Page 154 of The Grey Wolf
“But the best would be by boat, from further down the coast, or even Newfoundland. There’s a ferry, but you’d be seen and any stranger would be noted.”
“It could be done, then, by a smaller boat.”
“Quite easily, yes. Especially if they had a guide and landed at night.”
“Okay. Are you armed?”
“Oui.”
“Good. I’m not.”
“Would you like my gun?”
“Non, merci.” It was said as though he’d declined another cucumber sandwich. “At my signal, go around the house. Check the windows. If there’s a back door, stay there.”
They’d stopped just far enough away that any amateur getting off a shot would probably miss. A pro, though, would be another matter.
They got out of the truck and stepped behind it.
Valerie Michaud rested her hand on her holster. And waited. Tense. Eyes sharp.
“Monsieur Rousseau,” Gamache shouted. “My name is Armand Gamache. I’m with the Sûreté du Québec.”
The small home was two stories and painted a now faded periwinkle. Eerily quiet, it had about it an abandoned feel. As she waited for his signal to move, Valerie Michaud could hear the waves hitting the rocks. It had always seemed an almost calming sound.
Now, she heard the violence of it. The thrashing, which had been the last thing so many mariners had heard, drowning out their own screams for help that they knew would not arrive. It was now the sound of relentless despair.
Gamache signaled her to move. Now. As he stepped out from behind the truck, drawing attention momentarily to himself.
“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Frère Sébastien.
The flush of anger ran all the way down his neck. He’d swept off his straw hat and clutched it as he stared, glared, from the nun to the other two.
The heavy door had been closed and locked behind them, and now the three visitors, the three intruders, stood in the forecourt of the monastery. Admitted, but admittedly not welcome.
Ranged behind Sébastien, holding their pitchforks and shovels, were the other lay brothers. This was half of Claude Dussault’s nightmare. The monks with pitchforks. Thankfully, the other half would not now happen. The assault team with automatic rifles would not be needed.
“It’s okay, Sébastien. They’re here to help,” said Sister Irene.
“Help? How? How do you know who they are? And you’ve brought them straight to us.”
“I didn’t tell them anything. They already knew about you andRobert and this place.” She looked at the tall walls and fading blue of the early-evening sky. Despite the tension, Irene could feel the attraction of the place. Of the safety it offered from a not-always-kind world.
“Who are you hiding from?” Lacoste demanded.
“This is Inspector Lacoste, of the Soor… something, in Kweebec—” Sister Irene started.
“Sûreté du Québec.” Lacoste stepped forward. “Isabelle Lacoste. And this is Claude Dussault, the former head of the Paris police. You met my boss when he investigated a murder in Saint-Gilbert.”
“Gamache? Is he with you?”
“No. He’s in Québec looking for Dom Philippe. Do you know where he is?”
“The Abbot?Non.”
“You know why we’re here,” she said. “You and your friends know something. Brother Robert certainly does. It scared him so much he barricaded himself in here.”
She looked around. From the inside it didn’t look so bad. There was a healthy, well-tended garden, the calming buzz of bees, and the walls were high enough not even butterflies could get in. Which was, she had to admit, a relief.
