Page 31 of The Grey Wolf
“Yessir.”
“His name is Charles,” Gamache called after the agent. It seemed important that she know.
The agent ran over, spread the coat. Then she opened her arms to make herself as big as possible. To hide the broken man, Charles, from this final assault.
Family, thought Gamache.
How horrific if they found out by seeing it online. Those filming had a right, though perhaps not a perfect right, to video, but Gamache wondered if they realized that with every second they posted, they lost pieces of their humanity.
Family, Charles had muttered. Just that. His last thought was, as Armand knew his would have been, had been, for his family. A few years earlier, as he lay on the factory floor bleeding and dying, Armandhad whispered to Isabelle Lacoste what they both believed would be his last words.
Reine-Marie.
He’d placed all his love into Lacoste, trusting it would be delivered.
He had not, of course, died. But that moment had bound him to Lacoste. Just as Charles’s last moment bound him to Gamache. There was now an agreement, a contract, between the living man and the newly dead.
Gamache could have saved Charles, but had let him die. Choosing instead to knock the child out of the way. And now he had to go and tell Charles’s family. Was he married? Did he have a young daughter? Son?
And yet something was off. When he’d assured Charles that he’d speak to his family, he hadn’t looked relieved. Just the opposite. He’d looked panicked.
Armand had thought it was that last desperate awareness that he really was going to die. But the head of homicide had seen enough people die, had held them. Reassured them in their final moments that they were not alone.
He’d said the rosary over some, those he knew it would comfort. Seen broken lips move with his. Held those hands, held their eyes, until the light left. He’d absorbed their pain, their fear, their sorrow. Their love.
He’d never ever seen that exact look.
“For what it’s worth, we have the license plate.” Lacoste was following Gamache, the two of them helping people to their feet. Comforting. Assessing injuries. “It’ll be stolen, of course. I sent the video to our people.”
“Bon.” But even as he said that, Gamache realized he no longer knew for sure who their “people” were. Not after what Charles had said. A thought sped across his mind as he reached out to help a woman to her feet—
“Are you hurt?”
Had that been the true purpose of this meeting? To sow doubt in the Chief Inspector’s mind?
“My arm, but it’s okay. Just a bruise, I think.”
“Stay here.” Gamache righted a chair and patted the seat. “A medic will come by.”
Was he close to something in one of his investigations? Too close?
“I’m a doctor, Monsieur Gamache.”
Had someone wanted to undermine his investigation by sending this young man to him? Making him doubt his colleagues? Was that what Charles was supposed to do?
Did do? Did Charles know, or was he being used?
“I can help,” she said.
Why kill him, then? But the Chief Inspector had the answer.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
They’d do it to drive home the point. That Charles was telling the truth. They’d do it so that Gamache would believe that he could not trust his colleagues in the Sûreté. So that he would believe the lie.
“Absolutely.” The doctor pushed past him, not waiting for permission that was not his to give anyway.
Dear God, thought the Chief. What was worse? That Charles was lying, and they were dealing with people who would murder their own? Or that Charles was telling the truth?
