Page 212 of A Better Man

She gave a snort. An old man with a kitchen knife.

“Not much good against…” The agent placed her hand on her gun.

“You’re not to use that,” said Beauvoir. “Unless there’s absolutely no other option. Understand?”

“Oui, patron,” she said, immediately dropping her hand to her side.

“And don’t be fooled by his weapon,” said Gamache.

The agent looked unconvinced. But she was young and didn’t understand that Homer Godin wasn’t an old man with a kitchen knife. He was a father with nothing to lose.

Isabelle Lacoste studied Gamache as he scanned the terrain, his eyes narrow as he tried to penetrate the mist rising from the snow in the fields.

She’d asked him a few weeks back, over drinks at the bistro one Saturday when she and her husband and children were visiting Three Pines, why he wanted to return to the Sûreté.

He was still on suspension at the time. He could easily just quit and get on with his life.

The Chief had smiled broadly. “I could ask you the same thing. You have even more reason to leave the Sûreté.”

He’d glanced over her shoulder, to the door between Myrna’s bookstore and the bistro. And saw, yet again, Isabelle Lacoste crumple to the floor. Shot. Her last act had saved all their lives. She’d done it knowing full well it would cost her her own.

Fortunately, she didn’t remember it, so great was the trauma.

And Gamache could never forget, so great was the trauma.

But she’d recovered. Fought her way back, one excruciating step at a time.

Things are strongest where they’re broken. If ever there was a person who proved that, it was Isabelle Lacoste.

“Honestly?” Isabelle said. “I didn’t think I would, but then I realized I missed it. So?” she’d pressed. “Why do you want to go back? We both know you could name your job outside the Sûreté. You could run for Premier and probably win.”

“Now there’s a terrifying thought,” he’d said. But she’d earned the right to a truthful answer. And so, after a pause, he gave it to her.

“It’s where I belong. We’re all handed a cup. This’s mine.”

Lacoste stared at him. Seeing the ghosts in his eyes.

The horrific decisions, the terrible orders conceived and carried out.

The consequences of leadership.

As long as Armand Gamache carried the burden, no one else had to. He was already shattered. The damage done. The cup to his lips.

On seeing the sadness in her face, he smiled. “Not to worry, Isabelle. Maybe I’m being selfish.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “After all, it’s how the light gets in.”

That conversation flashed through her mind, more as a feeling than actually verbatim, as they stood on the side of the road, the icy mist seeping into their bones.

Beauvoir started down the drive.

Lacoste turned to Gamache. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said. “Be careful. Tracey has knives, too.”

As Beauvoir and the others approached the house, Gamache signaled to Cameron to walk to the far side of the field and hold the position.

“And me?” asked Cloutier.

“You stay here, by the car. We’ll need you when we find Homer.”