“Henri found it,” said Gamache.

“The dog?” Jérôme asked.

Henri raised his head upon hearing his name, then lowered it again.

The Brunels exchanged glances. Henri, while a handsome dog, would never get into Harvard.

“It was his home, you see,” said Gamache. “He’d been adopted from a shelter by Madame Longpré, when he was a puppy. So he knew the house. Madame Longpré died shortly after I met her. That’s how Reine-Marie and I came to have Henri.”

“Who owns the house now?” asked Thérèse.

Gamache explained about Olivier and the sequence of events that morning.

“You’re a sneak, Armand.” She leaned back in her seat.

“No more sneaky than that little charade in your office.”

“Oui,” she admitted. “Sorry about that.”

“What did you do?” Jérôme asked his wife.

“She called me into her office and gave me a dressing-down,” said Gamache. “Told me I was delusional and she wasn’t going to be sucked in anymore. She even threatened to go to Francoeur and tell him everything.”

“Thérèse,” said Jérôme, impressed. “You tormented and tricked this poor feeble man?”

“Had to, in case anyone was listening.”

“Well, you had me convinced,” said Gamache.

“Did I really?” She seemed pleased. “Good.”

“He is easily fooled, I hear,” said Jérôme. “Famous for his credulity.”

“Most homicide detectives are,” agreed Gamache.

“How’d you finally catch on?” Jérôme asked.

“Years of training. A keen knowledge of human nature,” said Gamache. “And she gave me this.”

From his pocket he took a piece of paper, neatly folded, and handed it over.

If Jérôme really has found something, I have to presume our home and my office are bugged. Have told Jérôme to pack for Vancouver, but don’t want to involve our daughter. Suggestions?

“After Olivier called and said we could use this home, I wrote a note on the one Thérèse gave me,” said Gamache, “and asked Inspector Lacoste to show it to her.”

Jérôme turned the note on its side. Scribbled there, in Gamache’s hand, was Go to the airport for your flight, but don’t board. Take a taxi to the Dix-Trente mall in Brossard. I’ll meet you there. I know a safe place.

Dr. Brunel handed the note back to Gamache. He’d noticed the first line of his wife’s message. If Jérôme really has found something …

As the other two talked, he sipped his wine and looked into the fireplace. It was no longer a matter of if.

He hadn’t told Thérèse, but after she’d finally fallen back to sleep, he’d done something foolish. He’d gone to his computer and tried again. He’d dug deeper and deeper into the system. Partly to see what he could find, but also to see if he could attract the watcher. If there was one. He wanted to tempt him out into the open.

And he had. The watcher appeared, but not where Jérôme Brunel expected. Not behind him, following, but in front of him. Luring Jérôme on, and in.

Trapping him.

Jérôme Brunel had fled, erasing, erasing, erasing his electronic footprints. But still the watcher followed. With sure, swift, relentless steps. He’d followed Jérôme Brunel right to their home.

There was no if about it. He’d found something. And he’d been found.

“A safe place,” said Thérèse. “I didn’t think one existed.”

“And now?” Armand asked.

She looked around and smiled.

Jérôme Brunel, though, did not smile.

*   *   *

The debriefing was over and the Sûreté teams were heading home.

Beauvoir sat at his desk, his head lolling. His mouth open, each shallow breath unnaturally loud. His eyes were partly open and he felt himself sliding forward.

The raid was over. There were no bikers. He’d almost wept with relief, and would have, right there in that shithole of a bunker, had no one been watching.

It was over. And now he was back, safe in his office.

Tessier walked by, then backed up and looked in.

“I was hoping to catch you, Beauvoir. The informant fucked up, but what can we do? The boss feels badly about that, so he’s put you on the next raid.”