Glass Houses--A Novel

by Louise Penny

  Surely there was something that could be done. The situation couldn’t possibly be hopeless.

  He only stopped when he’d met himself again. The Armand who’d been standing on the side of the quiet road, in the middle of nowhere, waiting. At the intersection of truth and wishful thinking.

  Where the straight road splayed.

  And he knew then. They were all going down. Not just the Sûreté, but the entire province. And not necessarily his generation. But the next. And the next. His grandchildren.

  He was up to his neck in crime. They’d be over their heads.

  And he knew something else. Something he wished he didn’t know, but could not now deny.

  There was nothing that could be done. They’d reached and passed the point of no return. Without even a lifeboat in sight. The corruption of decades within government and police forces had seen to that.

  “So what do we do?” asked one of the older officers in the meeting. “Give up?”

  “Non. I don’t have a solution. Not yet. So we bear down, do our jobs, communicate. Gather information and share it.”

  He looked at each of them, sternly.

  “And we try to come up with creative solutions. Come to me with anything, everything. No matter how crazy it sounds.”

  What he felt in that room, as he left, wasn’t despair, not quite yet. Not yet panic, but panic adjacent.

  *

  And now, many months later, they sat in the same conference room.

  All had looked so bleak back then. Now they were close, so close to their first major victory.

  But it depended on this trial. The outcome, but also the path of it.

  Perversely, when things had been at their worst, everything had appeared just fine. Québec, the Sûreté, functioning as it should.

  Now that there was a glimmer of hope, things appeared to be spinning out of control.

  Senior politicians and some media outlets had lately noticed what appeared to be a certain sleight of hand on the part of the head of the Sûreté.

  Arrests were up. And for a while that had caused outright celebration on the part of politicians and their electorate.

  Until the Radio-Canada television show, Enquête, had investigated and discovered that the arrests were mostly for small to medium-size crimes.

  “Explain this,” the Premier Ministre du Québec had demanded, having called Chief Superintendent Gamache into his office in Québec City the day after the program aired.

  The Premier had slapped a thick file onto his desk. Even from across the room, Gamache could see what it was.

  The printout of the latest monthly report on Sûreté activities.

  “I’ve checked. Fucking Enquête is right, Armand. Yes, arrests are up, and thank God you’re still managing to arrest murderers, but what about the rest? There hasn’t been a significant arrest in other divisions since you took over. No biker gang member, no organized crime figure. No drug arrests or even seizures. Minor trafficking, but nothing more. What the hell are you doing over there?”

  “You of all people should know that statistics,” Gamache nodded toward the file, “don’t tell the whole story.”

  “Are you saying all this,” the Premier put his hand on the file, “is a lie?”

  “Non, not a lie. But not the complete truth.”

  “Are you running for office? What sort of gibberish is that? I’ve never heard you so evasive.”

  He glared at Gamache, who stared back. But said nothing more.

  “What are you up to, Armand? Dear God, don’t tell me Enquête was right.”

  In the TV program they’d intimated, but never crossed the line of actual slander, that Gamache was either incompetent or, like his predecessors, in the employ of organized crime.

  “No,” said Gamache. “I can see how they might come to that conclusion, or have that suspicion. But Enquête was not right.”

  “Then what is? I’m begging you for an answer. Give me something. Anything. Other than this pile of shit.” He shoved the papers across his desk with such force they cascaded over the edge. “You’re deliberately putting up this mist of arrests that looks good, until someone realizes they’re minor. Until fucking Enquête realized that.”

  “We are arresting murderers.”

  “Well, congratulations on that,” said the Premier.

  They’d known each other a long time. Since Gamache had been a junior agent and the Premier was articling in the legal aid office.

  “They’re calling you the worst Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté in a very long time. And that’s some bar to squeeze under.”

  “It certainly is,” said Gamache. “But believe me, I am doing something. I really am.”

  The Premier had held his gaze, searching for the lie.

