A Great Reckoning

by Louise Penny

  “No. Never. I used yours because I knew you were beyond suspicion.”

  “And yet I was, I am, suspected.”

  For the first time, Brébeuf looked baffled. “Yes. I could see that. The RCMP officer, Gélinas. Your own people wouldn’t, of course.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Gamache. “It’s a little humbling to realize the pedestal isn’t quite so high after all.”

  Brébeuf chuckled. “Welcome to earth, Armand. It’s a little dirty down here.”

  “And the map, Michel? The one in Leduc’s drawer? It also had my prints, and showed my village. You placed it there, didn’t you? More herding.”

  “But not toward you.”

  Gamache studied Brébeuf, searching the nooks, the crannies, the crevices of his face. The geography and history created by time and worry and loneliness. By too much drink and not enough peace.

  And there, finally, he found the truth.

  “You said that the first night here you made two discoveries. One was the game of Russian roulette. What was the other?”

  Brébeuf stared back at Armand. Studying the roads radiating from his eyes and mouth. Some made by stress and sorrow, but most created by laughter. By contentment. By sitting beside a fireplace, watching his family and friends, and smiling.

  That could have been his face. Had he turned left instead of right. Had he stepped forward instead of stepping aside. Had he locked the gate, instead of opening it.

  Michel Brébeuf had long hated Armand. But he had loved him even longer.

  “I think you know what it was,” said Michel.

  “Tell me.”

  “Amelia Choquet.”

  And there it was. There she was.

  “When Leduc was talking about the pathetic new crop of cadets, he mentioned her specifically. The name was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. But when Leduc told me that he’d rejected her application, and that you’d reversed the decision and accepted her, it fell into place. I knew who she was and I knew why she was here.”

  “Why?”

  “Service. Integrity. Justice. You were handed the means, finally, for justice.”

  “You think I meant to hurt her?”

  “Didn’t you? Why else bring her here? Why else admit a girl so clearly unsuited to police work?”

  “Unsuited? Why? Because she’s different? Non, Michel. The purpose wasn’t revenge or even justice. It wasn’t to hurt her. It was to save her.”

  Michel Brébeuf stared. Blank. Uncomprehending.

  “And to save myself,” admitted Armand. “The only way I could really be free wasn’t to add hurt to hurt, but to do something decent. I won’t say it was easy. You have no idea how many times I returned her dossier to the rejected pile. Knowing what it would mean for her. A life of despair. And finally Amelia Choquet would be found in an alley or gutter or rooming house. Dead.”

  Armand looked down at his hands, at the tiny scar on the one finger.

  “You did it to save her?” asked Michel, dumbfounded. “Her?”

  “Oui. And you know what, Michel? She’s the brightest, the most remarkable young woman. She’ll be running the Sûreté one day.”

  And still Michel stared.

  Gamache leaned in. “You put her partial prints on the gun, knowing she’d be suspected. You stole her copy of the map and placed it in Leduc’s bedside table. And that was the other reason I knew it was you. The scene was so beautifully set. Everything subtle, suggestive. No glaring finger pointing her way. Just tiny crumbs through a forest of evidence. Leading to Amelia Choquet. With me as a temporary way station. But they’d have gotten to her eventually.”

  Michel Brébeuf moved his hand to the gun, slowly closing it around the grip.

  “And that was your plan. You wanted her charged and found guilty of the murder of Serge Leduc.”

  “I did it so that you didn’t have to.”

  He stood up and raised the gun.

  Armand got to his feet and held out his hand.

  “The gun, please, Michel.”

  Brébeuf stepped back and, tightening his grip on the weapon, he put it to his temple.

  “Non,” said Gamache, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, trying to bring reason into a situation that was spinning out of control.

  The look on Michel’s face was the same one he’d had when Armand had pressed the handkerchief to his bleeding knee. Such pain.

  And once again, Armand was desperate to stanch the wound.

