All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16)(16)

“Yes, didn’t the report say that?”

“It must have, but I guess I was focusing on your statement.”

“He’s my godfather. Excusez-moi. I’m going to tell Reine-Marie and the others to go home.”

Claude Dussault watched Armand walk back down the corridor, sidestepping doctors and nurses as they responded to other emergencies.

Once Armand had left, Dussault went over to the nurse in charge and asked for the bag of Stephen’s things. Not his clothing, but whatever had been in his pockets.

The Prefect looked through the wallet, checking every slip of paper, then picking up the shattered iPhone and examining it.

Replacing everything, he resealed the bag and gave it back to the nurse.

Reine-Marie, Daniel, and Annie hurried to meet Armand.

The others in the waiting room looked up, alert, afraid, then dropped their eyes when they realized he wasn’t a doctor bringing them news.

“He’s still in there,” said Armand, giving Reine-Marie a hug.

“That’s good news, right?” said Annie.

“Oui.” Her father’s reply was so muted, she immediately understood.

“Dad,” said Daniel. “I’m sorry—”

“Merci. He’s in good hands.”

“Yes, but I want to say I’m sorry I didn’t react when you asked for help. I think I was in shock.”

Now Armand turned to his son and focused on him completely.

If there was one thing the senior police officer understood, it was that everyone had strengths. And weaknesses. The important thing was to recognize them. And not expect something from someone who didn’t have it to give.

He knew he should never have turned to Daniel. Not in that moment. Not in a crisis.

Not, perhaps, ever.

“You’re here now,” he said, looking into that worried face. “That’s what matters.”

“Do you think the driver meant to hit Stephen?” Annie asked.

“Well, yes.”

“No, I mean, do you think he knew it was Stephen?” she clarified. Her lawyer’s mind working. “Or do you think it was a random attack?”

Armand had been troubled by that himself. He couldn’t see how the driver could have specifically targeted his godfather. And yet, if it was a random terrorist attack, another one using a vehicle as the weapon, why hadn’t the driver plowed into them, too? Why take out just the one elderly man?

“I don’t know,” admitted Armand. He looked over his shoulder at the swinging doors. “I need to get back. I’ll let you know. I love you.”

“Love you,” said Annie, while Daniel nodded.

Reine-Marie hugged him tight and whispered, “Je t’aime.”





CHAPTER 5




Once back in their apartment, Reine-Marie sank into a rose-scented bubble bath and closed her eyes. Trying to get the filth of the events off her. She took in deep, soothing breaths and could feel her body relax, though her mind kept working. Conjuring images.

Of Stephen, on the ground. Of Armand’s face. Of the van speeding by. And the car—coming straight at her.

She’d stayed rooted in place. Not leaping aside. If she had, the car would have hit Armand. And she’d be damned if she’d let that happen.

And then another image appeared. The expression on the face of the officer. Clearly not believing what she and Armand knew to be true.

This was no accident.

“You okay?” asked Jean-Guy. “You must be exhausted.”

He’d carried Honoré home, fast asleep in his arms, the two blocks from Daniel and Roslyn’s apartment. After putting his son to bed, he’d waited up for Annie, texting her now and then short messages of support.

Now Annie and Jean-Guy lay in bed as she tried to get comfortable. The lights out. Honoré’s baby monitor confirming he was sound asleep.

But sleep wouldn’t come for the boy’s parents.

Annie was days away from giving birth, and Jean-Guy was worried this shock could be harmful.

“I’m okay. She’s kicking. Must know I’m trying to get to sleep.”

Jean-Guy smiled and cupped his wife and unborn daughter in his arms. “Who’s this friend your father called?”

“Claude Dussault,” said Annie.

Jean-Guy sat up in bed. “The Prefect of Police for Paris?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“Only by reputation. A good one.”

“Dad met him years ago on an exchange program, when they were just agents.”

She almost asked why he’d told that cop at the scene that he was a homicide cop in Québec. When he wasn’t.

Or maybe, she thought, he was. Still. Always.

But she didn’t ask. As a lawyer, she was trained to never ask a question if she wasn’t prepared for the answer.

Instead she said, “That cop didn’t believe that the van meant to hit Stephen.”

“Non.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” It would not occur to Beauvoir to doubt Gamache. “The question is, will this Claude Dussault believe it?”

It was the middle of the night, though they couldn’t tell in the windowless, airless corridor.

The activity just down the hall, where emergency cases first arrived, had not let up. Accidents. Coronaries. Strokes. Victims of violence.