by Louise Penny
“Awkward, for someone who doesn’t believe in God.”
“I think maybe he believes, but is just angry. Giving Him the silent treatment.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t get to meet Him soon. I don’t envy le bon Dieu.”
Armand smiled at that and imagined Stephen, whole and strong, standing at the Gates.
But which Gates?
“Hell is empty,” he murmured.
“Pardon?” asked Claude.
“Just something Stephen likes to say. Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.”
“Charming. But this’s Paris, Armand. The City of Light. No devils here.”
Gamache turned an astonished face to his friend. “You’re joking, of course.” He examined Dussault. “The Terror was partly inspired by the Age of Enlightenment. How many Protestants massacred, how many men and women guillotined, how many Jews hunted and killed? How many innocents murdered by terrorists here in the City of Light would agree with you? There’re devils here. You of all people know that.”
Dussault had forgotten that his friend was a student of history. And, therefore, of human nature.
“You’re right, of course. Monsieur Horowitz has no family of his own?” Claude asked, bringing the topic back to the man fighting for his life just meters away. “Siblings?”
“Not that I know of. Stephen’s family lived in Dresden.”
No more needed to be said about that.
“A wife? Children?”
Armand shook his head. “Just me.”
“I have agents going over the CCTV cameras in the area. Since we know the time of the attack, we’ll be able to find the van as it turned onto rue de Rivoli.”
“And where Stephen was hit?”
Claude shook his head. “We can’t put cameras on every block in Paris, so no, none on the small side street. But shopkeepers might have their own. They’ll be canvassed as soon as stores open. But there’s something I can’t immediately get my head around.”
“Was Stephen the target, or was it random?”
“Yes. If this was an attempt on Monsieur Horowitz specifically, how did the driver know it was him?”
“And if it was random, a terrorist attack like the others using vehicles, why didn’t the driver try to hit more people?” said Gamache. “Us. We were as vulnerable as Stephen.”
“Yes. We’re categorizing this as a hit-and-run, but”—he put up his hand to stop any protest—“treating it as attempted murder.”
Claude Dussault looked at his friend. And spoke the words Armand Gamache needed to hear: “I believe you.”
Both men looked over as a doctor stepped through the swinging doors.
CHAPTER 6
The moment she heard the creak of the front door, Reine-Marie was instantly awake and out of bed.
“Armand?”
“Oui,” he said, whispering, though without knowing why.
Reine-Marie switched on the hall light.
“Stephen?” she asked as she embraced him.
“Still alive.”
“Oh, thank God.” Though even as she spoke, she wondered if thanks were really owing. “How is he?”
“Critical. He’s in recovery. They wouldn’t let me see him.”
“How are you?”
She looked into his haggard face and saw his eyes well. She grabbed him to her again, and they held on to each other.
Weeping for Stephen.
For themselves.
For a world where this could happen as they strolled happily along a familiar street.
They stepped apart and wiped their faces and blew their noses, then Armand followed her into the kitchen.
All the way home in the taxi, all he’d wanted to do was hug Reine-Marie, have a hot shower, and crawl into bed. But now he just sat at the kitchen table, staring ahead.
Reine-Marie put the battered kettle on the gas ring and brought out the teapot.
The kitchen was old-fashioned. They’d discussed updating it, but somehow it never got done. Probably because neither really wanted to change it. It was the same as when Armand’s grandmother Zora was alive and had bustled around it, chatting away in her strange mix of Yiddish and German and French.
She’d learned Yiddish and French growing up in Paris. And German in the camps.
She’d left the apartment to him in her will, along with all she possessed. Which mostly amounted to her love, which was plentiful, and which he carried with him always.
“Nein. Opshtel,” Armand could almost hear her say. “Stop. Tea always better when wasser isn’t quite bouillant. You should know by now,” she’d chastise him.
“Don’t plotz,” he’d invariably reply, which amused her greatly.
His grandmother was long dead, and now he watched Reine-Marie, brushing gray hair from her eyes, move about the kitchen. She brought the teapot over, nicely steeped, with a jug of milk from the cranky old fridge.
“Merci,” he said, stirring in sugar. “They say he probably has brain damage, but at least there’s activity there.”
Reine-Marie sipped her tea. She knew Armand was thinking the same thing, but couldn’t yet say it.
When they finished their tea, Armand had a hot shower, turning his face into the water. Tasting the salt from his face.
Crawling into bed beside Reine-Marie, he fell immediately into a deep sleep.
Three hours later he woke up, with light streaming through the lace curtains. In the first flush of consciousness he felt completely at peace. Here in this familiar apartment. Surrounded by familiar scents that evoked such a deep contentment.
But a second later he remembered and immediately reached for his phone, checking for messages.
There was none from the hospital.
Reine-Marie was already up. She’d been out to the shops along rue Rambuteau, and brought back fresh croissants from their favorite patisserie, Pain de Sucre.
He followed the scent of strong, rich coffee into the kitchen and saw cheese and raspberries and ripe pears on the table. Along with the croissants. And a pain aux raisins, bought with Stephen the day before.