  Then Gamache bent down and picked the report off the floor. He handed it back to the Premier, who held the pile, which was heavy on statistics, and light on actual action.

  “My own party is circling, smelling blood,” said the Premier. “Yours or mine. They don’t really care. But they want action, or a sacrifice. You have to do something, Armand. Give them what they want. What they deserve. A significant arrest.”

  “I am doing something.”

  “This”—the Premier laid his hand, with surprising gentleness, on top of the retrieved pages—“is not ‘something.’ Not even close. Please. I’m begging you.”

  “And I’m begging you. Trust me,” said Armand quietly. “You have to get me across the finish line.”

  “What does that mean?” the Premier had asked, also whispering.

  “You know.”

  And the Premier, who loved Québec but also loved power, blanched. Knowing he might have to give up one to preserve the other.

  Armand Gamache looked at the good man in front of him and wondered which of them would survive the next few months. Weeks. Days. When the St.-Jean-Baptiste fireworks went off at the end of June, which of them would be standing there to see the skies lit up?

  Which of them would still be standing?

  Chief Superintendent Gamache had taken the train back to Montréal, walking from the station through the old city, to his office. A few heads turned as he passed, recognizing him from the unfortunately popular TV show that had aired the night before.

  Or maybe they knew him from past appearances in the media.

  Even before he was the most senior officer in the Sûreté, Armand Gamache had been the most recognizable police officer in Québec.

  But what had once been glances of recognition and even respect were now tinged, tainted, with suspicion. Even amusement. He was on the verge of becoming a joke.

  But Armand Gamache could see beyond those looks, to the finish line.

  *

  That had been mid-June. A month earlier, almost to the day. Now Gamache glanced at the clock and stood.

  “Time to get back to court.”

  “How’s it going, patron?” asked Madeleine Toussaint, the head of Serious Crimes.

  “As expected.”

  “That bad?”

  Gamache smiled. “That good.”

  They locked eyes, and then she nodded.

  “You have that report coming in from an informant on the Magdalen Islands,” he said. Trying not to sound too hopeful. Or was the word “desperate”?

  She’d mentioned this in the meeting. There’d been interest, but nothing unusual. Only a handful of them understood just what that report might mean.

  “Will you hear in time for the meeting at the end of the day?” Beauvoir asked.

  “I hope. It all sorta depends on what happens at the trial, doesn’t it?” said Toussaint.

  Gamache nodded. Yes. It did.

  After Superintendent Toussaint returned to her office, Beauvoir and Chief Inspector Lacoste remained with Gamache.

  “Speaking of the trial,” said Lacoste, gathering up her papers, “I’m not sure I’ve seen a prosecutor go after his own witness in such a way. And the judge sure hasn’t. Sh
e’s new to the bench, but not to be underestimated.”

  “Non,” said Gamache, who’d noticed the sharp look in Judge Corriveau’s eye.

  They walked the length of the corridor and the elevator arrived. Lacoste got off at her floor.

  “Good luck,” she said to Gamache.

  “Good luck to you,” he said.

  “Almost there, patron,” said Isabelle, as the doors closed.

  Almost there, thought Gamache. But he knew that most accidents occurred within sight of home.

  *

  “Chief Superintendent Gamache, you testified this morning that the figure on the village green in Three Pines returned the next day. How did that make you feel?”

  “Objection. Irrelevant.”

  Judge Corriveau considered. “I’m going to allow it. The trial is about facts, but feelings are also a fact.”

  Chief Superintendent Gamache thought before he answered.

  “I felt angry, that the peace of our little village was being violated. Our lives disrupted.”

  “And yet, he was just standing there.”

  “True. You asked how I felt, and that’s the answer.”

  “Were you afraid of him?”

  “Maybe a little. Our myths are so deeply ingrained. He looked like Death. Rationally I knew he wasn’t that, but inside, I could feel the chill. It was”—he searched for the word—“instinctive.”

