How the Light Gets In

“Audrey Villeneuve’s files were immediately overwritten, her car cleaned out, her home searched,” said Francoeur. “Anything even remotely incriminating has disappeared.”

“Except her. She was found. Tessier and his people missed the water. Hard to do, wouldn’t you say, given it’s such a large target? Makes me wonder how good their aim must be.”

Francoeur looked around. They were alone in the dining room, except for a cluster of bodyguards by the door. No one could see them. No one could record them. No one could overhear them. But still, Francoeur lowered his voice. Not to a whisper. That felt too much like plotting. But he dropped his voice to a discreet level.

“That turned out to be the best possible outcome,” said Francoeur. “It’s still listed as a suicide, but the fact that her body was found under the bridge allowed Tessier and his people to get under there too. Without questions being asked. It was a godsend.”

Francoeur’s companion raised his brows and smiled.

It was an attractive, almost boyish expression. His face held just enough character, just enough flaws, to appear genuine. His voice held a hint of roughness, so that his words never came across as glib. His suits, while tailored, were just that little bit off, so that he looked like both an executive and a man of the people.

One of us, to everyone.

There were few people Sylvain Francoeur admired. Few men he met he didn’t immediately want to piss on. But this man was one. More than thirty years they’d known each other. They’d met as young men and each had risen in his respective profession.

Francoeur’s lunch companion ripped the warm bun in half and buttered it.

He’d come up the hard way, Francoeur knew. But he’d come up. From a worker on the James Bay hydro dams to one of the most powerful men in Québec.

It was all about power. Creating it. Using it. Taking it from others.

“Are you saying God is on our side?” his companion asked, clearly amused.

“And luck,” said Francoeur. “Hard work, patience, a plan. And luck.”

“And was it luck that tipped Gamache to what we were doing? Was it luck that he stopped the dam collapse last year?”

The conversation had taken a turn. The voice, so warm, had solidified.

“Years we worked on that, Sylvain. Decades. Only to have you bungle it.”

Francoeur knew the next few moments were critical. He couldn’t look weak, but neither could he confront. So he smiled, picked up his own roll, and tore it in half.

“You’re right, of course. But I think that’ll prove a godsend too. The dam was always problematic. We didn’t know for sure it would actually come down. And it would’ve caused so much damage to the power grid it would’ve taken years to recover. This is much better.”

He looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows, through the falling snow.

“I’m convinced it’s even better than the original plan. It has the very great advantage of being visible. Not happening in the middle of nowhere, but right here, in the center of one of the biggest cities in North America. Think of the visuals.”

Both men paused. Imagining it.

It wasn’t an act of destruction they were contemplating, but creation. They would manufacture rage, an outrage so great it would become a crucible. A cauldron. And that would produce a cry for action. And that would need a leader.

“And Gamache?”

“He’s no longer a factor,” said Francoeur.

“Don’t lie to me, Sylvain.”

“He’s isolated. His division’s a shambles. He all but destroyed it himself today. He has no more allies, and his friends have turned away.”

“Gamache is alive.” Francoeur’s companion leaned forward and lowered his voice. Not to conceal what he was about to say. But to drive home a point. “You’ve killed so many, Sylvain. Why hesitate with Gamache?”

“I’m not hesitating. Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to get rid of him. But even people no longer loyal to him would ask questions if he suddenly turned up in the St. Lawrence or was a hit-and-run. We don’t need that now. We’ve killed his career, his department. We’ve killed his credibility and broken his spirit. No need to kill the man, just yet. Not unless he gets too close. But he won’t. I have him distracted.”

“How?”

“By dangling someone he cares about over the edge. Gamache is desperate to save this man—”

“Jean-Guy Beauvoir?”

Francoeur paused a moment, surprised his companion knew that. But then another thought occurred to him. While he was spying on Gamache, was this man spying on him?