Page 164 of The Grey Wolf
“But,” Beauvoir persisted, “if you confront Jeanne Caron, she could claim you attacked her. She could have you arrested. You need a witness.”
“And what would stop her from saying we both attacked her? You’re not just my second-in-command, you’re my son-in-law. You’d be seen as a not-very-reliable witness, and a very likely accomplice.Merci, Jean-Guy, but I have something important for you to do.”
“I didn’t see a bakery on the way here.”
Gamache laughed, then explained, giving Jean-Guy a sheet of paper written in his longhand. It could not be traced. No copy existed. And given the disturbing trend of schools no longer teaching cursive, it could not be read by a ten-year-old. Though Gamache doubted ten-year-olds were the problem. At least, thinking about the marshmallows, not this problem.
Jean-Guy looked at the list of names and numbers and nodded. “It’ll be done,patron.”
“Oh, one more thing. I need your gun.”
Beauvoir stared at his chief.
“You know they won’t let you in with it. You have no jurisdiction here.”
“Worth a try.”
“And if you do get in…?”
But Gamache was silent, his hand out.
Beauvoir had a hundred more questions, most beginning withWhy?—thoughWhat?was a close second. Instead, he handed the holster over and watched Gamache adjust his jacket as he walked up the hill. Then Jean-Guy got to work.
“Jeanne Caron,s’il vous plaît.”
“Avez-vous un rendez-vous?”
“No, I don’t have an appointment. Can you let Madame Caron or her assistant know that Chief Inspector Gamache of the Sûreté du Québec wants to see her?”
He brought out his ID. The receptionist studied it. An RCMP officer, in full ceremonial scarlet uniform, came over and looked, then turned to Gamache and saluted.
“Monsieur Gamache.”
“Do I know you?”
“Sargent Gauthier. Denis. My sister was—”
Gamache’s expression softened. “Diane.” He put out his hand.
“We met at the funeral. You keep in touch with the family. My parents. Her husband and children.” His eyes had traveled to thedeep scar by the Chief Inspector’s temple before dropping again to hold Gamache’s eyes. “They loved the bikes you sent with the Sûreté badge on them. They pretend they’re part of the mounted division and the bikes are horses.”
“Not motorcycles?”
“Non, thank God.” The young man smiled.
“How are they?”
“Missing their mother. But Gerard talks to them about her and shows them photographs. He tells them how brave she was.”
He did not yet, Gamache guessed, tell them how she’d died. Shot down, the young agent had died in her chief’s arms. Staring up at him, pleading with him to save her. And God knew he’d tried. But finally, all he could do was say an improvised last rites—God, take this child—before he moved on. To say it again, and again.God, take this child.
Until he himself was shot twice. Tasting blood in his mouth, fighting for breath, he lay on the concrete floor of the factory and felt someone grab his hand. Tight. And heard the same prayer whispered over him. By Isabelle Lacoste.God, take this child.Before his eyes had rolled to the back of his head and he’d passed out.
“I’ll take him up,” said Gauthier.
“But he’s not expected, he’s not on the list.”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll vouch for the Chief Inspector.”