  “And still, you did nothing.”

  “As I told you before the break, there was nothing that I could do, beyond speaking with him. If I could have done something more, I would have.”

  “Really? Judging by the Sûreté track record of late, that’s not exactly true.”

  That brought outright laughter from the courtroom.

  “Enough,” said Judge Corriveau. “Approach the bench.”

  The Chief Crown did.

  “You will not treat anyone like that in my courtroom, do you understand? That was a disgrace—to you, to your office, and to this court. You will apologize to the Chief Superintendent.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the Crown, then turned to Gamache. “I apologize. I let my astonishment get the better of me.”

  The judge gave a small sigh of annoyance but let it stand.

  “Merci. I accept your apology,” said Gamache.

  But still, Gamache glared at the Crown attorney with such focus, the man took a step back. Neither the jury nor the audience could fail to see both the look and the reaction.

  In the gallery, Beauvoir nodded approval.

  “So you did speak to him again, that next morning?” asked Zalmanowitz. “What did you say?”

  “I told him again to be careful.”

  “Clearly not of you,” said the Crown.

  “No. Of whoever he’d targeted.”

  “So you no longer thought it was a joke?”

  “If it had been, I don’t think he’d have returned. He’d spooked the village with his first appearance. That would have been enough, had it been a joke, or even vindictive. No, this went deeper. There was commitment. There was a purpose.”

  “Did you think he meant to do harm?” asked the Crown.

  That was a more difficult question, and Chief Superintendent Gamache considered it. And slowly shook his head.

  “I didn’t really know what he intended. Harm of some sort, it seemed. He was intentionally threatening. But did he have an act of violence in mind? If he did, why warn the person? Why wear that getup? Why not just do it, under cover of darkness? Hurt, even kill the person? Why just stand there for everyone to see?”

  Gamache stared ahead of him, deep in thought.

  The Crown seemed at a loss. So unusual was it for someone to actually think on the witness stand. They answered clear questions by telling the rehearsed truth, or a preplanned lie.

  But they rarely actually thought.

  “Of course, there are different ways of hurting, aren’t there?” said Gamache, as much to himself as the Crown.

  “But whatever the original intention,” said Monsieur Zalmanowitz, “it led to murder.”

  Now Gamache did focus, but not on the prosecution. He turned to the defense desk, and looked at the person accused of that murder.

  “Yes, it did.”

  Maybe, he thought, but didn’t say, it wasn’t enough to just kill. Maybe the point was to first terrify. Like the Scots and their shrieking bagpipes as they marched into battle, or the Maori and their haka.

  It is death. It is death, they chant. To terrify, to petrify.

  The dark thing wasn’t a warning, it was a prediction.

  “You took a picture of him, I believe,” said the Crown, stepping in front of his witness, placing himself between Gamache and the defendant. Intentionally breaking that contact.

  “Yes,” said Gamache, refocusing on the prosecution. “I sent it off to my second-in-command. Inspector Beauvoir.”

  The Crown turned to the clerk.

  “Exhibit A.”

  An image appeared on the large screen.

  If the Crown was expecting gasps behind him as those in the courtroom saw the photograph, he was disappointed.

  Behind him there was complete and utter silence, as though the entire gallery had disappeared. So profound was the silence, he turned around to make sure they were indeed still there.

  To a person they were staring, dumbfounded. Some openmouthed.

  There on the screen was a quiet little village. The leaves were off the trees, leaving them skeletal. Three huge pines rose from the village green.

  In contrast to the bright, sunny summer day beyond the courtroom window, the day in this photo was overcast. Gray and damp. Which made the fieldstone and clapboard and rose brick homes, with their cheery lights at the windows, all the more inviting.

  It would have been an image of extreme peace. Sanctuary even. Would have been, but wasn’t.

  In the center of the photo there was a black hole. Like something cut out of the picture. Out of the world.

