Kingdom of the Blind

CHAPTER 2

“Armand?”

The smile of recognition and slight relief froze on her face as she took in his expression.

His movement as he’d turned to face her had been almost violent. His body tense, prepared. As though bracing for a possible attack.

While she was adept at reading faces and understood body language, she could not quite get the expression on his face. Except for the most obvious.

Surprise.

But there was more there. Far more.

And then it was gone. His body relaxed, and as she watched, Armand spoke a single word into his phone, tapped on it, then put it into his pocket.

The last expression to leave that familiar face, before the veneer of civility covered it completely, was something that surprised her even more.

Guilt.

And then the smile appeared.

“For God’s sake, Myrna. What’re you doing here?”

Armand tried to modulate his smile, though it was difficult. His face was numb, almost frozen.

He didn’t want to look like a grinning fool, overdoing it. Giving himself away to this very astute woman. Who was also a neighbor.

A retired psychologist, Myrna Landers owned the bookstore in Three Pines and had become good friends with Reine-Marie and Armand.

He suspected she’d seen, and understood, his initial reaction. Though he also suspected she would not grasp the depth of it. Or ever guess who he’d been speaking with.

He had been so engrossed in his conversation. In choosing his words. In listening so closely to the words being spoken to him. And the tone. And modulating his own tone. That he’d allowed someone to sneak up on him.

Granted, it was a friend. But it could just as easily have not been a friend.

As a cadet, as a Sûreté agent. As an inspector. As head of homicide, then head of the whole force, he’d had to be alert. Trained himself to be alert, so that it became second nature. First nature.

It’s not that he walked through life expecting something bad to happen. His vigilance had simply become part of who he was, like his eye color. Like his scars.

Part DNA, part a consequence of his life.

Armand knew that the problem wasn’t that he’d let his guard down just now. Just the opposite. It had been up so high, so thick, that for a few crucial minutes nothing else penetrated. He’d missed hearing the car approach. He’d missed the soft tread of boots on snow.

Gamache, not a fearful man, felt a small lick of concern. This time the consequences were benign. But next?

The threat didn’t have to be monumental. If it were, it wouldn’t be missed. It was almost always something tiny.

A signal missed or misunderstood. A blind spot. A moment of distraction. A focus so sharp that everything around it blurred. A false assumption mistaken for fact.

And then—

“You okay?” Myrna Landers asked as Armand approached and kissed her on both cheeks.

“I’m fine.”

She could feel the cold on his face and the damp from the snow that had hit and melted. And she could feel the tension in the man, rumbling below the cheerful surface.

His smile created deep lines from the corners of his eyes. But it did not actually reach those brown eyes. They remained sharp, wary. Watchful. Though the warmth was still there.

“Fine,” he’d said, and despite her disquiet she smiled.

They both understood that code. It was a reference to their neighbor in the village of Three Pines. Ruth Zardo. A gifted poet. One of the most distinguished in the nation. But that gift had come wrapped in more than a dollop of crazy. The name Ruth Zardo was uttered with equal parts admiration and dread. Like conjuring a magical creature that was both creative and destructive.

Ruth’s last book of poetry was called I’m FINE. Which sounded good until you realized, often too late, that “F.I.N.E.” stood for “Fucked-Up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical.”

Yes, Ruth Zardo was many things. Fortunately for them, one of the things she was not was there.

Armand stooped and picked up the mitts that had fallen off Myrna’s substantial lap, into the snow. He whacked them against his parka before handing them back to her. Then, realizing he was also missing his own, he went to his car and found them almost buried in the new snow.

The man watched all this from the questionable protection of the house.

He’d never met the woman who’d just arrived, but already he didn’t like her. She was large and black and a “she.” None of those things he found attractive. But worse still, Myrna Landers had arrived five minutes late, and instead of hurrying inside, spouting apologies, she was standing around chatting. As though he weren’t waiting for them. As though he hadn’t been clear about the time of the appointment.

Which he had.

Though his annoyance was slightly mitigated by relief that she’d shown up at all.

He watched the two of them closely. It was a game he played. Watching. Trying to guess what people might do next.

He was almost always wrong.

Both Myrna and Armand pulled the letters from their pockets.

They compared them. Exactly the same.

“This is”—she looked around—“a bit odd, don’t you think?”

He nodded and followed her eyes to the ramshackle house.

“Do you know these people?” he asked.

“What people?”

“Well, whoever lives here. Lived here.”

“No. You?”

“Non. I haven’t a clue who they are or why we’re here.”

“I called the number,” said Myrna. “But there was no answer. No way to get in touch with this Laurence Mercier. He’s a notary. Do you know him?”

“Non. But I do know one thing.”

