Page 100 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

As he stepped into the open area where the homicide officers had their desks, a hush fell.

Complete silence as they glared at Gaston Comeau, who stood in the middle of the room.

“A virus,” the cyber expert confirmed. For a moment, it seemed he was talking about Comeau.

“Oui.”

Once opened, the video addressed to Chief Inspector Gamache had spread across their system. But how far? How wide? Had it broken out of the Sûreté?

“Come with me.” Gamache gestured to Agent Comeau. “You—” He turned to the cyber head. “Find out where that video came from. And how far it’s spread. Inspector Lacoste, I need an update on the search for the escapees.”

“Oui, patron,” they both said.

While Gamache, Lacoste, Beauvoir, and the others were still in their filthy, sweaty, bloody tactical gear, Comeau was fresh and clean and apparently rested.

Gamache closed the door. “Sit.” Comeau did. “Look.”

He played the video, and this time watched Comeau, who’d turned first ashen, then bright red. When it ended, he turned to Gamache, who gestured for him to keep watching.

When the second video ended, Comeau grabbed a wastepaper basket and threw up.

“That”—Gamache gestured toward the screen—“is what you allowed to escape. That is what is now free and no doubt planning another slaughter. Explain.”

“I can’t. I panicked. I was so afraid. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He was crying again, gulping and hiccuping. Unable to catch his breath.

Gamache just watched. How had he missed this? He’d followed this agent from his first year in the academy. He’d read the reports of his professors. Seen the exam results. Read the psychologist reports.

All agreed. Gaston Comeau was exceptional. Smart. Sensible. Well-balanced.

But no one really knew what would happen once the bullets started flying.

Armand walked away from his desk and stood with his hands behind his back, watching the sunrise over Montréal. Then he called the Sûreté psychologist, a doctor specially trained to deal with trauma.

Gaston Comeau wiped his face and blew his nose into the tissue the Chief Inspector offered, then left the office with the psychologist. Past the poster Gamache had by his door.

There were only two words on it, writ large.

Noli Timere.

Comeau had no idea what it meant. Gamache did.

CHAPTER 36

Gaston Comeau found the trail leading to the cemetery.

Actually, what he found was the bright yellow tape the cops had put out so they could find it themselves.

Within sight of the cemetery, he stopped.

A Sûreté guard had heard something and turned in his direction. But he was hidden by a tree and remained still. The agent took a step, two, toward him.

Then stopped. No doubt thinking that sound in the woods was a deer or squirrel.

She looked spooked, the young agent. She and her colleague had been assigned to guard a murder scene. In a cemetery. In the woods. Not anyone’s favorite assignment.

Though as he quietly crept toward the stones, Comeau had the same feeling he’d had two nights earlier. That this was a peaceful place. Where kindly souls had been laid to rest. And had found it. Perhaps for the first time in their hard lives.

With one exception.