Page 67 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

As it turned out, it was the two Sûreté officers who were in for a surprise.

CHAPTER 25

“Chief Inspector Armand Gamache.”

He showed his ID to the young woman behind the reception desk in the lobby, though it was clear she did not need the proof.

Jean-Guy always liked this part of any investigation. He knew it was petty, but he enjoyed seeing the look of awe steal across their faces when faced with the storied head of homicide.

Armand Gamache was instantly recognizable. Tall, substantial, with neatly groomed hair that was almost completely grey now, he would look like many other middle-aged men crossing the lobby of the old factory, with its wooden floor and steel-girder ceiling. If not for the Sûreté officer’s unconscious aura of authority. And that scar at his temple.

It told the story of an event he rarely spoke about, except to his close colleagues and family. And therapist. It was not for public consumption. And yet the public knew all about it since that video of the factory raid had been posted on social media.

What social media couldn’t show, what the public couldn’t see, were the ghosts that followed the Chief Inspector. That dogged his steps.

Over the years, as he’d stood up not just to killers but to corruption within the Sûreté and beyond, and taken the hits that went with it, the Chief Inspector had taken on almost mythic proportions. Something he disliked intensely.

He knew, as did Captain Kendall, what it was like to look into the eyes of someone who’d trusted him to protect them. And who was about to die. Because he’d failed.

There was nothing even remotely heroic about him. In fact, in his quiet moments, the thought stole over him that one of his great motivators for moving forward instead of running away, as every fiber of his being often screamed at him to do, was, ironically, fear. An overwhelming fear that he would once again prove a coward.

“Oui, Monsieur Gamache. What can I do for you?” Her voice was steady, cooly professional, while her cheeks burned.

Armand was about to answer her when he noticed Jean-Guy tense. Like a hunting dog who’d discovered prey.

“Fuck me,” Beauvoir said under his breath, so that only Gamache heard. He followed Beauvoir’s eyes and saw a young man standing partway across the large foyer.

The man was staring back. His feet planted. Arms akimbo. His body in a parody of a gunfighter’s stance, just before the draw.

It lasted a split second before he turned and ran, with Beauvoir chasing him.

“Jesus,” the Chief Inspector hissed under his breath and sprinted after them, as men and women in business suits stopped to watch.

Armand had no idea why the man had run, or why Beauvoir had run after him. But clearly there was a reason.

By the time Gamache skidded around the corner to the bank of elevators, Jean-Guy and the man had disappeared. A few people were standing there, ignoring the open elevator door. Staring.

A woman reacted first, pointing wordlessly to a softly closing door, though Gamache was already heading there. It was the only place they could have gone.

Once through the door, he found himself in a narrow hallway, lined with more doors. One of which was closing. He could see it had a keypad. If it closed, it would lock. Racing forward, he reached it a moment before it clicked shut.

Stepping through, he found himself in a vast mechanical room. And there, at the far end, was Beauvoir. He’d cornered the man who stood with his back to the brick wall.

Gamache’s eyes went immediately to the man’s hand. No gun.

That was a relief.

What was immediate obvious, and immediately odd, was that the more threatening of the two was Jean-Guy Beauvoir, not his quarry. Beauvoir wanted to hurt this man. This stranger.

Puzzled, Armand broke into a jog. The cornered man was in his late twenties. Neatly dressed, though not in a suit. He was athletically built, bearded. Eyes darting. Looking for any tiny crack through which he could bolt.

“Come on,” snarled Beauvoir, his hands in tight fists. “Try it. I dare you.”

“Inspector Beauvoir,” snapped Gamache.

Then he stopped dead, and stared at the trapped man.

“Comeau?” He took a step closer. “Gaston Comeau?”