  His hand, still held out, had begun to tremble, and he forced himself to steady it. “Do you remember at my parents’ funeral, the gathering in my home after? With the finger food and the silence. All the adults moving about like zombies. Avoiding me because they had nothing to say.” He spoke quickly, urgently, trying to form a bridge with his words, to bring Michel back. “I just sat there. You came over and sat beside me, and then you whispered so that no one else heard. Do you remember what you said?”

  The gun lowered just a little.

  “You’re a dirty rascal,” Michel whispered.

  Armand nodded. “You made me smile. I didn’t think I’d ever do that again, but you showed me I could. You gave me hope that it would get better.”

  The gun lowered a little more.

  “It seems hopeless now, I know,” said Armand. “It feels like there’s no way out. I understand. You know I do.”

  Michel nodded.

  “But it will get better. Even this. I promise.”

  “I followed you home, you know, one night,” said Michel. “To your village.”

  “That was you?”

  “I wanted to see where you lived.” He paused. “It was so peaceful. I sat in the car and longed to drive down and join you. To maybe buy a little cottage and have drinks every evening in that brasserie. Maybe join a book club.”

  This was the worst ghost story yet. The phantom life that might have been.

  “I’ll die in prison. You know that. Of old age. Or someone, one night, will beat me to death. Someone who knows who I used to be. How is it better to die there than here?”

  The gun was raised again, and now Armand brought up both hands. Not reaching for the gun, but for the man, just out of reach.

  “Give me your hand,” he pleaded. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. Come with me. Please, Michel.”

  Michel dropped his eyes to the outstretched hands, then raised his gaze to Armand’s eyes as he pressed the gun to his temple.

  “For God’s sake,” Armand whispered. “Don’t. I’m begging you. Please.” He searched his mind for something, anything, to say. To stop this. “Would you condemn me to seeing this for the rest of my life?”

  “Then turn your back, Armand.”

  * * *

  At the sound of the shot, Jean-Guy Beauvoir leapt up.

  He and Jacques had gone to Commander Gamache’s rooms, where Jacques splashed water on his face while Beauvoir secured the gun and poured them each a Coke. They’d just sat down when the shot rang out.

  “Stay here.”

  Jean-Guy was out the door and into the corridor, where the sound was still reverberating. He skidded to a stop in front of Brébeuf’s rooms and yanked the door open.

  Armand Gamache stood in the middle of the little room. Specks of blood on his face. A figure crumpled at his feet. Gamache squeezed his eyes shut then. But it was too late.

  He had not turned his back on Michel.

  CHAPTER 43

  A wail filled the air, followed quickly by an expletive and a familiar voice. “Oh, for God’s sake. Does the crying ever stop?”

  “Probably just thirsty,” said Clara. “Sounds like you when you want a drink.”

  “Jeez.” Myrna turned around from the pew in front of them. “I thought that was Ruth.”

  There was another piercing wail.

  “Nope,” Myrna said. “Not loud enough.”

  Ruth cackled. “I could use a shot of Liebfraumilch.”

  Shhhh, said the rest of the congregat

ion.

  “Me?” said Ruth. “You’re telling me to shush? Tell that to the kid.”

  She thrust Rosa, her appendage, toward the altar.

  It was a warm morning in late spring, and Three Pines was gathered in St. Thomas’s Church.

  Armand stood at the front and looked out at the congregation.

  Daniel and Roslyn were there from Paris, with their daughters Florence and Zora.

  Jean-Guy’s family were elbowing each other in the front pew.

  And beyond them, friends, sitting and standing. At the very back stood the four cadets.

  Jacques, Huifen, Nathaniel, and Amelia.

  The graduation ceremony had been held at the academy the day before. It was more solemn than most, given the events of that term.

  The cadets had stood as one, somber, erect, silent, when Commander Gamache entered the auditorium and walked alone across the stage.

  He gripped the podium and stared out at them, in their dress blues. Those about to graduate and enter service, and those returning the following year.

  The uniforms were perfectly pressed, the creases sharp, the buttons polished, the young faces shiny and clean.

