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“She could be anywhere, is that what you’re saying?” asked Francoeur.

“Anywhere, but probably somewhere that needs a satellite dish to connect to the Internet. She took one,” said Lambert.Advertisement

Francoeur knew where that was.

* * *

Dr. Brunel and Agent Nichol copied the files onto a USB flash drive and packed up all the documents.

“Come on, Agent Nichol,” Superintendent Brunel called from the open door.

“Just a moment.”

“Now,” Thérèse Brunel snapped.

Nichol perched in her chair, ready to leave. But there was one last thing to do. She knew they’d be coming, searching her computer. And when they did, they’d find her little present. With a few final keystrokes she planted her logic bomb.

“Eat that, dickhead,” she said, and logged out. It wouldn’t keep the hounds away, but would give them a nasty surprise when they arrived.

“Hurry up,” Superintendent Brunel called from the door. Her voice held no trace of panic, just imperative.

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Dr. Brunel and Gilles had already gone, and the old schoolhouse was empty. Except for Nichol. She turned the computers off and gave them one last look. They were as close as she came to family these days. Her father, while proud of her, didn’t understand her. Her relatives thought she was just weird, a sort of embarrassment.

And, to be fair, she thought the same of them. Of everyone.

But computers she understood. And they understood her. Life was simple around them. No debates, no arguments. They listened to her and did as she asked.

And these old ones, abandoned by others, considered useless, had done her proud. But now it was time to leave and to leave them behind. Superintendent Brunel held the door open, and Nichol hurried through it. Behind her Thérèse Brunel locked up. It was ridiculous to suppose an old Yale lock would stop what was coming for them, but it was a comforting conceit.

They walked back down the slope to Emilie Longpré’s home. That had been Gamache’s short email message.

See Emilie. And they knew what it meant.

Leave. Get out. There was nowhere safe, but there was someplace comfortable to sit and wait.

They were coming. Thérèse Brunel knew it. They all knew it.

They were coming here.

* * *

An electronic bleep sounded and Lambert checked her text message.

Charpentier lost her.

Lambert expected the Chief Superintendent to explode and was surprised when he just nodded.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Francoeur walked quickly back down the corridor toward the elevator.

Where’s Gamache? he texted Tessier.

Jacques Cartier Bridge. Keep monitoring him?

No. That’s what he wants. He wants to draw us away. He’s a decoy.

He gave Tessier instructions, then returned, briefly, to his office. If Gamache was heading to Sûreté headquarters, he wouldn’t find them waiting for him. It was almost certainly what Gamache wanted. He knew he was being followed, and he wanted their eyes on him. And not turning south. To that little village, so well hidden.

And now found.

* * *

“I think you’d better not, Jérôme,” said Thérèse, when her husband went to lay a fire in the hearth.

He stopped and nodded, then joined her on the sofa and together they watched the door. The front curtains were drawn and the lamps were turned on. Nichol sat in an armchair, also watching the door.

“What were you doing at the end there?” Thérèse asked Nichol.

“Huh?”

“On your computer, when I was trying to get you to leave. What were you doing?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Now Jérôme focused on the young woman. “You were doing something on the computer?”

“I was setting a bomb,” she said defiantly.

“A bomb?” Thérèse demanded, and turned to see Jérôme smiling and studying Agent Nichol.

“She means a logic bomb, don’t you?”

Nichol nodded.

“It’s a sort of cross between a super virus and a time bomb,” he explained to his wife. “Programmed to do what?” he asked Nichol.

“Nothing good,” she said, and challenged him to chastise her. But Jérôme Brunel only smiled and shook his head.

“Wish I’d thought of that.”

Silence descended again as the three of them returned to staring at the closed curtains and the closed door. pqdm.com