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“I was about to call you, Armand. I sent the serial number on the ring to the Société des Ingénieurs. I just got the list of people who wore it.”
“Is there a John Fleming on it?”
There was a pause that felt longer than it was. “Non.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s not a long list, Armand. Yes, I’m sure.”
“How about a Cecil Clarke?”
“Non, not him either.”
“Merci.”
This was the first bit of good news. It meant Fleming hadn’t dropped the ring. Hadn’t been down in their basement. It meant Reine-Marie hadn’t had a madman’s hand on her shoulder.
He sat back in his chair and stared out the window for a moment. Then, taking a last look at the peaceful village, he turned away and tilted his head back, staring at the tongue-and-groove ceiling. If Fleming was inside his head, that might mean he could get inside Fleming’s. If he tried.
Armand closed his eyes. And waited. And waited.
Out of the darkness, eyes appeared. Startling blue.
His own eyes flew open, and his chair tilted forward, almost throwing him out of it.
Unlike the elderly and embittered Ruth as the Virgin Mary in Clara’s portrait, where Clara had put a dot of light in her angry eyes, creating hope in the midst of despair, Fleming’s eyes gleamed bright. But in them there was a black spot. A blight. A cave.
Armand saw the invitation to enter. Into despair. And knew he had no choice.
He sat up straight, planted his feet firmly on the floor, placed a hand on each knee, closed his eyes again, and took several deep breaths.
I’m coming for you.
In the distance he heard a sound. So deep was his reverie, so complete his focus, it took him a moment to realize it was his phone.
“Gamache.”
“Armand, I’ve figured out the code,” said Jérôme Brunel. “It’s written in a mix of shorthands, including Tironian. It’s actually the same phrase in French, English, Latin, German, Hebrew, all mixed together. A chaos of languages, like speaking in tongues.”
“What does it say?”
“I’m coming for you.”
Armand felt his blood rush to his core.
And after all it is nothing new / It is only a memory, after all.
A memory of a fear / that has now come true.
CHAPTER 32
Harriet and Sam went for a hike through the forest, along the trail that led up to François’s Seat, the highest point of the mountains that surrounded and protected and hid Three Pines from the outside world.
The trail was steep enough to leave her winded.
“Why’s it called François’s Seat?” Sam asked, catching his own breath.
They sat down on sun-warmed boulders and admired the view, which fanned out 360 degrees. From there they felt they could reach out and touch the Green Mountains of Vermont.
