Bury Your Dead

TWELVE

Jean-Guy Beauvoir got back to Three Pines by mid-afternoon after his visits to Olivier in prison and the antique shop in Montreal. He’d stopped at the Tim Hortons at exit 55 for a sandwich, a chocolate glazed doughnut and a double double coffee.

And now he was tired.

This was way more activity than he’d had since it had all happened, and he knew he needed to rest. At the B and B he had a long, luxurious bath and thought about what to do next.

Olivier had dropped a bombshell. Now he was saying the Hermit’s name wasn’t Jakob, and he wasn’t even Czech. He’d only said that to spread round the guilt, put attention onto the Parras and the other Czech families in the areas.

Not only was that not very neighborly, it wasn’t very effective. They’d still decided Olivier was the murderer and the courts had agreed.

OK. So. Beauvoir slipped deeper into the tub. Soaping himself he barely even noticed the ragged scar on his abdomen anymore. What he did notice was that his muscles were no longer toned. He wasn’t fat, but he was flabby from inactivity. Still, he could feel his strength slowly returning, more slowly than he would have imagined.

He cleared his mind of those thoughts and instead concentrated on what the Chief had asked him to do. Quietly reopen Olivier’s case.

Where do the day’s findings leave us? he wondered.

But nothing came to mind except his large, inviting bed which he could see through the bathroom door, with its crisp white sheets and down duvet and soft pillows.

Ten minutes later the bath was drained, the Do Not Disturb sign was outside his door and Jean-Guy was fast asleep, warm and safe under the covers.

He awoke to darkness and rolling over contentedly he looked at the bedside clock. 5:30. He sat up. 5:30? A.M. or P.M.?

Had he been asleep for two hours or fourteen? He felt rested but it could be either.

Putting on the light he got dressed then stood on the landing outside his door. The B and B was quiet. A couple of lights were on, but they often were. Feeling disoriented, disconcerted, he went downstairs and looking out the bay window of the B and B he had his answer.

Lights were on at the homes around the village green and they glowed bright and cheery at the bistro. Happy that he was in for dinner and not breakfast Jean-Guy threw on his coat and boots and crunched across the green to be greeted inside by Gabri who was, unexpectedly, in his pajamas.

Beauvoir was back to his original question. Was it A.M. or P.M.? He was damned if he was going to ask.

“Welcome back. I hear you spent last night in the woods with the saint. Was it as much fun as it sounds? You don’t look converted.”

Beauvoir looked at the large man in pajamas and slippers and decided not to tell him what he looked like.

“What can I get you, patron?” asked Gabri when Beauvoir didn’t respond.

What did he want? Scrambled eggs or a beer?

“A beer would be great, merci.” He took the micro-brewery ale and found a comfortable wing chair by the window. A paper lay on the table and picking it up, he read about the murder of Augustin Renaud in Quebec City. The mad archeologist.

“May I join you?”

He looked at Clara Morrow. She was also in pajamas and a dressing gown and, he glanced down, slippers. Could this be a new, and nightmarish, fashion trend? How long had he slept? While he knew flannel was an aphrodisiac to Anglos, it did nothing for Beauvoir. He’d never, ever worn it and didn’t plan to start.

Glancing around he noticed every third or fourth person was in a dressing gown. He’d always secretly suspected this was not a village but an out-patient clinic from an asylum, now he had his proof.

“Here for your meds?” he asked as she sat.

Clara laughed and held up her beer. “Always.” She nodded at his Maudite beer. “You too?”

Leaning forward he whispered, “What time is it?”

“Six.” When he still stared she added, “In the evening.”

“Then why . . .” He indicated her get-up.

“After Olivier was arrested it took Gabri a while to really function, so some of us helped out. He didn’t want to open on Sundays, but Myrna and I convinced him to and he finally agreed, on one condition.”

“Pajamas?”

“You are clever,” she smiled. “He didn’t want to have to get dressed. After a while most of us started doing the same thing, showing up in our pajamas. It’s very relaxing. I stay in them all day.”

Beauvoir tried to look disapproving but had to admit, she did look comfortable. She completed the look by having bed-head, though that was nothing new. Her hair always stuck out in all directions, probably where she ran her hands through it. And that would also account for the crumbs in there, and the flecks of paint.

