Page 167 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

Then the plea again, this time louder, more panicked. Agent Comeau was sobbing. “Help me, patron.”

Armand laid his gun down and stepped out from behind the counter, arms out at his side.

“Let him go.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Huh?” Startled, Comeau looked up and saw the flight attendant. “Non, merci.”

Then he dropped his gaze again to Gamache’s face. In repose. Eyes closed. So peaceful.

He lay back in his seat. He didn’t sleep, but he did allow himself to dream. To imagine …

“Help me, Gaston.”

The plane had gone down. Survivors were scrambling to get out. A fire was approaching.

Gamache was trapped under debris. His eyes wide, filled with terror.

“Help me…”

And he did. While others ran away, he stayed behind. Tugging the seats and twisted metal off the Chief Inspector, he dragged the injured man to safety. At huge personal risk.

“Thank you,” whispered Gamache, lifting a bloody hand to hold his face. “You saved my life.”

“My God,” said the pilot, who’d witnessed it. “I’ve never seen anything so courageous.”

Then the inevitable. What Armand knew would happen as soon as he’d heard the voice. As soon as he’d looked over and seen Agent Comeau held hostage.

As soon as he’d put down his own weapon and stepped out from behind the counter, the gun shifted. No longer pointed at Comeau’s head, it was now aimed at him. Not his chest. Not where the vest might stop a bullet. But his head.

At that distance, the gunman couldn’t miss. Armand almost took a step back but managed to hold his ground.

He could feel his knees begin to wobble. He closed his mouth tight in hopes no one could see his lips trembling. That the security cameras, scrutinized frame by frame when this was over, would not pick up the shaking of his hands.

Forgive me, Reine-Marie.

“Help me.”

“I’m coming, patron.”

The building was on fire, and other agents, including Beauvoir, were trying to hold him back, pleading with him not to go in—

“You can’t save him. You’ll only die too!” screamed Inspector Beauvoir. “Don’t do it, you fool!”

“I must!”

“Help me,” came the Chief’s voice. Weaker now.

Breaking free of their grips, he raced into the building. The heat was almost enough to melt his visor, but he continued forward, through the embers.

There Gamache was. Pinned under a beam. Barely conscious. Another minute and he’d be dead from the approaching flames.

Exerting superhuman strength, he lifted the charred beam off the Chief. Then, putting his own oxygen mask on Gamache, he dragged him—no, lifted him in the firefighter’s hold—to safety.

“Thank you,” whispered the Chief, placing a sooty hand to his face. “You saved my life, son.”

“My God,” said the fire chief, who’d witnessed it. “I’ve never seen anything so courageous.”