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But it had to be done.
Opening his eyes, Gamache caught sight of a chipmunk racing up a tree trunk. Was it running or fleeing? Hunter or prey? Was another death imminent?
What must it be like to run for your life through a forest, knowing your pursuer was getting closer, closer? It was the stuff of nightmares.
He looked away and saw Agent Beauvoir still watching him.
Making up his mind, Gamache called out, “Come with me, please.”
“Moi?” said Jean-Guy Beauvoir, touching his chest and looking around.
“Oui. Vous.”
The fact this superior officer had just used the formal, respectful “vous” surprised him.
“Well,” said Gamache, as Beauvoir got into the driver’s seat.
“Well, what?”
“Why is it clear Madame Arsenault wasn’t killed here?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
But Gamache just shook his head and looked out the window at the impenetrable forest, and Beauvoir settled into a silent huff. He was clearly being sent back to the basement.
He should have been so lucky.
CHAPTER 5
They’d taken their seats in the increasingly warm, increasingly stuffy auditorium.
Jean-Guy had arrived and was sitting, perspiring, on the other side of Reine-Marie. His knee bounced up and down. He might still get to the barbecue in time for a burger. Or two. If they started soon.
Though he knew his agitation had very little to do with the burgers. That was a distraction, a counterirritant, so he didn’t have to think about why they were there. And who else would be.
The hubbub slowly died down, then a stir could be heard as those at the back of the room got to their feet. Like a wave at a hockey game, though far more polite and contained, the audience rose row by row as the Chancellor and President of the Université de Montréal, as the professors and board of governors and honored guests, entered in procession.
They wore flowing black robes and caps, some of which were stiff and covered in silk, some velvety soft and floppy.
What would look ludicrous out on the street was impressive here.
The procession was solemn. Reflecting the importance of this day.
After they’d taken their places on the stage, the President nodded and the next procession began. This one was far different. Friends and family members, already on their feet, began applauding, unable to contain their excitement.
Some whistled, some shouted names. No doubt embarrassing, and secretly delighting, the young woman or man. Phones were held high, recording the event. To be shown later to friends and relatives who hoped the dinner was delicious enough to warrant having to watch.
The procession became a parade, a celebration, as graduates in their caps and gowns entered the hall in alphabetical order, to cheers from relieved and a few privately surprised parents.
Watching this, Jean-Guy, despite the dark stains under his armpits and the rumble in his stomach and his slight foreboding, could not contain a smile. One that grew as more young people arrived.
Their joy was infectious.
He thought of the day he and Annie would rise up and applaud as Honoré entered just such an auditorium. Idola never would, of course. But she had other gifts. Not everyone was cut out for academia.
He looked across Reine-Marie, to Armand. He actually looked like he might cry. Was that possible? He was certainly gripped with a strong emotion, probably never having dreamed this day would come.
Armand and Reine-Marie craned their necks to find her in the crowd. Fiona Arsenault.