He tried to think of something friendly to say, something that would lead her to believe he was there because he liked their company.

“Do you have your art show soon?”

“A couple of months.” She took a long haul of her beer. “When I’m not practicing my interview for the New York Times and Oprah I try not to think about it.”

“Oprah?”

“Yes. It’ll be a huge tribute show, to me. All the top art critics will be there, weeping of course, overwhelmed by my insight, by the power of my images. Oprah will buy a few pieces for 100 million each. Sometimes it’s 50 million, sometimes 150 million.”

“So she’s getting a bit of a bargain today.”

“I’m feeling generous.”

He laughed, surprising himself. He’d never had an actual conversation with Clara. With any of them. The Chief had. Somehow he’d managed to become friends with most of them but Beauvoir had never been able to pass through that membrane, to see people as both suspects and human. He’d never wanted to. The idea repulsed him.

He watched her take some mixed nuts and sip on her beer.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Do you think Olivier killed the Hermit?”

Her hand stopped on its way for more nuts. He’d dropped his voice as he spoke, making sure they weren’t overheard. She lowered her hand and thought for a good minute before answering.

“I don’t know. I wish I could say absolutely he didn’t, but the evidence is so strong. And if he didn’t then someone else did.”

She casually looked around the room, and he followed her gaze.

There was Old Mundin and The Wife. The handsome young couple was dining with the Parras. Old, despite his name, wasn’t yet thirty and was a carpenter. He also restored Olivier’s antiques and had been among the last people in the bistro the night the Hermit was killed. The Wife, Beauvoir knew, had an actual name though he’d forgotten what it was as had, he suspected, most people. What had started as a joke, the young couple mocking their married state, had become reality. She was The Wife. They had a young son, Charlie, who had Down syndrome.

Glancing at the child Beauvoir remembered that had been one of the reasons people considered Dr. Vincent Gilbert a saint. His decision to abandon a lucrative career to live in a community of people with Down syndrome, to care for them. From that experience he’d written the book Being. It was by most accounts a book of staggering honesty and humility. Staggering because it had been written by such an asshole.

Well, as Clara often told them, great works of creation often were.

Sitting with Old and The Wife were Roar and Hanna Parra. They’d been among the main suspects. Roar was cutting the paths through the woods and could have found the cabin with its priceless contents and shabby old occupant.

But why take the life and leave the treasure?

The same question held true for their son, Havoc Parra. Clara and Beauvoir glanced over at him, waiting a table by the other fireplace. He’d worked late in the bistro the night the Hermit had been killed and had closed up.

Had he followed Olivier through the woods and found the cabin?

Had he looked inside, seen the treasures, and realized what it meant? It meant no more tips, no more tables, no more smiling at rude customers. No wondering what the future held.

It meant freedom. And all he’d have to do was knock a solitary old man on the head. But, again, why were most of the priceless treasures still in the cabin?

Across the room were Marc and Dominique Gilbert. The owners of the inn and spa. In their mid-forties they’d escaped high-paying, high-pressure jobs in Montreal, to come to Three Pines. They’d bought the wreck on the hill and turned it into a magnificent hotel.

Olivier despised Marc and it was mutual.

Had the Gilberts bought the run-down old home because the Hermit and the cabin came with it? Buried in their woods?

And finally there was the asshole saint Dr. Vincent Gilbert, Marc’s estranged father who’d appeared at exactly the same time as the body. How could that have been a coincidence?

Clara’s gaze returned to Beauvoir just as the bistro door slammed shut.

“Goddamned snow.”

Beauvoir didn’t have to look round to know who it was. “Ruth,” he whispered to Clara, who nodded. “Still crazy?”

“After all these years,” Clara confirmed.

“Jeez,” Ruth appeared at Beauvoir’s chair, a scowl on her deeply wrinkled face. Her cropped white hair lay flat on her head, looking like exposed skull. She was tall and stooped and walked with a cane. The only good news was that she wasn’t in her nightgown.

“Welcome to the bistro,” she snarled, giving Clara the once over. “Where dignity goes to die.”

“And not just dignity,” said Beauvoir.

She gave a barking laugh. “You find another body?”

“I don’t follow bodies, you know. I have a life outside of work.”

“God, I’m bored already,” said the old poet. “Say something smart.”

Beauvoir was silent, looking at her with disdain.

