Bury Your Dead

Once inside Gamache took Henri for a walk and when he returned Émile had set the laptop on the coffee table, put out a bottle of Scotch, lit the fire and was waiting.

The elderly man stood in the center of the room, his arms at his side. He looked formal, almost rigid.

“What is it, Émile?”

“I’d like to watch the video with you.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

All through the walk the Chief Inspector had been preparing himself for this. The cold flakes on his face had been refreshing and he’d stopped and tilted his face up, closing his eyes and opening his mouth, to catch them.

“I love doing that,” Morin said. “But the snow has to be just right.”

“You were a connoisseur?” the Chief asked.

“Still am. The flakes have to be the big, fluffy kind. The ones that just drift down. None of the hard, small flakes you get in storms. That’s no fun. They go up your nose and get in your ears. Get everywhere. No it’s the big ones you want.”

Gamache knew what he meant. He’d done it himself, as a child. Had watched Daniel and Annie do it. Children didn’t need to be taught, it seemed instinctive to catch snowflakes with your tongue.

“There’s a technique, of course,” said Morin in a serious voice, as though he’d studied it. “You have to close your eyes, otherwise the snow gets in them, and stick out your tongue.”

There was a pause and the Chief Inspector knew the young agent was sitting, bound to the chair, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his tongue out. Catching snowflakes.

“Now,” agreed Gamache and after bending down to release Henri, he walked to the sofa and sat before the laptop.

“I found the site.” Émile sat and looked over at Armand in profile. The trim beard suited the man, now that Émile had gotten used to it. Gamache’s eyes were steady, staring at the screen, then he turned and looked directly at his mentor.

“Merci.”

Émile paused, taken by surprise. “What for?”

“For not leaving me.”

Émile reached out and touched Gamache on the arm, then clicked the button and the video started to play.

Beauvoir stared at the screen. As he suspected, the images were cobbled together from the tiny cameras attached to the headsets of each Sûreté officer. What he hadn’t expected was the clarity. He’d thought it’d be grainy, hard to distinguish the players, but it was clear.

As were their voices.

“Officer down!” Gamache called above the gunfire.

“Go, go, go,” Beauvoir shouted, pointing to a gunman on the gallery above. Rapid fire shots, the camera swinging wildly, then dropping. Then another view, of the officer on the ground. And blood.

“Officer down,” shouted one of the team. “Help him.”

Two forms moved forward, automatic weapons firing, laying down cover for a third. Someone grabbing the downed officer, dragging him away. Then a cut to a corridor, racing, chasing the gunmen down darkened halls and into cavernous rooms. Explosions, shouts.

The Chief leaning against a wall, wearing a black tactical vest, automatic rifle in his hands. Firing. It looked so strange to see Gamache with a gun, and using it.

“We have at least six shooters,” someone called.

“I count ten,” said Gamache, his voice clipped, precise, clear. “Two down. That leaves eight. Five on the floor above, three down here. Where’re the medics?”

“Coming,” came Agent Lacoste’s voice. “Thirty seconds away.”

“We need a target alive,” the Chief ordered. “Take one alive.”

All hell was breaking loose as bullets slammed into walls, into bodies, into the floor and ceiling. Everything became gray, the air filled with dust and bullets. Shouts and screams. The Chief issuing orders as they pushed the gunmen from one room into another. Cornering them.

Then Beauvoir saw himself.

He stepped out from the wall and shot. Then he saw himself stagger, and fall.

Hitting the floor.

“Jean-Guy!” the Chief yelled.

He saw himself splayed on the ground, legs collapsed beneath him. Unmoving.

Gamache ran, calling, “Where are those medics!”

“Here, Chief, here,” called Lacoste. “We’re coming.”

Gamache grabbed Beauvoir’s jacket, dragging him behind the wall, shots ringing out. Now, with the sounds of explosions all round, the scene was suddenly intimate. The Chief’s worried face, in close up, staring down.

Armand Gamache watched, unblinking, though all he wanted to do was look away. Close his eyes, cover his ears, curl into a ball.

He could smell again the acrid gunpowder, the burning, the concrete dust. He could hear the violent report of the weapons. Feel the rifle in his own hands, pounding out bullets. And weapons firing at him.

Bang, bang, bang, exploding all round. The bullets hitting and bouncing, ricocheting, thudding. The riot of sensations. It was near impossible to think, to focus.

And for an instant he felt again the jolt of seeing Beauvoir hit.

On the screen he saw himself staring down at Beauvoir, searching his face. Feeling for a pulse. The camera catching not just the events, but the sensations, the feelings. The anguish in Gamache’s face.

“Jean-Guy?” he called and the Inspector’s eyes fluttered and opened, then rolled closed.