  He stared in silence, and they stared back. The specter of the tragedies filling the space between them. Filling the room. Darkening the past, dimming the present, and eclipsing their bright futures.

  And then he smiled.

  Armand Gamache’s face broke into a radiant smile.

  He smiled. And he smiled.

  First one, then a few, then they all smiled back. They beamed at each other, Commander and cadets. Until the darkness was banished. And finally he spoke.

  “Things are strongest where they’re broken,” said Commander Gamache, his voice deep and calm and certain. The words entered each of the cadets. And their families. And their friends. And filled the void.

  And then he talked about what had happened. The shattering events. And the healing.

  He ended his address by saying, “We are all of us marred and scarred and imperfect. We make mistakes. We do things we deeply regret. We are tempted and sometimes we give in to that temptation. Not because we’re bad or weak, but because we’re human. We are a crowd of faults. But know this.”

  He stood in complete silence for a moment, the huge auditorium motionless.

  “There is always a road back. If we have the courage to look for it, and take it. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I don’t know.” He paused again. “I need help. Those are the signposts. The cardinal directions.”

  And then he smiled again, the creases deep, his eyes bright.

  “You are extraordinary and I’m very proud of each and every one of you. It will be an honor to serve together.”

  There was a pause, and then the cheering began. Lusty, robust, joyful. They threw their caps in the air and hugged each other, while Armand Gamache stood at the podium. And smiled.

  Under each of their seats, the graduates found a package, wrapped in simple brown paper. In it were two books. Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations and Ruth Zardo’s I’m FINE. Gifts from the Commander and his wife.

  After the ceremony, cadets came up, eager to introduce Commander Gamache to their parents.

  Jean-Guy stood beside him, never leaving Gamache’s side, scanning the crowd. And finally, he spotted them. Working their way toward them.

  Beauvoir stepped forward, but a hand was laid on his arm.

  “Are you sure?” Jean-Guy asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  Though Gamache did not look certain. He was pale, but his cheeks were flushed, as though his very body was conflicted. Engaged in a not entirely civil war.

  The two men watched as Amelia Choquet wove through the crowd.

  “I can stop them,” whispered Jean-Guy urgently. “Just say the word.”

  But Gamache was silent, his eyes wide. Beauvoir could see the tremble in his right hand.

  “Commander Gamache,” said Amelia. “I’d like to introduce you to my father.”

  The man was slight and older than Gamache by about ten years.

  Monsieur Choquet studied him for just a moment, then held out his hand. “You turned my daughter’s life around. You brought her home to her family. Merci.”

  There was the briefest pause while Armand looked at the outstretched hand, then into the man’s eyes.

  “You are welcome, sir.”

  And Armand Gamache shook Monsieur Choquet’s hand.

  * * *

  Now it was Armand’s turn to stand beside Jean-Guy, as Annie and Reine-Marie stood on the other side of the baptismal font with the minister between them.

  The minister was Gabri, specially anointed for the occasion, by himself.

  He wore his choir robes, and in his arms he held Annie and Jean-Guy’s baby.

  “Oh, please,” Olivier was heard to pray. “Dear Lord, don’t let him lift the baby and sing ‘Circle of Life.’ Oh, please.”

  The baby howled in Gabri’s arms.

  “This is nothing,” Jean-Guy whispered to Armand. “You should hear him at night.”

  “I did. All night.”

  Jean-Guy smiled proudly.

  Gabri lifted the baby up as though offering him to the congregation. “Let us sing.”

  “Oh no,” whispered Olivier.

  And Gabri, in his rich tenor, began “Circle of Life,” joined immediately by the choir and the congregation, and then by Olivier, in robust, full voice.

  Jean-Guy looked at his son and felt, again, a surge of love that left him weak, and strong. He glanced at his father-in-law and saw that Armand had stopped singing and was staring, open-mouthed, straight ahead of him.

  “What is it?” whispered Jean-Guy, following his gaze to the back of the chapel. “The cadets?”

  Armand shook his head. “Non. I’ll tell you later.”

