Page 180

Fortunately, Agent Choquet knew exactly where John Fleming was, and she told the duty officer.

“His home?” said the agent, unable to conceal his shock. “The serial killer is in Chief Inspector Gamache’s home?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sending every agent down and alerting the local detachment. I’ll trace his phone and let you know where the Chief is.”

But Amelia feared it was already too late. Feared what the silence from the Chief Inspector meant. Feared what they would find once there. Not just Gamache, but Beauvoir and Madame Gamache as well.

As soon as she’d gotten to the lake house, Amelia had been told that Madame Gamache had returned to Three Pines. Amelia had immediately rushed back.

Now she could feel the panic rising, threatening to overwhelm her. She tamped it down.

“My aunt,” said Harriet. “We can call her. She can go over.”

“And then what?” They were running again. Tripping, helping each other up. Holding each other’s arms as they ran through the forest toward the car. “If she goes over there, she’ll be killed.”

She’d almost said “too.” Killed too.

Six minutes.

A phone rang. It was Beauvoir’s. It was lying on the floor where it had fallen when Sam hit him.

Sam picked it up. “Amelia Choquet,” he read on the screen. “There’s a text from her too, and an earlier one from”—he turned to Gamache—“you.”

Fleming raised his brows. “Now, what could you have said? Open it.”

Jean-Guy shook his head.

Fleming grabbed Reine-Marie again. “Open it,” he shouted.

“You’ll have to untie me,” said Beauvoir.

Armand held his breath. Do it. Do it.

He tried to keep his expression blank. His body unchanged. Even as he prepared to move.

Do it.

Fleming nodded, and Sam walked over to Gamache, holding the phone out.

“I hope you have the code.” Fleming needed to say no more.

Resigned, Armand took the phone and punched in the numbers. He’d hoped and prayed this wouldn’t happen. But there was nothing he could do now. They had one chance and now it seemed even that was gone.

Sam grabbed the phone back and read the two texts. Amelia’s first.

“Well, looks like they found Boisfranc. They must think Godin is you,” he said to Fleming.

Then Sam’s face grew hard, his eyes narrowed, as he read the next text. From Gamache.

“What is it?” said Fiona.

Sam turned the phone around and showed the message to Fleming. It was—it should have been—the distraction Armand needed, but Sam was blocking his view of Reine-Marie. He couldn’t see the knife. Couldn’t see, or get to, Fleming.

He had to let it pass. Time and patience. He was running out of both.

When Sam stepped aside, Armand saw Fleming’s eyes drilled into him. “Seems, Armand, you were slightly smarter than I thought. You figured it out.”