“Thought so.” She took a swig of his beer. “Blech, this is crap. Can’t you drink something decent? Havoc! Get him a Scotch.”

“You old hag,” Beauvoir murmured.

“Oh, banter. Very clever.”

She intercepted his Scotch and stomped away. When she’d gotten far enough Beauvoir leaned across the table to Clara, who also leaned forward. The bistro was noisy with laughter and conversation, perfect for a quiet talk.

“If not Olivier,” said Beauvoir, keeping his voice down and a sharp eye on the room, “who?”

“I don’t know. What makes you think it wasn’t Olivier?”

Beauvoir hesitated. Should he cross the Rubicon? But he knew he already had.

“This must go no further. Olivier knows we’re looking into it, but I’ve told him to keep quiet. And you too.”

“Don’t worry, but why’re you telling me this?”

Why indeed? Because she was the best of a bad lot.

“I need your help. You obviously know everyone way better than I do. The Chief’s worried. Gabri keeps asking him why Olivier would move the body. It makes sense if he found the Hermit already dead but if you’ve just killed someone in a remote place you’re almost certainly not going to advertise. The Chief thinks we might have gotten it wrong. What do you think?”

She was obviously taken aback by the question. She thought about it before slowly answering. “I think Gabri will never believe Olivier did it, even if he’d witnessed it himself, but I also think that’s a good question. Where do we begin?”

We, thought Beauvoir, there is no “we.” There’s “me” and “you.” In that order. But he needed her so he swallowed the retort, pasted a smile on his face and answered.

“Well, Olivier now says the Hermit wasn’t Czech.”

Clara rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair which now stood out on both sides like Bozo. Beauvoir grimaced, but Clara neither noticed nor cared. Her mind was on other things. “Honestly, that man. Any other lies he’s admitting to?”

“Not so far. He thought the Hermit was Québécois or perhaps English but completely fluent in French. All his books were English and the ones he asked Olivier to find for him were also English. But he spoke perfect French.”

“How can I help?”

He thought for a moment then made a decision. “I’ve brought the case file. I’d like you to read it.”

She nodded.

“And since you know everyone here I’d like you to sometimes ask questions.”

Clara hesitated. She didn’t like the idea of being a spy but if he was right then an innocent man was in prison and a murderer was among them. Almost certainly in the room with them at that moment.

Myrna and Peter arrived and Beauvoir joined them for a bistro dinner, ordering the filet mignon with cognac blue cheese sauce. They chatted about various events in the village, the ski conditions at Mont Saint-Rémy, the Canadiens game the night before.

Ruth came by for dessert, eating most of Peter’s cheesecake, then she limped off alone into the night.

“She misses Rosa terribly,” said Myrna.

“What happened to her duck?” asked Beauvoir.

“Flew off in the fall,” said Myrna.

The duck was smarter than it looked, thought Beauvoir.

“I dread the spring,” said Clara. “Ruth’ll be expecting her back. Suppose she doesn’t come.”

“It doesn’t mean Rosa’s dead,” said Peter, though they all knew that wasn’t true. Rosa the duck was raised from birth, literally hatched, by Ruth. And against all odds, Rosa had survived and thrived and had grown up, to follow Ruth everywhere she went.

The duck and the fuck, as Gabri called them.

And then last fall Rosa did what ducks do, what was in her nature to do. As much as she loved Ruth, she had to go. And one afternoon, as other ducks quacked and flew in formation overhead, heading south, Rosa rose up.

And left.

After dinner Beauvoir thanked them and got up. Clara walked him to the door.

“I’ll do it,” she whispered.

Beauvoir handed her the dossier and headed into the cold dark night. Walking slowly back to the B and B toward his warm bed, he stopped partway across the village green and looked at the three tall pine trees still wearing their multi-color Christmas lights. The colors bounced off the drifts of fresh snow. Looking up he saw the stars and smelled the fresh, crisp air. Behind him he heard people calling good night to each other and heard their scrunching steps in the snow.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir changed direction and arriving at the old clapboard home he knocked. The door was opened a crack.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

Ruth stepped back and opened her door.

Armand Gamache sat at Renaud’s messy desk, bent over the diaries. For the past couple of hours he’d read them, making notes now and then. Like Champlain’s diaries, Augustin Renaud’s spoke of events but not feelings. They were really more of an agenda, but they were informative.

