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“Dad?” said Daniel, staring as his father groaned and stirred, his eyes fluttering open as he struggled for consciousness.

Loiselle swung his rifle over to the empty sofa and fired.

Armand opened his eyes wide. “Daniel? Oh, God, Daniel.” He grabbed his son to him, and held him tight. Then, releasing him, he ran his hands over Daniel’s head and chest. “Are you all right?”

“Are you?” He placed his open palm on his father’s bloody chest. His eyes wide with shock.

“Oh, thank God,” Armand whispered. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what? I don’t understand. You’re not hurt? Neither of you?”

He looked at Claude Dussault, who’d gone to the guard on the floor and was checking for a pulse. He found none.

“Hurt is relative,” said the Prefect as he kicked the guard’s rifle away. “We’re not dead. You okay?” he said to Gamache, who was now kneeling.

“Not dead,” he said, though his voice was strained.

“I thought—” Loiselle began, clearly as confused as Daniel. He looked from Dussault to Gamache. “How?”

Daniel doubled over and threw up.

Armand rubbed Daniel’s back, murmuring, “We’re safe. It’s over. We’re safe.”

“I thought you were dead. I thought I was about to die.” Daniel sobbed, coughing and spitting.

“Shhhh,” said his father. Not to stop his tears, but to comfort him.

“How?” Loiselle repeated, staring at the great red stains on Dussault’s chest, then over to the stains on Gamache’s chest, head, and back. “Dye?”

“No.” Dussault shoved up his sleeve and showed the puncture where his blood had been taken. “Girard would know fake blood. I loaded his gun with cartridges filled with real blood.”

“Girard’s gun?” Loiselle asked.

“No, his.” Dussault pointed to Armand, who had struggled to his feet and was bending over in pain. “I left it in your apartment, hoping you’d find it, Armand, and have it with you. When you didn’t—”

“When I first met you last night? No,” he said, straightening up. “It took me a while to work out what you were doing. Whose side you were on. Did you know about the attacks on Stephen and Monsieur Plessner?”

“Oui. But I couldn’t stop them.” The two men, who’d both had to make horrific choices in their lives, stared at each other. “I’m sorry, Armand.”

“You could see why I’d doubt,” said Armand.

“When did you know what I was really doing?” Dussault asked. “When I found the coins in the fountain, I began to suspect you threw them there to get them away from Daniel and to keep them safe, as evidence. I couldn’t think of any other reason for you to not only do it, but do it in front of me. So I’d see. But it wasn’t really until you started reading the file that I was certain.”

“As late as that?” asked Dussault.

“Oui. There was almost no evidence in there. I’d taken most of it out and hidden it in the Musée. When you didn’t say anything, I knew. All the way over here I’d tried to figure out how this could possibly work. The only way I could see was if Girard frisked me and took the gun. Then used it to shoot me and Daniel. When he didn’t, I had to improvise.”

“By shooting me,” said Dussault.

“By pretending to, yes.”

“How did you know he was on our side?” asked Daniel, looking at Loiselle.

“When he hit me in the stomach, he’d obviously pulled the punch. I was pretty sure then. And even this”—he touched the side of his head—“was glancing, designed to draw blood but nothing more. But by then I knew.”

“How?” asked Loiselle.

“At the archives, when I was running to the street, you were shooting and missing. Believe me, no special-forces-trained commando would miss. I take it Arbour, Lenoir, and de la Granger are safe?”