Outside the picture window the darkness was complete, but every thirty seconds or so a fist of water hit it.
Half an hour later Gamache turned off the lights and got into bed.
“We’ll be there tomorrow,” said Beauvoir, already half asleep. “Do you think we’ll find Peter?”
“I do.”
Gamache drifted closer to sleep, thinking of what awaited them.
Isolation and the company of a madman could twist even the most stable person, never mind someone already foundering. As Peter was.
They would almost certainly find Peter Morrow the next day, but Gamache was far from sure if he’d be a Peter they’d want to find.
* * *
Jean-Guy woke up to pale pink light coming into the cabin and the smell of coffee. It was early. The women weren’t yet stirring.
But Gamache was up and at the dining table. Staring at Peter’s paintings and humming to himself.
“Okay, patron?” Jean-Guy asked, sitting up in bed. Something seemed off. Wrong.
And then he realized what it was. For the first time in days the Loup de Mer wasn’t lurching and twisting and heaving.
“Oui.” But Gamache’s voice and mind were far away.
“Are we still moving?” Beauvoir looked out the window.
The storm had gone, moving off down the river. Toward Anticosti, and Sept-Îles, Quebec City and finally Montréal.
On his way to the bathroom, Beauvoir paused at the table long enough to see that Peter’s painting had been turned around. So that the overwhelming sorrow was now giddy joy.
And yet the expression on the Chief’s face was grim.
“What is it?” Jean-Guy asked when he returned and set mugs of strong coffee on the table.
“Merci,” said Gamache, still distracted.
And then he told Jean-Guy what he’d found hiding in that painting.
There, among the lips, the waves, the sadness and hope, he’d found a sin-sick soul.
* * *
Myrna and Clara woke up to shafts of sunlight through the picture window.
The Loup de Mer seemed not to be moving at all. If it wasn’t for the now-comforting thrum of the engines, they’d have thought the ship was dead in the water. But out the window, Clara and Myrna could see the shoreline gliding past.
The sky had cleared and the river was glass. The Loup de Mer sailed into a gleaming, pastel day.
The shore rose smoothly out of the water, as though the river itself had simply turned to stone.
The main cabin was empty. The men had gone.
The women poured coffee and took turns in the bathroom. Then, dressed, they went up on deck, where they found Gamache, Beauvoir, and Chartrand leaning against the railing.
“Feeling better?” Clara asked, standing beside the gallery owner. He looked pale, but no longer green.
“Much. I’m sorry, I haven’t been much help, or good company.”
Clara smiled, but saw Myrna and Gamache watching Chartrand. And Clara could guess what they were thinking. Exactly what she was thinking.
It was a miraculous, and timely, recovery on the part of Marcel Chartrand. So sick for so long. But resurrected just in time to arrive in Tabaquen.
Clara knew he’d been genuinely seasick. But perhaps not quite as sick as he seemed.
And now all five leaned against the railing as the Loup de Mer sailed down the coast, almost eerie now in the extreme calm.
Myrna switched her gaze to Armand. Where the others watched the shore, Gamache was facing forward. Not looking at where they were, or had been, but where they were going.
Here was a mariner. A man before the mast. But he also, this bright morning, looked like what he was by nature. A homicide detective. In the land God gave to Cain.
And Myrna knew then that this day might begin with startling calm, but it would almost certainly end in death.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“That’s Agneau-de-Dieu,” said Jean-Guy.
Clara hadn’t spoken in half an hour. No one had spoken in fifteen minutes.
In silence they’d watched the coastline and listened to the familiar sound of the hull through the tranquil water.
The sun was up, revealing a land almost unspeakably beautiful. Simple. And clear. Rocks, lichen, shrubs. Some determined trees.
And then the small harbor and the homes built on stone.
Agneau-de-Dieu. A few children stood on the shore and waved. Greeting the ship that didn’t pause.
Clara forced herself to wave back and noticed that Chartrand did too.