Sadly, while Renaud had made a note of the time of the Literary and Historical Society board meeting there was no indication why he was interested. And there was no mention of meeting anyone later in the day or that evening.

The next day was blank, though there was a notation for the following week. SC at 1pm on the Thursday.

The days stretched ahead, empty. Pages and pages, white and barren. A winter life. Not a lunch with a friend, not a meeting, not a personal comment. Nothing.

But what about his immediate past?

There were notations about books, page references, library references, articles. He’d made notes, done sketches of the old city, written addresses. Places, perhaps, he was considering for his next dig? All of them around the Notre-Dame Basilica.

It appeared he’d never considered any site outside a quite tight radius. Then what was he doing in the relative wilderness of the Lit and His? And if he was there simply to look for a book, as Émile had suggested, why was he in the basement, digging? And why ask to speak to the board?

Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Ruth Zardo stared at each other.

It felt like a cage match. Only one would emerge alive. Not for the first time in Ruth’s company, Beauvoir felt an unpleasant retraction below his belt.

“What do you want?” Ruth demanded.

“I want to talk,” snapped Beauvoir.

“Can’t it wait, asshole?”

“No, it can’t, you lunatic.” He paused. “Do you like me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I think you’re anal, idiotic, cruel and perhaps slightly retarded.”

“And I think the same of you,” he said, relieved. It was as he thought, as he’d hoped.

“Well, glad we got that straight. Thank you for coming by, now, nighty night.” Ruth reached for the doorknob.

“Wait,” Beauvoir said, his hand out, almost touching her withered arm. “Wait,” he said again, almost in a whisper. And Ruth did.

Gamache leaned closer to the diary, a small smile on his face.

Literary and Historical Society.

There it was. Written as bold as could be in Renaud’s diary. Not for the day of the board meeting, the day he died, but a week earlier. And above it the names of four people he’d planned to meet there.

A Chin, a JD and two people named S. Patrick and F. O’Mara. Beneath that was a number 18-something. Gamache slid the desk lamp over so that the light pooled on the page. 1800, or maybe 1869 or 8.

“Or is it 1809?” Gamache mumbled to himself, squinting and flipping to the next page to see if, from the back, it was any clearer. It wasn’t.

He took off his reading glasses and leaned back in the chair, tapping the glasses absently on his knee.

1800 would make sense. That would be a time, six in the evening. Most Québécois used the twenty-four-hour clock. But—

The Chief Inspector stared into space. It actually didn’t make sense. The Lit and His closed at five in the afternoon. 1700 hours.

Why would Renaud arrange to meet four people there an hour after closing?

Maybe, thought Gamache, one of them had a key and would let them in.

Or, maybe Renaud didn’t realize the library would be closed.

Or, maybe he’d arranged to meet someone else there, a Lit and His volunteer not named who would open the door.

Had Augustin Renaud been to the Literary and Historical Society before the day he died? It seemed so. Not walking in like any normal patron, that didn’t seem Renaud’s style. No, the man needed something more dramatic, clandestine. This was a man, after all, who’d managed to break into the Basilica and start digging. The Literary and Historical Society would pose no physical or moral barrier. No door was locked to Augustin Renaud in his Quixotic quest for Champlain.

Gamache looked at his watch. It was after 11 P.M. Too late to call Elizabeth MacWhirter or any of the other board members, or to drop by. He wanted to see their faces when he asked the question.

He turned back to the diary. What wasn’t in question were Renaud’s feelings about this rendezvous. He’d circled it a few times and even made a couple of exclamation marks.

The amateur archeologist seemed exultant, as though arranging the meeting had been a coup. Gamache found the phone book and looked up Chin. It sounded like a Chinese name and he remembered that Augustin Renaud had once, famously, dug through a wall looking for Champlain and ended up in the basement of a Chinese restaurant.

Could Chin be the name of the restaurant, or the owner?

But there was no Chin. Perhaps it was someone’s first name. There weren’t many Chinese in Quebec City, it wouldn’t be hard to find out.

There were no O’Maras, but there was an S. Patrick living on rue des Jardins, in the old city. Gamache knew it. The small street wound along beside the Ursuline convent and ended right in front of the Notre-Dame Basilica.

