Brian got to his feet, weary and disheartened. “I think it was the CSIS agents, and you let them go. I’m going back to the B and B. I need time alone.”
Professor Rosenblatt got up. “I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind. If I’m allowed.”
Lacoste nodded.
“I did not kill Antoinette Lemaitre,” said Professor Rosenblatt, looking at them all, pausing at each face. “And I did not kill that child.”
Armand walked Brian and Professor Rosenblatt to the door.
“You’re coming with us?” asked Brian.
“Non,” said Gamache. “We’ll be here for a couple hours yet, waiting for Agent Cohen.”
Brian turned back into the bistro, and for the briefest moment his face held an expression Jean-Guy recognized. Another exhausted man washed up on shore.
And then Brian left, walking ahead of Rosenblatt, who remained on the terrasse talking to Armand. Through the window, the villagers could see the two men, their heads together, Armand’s hand on Rosenblatt’s arm.
“He’s thanking him,” said Myrna. “For stepping in front of the gun.”
“You think?” said Ruth.
And then Professor Rosenblatt left, walking alone toward the lights of the B and B.
“Did you give him a head start?” asked Ruth when Armand returned to his seat.
“What do you mean?”
“He saved your life. He saved both of yours.” She looked from Gamache to Beauvoir and back again. “And now maybe you’re giving him a chance to get away.”
“Do you think we’d let a murderer go?” asked Lacoste.
“Well, you let the CSIS agents go, or whatever they were,” said Ruth. “Seems to be the new Sûreté policy.”
“If I helped a murderer escape, I’d have to live with that, wouldn’t I?” Armand held the old poet’s sharp eyes.
“I wonder if you could,” she said, getting to her feet. “It’s late and I’m tired.”
She looked at Monsieur Béliveau and put out her hand. “Would you walk me home?”
It was a public declaration of friendship and trust. And perhaps lunacy. He was still a suspect.
“Of course,” said the grocer.
He looked at Isabelle Lacoste, who hesitated, then nodded.
Placing Ruth’s hand around his arm, Monsieur Béliveau escorted Ruth from the bistro.
Armand watched them cross the village green until they disappeared behind the three tall pines.
A few minutes later, in the darkness of the village, a darker figure appeared. It was fleeting, and could have been missed, had Gamache not been looking for it.
“Excusez-moi,” he said, getting to his feet, nodding to Lacoste and Beauvoir, who’d also seen it. “Please stay here,” he said to Reine-Marie, then shifted his eyes to Clara, Myrna, Olivier and Gabri.
“Why?” asked Gabri, getting up. And then he sat down heavily when he saw the expressions on their faces.
CHAPTER 43
Running, running, stumbling. Running.
Arm up against the wiry branches whipping his face. It was dark and he didn’t see the root. He fell, hands splayed, into the moss and mud. His gun dropped and bounced and rolled from sight. Eyes wide, frantic now, he swept his hands through the dead and decaying leaves.
He could hear the footsteps behind him. Boots on the ground. Pounding. He could almost feel the earth heaving as they got closer, closer, while he, on all fours, plowed the leaves aside.
“Come on, come on,” he pleaded.
And then his scraped and filthy hands clasped the grip of the gun and he was up and running. Bent over. Gasping for breath.
He could lose them in the dark. He knew these woods better than most. Better than them.
His hand dropped to the pocket of his torn and muddy jacket. His fingers, knuckles scraped and bleeding, felt inside. And there it was. Safe.
But he was not. His pursuers were gaining on him, closing on him. He didn’t seem able to lose them.
He stopped. Turned. Pulled out the gun. Leveled it at the two men and one woman chasing him. And when they were close, too close to miss, he pulled the trigger.
Armand and Isabelle and Jean-Guy had left the bistro, and walked swiftly, quietly, across the village green, keeping to the shadows of the pines, until they arrived at the Gamaches’ home.
Jean-Guy stood on tiptoes and looked into the study window, then crouched down again.
“He’s not there,” he whispered.
“Has he found it?” Lacoste asked.
“One way to find out,” said Gamache. He motioned to Beauvoir to go around back while he and Lacoste, bent over, ran along his verandah to the front door.
Isabelle Lacoste drew her gun and opened the door slowly, carefully. Then stepped inside. Scanning the room. It was empty. She moved swiftly to the study while Gamache went down the hall to one of the bedrooms.
Lacoste opened the desk drawer in the study, then closed it and left, meeting Gamache in the living room.
“Beauvoir’s gun’s missing from his bedroom,” he said.
“The firing mechanism for the Supergun is also missing.” She waved toward the study.
The verandah door opened and Jean-Guy called in, “He’s in the woods. I can hear him.”
They ran out the door, a few paces behind Jean-Guy, who was racing between the trees. He forced himself to slow down now and then to listen. To make sure they were still on the right track. It was pitch-dark but a man running through the autumn forest, through the dead and withered leaves, made a lot of noise. And that’s what they followed.
It was a headlong pursuit. It was no use trying to hide the fact they were after him. It was a race now, through the dark woods. After the man who’d murdered Laurent Lepage. The man who’d murdered Antoinette Lemaitre.
The man who, with the stolen firing mechanism, would murder millions.
Up ahead the running stopped. But they did not. They kept going, straight into the raised gun.
He had them in his sights. He waited until he couldn’t miss, and then pulled the trigger.
But nothing happened. He pulled it again. But by then it was too late, they were on him, Isabelle Lacoste tackling him, and Beauvoir piling on.
Armand Gamache, a few paces behind the younger agents, pulled out his device and turned on the flashlight app. And there, in the beam, was their murderer. The man who’d searched, like a pirate for treasure, like a leech for someone else’s blood, for decades. And when he’d finally found Project Babylon, all it brought was death.
In the beam of light was Brian Fitzpatrick.
CHAPTER 44
Adam Cohen had arrived back and now sat in the bistro by the fire, picking the label off his beer. He’d been offered a stiff cognac, and had taken a sip because Gamache had one and it looked so good. But while it looked like maple syrup, it tasted like turpentine.
They had the bistro to themselves. It was late and Olivier and Gabri had cleaned up and left, handing the key to Gamache with the request that they lock up when they were done.
Now it was just the Sûreté officers, helping themselves to the chips and mixed nuts and the drinks.
Jean-Guy tossed a birch log onto the fire and the embers exploded then drifted up the chimney. They stared, mesmerized.
“But why didn’t the gun fire?” Adam Cohen asked. “Brian was pointing it right at you.”
“Seems the firing mechanism was missing from that too,” said Lacoste. “We knew he didn’t have a gun, and we suspected he’d look for one in the Gamaches’ home, so Inspector Beauvoir deliberately left his behind, in his nightstand.”
“Why not just take out the bullets?”
“He might’ve checked,” said Beauvoir. “But no one thinks to check the firing pin.”