He opened his eyes and continued his walk slowly around and around the pretty little village. As he passed homes, he looked through the windows throwing honey light onto the snow. He saw Ruth bent over a white plastic table. Writing. Rosa sat on the table, watching. Maybe even dictating.

He walked around the curve of the green and saw Clara reading by her fireplace. Curled into a corner of her sofa, a blanket over her legs.

He saw Myrna, moving back and forth in front of her window in the loft, pouring herself a cup of tea.

From the bistro he heard laughter and could see the Christmas tree, lit and cheerful in the corner, and patrons finishing late dinners, enjoying drinks. Talking about their days.

He saw Gabri in the B and B, wrapping Christmas gifts. The window must have been open slightly, because he heard Gabri’s clear tenor singing “The Huron Carol.” Rehearsing for the Christmas Eve service in the little church.

As Gamache walked, he hummed it to himself.

Every now and then a thought about the Ouellet murder entered his head. But he chased it out. Ideas came to mind about Arnot, and Francoeur. But he chased those away too.

Instead he thought about Reine-Marie. And Annie. And Daniel. And his grandchildren. About what a very fortunate man he was.

And then he and Henri returned to Emilie’s home.

*   *   *

While everyone slept, Armand stared into the fire, thinking. Going over and over the Ouellet case in his mind.

Then, just before eleven, he started making notes. Pages and pages.

The fire died in the hearth, but he didn’t notice.

Finally, he placed what he’d written into envelopes and put on his coat and boots and hat and mitts. He tried to wake Henri, but the shepherd was snoring and muttering and catching snowballs in his dreams.

And so he’d gone out alone. The homes of Three Pines were dark now. Everyone sound asleep. The lights on the huge trees were off and the snow had stopped. The sky was again filled with stars. He dropped two envelopes through a mail slot and returned to Emilie’s home with one regret. That he hadn’t had the chance to get Christmas gifts for the villagers. But he thought they’d understand.

*   *   *

An hour later, when Jérôme and Thérèse came downstairs, they found Gamache asleep in the armchair, Henri snoring at his feet. A pen in his hand and an envelope, addressed to Reine-Marie, on the floor where it had slid off the arm of the chair.

“Armand?” Thérèse touched his arm. “Wake up.”

Gamache snapped awake, almost hitting Thérèse with his head as he sat up straight. It took him just a moment to gather his wits.

Nichol came clomping down the stairs, not really disheveled since she was rarely “sheveled.”

“It’s time,” said Thérèse. She seemed almost jubilant. Certainly relieved.

The wait was over.

THIRTY-THREE

Agent Nichol crawled under the desk, her hands and knees on the dusty floor. Picking up the cable, she guided it to the metal box.

“Ready?”

Up above, Thérèse Brunel looked at Armand Gamache. Armand Gamache looked at Jérôme Brunel. And Dr. Brunel did not hesitate.

“Ready,” he said.

“Are you sure this time?” came the petulant voice. “Maybe you want to think about it over a nice hot chocolate.”

“Just do it, for chrissake,” snapped Jérôme.

And she did. There was a click, then her head appeared from beneath the desk. “Done.”

She crawled out and took her seat beside Dr. Brunel. In front of them was equipment Jane Neal, the last teacher to sit at that desk, could not have imagined. Monitors, terminals, keyboards.

Once again Gamache gave Jérôme the access code, and he typed, and typed until there was just one more key to hit.

“There’s no going back after this, Armand.”

“I know. Do it.”

And Jérôme Brunel did. He hit enter.

And … nothing happened.

“This’s an old setup,” said Nichol, a little nervously. “It might take a moment.”

“I thought you said it would be ultra fast,” said Jérôme, a touch of panic creeping around the edges of his words. “It needs to be fast.”

“It will be.” Nichol was rapidly hitting keys on her terminal. Like clog dancing on the computer.

“It’s not working,” said Jérôme.

“Fuck,” said Nichol, pushing herself away from the desk. “Piece of crap.”