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“What is it?” Rarely had he heard such a plea in his own voice. Please God, please God, please God.
“You’re right. It’s a laptop. Either that or a pizza box.” She waited for his laugh, and after a long moment it drifted up to her. Not a robust guffaw, but a sort of relieved chuckle, almost a moan.
Months, months they’d been looking for it. They’d had the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups searched by the monks, multiple times.
They’d had The Mission, the homeless shelter where Charles had once lived and volunteered, turned upside down.
They’d searched Charles’s parents’ place. They’d searched the remote village of Blanc-Sablon in case Dom Philippe had hidden it there.
But it had been here all along.
Within minutes she was down again, the garbage bag clasped to her chest. “Are you going to open it?”
“Non.” Though every cell in his body wanted to rip the coverings off and look at their discovery. “This needs to be done properly. We need to get it back to—”
To where? The Sûreté had been compromised. He still wasn’t sure of Chief Inspector Tardiff, despite what he’d said to Lacoste and Beauvoir the day before. And there were almost certainly other Sûreté officers involved in the plot and not caught in the earlier arrests.
“—Three Pines.”
Once back in the float plane, the pilot put the small heater on full blast and slowly their shivering subsided. Armand’s legs and hands felt pins and needles. As the craft rose and fell in the air currents, Armand clutched Charles’s laptop to his chest.
He’d failed to keep the young biologist safe, he would not make the same mistake with this.
A few hours later, as Jean-Guy drove down the hill into Three Pines from the Montréal airport, he noticed Gamache’s vehicle just parking.
He also noticed a stranger’s car in front of the bistro.
Though it was not unheard of to have visitors to the village, it was unusual enough to be noted. And given what was happening, anything unusual was now cause for caution.
As Jean-Guy watched, he saw Isabelle reversing until her vehicle was touching the front fender of the stranger’s.
Getting out quickly, she stood tense, staring at it. Gamache was also out of the car, protecting something behind his body.
Isabelle’s hand was now on her hip holster. Ready.
The car appeared empty, though that didn’t mean it really was. As he got closer, Jean-Guy could see the dent on the door, the rust in the wheel well, the crack in the windshield. It was missing two hubcaps. This was an old model Honda Civic. A rust bucket.
It didn’t belong to anyone in the village. Even Ruth’s car was in better shape.
On hearing Jean-Guy’s familiar vehicle arriving, Gamache’s eyes flicked briefly over to him. Then back again. Jean-Guy could now see what he was protecting. It seemed to be a sack of garbage. But as he looked closer, Jean-Guy could see by its shape that it was either a laptop or a small pizza box. Since Armand never ordered a small, that left only one option.
Holy shit, they did it. They found it.
He felt the slight nudge as his front fender touched the rear of the other vehicle. It was trapped.
“What the fuck are you doing?” came the unpleasantly familiar voice. “That’s my father’s car. If you’ve scratched it…”
Beauvoir and Lacoste turned quickly to the door of the bistro. Then back to Gamache, who was smiling.
“You remember Yvette Nichol. Agent Nichol is here to help.”
“That’ll be a first,” muttered Beauvoir.
They all had news, big news.
All were anxious to tell the others what they’d learned. But they knew that the lede was sitting on the desk in front of them in the study.
Armand and Isabelle had both grabbed quick showers and changed into warm, dry clothes. Isabelle borrowed some from Reine-Marie, who’d put on a pot of tea.
