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He’d soon find out.

Going from window to window, he looked in. There was one light on, in the living room. But no one was there. Then Gamache noticed a dim glow in the woods.

He crept over, careful, careful not to step on any twigs. Not to lose his footing on the dead leaves, made slick by the sleet. Getting to a nearby tree, Gamache watched as the man knelt and brushed away a pile of leaves, revealing a large log half buried in the wet ground. Reaching into the rotten tree trunk, he withdrew first one package, then another. Gamache couldn’t see what they were. The objects were wrapped in something. The man shoved them into a knapsack and got up.

Then he stopped. And looked around.

Had he heard something? Sensed something? The man reached into his coat and brought out a gun.

The moment stretched on. The sleet kept falling, dribbling through Gamache’s hair and down his face. It tickled and he almost wiped it away. It was instinctive, but he stopped himself. Staying absolutely still. Barely breathing. Finally, the man lowered his weapon and started forward. He was approaching Gamache, who considered taking his own gun out now but decided against it. There was no way to do it without making a sound. Besides, he needed both hands free.

Wait. Wait.

The man was within a foot of him. One more step and Gamache would make his move. But now there was a hesitation, a change in the man’s body.

He was turning toward the tree. Toward Gamache. Lifting his weapon.

Gamache leapt. His hand, slick from the sleet, grabbed the man’s wrist. Groping for the hand, the gun.

It went off.

Beauvoir heard the shot and scrambled out of the car. Taking his gun from its holster, he started forward.

Then slid to a stop on the muddy road.

Breathing heavily, he stared into the snow and rain and darkness.

There were no more shots. Had that been the Chief? Or …

His heart pounding, Beauvoir stood frozen in place. Every instinct told him to run forward. To do something. Something.

Anything. But he knew the Chief was right.

If Dagenais’s man had shot, maybe killed Gamache, then he was the last line of defense. He had to use the car to block the road. The agent would assume Gamache was on his own, and not be expecting it.

Keeping his eyes on the forest, Beauvoir got back into the car and prepared himself.

Will this day never end?

It was over in a matter of moments.

“Fuck you,” the man shouted, spitting rotten leaves out of his mouth as Gamache turned him over. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

“Probably. You’re under arrest.”

“On what charge. I haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve assaulted me, you fuck-head.”

Gamache scooped up the gun and put it in his pocket, then he grabbed the knapsack and looked inside.

There they were. The video camera and an exercise book, with butterflies on the cover. And monstrosities inside.

“Looks like stealing to me.” Gamache took off his coat and wrapped it around the items for extra protection against the sleet, now pouring down. “Unless these belong to you.”

The agent was silent.

“I thought not.” He hauled the man to his feet and pushed him forward. “Walk.”

When he saw the two figures appear out of the swirling sleet, Beauvoir leapt out of the car and ran forward, meeting them halfway. “You got him. I thought … I wondered…”