Did he know them? Is that why he waved?
But her mind couldn’t rest on that thought. It went back to the only thing it could contain.
Peter. Peter was here, somewhere.
Then Agneau-de-Dieu was behind them, out of sight, and they couldn’t yet see Tabaquen. A jagged fist of rock jutting into the river separated the two.
Clara’s breathing came in quick shallow gasps, as though she’d run a great distance. She felt her hands grow cold. Was she turning to stone, she wondered. Like the hares.
They rounded the outcropping and Clara squared her shoulders and finally took a deep breath, preparing herself. Steeling herself.
And then she caught her first sight of Tabaquen.
The harbor was a natural shelter, the rocks reaching into the river on both sides, like stone arms. Here, unexpectedly, there were trees. Dwarfed, clinging to the ground. But determined to live. It looked like stubble on a worn face.
The harbor formed a sun trap, a rocky bowl. So that things lived here that would perish elsewhere. It was an oddity of nature and geology and geography.
As the ship glided to the long quai, the harbor felt like a sort of a haven.
Was that how a sorcerer lured his victims?
Was that how a muse might do it? Lull you in, lure you in. From the storm. With the promise of eternal safety. Eternal peace.
Was this what death felt like?
Clara took a step back from the railing, but Myrna stopped her. Held her firm.
“It’s all right,” she whispered.
And Clara, her heart pounding, stopped. And stepped forward again.
They grabbed their cases and waited for the gangway.
Gamache was first in line, but Clara, wordlessly, stepped in front of him. And he, wordlessly, stepped back.
When the bridge from ship to shore appeared, Clara was the first to take it.
Down, down, down. She led them, until she was standing on the dock. Her friends behind her.
“With your permission,” Gamache said, and Clara could see that something had shifted. He was asking, to be courteous. But that was all.
Clara nodded and Armand Gamache did not hesitate.
He walked briskly to the first person he saw, an elderly man with a large oiled hat, watching the Loup de Mer unload.
“We’re looking for a fellow named Norman,” he said. “He might go by the name No Man.”
The man looked away, out to the open river.
“Get back on the boat. There’s nothing here for you.”
“We need to see No Man,” Gamache repeated, his voice friendly but firm.
“You should leave.”
“Armand?” Myrna asked.
She and Clara were standing a distance away, scanning the harbor and the village for Peter. But there was no one about. No man, no woman, no child. The place felt more abandoned than deserted. As though everyone had fled. One step ahead of a disaster.
Myrna could feel her resolve slipping away. Flowing and flooding away. Pouring through the cracks in her courage. Behind them was the ship. With the croissants and the bathtub and the soft, rhythmic rocking.
It would take them home. To her croissants and her bathtub, and the solid ground of Three Pines.
Gamache and Beauvoir walked over to them.
“Jean-Guy and I need to find Norman. And you need to stay here.”
“But—” Clara was silenced by the slightest movement of his
hand, and the determination in his face.
Whether he held the rank of Chief Inspector or not, this man would always lead, and would always be followed. Even if following sometimes meant staying behind.
“We’ve come this far,” said Clara.
“And this is far enough,” said Gamache. His look was so kindly she felt herself calming down.
“I need to find Peter,” she insisted.
“You will,” said Gamache. “But we need to find Norman first. The fisherman says he’s up there.”
Gamache pointed. Toward a rise, a hill. Where there were no dwellings, no buildings at all. It was just rock and scrub.
“There’s a diner.” Beauvoir waved at a weathered clapboard building. “You can wait for us there.”
Clara had forgotten that they’d been here before.
“I should go with you,” said Chartrand.
“You should stay here,” said Gamache. Then he turned to Clara. “You’ve brought us this far. Now you need to wait here. If we find Peter we’ll bring him to you. I promise.”
He gave a brief nod of thanks to the elderly man, who’d turned away and was again staring out at the harbor, and the river beyond.
And in that instant Gamache had the sense the elderly man hadn’t so much been watching for the ship, as waiting.