“Up already?” she asked. “How did you sleep?”
“Well. Very well,” he said, kissing her. “Not long, but deeply.”
“Nothing more from the hospital?”
“Non. How are you?”
“I think I’m still in shock. I can barely believe it even happened.”
He hugged her, then went off and showered again and shaved. As he dressed, he saw his clothing from the night before, tossed onto the chair. Even from across the room, he could see the blood.
He checked again for messages, scanning for the one he dreaded. But it wasn’t there. Surely the hospital would have gotten in touch if …
Over breakfast he called Daniel, then Annie. He’d texted them the night before with an update, but wanted to find out how they were.
Jean-Guy got on the phone. “Any word from the cops?”
“Non. I’m just about to call.”
“Are they treating this as attempted murder?”
“Yes.”
Jean-Guy heaved a sigh. “Thank God for that. What can I do?”
“You talked to Stephen last night, more than I did. Did he say anything at all that might be important? Anything he was working on, or worried about?”
“Annie and I have been going over our conversation with him. There was nothing.”
In the background Armand heard Annie call, “The phone, tell him about the phone.”
“Oui. He did keep checking his phone, like he was expecting a call or message.”
“Huh,” said Armand. Stephen normally despised it when people brought out their phones over a meal, never mind actually used them.
“How did he seem to you?” Armand asked.
“The usual. In a good mood.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Nothing really. Well—” Jean-Guy gave a small laugh. “I mentioned a project at work, and he seemed inter
ested, but then accused me of wasting his time.”
Armand took that in. He’d also been going over their conversation at the Musée Rodin. And while Stephen had seemed his old self, there was that strange moment. When talking about the devils.
“Not here, here,” he’d said. Leading Armand to think Stephen knew where they were.
He wished now he’d pressed more, but it had seemed so innocuous.
And then there was Stephen’s comment. That he wasn’t afraid to die.
Armand hoped that was true, but now he also saw something else in it. Not that his godfather was prescient, but that Stephen actually knew something.
“If this was deliberate,” Jean-Guy asked, “who would do it?”
“Stephen made a lot of people angry,” said Armand.
“You think this was revenge?”
“Or a preemptive strike. Hitting him before he hit them.”
“Mrs. McGillicuddy would know if Stephen was planning something,” said Jean-Guy.
Damn, thought Armand. Mrs. McGillicuddy. I should have called her last night.
She was Stephen’s longtime secretary and assistant.
He looked at his watch. It was six hours earlier in Montréal. Which made it one a.m. Let the elderly woman have a few more hours of peace, he thought, before the anvil dropped. Besides, he’d have more news on Stephen’s condition by then.
After saying goodbye to Beauvoir, he called Claude Dussault.
“We have the CCTV images,” said the Prefect. “The van was a delivery truck reported stolen earlier in the evening. We have it turning onto rue de Rivoli right after Monsieur Horowitz was hit. From there it crossed Pont de la Concorde, to the Left Bank, and headed southeast. But the van disappeared into back streets. We’ll find the vehicle. I have no doubt. How much it’ll tell us is another matter. Any more word on Monsieur Horowitz’s condition?”
“Not since last night. We’re heading over there now.”
“Armand…” The Prefect hesitated. “After some sleep and time to reflect, do you still think it was a deliberate attempt on Monsieur Horowitz’s life?”
“Yes.”
It was a clear answer, and the one Dussault had expected. But Gamache’s insistence and his involvement were both unsettling and problematic.
“It must be revenge,” said Dussault. “How many companies and individuals did he ruin in his career?”
“They ruined themselves. He just caught them. He was one of the first to figure out what Madoff was doing and alert the SEC.”
“And Enron, I think.”
“Yes. Ken Lay had been a personal friend. But that didn’t stop Stephen from testifying against him. Believe me, it gave Stephen no pleasure, but he did it.”
“A sort of avenging angel. Is there anyone he was targeting now?”
“Not that I know of. I think he was mostly retired.”
Dussault sighed. “Okay. Do you know what brought him to Paris?”
“He said he was here mostly for the birth of Annie’s baby, but he mentioned he had some business early in the week. In fact, he was meeting someone for drinks before dinner.”
“But you don’t know who?”
“No, he didn’t say. Do you know if his phone was found?”
“I haven’t seen mention of it. It’s probably at the hospital with his personal effects.”
“I’ll look for it when we get there.”
“I’ll put a guard on Monsieur Horowitz’s room,” said the Prefect. “When you finish at the hospital, come by the 36. I’ll be here all day.”
“The 36” was the nickname for 36, quai des Orfèvres. Where the Préfecture de Police traditionally had its headquarters.
Most of the services had been moved to a new building, but some units and some people stayed behind. Claude Dussault, the head of all the forces, maintained an office there. Mostly because he preferred the storied old building on île de la Cité to the modern one.
And also because he could.
* * *
“Taxi?” Armand asked as they left their apartment.
