Page 66 of The Grey Wolf
All led by their Abbot, Dom Philippe. The spiritual leader of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. The all but forgotten, and forsaken, abbey in the wilderness.
By the time they’d left there, Armand and Jean-Guy’s relationship was in ruins. A terrible chapter in their lives had begun at the monastery of Saint Gilbert Between the Wolves.
That was now in their past, was history. Though like all history, it had left its mark.
But clearly something else had happened at Saint-Gilbert. Something recent that had propelled the gentle Abbot from his cloistered existence into the world. Into Three Pines. From one forgotten place to another.
He’d put on the clothes he’d been wearing fifty years earlier, when he’d entered Saint-Gilbert as a young man and, placing a grey hat on grey head, he’d left.
Armand wondered why, if the Abbot had traveled all that way to give him a message, had even recognized him as they’d passed, he hadn’t stopped him. Hadn’t handed him the note in person, hadn’t sat down and explained instead of leaving the envelope propped against the chapel wall.
Was it because Dom Philippe did not want to answer the inevitable questions? Did not want to provide an explanation? Which could mean either Dom Philippe or someone he cared about was involved.
“I know what those notes, when put together, make,” he said. “It’s a recipe, or at least part of one. I think it’s for Chartreuse.”
Beauvoir and Lacoste stared at him.
“The drink?” said Lacoste. “What my grandmother used to have on special occasions?”
“The drink.”
They brought out their phones, and while Gamache stared at the stained-glass window, they looked up the liqueur.
Then all three Sûreté officers sat in the weak light and, as the three boys looked on, they talked about murder and monks and how aremote monastery and an obscure recipe for a little-used liqueur could possibly have anything to do with the killing of Charles Langlois. A biologist who might, or might not, have stumbled onto a plan to poison Montréal’s drinking water.
CHAPTER17
“Oh God, oh God, oh shit.”
Armand felt the grip tighten on his forearm and placed his large hand over Jean-Guy’s claw.
“It’s all right. We’ll be fine.”
“We’re fucked.”
Armand did not completely disagree. And he suspected the insincerity of his reassurance was obvious, in the tremble in his own voice. And the fact it was about an octave higher than usual.
Even seeing that SUV heading toward him hadn’t scared him this much. Probably because he hadn’t had time.
Now he had time. To see the crash. To wonder how much it was going to hurt.
The tiny single-engine float plane was not so much floating as being flung. They were flying through, or trying to, battering wind and torrential rain. And now there was a huge flash of light and an explosion.
For an instant, Gamache thought the plane had blown apart. Hit by lightning. But the flash had been off to their left. And now there was another, to their right. They were in the middle of a thunderstorm. It was like tines of a gigantic fork trying to skewer a pea.
They were the pea.
They should never have taken off, but the pilot had assured them there was a break in the weather and he could quickly get above it.
“How far above?” Jean-Guy had shouted over the noise. “Did he mean Heaven? Oh God, oh God, oh shit.”
The plane dropped several hundred feet, the pilot fighting for control and height.
“Hang on,” he yelled as the plane plunged sideways, almost flipping over.
Ooooh, thought Armand, as he splayed his hand on the ceiling to keep from hitting it.Ooooh, God. Not like this. Please let us be found. Let our bodies be found. Reine-Marie, I’m sorry…
The grey waves rushed up at them, so close now he could see the frothing white caps. Hitting the water at this speed would be like hitting concrete. He braced himself and held his breath, while Jean-Guy gripped his hand. And he held Jean-Guy’s.
