Gamache straightened up and caught his breath. Then he walked away, along the dirt shoulder of the back road.

“What’s happened?” asked Jean-Guy, pursuing him, but stopping when Armand waved at him to give him space.

Beauvoir had only heard Gamache’s end of the conversation, but it was enough to get the gist.

Armand turned to Jean-Guy, his face pale and haggard. “We have four hours before word of the gun is all over the CBC national news.”

“Shit.”

Beauvoir felt his own stomach lurch. They both knew what that meant. Within moments of the broadcast it would be all over the Internet, social media, other media. NPR, CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera. News of Gerald Bull’s gun would be blasted around the world.

“They don’t yet know where it is,” said Gamache. “They don’t know about Three Pines. I’m not sure they know about Highwater yet. But they will. And when they do…”

Pandemonium, thought Jean-Guy.

Beauvoir studied his father-in-law and felt light-headed.

“My God, you can’t be considering…”

But he could tell by the expression on Gamache’s face that was exactly what he was considering.

“You’d release Fleming?” asked Beauvoir, barely able to make the words audible.

“We have to find the plans before the broadcast. The problem won’t be journalists or curiosity seekers. Every arms dealer, every mercenary, every intelligence organization, every terrorist group and corrupt dictator will hear about it. These people aren’t bumbling opportunists. They’re smart and motivated and ruthless. And they’ll be coming here. Jesus, Jean-Guy, you know what’ll happen if an arms dealer finds the plans before we do.”

“If, if,” shouted Jean-Guy. “It might not happen, but we know for sure what’ll happen if Fleming’s let out of that hellhole. He’ll kill again. And again.”

“Don’t tell me what Fleming will do. You have no idea what that man’s capable of. I do.”

“Then tell me, for God’s sake. What did he do? What is that man capable of?”

“He made the Whore of Babylon,” shouted Gamache.

“The etching, I know.”

“No, the real thing. Out of his victims.”

Beauvoir stepped back, away from Gamache. From the words that had come out of his mouth and the image that came with them. Of what Fleming had done. Of what had been so horrific it was kept from the public.

“Ohhhhh” escaped Beauvoir, a sigh, as though his soul had withered and was sliding out.

“The children?”

“Everyone. All seven victims,” said Gamache, and bent down again, his hands on his knees.