  Behind the Crown attorney there was a sigh. Long, prolonged, as life drained from the courtroom.

  It was the first look most of them had had of the dark thing.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Now?” asked Matheo Bissonette, turning from the window to look at Lea. They’d finished breakfast at the B&B and now sat in the living room in front of the fireplace.

  Despite the fire in the grate, and the sweater he wore, he still felt chilled.

  “He just took a photo of the thing,” said Matheo. “If we wait much longer, it looks bad.”

  “Bad?” said Lea. “Don’t you mean worse?”

  “We should’ve said something yesterday,” said Patrick. His voice, slightly whiny at the best of times, was now almost infantile. “They’ll wonder why we didn’t.”

  “Okay,” said Matheo, trying not to snap at Patrick. “Then we’re agreed. Now’s the time.”

  It wasn’t what Patrick said that was so annoying, it was how he said it. He’d always been the weakest of them, and yet, somehow, Patrick always got his way. Maybe they just wanted the whining to stop, thought Matheo. It was like nails on a blackboard. So they gave in to him.

  And, with age, it was getting worse. Matheo now felt like not just yelling at the guy, but also giving him a swift kick in the pants.

  Gabri had brought in a fresh French press of coffee and asked, “Where’s Katie?”

  “There’s a glass house nearby,” said Patrick. “Not a classic one, like we make, but interesting. She wants to see it. Might work for the one we’re building on the Magdalen Islands.”

  Gabri, who’d asked just to be polite, drifted, uninterested, back to the kitchen.

  Matheo looked from his wife, Lea, to his friend Patrick. They were both exactly his age, thirty-three, but they appeared older, surely, than he did. The lines. The hint of gray. Had they always looked like that, or just since the robes and mask had appeared?

  Lea, tall, willowy, when they’d met at university, was less willowy. She was
now more like a maple. Rounded. Solid. He liked that. Felt more substantial. Less likely to weep.

  They had two children, both at home with Lea’s parents. He knew that when they returned, it would be like walking into a ferret’s den. The kids, under the questionable influence of Lea’s mother, would have gone feral.

  To be fair, it didn’t take much.

  “Gamache’s in the bistro with his wife. Everyone’ll hear,” said Patrick. “Maybe we should wait.”

  “But everyone should hear,” said Lea, getting up. “Right? Isn’t that the point?”

  The friends weren’t looking at each other as they spoke. Or even at the mesmerizing fire in the grate. All three stared out the window of the B&B. At the village green. Deserted. Except for …

  “Why don’t you stay here?” she said to Patrick. “We’ll go.”

  Patrick nodded. He’d caught a chill yesterday, and his bones still felt it. He pulled his chair closer to the fire and poured a strong, hot coffee.

  *

  Armand Gamache wasn’t looking at the mesmerizing fire in the large open hearth of the bistro. He was staring out the leaded-glass window, with its flaws and slight distortions. At the cold November day and the thing on the village green.

  It was as though a bell jar, like those put around dead and stuffed animals, had been placed over it. The robed figure stood completely alone, isolated, while around him the villagers went about their lives. Their movements circumscribed, dictated by the dark thing.

  The villagers were pushed to the edge. Edgy. Glancing toward it and away.

  Gamache shifted his gaze and saw Lea Roux and her husband, Matheo Bissonette, leaving the B&B, walking quickly through the chilly morning. Their breaths coming in puffs.

  They arrived with a small commotion, rubbing their hands and arms. They hadn’t brought the right clothing, not expecting weather that was cold even for November.

  “Bonjour,” said Lea, walking up to the Gamaches’ table.

  Armand rose while Reine-Marie nodded and smiled.

  “Mind if we join you?” asked Matheo.

  “Please do.” Reine-Marie indicated the empty chairs.

  “Actually,” said Lea, a little embarrassed, “I wonder if Myrna would mind if we talked in the bookstore? Would that be okay?”