Bury Your Dead

TWENTY–SIX

“Give Reine-Marie my love,” said Émile.

He and Armand stood by the door. Gamache’s Volvo was packed with his suitcase and assorted treats from Émile for Reine-Marie. Pastries from Paillard, paté and cheese from J.A. Moisan, chocolate made by the monks, from the shop along rue St-Jean.

Gamache hoped most of it made it back to Montreal. Between him and Henri, he had his doubts.

“I will. I’ll probably be back in a few weeks to testify, but Inspector Langlois has all the evidence he needs.”

“And the confession helps,” said Émile with a smile.

“True,” agreed Gamache. He looked around the home. He and Reine-Marie had been coming for many years, since Émile had retired and he and his wife moved back to Quebec City. Then, after Alice died, they came more often, to keep Émile company.

“I’m thinking of selling,” said Émile, watching Armand look around.

Gamache turned to him and paused. “It’s a lot of house.”

“The stairs are getting steeper,” agreed Émile.

“You’re welcome to come live with us, you know.”

“I do know, merci, but I think I’ll stay here.”

Gamache smiled, not surprised. “You know, I suspect Elizabeth MacWhirter is finding the same thing. Difficult living in a large home alone.”

“Is that right?” said Émile, looking at Gamache with open suspicion.

Armand smiled and opened the door. “Don’t come out, it’s cold.”

“I’m not that frail,” snapped Émile. “Besides, I want to say good-bye to Henri.”

At the sound of his name the shepherd looked at Émile, ears forward, alert. In case there was a biscuit involved. There was.

The sidewalk was newly plowed. The blizzard had stopped before dawn and the sun rose on a white, unblemished landscape. The city glowed and light sparkled off every surface making it look as though Québec was made of crystal.

Before opening the car door Gamache scooped up some snow, pressed it into his fist and showed Henri the snowball. The dog danced, then stopped, intent, staring.

Gamache tossed it into the air and Henri leapt, straining for the ball, believing this time he’d catch it, and it would remain perfect and whole in his mouth.

The snowball descended, and Henri caught it. And bit down. By the time he landed on all fours he had only a mouthful of snow. Again.

But Henri would keep trying, Gamache knew. He’d never give up hope.

“So,” said Émile, “who do you think the woman in Champlain’s coffin was?”

“I’d say an inmate of Douglas’s asylum. Almost certainly a natural death.”

“So he put her into Champlain’s coffin, but what did he do with Champlain?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“Of course I don’t. I wouldn’t be asking if I did.”

“I’ll give you a hint. It’s in Chiniquy’s journals, you read it to me the other night. I’ll call you when I get home, if you haven’t figured it out I’ll tell you.”

“Wretched man.” Émile paused, then reached out and laid his hand briefly on Gamache’s as it held the car door.

“Merci,” said Gamache. “For all you’ve done for me.”

“And you for me. So you think Madame MacWhirter might need a little help?”

“I think so.” Gamache opened the car door and Henri jumped in. “But then, I also think the night might be a strawberry.”

Émile laughed. “Between us? So do I.”

At home three hours later, Gamache and Reine-Marie sat in their comfortable living room, a fire crackling away in the grate.

“Émile called,” said Reine-Marie. “He asked me to give you a message.”

“Oh?”

“He said ‘Three mummies.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

Gamache smiled and nodded. Three mummies were taken to Pittsburgh but Douglas had only brought two back from Egypt.

“I’ve been thinking about that video, Armand.”

He took off his half-moon glasses. “Would you like to see it?”

“Would you like me to?”

He hesitated. “I’d rather not, but if you need to I’d watch it with you.”

She smiled. “Merci, but I don’t want to see it.”

He kissed her softly then they went back to reading. Reine-Marie glanced over her book at Armand.

She knew all she needed to know.

Gabri stood behind the bar of the bistro, dish towel in hand, wiping a glass clean. Around him his friends and clients chatted and laughed, read and sat quietly.

It was Sunday afternoon and most were still in their pajamas, including Gabri.

“I’d love to go to Venice,” said Clara.

“Too many tourists,” Ruth snapped.

“How do you know?” Myrna asked. “Have you been?”

“Don’t need to go. Everything I need is here.” She took a sip of Peter’s drink and screwed up her face. “Dear God, what is that?”

“Water.”

The friends drifted over to the fireplace to chat to Roar and Hanna Parra while Gabri took a handful of licorice allsorts from the jar on the bar and scanned the room.

His eyes caught a movement outside the frosted window. A familiar car, a Volvo, drove slowly down du Moulin into the village. The sun gleamed off the fresh snow banks and kids skated on the frozen pond on the village green.

The car stopped halfway through the village and two men got out.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Armand Gamache. They paused beside the car then the back door opened.

Clara turned at the sound of soft thudding at the bar. Allsorts were spilling from Gabri’s hand. The conversation in the bistro dropped then disappeared as patrons first looked at Gabri, then out the window.

Gabri continued to stare.

Surely not. He’d imagined, fantasized, pretended so many times. Had seen it clearly only to have to come back, alone, to the real world. Not taking his eyes off the sight, he walked from behind the bar. Patrons parted, making way for the large man.

The door opened, and Olivier stood there.

Gabri, unable to speak, opened his arms and Olivier fell into them. The two men hugged and rocked and wept. Around them villagers applauded and cried and hugged each other.

After a time the two men parted, wiping tears from each other’s faces. Laughing and staring at each other, Gabri afraid to look away in case it was taken away, again. And Olivier overwhelmed by all that was so familiar and beloved. The faces, the voices, the sounds he knew so well and hadn’t heard in what seemed a lifetime. The scent of maple logs in the fire, and buttery croissants, and roasted coffee beans.

All the things he remembered, and ached for.

And Gabri’s scent, of Ivory soap. And his strong, certain arms around him. Gabri. Who’d never, ever stopped believing in him.

Gabri dragged his eyes from Olivier and looked behind his partner to the two Sûreté officers.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Inspector Beauvoir deserves the thanks,” said the Chief Inspector. The place was quiet again. Gamache turned to Olivier. He needed to say this for everyone to hear. In case there were any lingering doubts.

“I was wrong,” Gamache said. “I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t forgive you,” Olivier rasped, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “You have no idea what it was like.” He stopped, regained his composure then continued. “Maybe, with time.”

“Oui,” said Gamache.

As everyone celebrated, Armand Gamache walked out into the sunshine, into the sound of children playing hockey, and snowball fights, and tobogganing down the hill. He paused to watch but saw only the young man in his arms. Bullet wounds through his back.

Found, but too late.

Armand Gamache hugged Paul Morin to him.

I’m so sorry. Forgive me.

There was only silence then and, from very far away, the sound of children playing.