That stopped the Chief Superintendent as he made for the door. He turned and stared at Chief Inspector Gamache. In the long silence between the men they heard a small lecture on cow versus horse compost.
“I need more evidence.”
“Agent Lacoste is trying to collect it.”
“Where is she?”
Chief Inspector Gamache glanced quickly at Inspector Beauvoir. They’d dispatched Agent Lacoste two hours ago. To a remote Cree community. To the settlements closest to the great dam. Most affected by it going up. And most affected were it to suddenly, catastrophically, come down. There she’d been told to visit an elderly Cree woman Gamache had met years earlier. On a bench. Outside the Château Frontenac.
They’d hoped to have her evidence by now. To convince Chief Superintendent Francoeur to stop his high-tech search and lower his sights. To change course. To stop looking at the present and look to the past.
But so far, nothing from Agent Lacoste.
“I’m begging you, sir,” said Gamache. “Just put a few people on it. Quietly alert security at the dam. See what the other forces might have.”
“And look like a fool?”
“Look like a thorough commander.”
Chief Superintendent Francoeur glared at Gamache. “Fine. I’ll do that much.”
He left and Gamache saw him speaking with his own second in command. While he suspected Francoeur of many things, the murder of tens of thousands of Québécois wasn’t among them.
He slipped the headphones back on and rejoined Agent Morin, describing an argument he and his sister once had that resulted in fresh peas being thrown. His voice was once again slow, exhausted.
Gamache picked up the conversation, telling Morin about arguments between his own children, Daniel and Annie, when they were young. How Daniel was the more sensitive, more measured of the two. How Annie, young and bright, could always best her brother. And about the competition between them that had settled, with time, into a deep affection.
But as he spoke he knew two things.
In just under six hours, at 11:18, the La Grande Hydro Electric Dam would be blown up. And Agent Paul Morin would be executed. And Chief Inspector Gamache knew something else. If it was possible to stop only one of those acts, he knew which it would have to be.
“How’s your friend?”
“Friend?” Gamache turned to see Elizabeth bringing a few books into the library and placing them on the “returns” cart.
“Monsieur Comeau,” she said. “Émile.” She leaned over the cart, sorting books, not looking at Gamache.
“Oh, he’s fine. I’m seeing him in a few hours at the Château. There’s a meeting of the Société Champlain.”
“Interesting man,” she said then left, leaving Gamache alone in the library once again. He waited until he heard her steps disappear then looked around at the acres of books. Where to start?
“Are you close? Are you going to make it?”
Fatigue had finally worn Morin down, so that his fear, contained for so long, boiled out through frayed nerves and down the telephone line.
“We’ll make it. Trust me.”
There was a pause. “Are you sure?” The voice was strained, almost squeaky.
“I’m sure. Are you afraid?”
There was no answer, just silence and then a keening.
“Agent Morin,” said Gamache, standing up at his desk. He waited and still there was no reply, except the sound which said it all.
Gamache talked for a few minutes, soothing words about nothing in particular. About spring flowers and wrapping presents for his grandchildren, about lunches at Leméac Bistro on rue Laurier and his father’s favorite song. And in the background was a wailing, a sobbing and coughing, a howling as Agent Morin finally broke down. It surprised Gamache the young man had been able to hold his terror in so long.
But now it was out, and fled down the phone line.
Chief Inspector Gamache talked about skiing at Mont Saint-Rémy and Clara Morrow’s art and Ruth Zardo’s poetry and slowly, in the background, the howling became a sob and the sob became a shuddering breath and the breath became a sigh.
Gamache paused. “Are you afraid?” he asked again.
Outside the office, through the large glass window, the agents, analysts, special investigators and Chief Superintendent Francoeur all stopped and stared at the Chief Inspector, and listened to the agent who had been so brave and was now falling apart.
Down in her dim studio Agent Yvette Nichol recorded it all and, glowing green, she listened.
“Are you with me, Agent Morin?”
