There was a pause. “I’ve tied your agent up and attached something to him.”
“What?”
“It’s something I made myself.” The man’s voice was defensive, weak, explaining. It was a fearful voice and that meant unpredictable and that meant trouble. The worst possible hostage-taker to deal with, they could panic at any moment. Their reason had fled and they were going on nerves not judgment.
“What is it?” Gamache asked.
Beauvoir knew what the Chief was doing. He was trying to become the sturdy center, the thing a weak, fearful man would move toward. Something firm, solid, predictable. Strong.
“From fertilizer. I didn’t want to but it’s the only way you’ll leave me alone.”
The voice was becoming more and more difficult to understand. The combination of the thick accent and words muffled by desperation.
“It’s set to go off in twenty-four hours. At 11:18 tomorrow morning.”
Beauvoir wrote that down, though he doubted he’d forget it. And he was right.
He heard the Chief inhale sharply, then pause, trying to control his anger.
“This is a mistake,” he said, his voice steady. “You must dismantle that bomb. You’re making this worse for yourself.”
“Worse? How could it be worse? That other agent’s dead. I killed a Surete agent.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Then you know we’ll find you eventually. You don’t want to spend your whole life running, do you? Wondering where we are?”
There was a hesitation.
“Give yourself up,” said Gamache, his voice deep and calm and reasonable. A smart friend with a good idea. “I promise you won’t be hurt. Tell me where to meet you.”
Beauvoir stared at the Chief and the Chief stared at the wall, at the huge map of Quebec. Both willing the man to see reason.
“I can’t. I need to go. Good-bye.”
“Stop,” Gamache called into the phone, then contained himself with great effort. “Stop. Wait. Don’t do this thing. If you run you’ll regret it the rest of your life. If you hurt Paul Morin you’ll regret it.”
His voice was barely more than a whisper, but even Beauvoir felt his skin grow cold from the threat in Gamache’s voice.
“I have no choice. There’s one other thing.”
“What?”
Outside in the homicide offices more sophisticated equipment was being set up. Beauvoir could see Chief Superintendent Francoeur striding toward the Chief’s door. Gamache also saw him and turned his back, fully focused on the voice at the other end of the line.
“I don’t want you coming after me.”
The door opened and Chief Superintendent Francoeur stepped in, his distinguished, handsome face determined. Gamache’s back remained to him. Inspector Beauvoir took Francoeur by the arm.
“You need to leave, sir.”
“No, I need to speak to the Chief Inspector.”
They were outside the door now. “The Chief is on the line with the hostage-taker.”
“With the murderer. Agent Bissonette died of his wounds five minutes ago.”
He thrust his right hand into his jacket pocket. It was a signal they all knew, a sign the Chief Superintendent was agitated, angry. The room, previously a buzz of activity, grew still and silent except for the two voices, loud and clear. The Chief, and the killer, over the monitors.
“I’m taking over here,” said Francoeur and made for the door again but Beauvoir blocked him.
“You might take over, I can’t stop you, but this is Chief Inspector Gamache’s private office and he needs privacy.”
As the two men stared at each other they heard Gamache’s voice.
“You have to stop this,” said the Chief. “Give yourself up.”
“I can’t. I killed that cop.” Now his voice had risen almost to hysterics.
“Then even more reason to surrender yourself to me. I’ll guarantee your safety.” The Chief sounded reasonable, convincing.
“I have to get away.”
“Then why didn’t you just leave? Why call me?”
“Because I needed to.”
There was a pause. Beauvoir could see the Chief in profile now. He saw his eyes narrow and his brows lower.
