Page 29 of The Grey Wolf
“I’ll leave my coat by the door.”
“Charles” laughed and turned away. But Gamache had one more question.
“What’s your name?”
The man turned back and smiled. “Actually, it really is Charles.”
A movement over Charles’s shoulder caught Gamache’s eye.
The SUV was moving toward Open Da Night. But instead ofslowing down to pick up the woman, it was gathering speed, accelerating toward them. Aiming for the sidewalk. The terrasse. Them. And anyone in between.
Gamache’s eyes widened. Seeing this, Charles began to turn, to look behind him. But there was no time.
Between them and the SUV sat the man and his granddaughter. The girl was coloring in a book, and he was reading the newspaper. Oblivious.
It all happened so fast, and yet in slow motion. The SUV was so close now Gamache locked eyes with the driver.
And then…
Too late, Jean-Guy Beauvoir saw what was happening, though he could never have done anything anyway.
His first, and only, warning was the look on Gamache’s face. His surprise. His body tensing. Preparing.
And then the flash of black across Beauvoir’s vision as the vehicle sped by.
Isabelle Lacoste had just left the café and was checking her messages to see if there were any updates. Her earpiece was still in, picking up the last of the conversation between the Chief and this man. Whose name—she smiled—turned out to be Charles after all.
She could just imagine Gamache shaking his head in self-deprecating exasperation.
But the smile froze when she heard a gasp. His gasp. A half shout. She looked up just as there was a terrible sound.
Jean-Guy ran toward the sudden chaos. Of chairs and tables overturned.
Of bodies on the ground.
There had been silence, for a moment, after the initial rending crash. As though life and death were suspended. All mashed up. Fate trying to decide.
And then the screaming started. The vehicle had plowed into theterrasse, into the people, then sped off. Rounding the corner and disappearing onto avenue Fairmount.
Tires screeched and sirens wailed, joining the screaming on the terrasse, as Sûreté vehicles took off after the SUV.
Beauvoir raced over just as Gamache shoved the heavy table off himself. He was protecting the child with his body, while bracing on the pavement. Her eyes were wide. There was blood on her face and in her hair. The girl and the Chief Inspector stared at each other for a moment.
And then she started crying. Huge, gusty wails. The cries of a terrified but healthy child. It was the best sound ever. Armand pushed himself to his knees and ran expert eyes over her thin body. It wasn’t broken. He checked her head. She had a scrape, nothing more.
“Patron?” shouted Beauvoir, clearing off more debris.
Gamache looked around, spotting the grandfather just sitting up, dazed. The elderly man screamed, “Patricia!” His voice high with panic. Then, seeing his granddaughter, he reached for her, wincing as he did.
“Ambulances.”
“On it,patron,” said Lacoste, who’d run over.
“Look after them,” Gamache commanded as he stumbled, scrambling, half crawling, half tripping over the debris, to the body in the middle of the road.
Dropping to his knees, Armand whispered, “Charles?”
Others were crowding around now. He half heard Lacoste shouting into her phone for paramedics. But his attention was focused on the broken man sprawled unnaturally on the asphalt.
