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Armand could see it in Fleming’s eyes. Finally. Finally.

If Fleming could get into Gamache’s head, and he could, then Gamache could get into Fleming’s.

And he was. Finally.

Gamache could see the piles of garbage, the sewage, the rot and decay and filth. The hatred and jealousy, the loathing. The madness.

And the fissure of doubt that had let him in.

He could see Fleming’s mind working. Going over and over what he had spent years planning. Building. Was it possible, he was asking himself, that there was some detail, some miniscule item he’d forgotten?

The sort of tiny mistake that could derail a train, collapse a building.

Bring an entire bridge falling into the St. Lawrence. One small miscalculation. One tiny, missed calculation. And catastrophe.

“His files,” said Sam. “In the basement. The ones Fiona told us about. There must be something in them. Something he found. He knows even if we kill him, his people will find it.”

“That’s impossible. There is nothing.”

“Then why does he keep it locked?” demanded Sam, his own voice rising with anxiety.

Gamache could see Fleming’s doubt growing by the second. He was tempted to push in further, but resisted. He knew that his silence only made it worse. It spoke of confidence.

Which he did not actually feel.

Though the Chief Inspector was confident of one thing. His days, months, years as an investigator had proved that everyone had secrets. Things they kept from the world. Often from themselves. But they were there. Buried deep. Festering.

Even a psychopath had things he never wanted to admit, even to himself. Secrets that might be locked in the room in the basement.

“You’re fucking with us,” snarled Fleming.

“You’re right. There is nothing there.”

Fleming glared at him, his eyes scanning, digging, tunneling deeper. Trying to find the truth. And the beauty was, Armand had just told the truth.

There was nothing.

“Tie them up,” said Fleming, and Sam quickly bound Reine-Marie’s and Armand’s hands behind their backs.

“You stay here,” he said to Sam, handing him the gun again and taking the huge hunting knife, always his weapon of choice. “If we aren’t back in three minutes, shoot them.”

As he pushed Gamache toward the basement door, Fleming looked out the window. Still no sign of cops. No signal from Fiona. He had a moment of doubt, but then he saw her standing on the front lawn, looking up the road out of the village.

Gamache saw her too. Still, he clung to hope. Though he knew that when the clock on the mantel struck the half hour, no power on earth could save them.

Fleming flicked on the lights and Armand started down, his mind racing. He’d managed to separate Fleming and Sam, but he was far from certain that was an improvement.

As he walked down the stairs, his eyes traveled around the familiar space, for something, anything, he might use. This must have been, he realized, where Sam had hidden. He’d obviously gone through the box of Christmas ornaments. Finding the tinsel to tie them up with. A big glass ball lay shattered in the dirt.

Daniel, just a child at the time, had bought it with his allowance to celebrate the millennium. It was now a curiosity. And a family treasure.

Was that the sound he’d heard earlier in the evening? Not Fred, but Daniel’s ornament breaking? Could all of this have ended then had he only looked closer when he’d come down?

He thought of his grandchildren, his children, at the cabin, and what would happen if this lunatic and his apprentices escaped.

“Hurry.” Fleming gave him a shove, and Gamache lost his footing, tumbling the last few steps. Unable to reach out to cushion the fall, he twisted and landed on his shoulder, then rolled a few times, ending up on his back, winded. Gasping for breath.

“Get up,” Fleming commanded. “You have two minutes now to open that door, get the files, and get back upstairs before Sam starts.”