  “Who here stands for this child?” Gabri asked when the song was over. Olivier and Clara stood at their seats.

  “I don’t know why they didn’t ask me,” came a querulous voice.

  “Probably because you can’t stand,” said Myrna.

  “I can’t stand you,” muttered Ruth, and struggled to her feet.

  Myrna was about to tell her to sit down, but something about the elderly woman made her stop. Ruth was standing straight and tall. Her face forward. Resolute. Even Rosa looked as dignified as a duck possibly could.

  Then Myrna got up.

  Then Monsieur Béliveau, the grocer, rose to his feet. As did Sarah, the baker. As did Dominique and Marc and the Asshole Saint. As did Billy Williams and Gilles Sandon and Isabelle Lacoste and Adam Cohen and Yvette Nichol and the Brunels.

  Jacques and Huifen and Nathaniel and Amelia stepped forward.

  The entire congregation stood.

  Jean-Guy took his infant son in his arms and turned him to face the men and women and children who would be his godparents.

  And he whispered, “May you be a brave man in a brave country, Honoré.”

  * * *

  “What were you looking at?” Jean-Guy asked Armand, as they stood on the village green eating burgers off the huge grill Olivier had set up.

  A long table had been brought out, filled with salads and fresh rolls and cheeses. Across the green was another, longer table with all sorts of cakes, pies, pastries. Cookies and brownies and candies and children.

  Little Zora, in an excited tizzy, ran straight into her grandfather’s legs, knocking herself to the soft grass. And looked up at him, in amazement.

  He gave his plate to Jean-Guy and scooped her up, kissing her cheek, and the tears that were moments away turned to laughter, and she was off again.

  The bar had been set up on Ruth’s porch, where the old poet sat in a rocking chair, Rosa on her lap and her cane across the arms like a shotgun. The four cadets got their beers and were deep in conversation.

  “What’re you talking about?” Clara asked, pouring herself a gin and tonic.

  “Ruth says she wants a name for her cottage,” said Nathaniel. “She asked me to choose one.”

  “Really?” asked Myrna. “She asked you?”

  “Well, more told me to find one,” he admitted. “And told me not to fuck it up.”

  “So what’ve you come up with?” asked Clara.

  “We’ve narrowed it down,” said Huifen. “It’s between Rose Cottage”—she pointed to the sweetbriar roses around Ruth’s porch—“and Pit of Despair.”

  “I dare you,” said Clara, laughing, as she and Myrna crossed the dirt road and joined Reine-Marie and Annie, who was holding Honoré and chatting with Gabri.

  “A beautiful ceremony, mon beau,” Annie said, kissing his cheeks.

  “Merci. I was thrown a little when everyone stood up,” he admitted.

  “But you covered it nicely by breaking into ‘Hakuna Matata.’ The King James version, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Gabri leaned down and spoke to Honoré. “One must always have a song in the heart.”

  “And an éclair in the hand,” said Myrna, lifting hers.

  “Sage words,” said Annie.

  She looked across the village green and noticed her husband and her father walking back to the chapel.

  They followed and found the two men standing once again in front of the stained-glass boys.

  Reine-Marie slipped her hand into Armand’s, then pulled it away.

  “You’re all sticky.”

  “That was Zora,” he said.

  “Of course it was,” said Reine-Marie. “What’re you looking at?”

  Armand was staring at the window, but not at the one boy who always drew their attention. He was looking at one of the other young men.

  “He’s pointing at something,” said Armand.

  “Huh,” said Jean-Guy, leaning closer. “You’re right.”

  “But what?” asked Reine-Marie. “That, maybe?”

  She followed the direction of the finger and saw a bird in the sky above the battlefield.

  “Or maybe the tree,” said Annie. A single charred evergreen stood askew in the mud.

  “I noticed the gesture a while ago, but thought it must be just an artistic touch,” said Armand. “But when I was at the front of the church during the baptism, I realized what the soldier wanted us to see. He’s not pointing into his world. He’s pointing into ours.”

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