A mariner on dry land. But always a boatman. Perhaps even a voyageur.
Clara stopped at the door to the diner and watched as Armand and Jean-Guy walked out of town. And on the top of the hill, they paused.
Two figures, a few feet apart, against the morning sky.
Clara tilted her head slightly and narrowed her eyes. Then she felt her heart squeeze. They looked like the ears of a hare. Like in Peter’s painting.
In the diner she unrolled one of his canvases. Marcel Chartrand brought over a plate of lemon meringue pie and put it on one of the corners, to keep it from curling up.
Then Clara sat down and stared into the painting, the closest she could come, for now, to being in Peter’s company.
* * *
Ahead of them, in the distance, Gamache and Beauvoir could see the village of Agneau-de-Dieu. And at their backs was Tabaquen.
And in between was a stretch of terrain. Desolate. Empty.
No Man’s land.
Except for one neat little house.
No Man’s home.
As they watched, a figure slowly unfolded from a chair. Lanky, gangly, like a puppet or scarecrow. He stood, framed in the dark rectangle of the door. Then he took a step toward them. Then another.
And then he stopped. Paralyzed.
* * *
The man stood up when he saw them on the hill. He stood, and he stared. And then he reached out to grasp the weather-beaten post holding up the porch. He gripped it tight, clinging to it, and to his reason. Knowing what he saw could not possibly be real.
It was a mirage, a jest, a trick. Conjured from exhaustion and shock.
He leaned against the rough post and stared at the men.
It could not be.
* * *
Gamache and Beauvoir stared at the man on the porch.
And then they broke into a rapid walk that verged on a run.
The man on the porch saw this and backed up. He looked behind him, into the cave of the small house.
Then he looked at the specters, making their way toward him. Swarming toward him, down the hill. From Tabaquen.
“Peter?” Jean-Guy called.
Peter Morrow, frozen in place, stared.
“My God, it is you,” he said.
Peter was disheveled, his hair unruly, unkempt. The normally well-groomed man had two days’ stubble on his face, and purple under his eyes.
He hugged the post and looked like he’d buckle to the ground if he let go. When Gamache was within reach, Peter let go of the post and gripped Armand.
“You came,” Peter whispered, afraid to blink in case they disappeared. “Armand, thank God. It’s you.”
He squeezed Gamache’s arms to make sure this wasn’t some illusion.
Armand Gamache stared into Peter Morrow’s blue, bloodshot eyes. And saw exhaustion and desperation. And perhaps, just there, the tiniest glint of hope.
He took Peter by the shoulders and sat him in a chair on the porch.
“Is he inside?” Gamache asked, and Peter nodded.
“Stay here,” said Beauvoir, though it was clear that Peter Morrow had absolutely no intention of going anywhere.
* * *
Inside the one-room cabin, Armand Gamache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir stared down at the bed.
A pillow lay over the head of the body. And from underneath it the blood had poured, flooding out, turning the white sheets a brilliant red.
But that had stopped hours ago, the investigators could tell. When the heart had stopped. Hours ago.
Gamache felt for the man’s pulse. There was none. He was cold as marble.
“Did you put the pillow over his face?” Gamache called out the door.
“God, no,” came the reply.
Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged glances. Then, steeling himself, Armand Gamache lifted the pillow, as Jean-Guy recorded the events.
And then Gamache sighed. A long, long, slow exhale.
“When did Professor Massey arrive?” the Chief asked, staring down at the bed. The dead man’s mouth was slightly open, as though a thought had occurred to him in the instant before he died.
What would he have said? Don’t do it? Please, please, for God’s sake. Would he have begged for his life? Would he have screamed recriminations? Empty threats?
Gamache doubted it. Rarely had he seen a man so apparently at peace with being murdered. With being driven to Samarra and dumped in front of Death.
But perhaps, Gamache thought as he looked at those calm eyes, this appointment was fated.