“What?” Myrna could tell that something unpleasant was about to come her way.

“He died six months ago. Cancer.”

“Then what—”

She had no idea how to continue, and so stopped. She looked over at the house, then turned to Armand. She was almost his height, and while her parka made her look heavy, in her case it was no illusion.

“You knew that the guy who sent you the letter died months ago, and still you came,” she said. “Why?”

“Curiosity,” he said. “You?”

“Well, I didn’t know he was dead.”

“But you did know it was strange. So why did you come?”

“Same. Curiosity. What’s the worst that could happen?”

It was, even Myrna recognized, a fairly stupid thing to say.

“If we start hearing organ music, Armand, we run. Right?”

He laughed. He, of course, knew the worst that could happen. He’d knelt beside it hundreds of times.

Myrna tipped her head back to stare at the roof, sagging under the weight of months of snow. She saw the cracked and missing windows and blinked as snowflakes, large and gentle and relentless, landed on her face and fell into her eyes.

“It’s not really dangerous, is it?” she asked.

“I doubt it.”

“Doubt?” Her eyes widened slightly. “There is a chance?”

“I think the only danger will come from the building itself,” he nodded to the slumping roof and sloping walls, “and not from whoever is inside.”

They’d walked over, and now he put his foot on the first step and it broke. He raised his brows at her, and she smiled.

“I think that’s more the amount of croissants than the amount of wood rot,” she said, and he laughed.

“I agree.”

He paused for a moment, looking at the steps, then the house.

“You’re not sure if it’s dangerous, are you?” she said. “Either the house or whoever’s inside.”

“Non,” he admitted. “I’m not sure. Would you prefer to wait out here?”

Yes, she thought.

“No,” she said, and followed him in.

“Maître Mercier.” The man introduced himself, walking forward, his hand extended.

“Bonjour,” said Gamache, who’d gone in first. “Armand Gamache.”

He swiftly took in his surroundings, beginning with the man.

Short, slight, white. In his mid-forties.

Alive.

The electricity had been turned off in the house and with it the heat, leaving the air cold and stale. Like a walk-in freezer.

The notary had kept his coat on, and Armand could see it was smudged with dirt. Though Armand’s was too. It was near impossible to get into and out of a vehicle in a Québec winter without getting smeared by dirt and salt.

But Maître Mercier’s coat wasn’t just dirty, it was stained. And worn.

There was an air of neglect about him. The man, like his clothing, appeared threadbare. But there was also a dignity there, bordering on haughtiness.

“Myrna Landers,” said Myrna, stepping forward and offering her hand.

Maître Mercier took it but dropped it quickly. More a touch than a handshake.

Gamache noticed that Myrna’s attitude had changed slightly. No longer fearful, she looked at their host with what appeared to be pity.

There were some creatures who naturally evoked that reaction. Not given armor, or a poison bite, or the ability to fly or even run, what they had was equally powerful.

The ability to look so helpless, so pathetic, that they could not possibly be a threat. Some even adopted them. Protected them. Nurtured them. Took them in.

And almost always regretted it.

It was far too early to tell if Maître Mercier was just such a creature, but he did have that immediate effect, even on someone as experienced and astute as Myrna Landers.

Even on himself, Gamache realized. He could feel his defenses lowering in the presence of this sad little man.

Though they did not drop completely.

Gamache took off his tuque and, smoothing his graying hair, he looked around.

The outside door opened directly into the kitchen, as they often did in farmhouses. It looked unchanged since the sixties. Maybe even fifties. The cabinets were made of plywood painted a cheery blue the color of cornflowers, the counters of chipped yellow laminate and the floors of scuffed linoleum.

Anything of value had been taken. The appliances were gone, the walls were stripped clean except for a mint-green clock above the sink, that had long since stopped.

For a moment he imagined the room as it might once have been. Shiny, not new but clean and cared for. People moving about, preparing a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. Children chasing one another around like wild colts, with parents trying to tame them. Then giving up.

He noticed lines on the doorjamb. Marking heights. Before time had stopped.

Yes, he thought, this room, this home, was happy once. Cheerful once.

He looked again at their host. The notary who did and did not exist. Had this been his home? Had he been happy, cheerful, once? If so, there was no sign of it. It had all been stripped away.

Maître Mercier motioned to the kitchen table, inviting them to sit. Which they did.

“Before we begin, I’d like you to sign this.”

Mercier pushed a piece of paper toward Gamache.

Armand leaned back in his chair, away from the paper. “Before we begin,” he said, “I’d like to know who you are and why we’re here.”

“So would I,” said Myrna.

“In due course,” said Mercier.