“I’d prefer to walk, if it’s all right with you.”
It was less than ten minutes to the hospital, along streets he’d explored with his grandmother after she bought the apartment with the restitution money.
“Those askhouls thought they could get rid of me,” she’d said, triumphantly, as she’d slapped down the money for the apartment. “Well, I’m back.”
Young Armand did not need a translation.
As they’d walked the quartier, Zora told him about her life in the Marais, when she was his age. She’d point out the synagogues, the parks, the old shops that used to be owned by friends of the family.
All said in her cheerful voice, which somehow made it better. And worse.
Now he and Reine-Marie left Le Marais, crossing the Pont d’Arcole and pausing to look at the restoration work being done on Notre-Dame.
How long it takes to build something, he thought, and how quickly it can all be destroyed.
A look. A harsh word. A moment of distraction. A spark.
At the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu they took the elevator to the critical care unit.
Armand identified himself, showing his ID, and said, “We’re here to see Stephen Horowitz.”
“The doctor has asked if she can speak with you first,” said the nurse.
“Of course.”
They were guided to a private meeting room. Within minutes a doctor appeared.
“Monsieur et Madame Gamache?”
She motioned them to sit.
“You’re Monsieur Horowitz’s next of kin?”
“I’m his godson. We were with him when it happened.”
“You’re named as next of kin on his Québec hospital card.”
“Which means you can tell us how he is.”
“Yes. And you can make medical decisions. There’s significant trauma. Honestly, a man his age should not have survived. He must be very strong.”
“Strong-willed, for sure,” said Reine-Marie, and the doctor smiled.
“He is that,” she agreed. “Unfortunately, if will to live was all it took, most of us would never die.” She looked at them for a moment. “We have him in a medically induced coma. He’s in no pain that we know of. We’re monitoring him closely. Since he’s survived the night, there is a chance he’ll go on.”
Armand noticed she didn’t say “recover.” She confirmed his suspicions a moment later.
“You must prepare yourself for a difficult decision.”
She looked into those thoughtful eyes. They were deep brown, and she could tell this was a man who’d had to make many difficult and painful decisions. Who’d known pain himself. That much was etched into his face, and not just by the deep scar at his temple.
She’d seen wounds like that before, when working emergency, and she knew what must have made it. She looked at him with more interest.
Yes, there was pain in that face. But now she saw other lines. This man also knew happiness.
And by the way he and his wife held hands, lightly, they knew love.
She was glad. They’d need it.
“Can we see him, please?”
“Yes, but only one of you, and briefly. We have some papers for you to sign, and there are his personal effects. Best to take them with you, for safekeeping.”
“I’ll get those,” said Reine-Marie as they stood up. “While you see Stephen.”
“There’s a gendarme outside Monsieur Horowitz’s door,” said the doctor. “I understand there’s some concern that this was no accident.”
“Yes.”
They left Reine-Marie to sort Stephen’s things, which arrived in a sealed cardboard box, while Armand was taken down the quiet hall, to a private room.
The gendarme, at a word from the doctor, let him pass.
* * *
Opening the box, Reine-Marie shoved aside the bloodstained clothing, cut off by the emergency room medics, then opened the sealed
plastic bag. Stephen’s iPhone was there. Smashed.
She tried it. It was dead.
There was loose change, and mints, and a handkerchief. His wallet had 305 euros, and credit cards.
She was about to close the bag when she remembered the things she’d picked up from the street the night before. Reaching into her handbag, Reine-Marie placed Stephen’s broken glasses and keys into the bag.
Then, pausing, she took a closer look at the keys.
Last night, in the dark and panic, they hadn’t struck her as odd. Now, in daylight and relative calm, they did.
In fact, far more than just odd.
CHAPTER 7
“I’m sorry, Madame. I can’t let you in.”
Reine-Marie stared at the young man guarding Stephen’s room.
“Please.” She gave him her most matronly smile. “I just need to speak with my husband.”
These are not the droids you’re looking for, she thought and almost shook her head. Jean-Guy had clearly rubbed off on her.
The young flic examined the woman standing in front of him. Her tone said, I’m your mother’ s age and harmless.
But her eyes were far too intelligent to fool the agent. Besides, his mother had much the same eyes, and she was a judge on the French assize court.
She’d taught him never to underestimate anyone, especially a smart woman.
He smiled back and made a decision, recognizing that sometimes common sense needed to prevail. He’d also learned that from his mother.
For common sense, he opened the door. For his training, he went in with her.
Reine-Marie paused. Unable, for a moment, to go beyond the threshold.
Stephen was breathing with the aid of a machine. There were monitors and drips. His body seemed to be wrapped from head to toe in bandages, including over his eyes.
How could this man still be alive, she thought.
But it also brought flooding back, catching her up and tumbling her around, memories of seeing Armand in much the same condition.
She took a sharp breath in and recovered herself.
Armand sat beside the bed, his reading glasses on. With one hand he held Stephen’s hand. In the other he held a copy of that morning’s Le Figaro.