Two men whose lives had crossed decades before, walking to this terrible moment in this desolate place.
“He arrived a couple days ago, I think.” The voice drifted in through the open door as though the wider world was speaking to them. “I’ve lost track of time.”
“When did this happen?” Beauvoir asked. “Not a couple of days ago. He died fairly recently.”
“Last night. Early this morning maybe. I found him like that this morning.”
There was a pause and Gamache walked to the door. Peter was sitting, collapsed in the chair, stunned.
“Look at me,” said Gamache, his voice calm, reasonable. Trying to bring Peter back to reality. He could see Peter detaching, drifting away. From the cabin, from the coast, from the horrific discovery.
From the blood-sodden bed, and the stone man with the slit throat. Like a grotesque sculpture. Gamache couldn’t decide if the look of extreme peace made it better or worse.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t here. Professor Norman sent me away, asked me to leave the two of them alone and come back in the morning. This morning. When I did, I found—” He waved toward the cabin door.
Gamache could hear Beauvoir taking pictures and dictating into his device.
“White male. Cause of death, a wound to the throat made with a large knife, cutting from the carotid artery to the jugular. No sign of struggle. No sign of the weapon.”
“Did you touch anything?” Gamache asked.
“No, nothing.” And Peter sounded so revolted that Gamache believed him.
“Has anyone else been here since you arrived this morning?”
“Only Luc. He comes by every morning. I sent him away to call for help.”
Now Peter really focused on Gamache.
“Isn’t that why you’re here, Armand?” Then Peter became confused, flustered. “But what time is it?” He looked around. “It can’t be that late. How’d you get here so fast?”
“By Luc you mean Luc Vachon?” said Gamache, sidestepping the question for the moment. Peter nodded.
“A follower of No Man?” asked Beauvoir from inside
the cabin.
“I suppose. A student, really.”
“Did Vachon get close to the body?” Gamache asked.
“Close enough to know what had happened,” said Peter. His own eyes widened, remembering the sight.
“Close enough to take something?” asked Beauvoir. “Like the knife?”
He’d come out onto the porch and was staring at Peter. So like the Peter they’d known for years, but so unlike him too. This Peter was vague, unsteady. At sea. His hair was long and windswept and his clothing, while clean, was disheveled. It was as though he’d been turned upside down and shaken.
“I don’t know,” said Peter, “he might have gotten close enough.”
“Think,” said Gamache, his voice firm, not bullying, but commanding.
Peter seemed to steady himself. “It was all so chaotic. We were yelling at each other. Demanding to know what had happened. He wanted to move the pillow, but I stopped him. I knew enough to know nothing should be touched.”
“But was Vachon close enough to take the knife?” Beauvoir asked.
“Yes, I guess so.” Peter was getting upset now, belligerent, feeling badgered. “But I didn’t see a knife and I didn’t see him take one. He seemed as shocked and upset as me. You don’t think Luc did it?”
Gamache looked at his watch. “It’s almost noon.”
But that meant nothing to Peter.
“When did you send Vachon to call?” asked Beauvoir.
“I got here about seven, as usual. Luc came a few minutes later.”
“Five hours.” Beauvoir looked at Gamache.
“Where would Vachon have gone to call?” Gamache asked. “Tabaquen?”
“Probably. Phone service is sketchy here, but the harbormaster generally has a good line. Needs it in case there’s an emergency on the water.”
“As far as we know, Luc Vachon never made that call,” said Gamache. “Either because he didn’t want to, or because he couldn’t.”
“If Luc did it, why’d he come back?” Peter demanded, his brain kicking in.
“Maybe he left the knife behind,” Gamache suggested. “Maybe he needed to make sure the professor was really dead. Maybe whoever did it sent him back, to retrieve the knife or other evidence.”
“‘Whoever did it’?” Peter asked. “Who do you mean?”
Gamache was looking at him. Not with the eyes of Armand, his friend. But the sharp, assessing, unrelenting gaze of the head of homicide.