Page 149 of The Grey Wolf
“When we got caught, Sébastien and I thought he was going to harm himself, he was so scared. So we drew straws, left it up to God to decide which of us would speak to the Bishop. Sébastien lost.”
“That’s why Robert hates him,” said Lacoste. “Sébastien reminds him of his own weakness.”
“His cowardice and, by extension, his lack of faith. Yes.”
They now stood in the shadow of the great wall.
“Why did Sébastien send for Dom Philippe?” Dussault asked again.
“Because he respects the man, and knew Brother Robert might tell the Abbot what he knows. Robert practically idolizes Dom Philippe. Besides, an abbot outranks a monk, and Robert’s respect for authority meant he might confide in him.”
“Did Brother Robert agree to see him?” asked Dussault.
Sister Irene nodded.
“And?”
“The Abbot said what Robert told him was private. He wouldn’t tell us.”
“It could’ve been anything, not necessarily to do with any attack.”
Irene paused. “True, but Dom Philippe looked pretty upset when he came out.”
“Where’s he now?” Dussault asked.
“I don’t know. He went back to Canada.”
“And Frère Sébastien?”
Silence. Though Lacoste felt a hand touch her arm. She turned to look at Claude Dussault, who was staring at the monastery.
The huge oak door had swung open, and standing there, made miniscule by the size of the opening, was a man in burlap robes and a straw hat.
“It’s one of the lay monks,” said Lacoste.
He was gesturing to them to hurry. Irene took off toward the opening, her robes cutting a swath through the meadow. Lacoste and Dussault ran after her, trailing butterflies.
Once at the gate they saw it was no lay monk. It was Frère Sébastien.
They’d flown through and past the rain and landed in Blanc-Sablon in bright sunshine.
At the bottom of the stairs Gamache stepped aside to let others pass and checked his phone.
Messages were piled up. He did a quick triage, read updates from Beauvoir and Lacoste, then clicked on the email from the Italian police.
It contained Paolo Parisi’s official documents. Driver’s license, passport details, his income tax file number, and a photo of the smiling young man in what looked like a bar or restaurant. It was a close-up of Parisi, so it didn’t even show who he was with.
Gamache realized he’d been overly optimistic, hoping the head of the Anti-Mafia task force would send something useful. He put away his phone and looked around.
Armand had been to the Lower North Shore of Québec many times and was prepared. As expected, a cool breeze, verging on a cold wind, was blowing off the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The air was fresh and clean, with a very slight undercurrent of salt and fish.
He hiked his satchel farther up over his shoulder and turned to face the breeze. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath. The wind was just bracing enough to act as a small slap to the face. Exactly what he needed.
“Patron.”
He opened his eyes and smiled. There was the head of the Blanc-Sablon detachment.
“Valerie.” Gamache extended his hand.
