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Beauvoir was trying to provoke one of them into hitting him. And that would be the distraction, the moment Armand needed.
The focus would shift, and in that split second he would make his move.
Armand had worked it out. Everything that would happen.
Fleming would be, for just a moment, distracted by the attack on Jean-Guy. Allowing Armand to rush forward, grabbing Fleming’s hand and yanking the knife away from Reine-Marie’s throat.
Run! Run! he’d shout.
By then Sam would have turned the gun on him.
Fleming was older. Smaller. If he could just reach him, Armand was confident he could easily overpower the man and use him as a shield. Sam would shoot, but the bullet would hit Fleming. Armand would push the body forward, onto Sam. That would give him the seconds he’d need to tackle the younger man.
Sam was fitter, younger, stronger. But Armand had the great advantage of experience. And desperation. He would subdue Sam.
But none of that happened.
CHAPTER 38
There was no reception. No signal. No signal.
Amelia kept stopping to check.
She had to get to the Chief Inspector. She’d seen the message from the coroner telling him that Boisfranc was Fleming. But he wasn’t.
The caretaker, now disemboweled, was one of his victims.
She knew what must’ve happened. The glass she’d picked up from the caretaker’s room had someone else’s DNA. The only other person who used the basement kitchen was the minister, Robert Mongeau.
Could he have done it on purpose? Handling things in the caretaker’s small bedroom so his DNA would be on it and forensics would mistake it for Boisfranc’s? They’d see the match with Fiona and assume Boisfranc was Fleming.
That’s exactly what had happened.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Robert Mongeau was the escaped serial killer. He was in Gamache’s home and the Chief Inspector had no idea.
No signal. No signal.
She and Harriet raced, then stopped. Raced forward through the forest, then stopped to check her phone.
No signal. No …
One bar.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” said Amelia, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hit the right icon for Gamache’s number.
It rang. And rang.
No answer. No answer.
“Ffffffuck.” She called headquarters and spoke to the duty officer. Giving him the information even as she ran.
He already knew. Had received a message from the Chief Inspector minutes ago saying Robert Mongeau, the minister, was John Fleming. Amelia then found the same message on her phone.
Gamache knew, so there was a chance …
But the message said no more. If the Chief Inspector could, he would have issued orders. Instructions. More information.
But there was nothing beyond those few words: Mongeau is Fleming.