“Yes sir.” But the voice was small, uncertain.
“I will find you in time.” Each word was said slowly, deliberately. Words made of rock and stone, firm words. “Stop imagining the worst.”
“But—”
“Listen to me,” the Chief commanded. “I know what you’re doing. It’s natural, but you must stop. You’re imagining the clock reaching zero, imagining the bomb going off. Am I right?”
“Sort of.” There was panting, as though Morin had run a race.
“Stop it. If you have to look ahead think about seeing Suzanne again, think about seeing your mother and father, think of the great stories you can bore your children with. Control your thoughts and you can control your emotions. Do you trust me?”
“Yes sir.” The voice was stronger.
“Do you trust me, Agent Morin?” insisted the Chief.
“Yes sir.” The voice more confident.
“Do you think I’d lie to you?”
“No sir, never.”
“I will find you in time. Do you believe me?”
“Yes sir.”
“What will I do?”
“You’ll find me in time.”
“Never, ever forget that.”
“Yes sir.” Agent Morin’s voice was strong, as certain as the Chief Inspector’s. “I believe you.”
“Good.” Gamache spoke and let his young agent rest. He talked about his first job, scraping gum off the Montreal Metro platforms and how he met Madame Gamache. He talked about falling in love.
Now there is no more loneliness.
As he spoke he followed all the instant messaging. The information. From Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Nichol as they isolated the recordings and reported on their findings. Sounds hidden in the background. Planes, birds, trains. Echoes. And things not heard. Cars and trucks.
Agent Lacoste finally reporting in from the Cree community. Leads she was following on the ground. Getting them closer to the truth.
He looked at the clock. Four hours and seventeen minutes left.
In his ear, in his head, Paul Morin talked about the Canadiens and their hockey season. “I think we finally have a shot at the cup this season.”
“Yes,” said Gamache. “I think we finally have a chance.”
In the gallery of the Literary and Historical Society, Armand Gamache reached for the first book. Over the next few hours the library opened, the volunteers arrived and went about their work, Mr. Blake showed up and took his seat. A few other patrons appeared, found books, read periodicals, and left.
And all the while on the gallery the Chief Inspector pulled out books, examining them one at a time. Finally, just after noon he took his seat across from Mr. Blake. They exchanged pleasantries before both men subsided into their reading.
At one o’clock Armand Gamache rose, nodded to Mr. Blake then left, taking two books hidden in his satchel with him.
TWENTY–TWO
Myrna handed Clara a book.
“I think you’ll like it. It’s one of my favorites.”
Clara turned it over. Mordecai Richler, Solomon Gursky Was Here.
“Is it good?”
“No, it’s crap. I only sell crap here, and recommend it of course.”
“So Ruth was right,” said Clara. She tipped the book toward Myrna. “Thank you.”
“Okay,” said Myrna, sitting across from her friend. “Spill.”
The woodstove was heating the bookstore and keeping the perpetual pot of tea warmed. Clara sipped from her favorite mug and read the back of the book as though she hadn’t heard her friend.
“What’s going on?” Myrna persisted.
Clara raised innocent eyes. “With what?”
Myrna gave her a withering look. “Something’s up. I know you, what was all that at Dominique’s yesterday after exercise class?”
“Sparkling conversation.”
“It wasn’t that.” Myrna watched Clara. She’d been wanting to ask for several days, but the episode at the inn and spa convinced her.
Clara was up to something.
“Was it obvious?” Clara put the book down and looked at Myrna, her eyes worried.
“Not at all. I doubt anyone noticed.”
“You did.”
“True, but I’m very smart.” Her smile faded and she leaned forward. “Don’t worry, I’m sure no one else found it strange. But you were asking some unusual questions. Why were you talking about Jean-Guy and Olivier and all that?”
Clara hesitated. She hadn’t expected to be asked and had no lie prepared. Foolish, really. What were her regular lies?