And his address? 1809 rue des Jardins. 1809. Not a time then, but a street number. Were they to meet there first then head to the Lit and His?

There were a few other names in Renaud’s diary, mostly, it seemed, officials he was arguing with or editors who’d turned down his manuscripts. Serge Croix, the Chief Archeologist, was mentioned a few times, always with the word merde as though his name was hyphenated. Serge Croix-Merde.

Booksellers, mostly used, figured large in Augustin Renaud’s life. It seemed if he had a relationship with anyone it was with them. Gamache jotted down their names then looked at his watch.

It was almost midnight, and Beauvoir was sitting on a plastic garden chair in Ruth’s kitchen. He’d never been in her home before. Gamache had, a few times, but Beauvoir had always begged off those interviews.

He disliked the wretched old poet immensely which was why he was there.

“OK, dick-head, talk.”

Ruth sat across from him, a pot of watery tea on the white pre-formed table, and one cup. Her thin arms were strapped across her chest, as though trying to keep her innards in. But not her heart, Beauvoir knew. That had escaped years before, like the duck. In time all things fled Ruth.

He needed to talk to someone, but someone without a heart, without compassion. Someone who didn’t care.

“You know what happened?” he asked.

“I read the papers you know.”

“It wasn’t all in the papers.”

There was a pause. “Go on.” Her voice was hard, unfeeling. Perfect.

“I was sitting in the Chief’s office—”

“I’m bored already. Is this going to be a long story?”

Beauvoir glared at her. “The call came at 11:18 in the morning.”

She snorted. “Exactly?”

He met her eyes. “Exactly.”

He saw again the Chief’s corner office. It was early December and Montreal was cold and gray through the windows. They’d been discussing a difficult case in Gaspé when the Chief’s secretary opened the door. She had a call. It was the Inspector in Ste-Agathe. There’d been a shooting. An agent down and one missing.

But he wasn’t missing, he was on the phone asking to speak to the Chief.

Things happened quickly after that, and yet seemed to go on forever.

Agents poured in, the tactical teams were alerted. Satellites, imaging, analysis. Tracing. All swung into action. Within moments there was a near frenzy of activity visible through the large window in the Chief’s office. All going to a protocol Chief Inspector Gamache had designed.

But in his office there was quiet. Calm.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Agent Morin said, when connected to the Chief.

“It’s not your fault. Are you hurt?” Gamache had asked.

By now Beauvoir was listening on the other line. For reasons he didn’t yet understand they’d so far been unable to trace the call and the man who held Agent Morin and had shot the other agent seemed unconcerned. He’d handed the phone back to the young agent but not before making something clear.

He would neither let Morin go, nor would he kill him. Instead, he’d bind the young agent and leave him there.

“Thank you,” said Gamache.

Through the glass Beauvoir could see agents at computers, recording, listening in, pin-pointing the location of the call. He could even see their fingers flying over the keys.

They’d know where Agent Morin was being held within moments. But Beauvoir felt a little uneasy. Why was it taking so long? This should be almost instantaneous.

“You’ll follow me, I know you will,” the farmer was saying. “So I need you not to.”

“I won’t,” lied Gamache.

“Maybe,” the man said in his broad country accent. “But I can’t risk it.”

Something stirred inside Beauvoir and he looked at Gamache. The Chief was standing, staring ahead, concentrating, listening, thinking. Trying not to make a mistake.

“What have you done?” Gamache asked, his voice hard, unyielding.

There was a pause. “I’ve tied your agent up and attached something to him.”

“What?”

“It’s something I made myself.” The man’s voice was defensive, weak, explaining. It was a fearful voice and that meant unpredictable and that meant trouble. The worst possible hostage-taker to deal with, they could panic at any moment. Their reason had fled and they were going on nerves not judgment.

“What is it?” Gamache asked.

Beauvoir knew what the Chief was doing. He was trying to become the sturdy center, the thing a weak, fearful man would move toward. Something firm, solid, predictable. Strong.

“From fertilizer. I didn’t want to but it’s the only way you’ll leave me alone.”

The voice was becoming more and more difficult to understand. The combination of the thick accent and words muffled by desperation.

“It’s set to go off in twenty-four hours. At 11:18 tomorrow morning.”

Beauvoir wrote that down, though he doubted he’d forget it. And he was right.

