How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9)

How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) Page 45

Beauvoir stared at him, barely focusing. “What?”

“A drug shipment heading for the border. We could let Canada Customs or the RCMP intercept it, but Francoeur wants to make up for today. Rest up. It looks big.”

Beauvoir waited until he no longer heard footsteps down the corridor. And when there was only silence he put his head in his hands.

And cried.

FOURTEEN

After a dinner of coq au vin, green salad, and fruit and meringue, the three of them washed up. Chief Inspector Gamache was up to his elbows in suds in the deep enamel sink, while the Brunels dried.

It was an old kitchen. No dishwasher, no special mixer taps. No upper cabinets. Just dark wood shelves for plates, over the marble counters. And dark wood cabinets underneath.

A harvest table, where they’d eaten, doubled as the kitchen island. The windows looked out onto the back garden, but it was dark outside, so all they could see were their own reflections.

The place felt like what it was. An old kitchen, in an old home, in a very old village. It smelled of bacon and baking. It smelled of rosemary and thyme and mandarin oranges. And coq au vin.

When the dishes were done Gamache looked at the Bakelite clock above the sink. Almost nine o’clock.

Thérèse had returned to the living room with Jérôme. He stoked the embers of the fire while she found the record player and turned it on. A familiar violin concerto started playing softly in the background.

Gamache put his coat on and whistled for Henri.

“Evening stroll?” asked Jérôme, who stood by the bookcase, browsing.

“Want to come?” Gamache clipped Henri onto the leash.

“Not me, merci,” said Thérèse. She sat by the fire and looked relaxed, but tired. “I’m going to have a bath and head for bed in a few minutes.”

“I’ll come with you, Armand,” said Jérôme, and laughed at the look of surprise on the Chief’s face.

“Don’t let him stand still for too long,” Thérèse called after them. “He looks like the bottom half of a snowman. Kids are constantly trying to put big snowballs on top of him.”

“That’s not true,” said Jérôme, as he got into his coat. “Once it happened.” He closed the door behind them. “Let’s go. I’m curious to see this little village you like so much.”

“It won’t take long.”

The cold hit them immediately, but instead of being shocking or uncomfortable, it felt refreshing. Bracing. They were well insulated against it. A tall man and a small, round man. They looked like a broken exclamation mark.

Once down the wide verandah steps, they turned left and strolled along the plowed road. The Chief unclipped Henri, tossed a tennis ball, and watched as the shepherd leapt into the snow bank, furiously digging to retrieve the precious ball.

Gamache was curious to see his companion’s reaction to the village. Jérôme Brunel, as Gamache had grown to appreciate, was not easily read. He was a city man, born and bred. Had studied medicine at the Université de Montréal, and before that he’d spent time at the Sorbonne in Paris, where he’d met Thérèse. She’d been deep into an advanced degree in art history.

Village life and Jérôme Brunel did not, Gamache suspected, naturally mix.

After one quiet circuit, Jérôme stopped and stared at the three huge pine trees, lit up and pointing into the sky. Then, while Gamache threw the ball to Henri, Jérôme looked around at the homes surrounding the village green. Some were redbrick, some were clapboard, some were made of fieldstone, as though expelled from the earth they sat on. A natural phenomenon. But instead of commenting on the village, Jérôme’s glance returned to the three huge pines. He tilted his head back, and followed them. Up, up. Into the stars.

“Do you know, Armand,” he said, his face still turned to the sky, “some of those aren’t stars at all. They’re communication satellites.”

His head, and gaze, dropped to earth. He met Gamache’s eyes. Between them there was a haze of warm breath in the freezing air.

“Oui,” said Armand. Henri sat at his feet staring at the tennis ball, encrusted with frozen drool, in Gamache’s gloved hand.

“They orbit,” Jérôme continued. “Receiving signals and sending them. The whole earth is covered.”

“Almost the whole earth,” said Gamache.

In the light from the trees the Chief saw a smile on Jérôme’s moon face.