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At the door Gamache put on his gloves, then said to Colette, more gently now, “Paul Robinson was wrong. You know that.”

More revving.

“Was he?”

“Don’t follow us.”

The Chancellor noticed the emphasis and tilted her head.

Gamache pointed at Haniya. “Stay.”

She was clearly outraged at being spoken to like that. He couldn’t blame her. But it had to be done.

He plunged back into the cold, and after speaking quickly to the Sûreté agent in the car, he hurried over to Beauvoir and Lacoste, each astride their own snowmobiles.

“Are you armed?” he asked, his voice raised above the roar.

When both shook their heads, he opened his glove to reveal a gun. “Here, take it.”

“Not yours,” said Beauvoir, zipping it into a pocket of his parka.

“Non. The agent’s. For God’s sake, don’t lose it. Gilbert has a rifle. It’s licensed. He has it for protection in case a bear attacks, though I doubt he’s ever fired it.”

“Only because he prefers bears to people,” said Lacoste.

Gamache got on the lead machine and, gunning it, he crossed the road and headed deep into the woods. With Beauvoir and Lacoste right behind.

The wind was full in their faces. Their eyes teared and their cheeks froze as they hunched over their machines. Banking around corners, and racing ahead, desperate to get to the cabin.

Just before the last curve, Gamache stopped and dismounted. As did the others.

They ran the rest of the way, slipping and skidding on the snow and ice. When one fell, the others ran back and dragged them up.

Sunlight bounced off the reds, blues, and greens of their coats, as the three of them plunged forward.

They could smell the cabin before they saw it. A fire had been lit in the hearth and the scent wafted to them through the thin air. Rounding the corner, they slowed to a walk. Then, at a signal from Gamache, they stepped off the path and into the woods. Their boots sank knee-deep into the snow as they waded through it, catching glimpses of the cabin through the forest.

It sat at the far side of the clearing, a wisp of smoke coming out the stone chimney. A propane lamp had been lit, throwing soft light from inside onto the pristine snow.

It was a peaceful scene. Like a Christmas card, or a snow globe before being shaken.

But it was time to shake it up.

Gamache pointed, and together they sprinted across the clearing, skidding to a stop at the cabin. Pressing themselves against the logs, they held their breaths.

Nothing. They hadn’t been heard.

Lacoste craned her neck and glanced through the window. Then ducked back down.

“They’re sitting by the fire,” she whispered. “One on either side. Talking.”

“Talking?” asked Beauvoir. He had his hand on his pocket. He hadn’t yet unzipped it, but he could feel the comforting outline through the goose down.

“Oui. I can’t see the rifle.”

She looked again, then ducked down quickly. “Gilbert’s gone.”

“Get back,” said Gamache. As Beauvoir and Lacoste went to scramble around the corner, the cabin door opened.