He heard the Chief inhale sharply, then pause, trying to control his anger.

“This is a mistake,” he said, his voice steady. “You must dismantle that bomb. You’re making this worse for yourself.”

“Worse? How could it be worse? That other agent’s dead. I killed a Sûreté agent.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Then you know we’ll find you eventually. You don’t want to spend your whole life running, do you? Wondering where we are?”

There was a hesitation.

“Give yourself up,” said Gamache, his voice deep and calm and reasonable. A smart friend with a good idea. “I promise you won’t be hurt. Tell me where to meet you.”

Beauvoir stared at the Chief and the Chief stared at the wall, at the huge map of Québec. Both willing the man to see reason.

“I can’t. I need to go. Good-bye.”

“Stop,” Gamache called into the phone, then contained himself with great effort. “Stop. Wait. Don’t do this thing. If you run you’ll regret it the rest of your life. If you hurt Paul Morin you’ll regret it.”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, but even Beauvoir felt his skin grow cold from the threat in Gamache’s voice.

“I have no choice. There’s one other thing.”

“What?”

Outside in the homicide offices more sophisticated equipment was being set up. Beauvoir could see Chief Superintendent Francoeur striding toward the Chief’s door. Gamache also saw him and turned his back, fully focused on the voice at the other end of the line.

“I don’t want you coming after me.”

The door opened and Chief Superintendent Francoeur stepped in, his distinguished, handsome face determined. Gamache’s back remained to him. Inspector Beauvoir took Francoeur by the arm.

“You need to leave, sir.”

“No, I need to speak to the Chief Inspector.”

They were outside the door now. “The Chief is on the line with the hostage-taker.”

“With the murderer. Agent Bissonette died of his wounds five minutes ago.”

He thrust his right hand into his jacket pocket. It was a signal they all knew, a sign the Chief Superintendent was agitated, angry. The room, previously a buzz of activity, grew still and silent except for the two voices, loud and clear. The Chief, and the killer, over the monitors.

“I’m taking over here,” said Francoeur and made for the door again but Beauvoir blocked him.

“You might take over, I can’t stop you, but this is Chief Inspector Gamache’s private office and he needs privacy.”

As the two men stared at each other they heard Gamache’s voice.

“You have to stop this,” said the Chief. “Give yourself up.”

“I can’t. I killed that cop.” Now his voice had risen almost to hysterics.

“Then even more reason to surrender yourself to me. I’ll guarantee your safety.” The Chief sounded reasonable, convincing.

“I have to get away.”

“Then why didn’t you just leave? Why call me?”

“Because I needed to.”

There was a pause. Beauvoir could see the Chief in profile now. He saw his eyes narrow and his brows lower.

“What have you done?” Gamache almost whispered.

Gamache packed up the diaries and left a scribbled receipt with his address and phone number on Renaud’s desk, then he walked back through the streets.

It was past midnight and the revelers were just revving up. He could hear hoots on the plastic horns and unintelligible shouts a few streets over.

College kids, drunk and rowdy.

Gamache smiled. Some would end up in jail getting sober. It would make a great story one day, for disbelieving grandchildren.

A rowdy gang of young men rounded the corner and stumbled up rue Ste-Ursule. Then one spotted Gamache and stopped. The others, blind drunk, bumped into him and started shoving. A small skirmish broke out but the leader pulled them apart and nodded toward Gamache, who was standing in the middle of the road in front of them.

Watching.

They stared at each other, then Gamache smiled.

“Bonne nuit,” he said to them, putting his large mittened hand on the leader’s shoulder as he passed.

“Really?” said Ruth. “You can make a bomb out of shit?” She seemed interested. “I don’t believe it.”

“Chemical fertilizer, not shit. And don’t believe it. I don’t care,” said Beauvoir. In fact, he preferred it that way. There were times he didn’t believe it himself. They were the best times. “Hag,” he mumbled.

“Numb nuts,” Ruth said, and poured him a cup of tea that looked like rancid water. She sat and rewrapped her torso with her arms. “So what was the other thing the crazy farmer said he’d done?”

Beauvoir still saw Gamache’s face, would always see his face. The look of disbelief and surprise. Not yet dismay, not yet alarm. That would come in a moment.

“What have you done?” Gamache had asked.

