Brian turned back into the bistro, and for the briefest moment his face held an expression Jean-Guy recognized. Another exhausted man washed up on shore.

And then Brian left, walking ahead of Rosenblatt, who remained on the terrasse talking to Armand. Through the window, the villagers could see the two men, their heads together, Armand’s hand on Rosenblatt’s arm.

“He’s thanking him,” said Myrna. “For stepping in front of the gun.”

“You think?” said Ruth.

And then Professor Rosenblatt left, walking alone toward the lights of the B and B.

“Did you give him a head start?” asked Ruth when Armand returned to his seat.

“What do you mean?”

“He saved your life. He saved both of yours.” She looked from Gamache to Beauvoir and back again. “And now maybe you’re giving him a chance to get away.”

“Do you think we’d let a murderer go?” asked Lacoste.

“Well, you let the CSIS agents go, or whatever they were,” said Ruth. “Seems to be the new Sûreté policy.”

“If I helped a murderer escape, I’d have to live with that, wouldn’t I?” Armand held the old poet’s sharp eyes.

“I wonder if you could,” she said, getting to her feet. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

She looked at Monsieur Béliveau and put out her hand. “Would you walk me home?”

It was a public declaration of friendship and trust. And perhaps lunacy. He was still a suspect.

“Of course,” said the grocer.

He looked at Isabelle Lacoste, who hesitated, then nodded.

Placing Ruth’s hand around his arm, Monsieur Béliveau escorted Ruth from the bistro.

Armand watched them cross the village green until they disappeared behind the three tall pines.

A few minutes later, in the darkness of the village, a darker figure appeared. It was fleeting, and could have been missed, had Gamache not been looking for it.

“Excusez-moi,” he said, getting to his feet, nodding to Lacoste and Beauvoir, who’d also seen it. “Please stay here,” he said to Reine-Marie, then shifted his eyes to Clara, Myrna, Olivier and Gabri.

“Why?” asked Gabri, getting up. And then he sat down heavily when he saw the expressions on their faces.

Chapter 43

CHAPTER 43

Running, running, stumbling. Running.

Arm up against the wiry branches whipping his face. It was dark and he didn’t see the root. He fell, hands splayed, into the moss and mud. His gun dropped and bounced and rolled from sight. Eyes wide, frantic now, he swept his hands through the dead and decaying leaves.

He could hear the footsteps behind him. Boots on the ground. Pounding. He could almost feel the earth heaving as they got closer, closer, while he, on all fours, plowed the leaves aside.

“Come on, come on,” he pleaded.

And then his scraped and filthy hands clasped the grip of the gun and he was up and running. Bent over. Gasping for breath.