time, about tragedy that made it so hard to look away? But the Dominican did. With a small but fervent prayer for the souls of those long lost, and those lost souls still walking among them, he turned off the machine.
Then he left the prior’s office, and continued his search of the abbey of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.
He knew what he was looking for was there somewhere. It had to be. He’d heard it.
THIRTY-TWO
As he’d been speaking with the Dominican after Vigils, Gamache had noticed Francoeur in the shadows of the Blessed Chapel, walking quickly along the wall. Gamache was tempted to use the word “sneak,” but it wasn’t quite that. It was more stealth.
One thing was certain, Francoeur did not want to be seen.
But Gamache had seen him. When Frère Sébastien had stomped off, Gamache sat for a minute or so, to let the Superintendent get all the way down the long corridor and past the young monk at the door.
Then he’d followed him out the front door of the abbey.
Frère Luc had opened it without a word, though his eyes were filled with all sorts of questions. But Armand Gamache had no answers to offer.
Besides, the Chief had questions of his own, first among them whether it was wise to follow Francoeur. Not because of what the Superintendent might do, but what Gamache was afraid he himself might do.
But he had to find out what was so secret that Francoeur had to actually leave the abbey, and clearly not for an early morning stroll. Gamache stepped into the cold, dark morning and looked about. It wasn’t yet six o’clock and the fog of the night before had become a heavy mist, as the frigid air hit the lake, and rose.
Francoeur had stopped in a copse of trees. He might have disappeared against the murky forest, but a soft bluish-white glow in his hand betrayed him.
Gamache paused, and watched. Francoeur’s back was to him, and with the Superintendent’s head bowed over his device it looked as though he might be consulting a crystal ball. But, of course, he wasn’t. The Superintendent was writing, or reading, a message.
One so secret he’d had to leave the monastery, for fear of being found out. But he had been found, the message itself, in the deep dark of the morning, a beacon. Giving him away.
Gamache would give a lot to get that BlackBerry.
For a moment he contemplated quickly covering the ground between them and grabbing it from Francoeur’s hand. Whose name would he see there? What was so important that Francoeur would risk the bears and wolves and coyotes waiting in these woods for something vulnerable to make a mistake.
But Gamache wondered if that something vulnerable was himself. If the mistake was his.
Still he stood, and still he stared. And made up his mind.
He couldn’t get the device out of Francoeur’s hand, and even if he did, it wouldn’t tell the full story. And at this stage, Gamache needed the full story. Patience, Gamache reminded himself. Patience.
And another tack.
“Bonjour, Sylvain.”
Gamache almost smiled as he saw the glowing slab bobble in Francoeur’s hand. Then the Superintendent spun around and any amusement left Gamache’s face. Francoeur wasn’t just furious, he was murderous. The phone, still on, made his face look grotesque.
“Who’re you writing to?” Gamache asked, walking forward, keeping his pace and his voice even.
But Francoeur seemed incapable of speech and as he approached, Gamache could see that there was fury there, but there was also fear. Francoeur was terrified.
And even more, the Chief wanted to grab that BlackBerry. To see who the message was to, or from, that an interruption would cause such distress.
For it was clear the Superintendent wasn’t most afraid of Gamache.
In a split second Gamache knew this was his chance after all. He decided to make a grab for the phone. But Francoeur had anticipated him and with a swift movement, turned off his device and pocketed it.
The two men stared at each other, their breaths coming in puffs, obscuring the air, as though a ghost was forming between them.
“Who were you writing to?” Gamache repeated. Not expecting an answer, but wanting to make it clear that there was no more hiding. “Or were you reading a message? Come on, Sylvain, it’s just us.” Gamache opened his arms and looked around. “All alone.”
It was true. The silence was so great it almost ached. It felt like they’d strolled into a void. No sounds. Few sights. Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups had even disappeared. The mist had swallowed even the stone monastery.