“I’ve rigged it up.”

“How?”

“I need you to be occupied, to give me time.” Again the voice was wheedling, whiny, as though asking Gamache’s permission, or understanding, or forgiveness.

Outside in the large common area of their division office, agents were bending over computer screens, tapping away, grabbing headphones. Giving and taking orders.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur stared at Beauvoir then turned and marched away. Beauvoir took a breath, unaware he’d been holding it, then quickly stepped back into the Chief’s office.

“Tell me,” said Gamache, his voice authoritative.

And the man did. Then he handed the phone back to Agent Paul Morin.

It was the last they ever heard from the man, though he might have been among the dead.

“I’m sorry,” Agent Morin repeated. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Are you hurt?” Gamache had asked.

“No.” He sounded terrified and trying not to show it.

“Don’t worry. We’ll find you.”

There was a pause. “Yes sir.”

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” said Ruth, impatiently. “Do you think I have all night? What had the farmer done, besides the shit bomb?”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir looked down at the white, plastic garden table, feeling its rough edges. No doubt the demented old poet had found it by the side of some road or in a Dumpster.

Some piece of trash no one else wanted. She’d brought it home with her.

He stared for a very long time at the table, in a daze. No one had been told this, it hadn’t been made public. And Beauvoir knew he shouldn’t be saying anything now.

But he had to tell someone and who better than someone who didn’t care? There’d be no sympathy, no pity, no real understanding. There’d be no awkwardness when they saw each other in the village, because while he’d bared his soul to her she wouldn’t care.

“The bomb was wired to the phone line,” he finally said, still staring at his hands and the expanse of white table. “It would go off if the line was cut.”

“Okay,” she said.

“And it would be cut if there was dead air. If they stopped talking for more than a few seconds.”

There was silence then. “So you all took turns talking,” said Ruth.

Beauvoir took a deep breath and sighed. There was something in the corner, by Ruth’s chair, something he couldn’t quite make out. A sweater she’d dropped or a dish towel.

“It didn’t work that way. He needed Gamache tied to Morin, so he couldn’t search for him.”

“What do you mean, ‘tied to Morin’?”

“There was voice recognition. It needed to be the two of them. Morin and the Chief.”

“Oh, come on,” laughed Ruth. “There’s no such thing. You’re making this up.”

Beauvoir was silent.

“Well, okay, maybe you’re not, but the farmer sure was. Are you telling me some backwoods bumpkin made a bomb, then a timer, then attached it to the phone line with, what did you call it? Voice recognition?”

“Would you risk it?” he growled, his eyes hard, daring her to go further. Hating her, as he knew he would, for seeing him so vulnerable. For not caring, for mocking. But he already hated her, what was a little more bile?

He pressed his lips together so hard he could feel his teeth cutting through.

In the office he watched his Chief as Gamache realized what this meant.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” the young voice said down the phone line.

“I’m going to find you,” the Chief promised.

“They talked the whole time?” Ruth asked.

“Every moment. For twenty-four hours. Until 11:18 the next morning.”

Beauvoir glanced into the corner and knew what was curled there. It was a blanket, a soft, flannel blanket made into a nest. Ready. Just in case.

Armand Gamache woke, groggy, and looked at the bedside clock.

Three twenty in the morning.

He felt the chill of the night air on his face and the warmth of the sheets and duvet around him. Lyng there, he hoped maybe this time he’d fall back asleep but eventually he got up. Slowly, stiffly. Putting on one light he dressed. As he sat on the side of the bed gathering himself he stared at the small pill bottle on the bedside table. Beside him Henri watched, his tail swishing back and forth, his eyes bright, a fluorescent yellow tennis ball in his mouth. Gamache gripped the bottle in his large hand, feeling it there. Then he placed it in his pocket and walked quietly downstairs, making sure not to waken Émile. Gamache put on his parka, his scarf, his toque and mitts. Lastly, he picked up the Chuck-it and they stepped out into the night.

Up the street they walked, their feet squeaking on the hard snow. At rue St-Louis they turned out the gate through the walls of the fortified and frozen city and past the ice palace. Bonhomme’s palace.

Then onto the Plains of Abraham to toss the ball and contemplate a general’s fatal mistakes. Henri, Chief Inspector Gamache and Agent Morin.