I’m busy that night. The art world’s just too conservative to appreciate my work. The dog did it or, as a variation, it’s Ruth’s fault. That covered everything from smells, to missing food, to dirt through the house. To, sometimes, her art.
It didn’t, however, seem to cover this.
“I think having the Inspector here just reminded me of Olivier, that’s all.”
“Bullshit.”
Clara sighed. She’d really messed up. The one promise she’d made to Beauvoir she was about to break. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
And Clara believed Myrna but then, Beauvoir had believed her. Oh well, his mistake.
“Inspector Beauvoir’s not here to recover from his injuries. He came down to unofficially reopen Olivier’s case.”
Myrna smiled. “I’d hoped that might be it. The only other explanation was that you’d lost your mind.”
“And you weren’t sure which it was?”
“It’s so hard to tell.” Myrna’s eyes were bright. “This is the best news. So they think maybe Olivier didn’t kill the Hermit? But then, who did?”
“That’s the question. Seems it comes down to Roar, Havoc, Marc, Vincent or Old Mundin. And I have to say, what The Wife said about killing was pretty strange.”
“That’s true,” said Myrna. “But—”
“But if she or Old were really involved she’d never have talked about killing. She’d have kept quiet.”
“There you are.”
The two women looked up with a guilty start. Inspector Beauvoir was standing in the doorway that connected the bookstore to the bistro.
“I was looking for you.” He gave them a mighty frown. “What’re you talking about?”
Unlike Gamache, who could make an interrogation sound like a pleasant conversation, Beauvoir managed to make niceties sound like accusations.
Though, both women knew, he had good reason.
“Tea?” Myrna offered and busied herself pouring another cup and putting more hot water and another bag into the Brown Betty on the woodstove. This left Clara trying not to catch Beauvoir’s eye. He sat beside Clara and glared at her.
The dog did it, the dog did it.
“I told Myrna everything.” Clara paused. “It’s Ruth’s fault.”
“Everything?” Beauvoir lowered his voice.
“So, I hear we still have a murderer among us,” said Myrna, handing the mug to Beauvoir and taking her seat.
“Just about,” said Clara.
Beauvoir shook his head. Still, it wasn’t perhaps unexpected, nor was it necessarily a bad thing. Myrna had helped the Chief in the past and while Beauvoir had never, until now, wanted to ask for help from the villagers he suspected they actually had some to give. And now he had no choice.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
“I’d like to hear more. Have you found out anything new?”
He told them about his conversation with Gamache and what the chief had found out in Quebec City about Old Mundin’s family and Carole Gilbert.
“Woloshyn?” Clara repeated. “Woo?”
“Perhaps,” Beauvoir nodded.
“The inn and spa has a lot of antiques,” said Myrna. “Could they have found them on rue Notre-Dame?”
“In the same store where Olivier sold the Hermit’s things?” said Beauvoir. “You’re thinking if they went in, they might have recognized some of Olivier’s items?”
“Exactly,” said Myrna. “All Carole Gilbert would have to do is casually ask how the owner got them. He would have directed her to Olivier and Three Pines, and voilà.”
“No, it doesn’t work,” said Beauvoir.
“Of course it does. It’s perfect,” said Clara.
“Think about it,” Beauvoir turned to her. “Olivier sold those things to the antique shop years ago. If Carole Gilbert found them why’d they wait almost ten years to buy the old Hadley house?”
The three sat there, thinking. Eventually Clara and Myrna started batting around other theories, but Beauvoir remained lost in his own thoughts.
Of names. Of families. And of patience.
Armand Gamache folded back the sleeve of his parka so that he could see his watch.
Quarter past one. A little early for the meeting. He dropped his arm over the satchel, protecting it.
Instead of heading straight in to the Château Frontenac he decided to stroll along the Dufferin Terrace, the long wooden boardwalk that swept in front of the hotel and overlooked the St. Lawrence River. In the summer it was filled with ice cream carts and musicians and people relaxing in the pergolas. In the winter a bitter damp wind blew down the St. Lawrence River and hit pedestrians, stealing their breaths and practically peeling the skin off their faces. But still people walked along the outdoor terrasse, so remarkable was the view.
