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And he heard the last word Professor Abigail Robinson had uttered. “Mercy—”

The solution is called mercy—

And then the firecrackers had gone off, and the shots were fired. But Gamache could finish her sentence. The word she didn’t get a chance to say.

Killing. But it wasn’t mercy killing she was proposing. It was, he knew, just plain old killing.

Chapter 7

Late that night, when the family was asleep and they were finally alone at home, Jean-Guy approached Armand.

He stood in the doorway of the study.

Armand knew Jean-Guy was there but needed to finish this last report and send it out. His fingers dashed along the keyboard. Part of him knew he was really too tired to write this message, but he needed to get it off.

Then he could crawl into bed with Reine-Marie. Could curl his body around hers and know that he could rest for a little while.

Finally he hit send. Then, taking off his glasses, he turned toward the door.

“Yes?”

“Can we talk?”

It was the last thing Armand wanted to do. He was drained after what had happened and the aftermath.

Taking care of the injured. The search of the building, and the people, and the vehicles.

Interviewing witnesses, none of whom saw anything, though that was probably shock. Someone saw something, they just needed time to come back to their senses.

They had the gunman, a local man named Édouard Tardif. Aged fifty-three. He worked cutting trees in the forest, for firewood.

Tardif had been questioned but refused to say anything. Including whether he had an accomplice.

“What news on the weapon?” Gamache had asked, on leaving the interview room.

“A handgun,” said Beauvoir, almost running to keep up with the striding Gamache. “Registered to him. He belongs to the local gun club and keeps it locked up there, of course. The manager says he’s a very good shot. Tardif visited the place yesterday, fired a few rounds, then left. I’m getting the security video.”

“Right. We need to interview his family and friends. Employers. Anyone who might’ve shared his view about Professor Robinson. And we need to track down those fireworks.”

Tardif’s wife and family were shocked. Could not believe he’d do that. The only one they couldn’t contact was his brother, who was on a snowmobile trip six hundred kilometers north, in the Abitibi.

He’d left that afternoon.

“Find him,” said Gamache. “Those fireworks and the gun got into the gym somehow. Presumably not with Tardif through the front door.”

He’d glared at Beauvoir, who colored and stammered, “No. I mean yes. No, I mean no.”

The media had descended on the University by then.

Chief Inspector Gamache had stood outside the gym, in the cold and the glare of camera lights, and issued a statement, reassuring the population that the gunman had been arrested.

Then he answered reporters’ questions.

“What’s his name?”

“We won’t be releasing that just yet.”

“Is he local?”