Page 139

“Are you okay?”

“Been better.”

The normally well-dressed man was a mess. Hair disheveled, his clothing rumpled and dirty. He hadn’t had time to shower and change after the visit to the SHU.

Hardye Moel was now head of the Sûreté du Québec counseling division, having earned her Ph.D. She’d built up her department from practically nothing.

Chief Inspector Gamache was an early advocate for, and adopter of, the service. He’d sent many of his agents for counseling. And gone himself.

Dr. Moel was his colleague and therapist. Hardye Moel was his friend.

“How can I help?”

He told her what had happened at the SHU. The fact that he’d lost it, and it was only the presence of Jean-Guy Beauvoir that prevented him from hurting, maybe even killing, the warden.

“I don’t think it would have gone that far, Armand.” She studied him. “But you’re not sure? What did the warden do to bring this on?”

Gamache stared at her for a moment, knowing he’d have to tell her everything. But he hesitated.

Hardye waited. Giving him space and time. She saw his eyes drift from her over to the village. To the neighbors walking dogs. Sitting outside on the terrasse of the bistro. Working in gardens. She heard the birds, the lawn mowers, the shouted greetings.

And then his eyes came to rest. She turned to see that he was looking at the three huge spires of pine trees on the village green.

Of course, she thought. Three Pines.

When she turned back, his gaze was once more on her.

And then he told her. Everything.

As he spoke, he saw Captain Moel’s eyes widen, then narrow. As though she was squinting at something horrible approaching.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “John Fleming? He let Fleming go? He’s out?”

“Let’s go inside,” said Armand.

Once in the Incident Room, she stared at the huge canvas.

Dr. Moel had studied the Fleming case in her courses on aberrant behavior. She remembered reading that John Fleming had been a churchgoing man. Obsessed with it. A God-fearing man, he eventually feared God so much he ran straight into the arms of the other.

The Angel of the Morning. The Fallen Angel. God’s favorite. Until …

But Armand was pointing at the painting and saying something else.

“Pardon?”

“The faces, the heads. They’re of his victims. Jesus,” Armand said, wiping his hand over his face. “I should’ve seen it sooner.”

Captain Moel turned away, repulsed. “How could you? No sane person would see it, would believe an inmate at the SHU could be responsible. I read about his case, his trial. There was no mention of you.”

“No. I was there as an observer, assigned by the Crown.”

“Did Fleming recognize you? Is that why he’s doing this?”

It didn’t make sense, this obsession Fleming seemed to have with the Chief Inspector. Why not the arresting cop? The prosecutor? The judge. Why Gamache?

“A few years ago I needed his help in a case. He agreed, but in exchange I had to promise to let him go.”

Moel stared at him, incredulous. “You were willing to do that?”