It was such a strange thing to say, both as a formal and dated turn of phrase and in its complete dismissal of their request. A not-unreasonable request either, from people who didn’t have to be there.

Mercier looked and sounded like a character from Dickens. And not the hero. Gamache wondered if Myrna felt the same way.

The notary placed a pen on the paper and nodded to Gamache, who did not pick it up.

“Listen,” said Myrna, laying a large hand on Mercier’s and feeling him spasm. “Dear.” Her voice was calm, warm, clear. “You tell us now or I’m leaving. And I’m assuming you don’t want that.”

Gamache pushed the paper back across the table toward the notary.

Myrna patted Mercier’s hand, and Mercier stared back at her.

“Now,” she said. “How did you rise from the dead?”

Mercier looked at her like she was the crazy one, then his eyes shifted, and both Gamache and Myrna turned to follow his gaze out the window.

Another vehicle had pulled up. A pickup truck. And out hopped a young man, his mitts falling into the snow. But he swiftly stooped and picked them up.

Armand caught Myrna’s eye.

The newest arrival wore a long red-and-white-striped hat. So long that it tapered to a pom-pommed tail that trailed down his back and dragged in the snow as he stepped away from his truck.

Noticing this, the young man lifted the end of the tuque and wrapped it once around his neck like a scarf before tossing it over his shoulder in a move so rakish that Myrna found herself smiling.

Whoever this was, he was as vibrant as their dead host was desiccated.

Dr. Seuss meets Charles Dickens.

The Cat in the Hat was about to enter Bleak House.

There was a knock on the door, then he walked in. Looking around, his eyes fell on Gamache, who’d gotten to his feet.

“Allô, bonjour,” said the cheerful young man. “Monsieur Mercier?”

He put out his hand. Gamache took it.

“Non. Armand Gamache.”

They shook hands. The newcomer’s hand was callused, strong. His grip was firm and friendly. A confident handshake without being forced.

“Benedict Pouliot. Salut. Hope I’m not late. Traffic over the bridge was awful.”

“This is Maître Mercier,” said Armand, stepping aside to reveal the notary.

“Hello, sir,” said the young man, shaking the notary’s hand.

“And I’m Myrna Landers,” said Myrna, shaking his hand and smiling, Armand thought, just a little too broadly.

Though it was hard not to smile at the handsome young man. Not that he was laughable. But he was affable and almost completely without affectation. His eyes were thoughtful and bright.

Benedict took off his hat and smoothed his blond hair, which was cut in a fashion Myrna had never seen before and hoped never to see again. It was buzz-cut short on the top then, at his ears, it became long. Very long.

“So,” he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation and perhaps because it was so cold. “Where do we begin?”

They all looked at Mercier, who continued to stare at Benedict.

“It’s the haircut, isn’t it?” said the young man. “My girlfriend did it. She’s taking a stylist course, and the final exam is to create a new cut. What do you think?”

He ran his hands through it as the others remained silent.

“Looks great,” said Myrna, confirming for Armand that love, or infatuation, was indeed blind.

“Did she also make your hat?” Armand asked, pointing to what was now a large red-and-white lump of wet wool at the end of the table.

“Yes. Final marks in her design class. Do you like it?”

Armand gave what he hoped might be a noncommittal grunt.

“You sent the letter, didn’t you, sir?” Benedict said to Mercier. “Now, do you want to show me around first, or should we look at plans? Is this your house?” he asked Armand and Myrna. “To be honest, I’m not sure it can be saved. It’s in pretty rough shape.”

Gamache and Myrna looked at each other and realized what he was saying.

“We’re not together,” said Myrna, laughing. “Like you, we were invited here by Maître Mercier.”

She brought out her letter, as did Armand, and they placed them on the table.

Benedict bent over, then straightened up. “I’m confused. I thought I was here to bid on a job.”

He put his own letter on the table. It was, except for his name and address, identical to the other two.

“What do you do?” Myrna asked, and Benedict handed her one of his cards.

It was bloodred and diamond shaped, with something unreadable embossed.

“Your girlfriend?” asked Myrna.

“Yes. Her business class.”

“Final marks?”

“Oui.”

Myrna handed it to Gamache, who had to put on his reading glasses and tip the card toward the window to have any hope of reading the bumps.

“‘Benedict Pouliot. Builder,’” he read out loud, then turned it over. “There’s no phone number or email.”

“No. Marks were deducted. So am I here to bid on a job?”

“No,” said Mercier. “Sit.”

Benedict sat.

More like a puppy than a cat, really, thought Gamache as he took the seat next to Benedict.

“Then why am I here?” Benedict asked.

“We want to know too,” said Myrna, ripping her eyes off Benedict and directing them back to the notary.