And there was another attraction. La glissade. The ice slide. Built every winter it towered above the promenade. As he turned the corner of the Château the wind hit Gamache’s face. Tears sprung to his eyes and froze. Ahead, midway along the terrasse, he could see the slide, three lanes wide with stairs cut into the snow at the side.
Even on this brittle day kids were lugging their rented toboggans up the steps. In fact, the colder the day the better. The ice would be keen and the toboggans would race down the steep slope, shooting off the end. Some toboggans were going so fast and so far pedestrians on the terrasse had to leap out of their way.
As he watched he noticed it wasn’t just kids climbing to the top, but adults as well including a few young couples. It was as effective as a scary movie to get a hug, and he remembered clearly coming to the slide with Reine-Marie early in their relationship. Climbing to the top, dragging the long toboggan with them, waiting their turn. Gamache, deathly afraid of heights, was still trying to pretend otherwise with this girl who’d stolen his heart so completely.
“Would you like me to sit in front?” she’d whispered as the people in front of them shoved off and plummeted down the slide.
He’d looked at her, a protest on his lips, when he realized here was a person he needn’t lie to, needn’t pretend with. He could be himself.
Their toboggan hurtled toward the Dufferin Terrace below, though it looked as though they were heading straight into the river. Armand Gamache shrieked and clutched Reine-Marie. At the bottom they laughed so hard he thought he’d ruptured something. He never did it again. When they’d brought Daniel and Annie it had been their mother who’d taken them while Dad waited at the bottom with the camera.
Now Chief Inspector Gamache stood and watched the kids, the couples, an elderly man and woman walk up the narrow snow steps and then shoot back down.
It comforted him slightly to hear that they too screamed. And laughed.
As he watched he h
eard another shout but this wasn’t from the direction of the ice slide. This came from over the side of the terrace, from the river.
He wasn’t the only one to notice. A few people drifted to the handrail. Gamache walked over and wasn’t surprised to see teams of canoeists out on the ice practicing. The race was Sunday, two days away.
“Stroke, stroke,” came the command. While there were three boats out there, only one voice was heard, loud and clear.
“Left, stroke, left, stroke.” An English voice.
Gamache strained but couldn’t make out which boat it was, nor did he recognize the voice. It wasn’t Tom Hancock. Nor did he think it was likely to be Ken Haslam. A telescope was available, and though it was all but frozen, as was he, Gamache put some money in and trained it on the river.
Not the first boat.
Not the second, though he could see the leader’s mouth moving he couldn’t hear the words.
He trained the telescope on the furthest boat. Surely not. Not from so far away. Was it possible the piercing voice had traveled this far?
The boat was way out there in the middle of the river, six men sitting down, rowing. The boats could be paddled or rowed, could be in water or dragged over ice. This team was just clearing open water and heading upstream toward an ice floe.
“Stroke, stroke,” came the command again. And now, because the racers were heading forward but facing backward, Gamache could see who it was.
He stared through the lens, not daring to touch his forehead to the metal telescope in case it froze there.
The booming, clear voice belonged to Ken Haslam.
Walking back to the Château, Gamache thought about that. Why would a man whisper all through his life, in every circumstance but be able, in fact, to shout?
Louder than anyone else out there. His voice had been piercing.
Was Haslam as surprised as Gamache? Had Haslam, in his sixty-eighth year, found his voice on the ice of Québec, doing something few others would attempt?
It was always a relief to get indoors, and even more wonderful when that indoors was the Château Frontenac. In the magnificent front lobby Gamache took off his mitts, coat, hat and scarf and checked them. Then, still protecting his satchel with his arm, he walked down the long, wide corridor to the double glass doors at the far end, with the light streaming through.