He held out unsteady arms, but the murderer didn’t budge.
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I’d come here to forget it all, to get away. I thought I had. But seeing her again—”
“I understand, I do.” Gamache tried to sound reassuring, reasonable. Tried to keep the tremble from his voice. “You don’t want to harm a child. I know you. I know—”
“You know nothing.”
Far from being frightened, the murderer seemed almost calm. A panicked, cornered murderer was a terrible thing, and the only thing worse was a calm one.
“Bean,” Gamache said, his voice steady. “Bean, look at me.” He caught the child’s panicked eyes, but could tell Bean wasn’t seeing anything any more.
“What’re you doing? No! Get down!” The murderer suddenly grew agitated, and looked beyond Gamache.
The Chief Inspector turned carefully and saw Beauvoir climbing through the skylight. His thumping heart calmed, for an instant. Beauvoir was there. He wasn’t alone.
“Tell him to get down.”
Beauvoir saw the horrific scene. The murderer standing like a lightning rod in the storm, holding the terrified child. But the most frightening was the chief, who was looking at him with eyes so grave. Frightened, his fate sealed, and knowing it. A Burgher of Calais.
Gamache lifted his hand and gave Beauvoir the signal to withdraw.
“No, please,” Beauvoir rasped. “Let me come too.”
“Not this time, Jean Guy,” said Gamache.
“Get away. I’ll toss the kid over.” Bean was suddenly thrust into space, the murderer barely holding on. Even with tape over the child’s mouth Beauvoir could hear the scream.
With one last look, Beauvoir disappeared, and Gamache was alone again, with a dangling Bean and the murderer and the wind and rain that buffeted them all.
Bean struggled in the murderer’s arms, twisting to break free and letting out a high-pitched, strangled shriek, muffled by the tape.
“Bean, look at me.” Gamache stared at Bean, willing himself to forget where he was, trying to trick his traitor brain into believing they were on the ground. He wiped the fear from his own face. “Look at me.”
“What’re you doing?” the murderer repeated, staring at Gamache with suspicion and clutching the squirming child close.
“I’m trying to calm the child. I’m afraid Bean’ll knock you off balance.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The murderer hoisted the child higher. And Gamache knew then the murderer was going to do it. To throw the child over.
“For God’s sake,” Gamache pleaded. “Don’t do it.”
But the murderer was beyond listening to reason. For reason had nothing to do with what was happening. The murderer now heard only a very old howl.
“Bean, look at me,” Gamache called. “Remember Pegasus?”
The child calmed slightly and seemed to focus on Gamache, though the squealing continued.
“Remember riding Pegasus into the sky? That’s what you’re doing now. You’re on his back. Can you feel his wings, can you hear them?”
The moaning wind became the outstretched wings of the horse Pegasus, who gave a powerful beat and took Bean into the sky, away from the terror. Gamache watched as Bean slipped the surly bonds of earth.
Bean relaxed in the murderer’s arms, and slowly the big book slipped from the small, wet fingers and hit the roof, sliding down and launching into the air, the leaves spreading like wings.
Gamache glanced down and saw frenzied activity, arms waving and pointing. But one man held his arms outstretched, to catch someone falling from the heavens.
Finney.
Gamache took a deep breath and looked briefly beyond Bean, beyond the murderer, beyond the chimney pots. To the tree tops, and the lake and the mountains.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is my own, my native land!”
And he felt himself relax, a little. Then he looked further. To Three Pines, just on the other side of the mountains. To Reine-Marie.
Here I am, can you see me?
He stood up, slowly, a firm hand on his back steadying him.
“Now, higher, Bean. I’ve seen you take Pegasus higher.”
Below, the men and women saw the three figures, the Chief Inspector standing upright now in the driving rain, and the other two melded as though the murderer had sprung tiny arms and legs from the chest.
Beside Finney the book thudded to the ground, leaves outstretched and flattened. And in the sobbing wind they heard a far-off song in a deep baritone.
