The Long Way Home

TWENTY-FOUR

Gamache woke up early in the unfamiliar bed, to unfamiliar sounds outside the open window.

The lace curtain puffed out slightly, as though taking a breath, then subsided. The air that was inhaled into the room smelled fresh, with the unmistakable tang that came from a large body of water nearby.

He looked at his watch on the bedside table.

Not yet six but the sun was already up.

Beauvoir, however, was not. He was fast asleep in the next bed, his face squished into the pillow, his mouth slightly open. It was a sight Gamache had seen many times and knew that Annie saw every day.

It must be love, he decided as he quietly got up and prepared for the day, pausing to pull back the lace at the window and look out. It had been well past midnight when they’d finally gotten to sleep under the comforters. Gamache had no idea what he’d see outside the window, and was surprised and delighted that this bedroom looked out over the metal roofs of the old Charlevoix village. And to the St. Lawrence beyond.

Once showered and dressed, he crept downstairs and outside.

It was a pastel time of day. Everything soft blues and pinks in the early sun. The tourists were asleep in their inns and B and Bs. Few residents were up, and Gamache had the village to himself. Far from feeling abandoned, the place felt expectant. About to give birth to another vibrant day.

But not just yet. For now all was peaceful. Anything was possible.

He found a bench not far away, sat down, reached into his pocket and brought out the book. His constant companion.

He started reading. After a few pages he closed the book and held his large hand over the cover so that the title was slightly obscured. Like the river between the old homes. Hinted at. There, but not completely seen.

The Balm in Gilead.

He pressed it closed and thought, as he did each morning since his retirement, of the last hands that had shut the book.

… to cure a sin-sick soul.

Was there a cure for what he’d done in those woods outside Three Pines, eight months ago? It wasn’t so much the act of killing. The taking of a life. It was how he’d felt about it. And the fact he’d intended to do it, even hoped to do it, when he’d arrived.

Mens rea. The difference between manslaughter and murder. Intent. Mens rea. A guilty mind. A sin-sick soul.

He looked at the book beneath his hand.

How would the previous owner of this book have felt about what he’d done?

Armand Gamache was pretty sure he knew the answer to that.

He turned his back on the river, on the rugged shoreline, on the container ships and the whales gliding beneath the surface. Huge and unseen.

Gamache walked back to the home of Marcel Chartrand.

“I thought I heard someone leave,” said Chartrand from the porch as Gamache approached. “How’d you sleep?”

“Perfectly.”

“You must be used to strange beds,” said their host, handing Gamache a mug of coffee that steamed in the fresh morning air.

“I am,” the Chief admitted. “But few as comfortable as yours. Merci.” He lifted the mug toward Chartrand in appreciation.

“Un plaisir. Would you like to see the gallery?”

Gamache smiled. “Very much.”

He felt like a child given a private pass to Disneyland.

Chartrand unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Gamache walked to the center of the room and stood there. He realized, with some alarm, that he felt like weeping.

Here, around him, was his heritage. His country. His history. But it was more than that. Here on the walls, were his insides. Out.

The brightly painted homes. Red and mustard yellow. The smoke tugged from the chimneys. The church spires. The winter scenes, the snow on the pine boughs. The horses and sleighs. The soft light through the windows at night.

The man with the oil lamp. Walking a path worn through the deep snow. Toward home in the distance.

Gamache turned. He was surrounded. Immersed. Not drowning, but buoyed. Baptized.

He sighed. And looked at Marcel Chartrand, who was beside him. He also looked as though he might weep. Did the man feel like this each day?

Was this his bench above the village? Was he also surprised by joy each day?

“Peter Morrow came here often,” said Chartrand. “Just to sit. And stare at the paintings.”

Sit and stare.

God knew Gamache did enough of that himself, but the combination of words, and the inflection, triggered a memory. Not an old one. It sat near the top. And then Gamache had it.

Someone else had described Peter sitting and staring. As a child.

Madame Finney, Peter’s mother. She’d told Gamache that young Peter would just stare, for hours on end. At the walls. At the paintings. Trying to get closer to the pictures. Trying to join the genius that saw the world like that, and painted how he felt about it.

All flowing strokes, lines that joined each other, so that solid homes became land, became trees, became people, became sky and clouds. That touched the solid homes.

And all in bright, joyous colors. Not made-up hues, but ones Gamache actually saw now through the windows of the gallery. No need to embellish. To fictionalize. To romanticize.

Clarence Gagnon saw the truth. And didn’t so much capture it as free it.

Young Peter longed to be set free too. And the paintings on the walls of that grim home were his way out. Since he couldn’t actually escape into them, he’d done the next best thing.

He became an artist. Despite his family. Though his family had accomplished one thing. They drained the color and creativity from him, leaving him and his art attractive but predictable. Safe. Bleached.

Gamache stared at the walls of the Galerie Gagnon. At the vivid colors. At the swirls and flowing brush strokes. At the landscapes that were as much internal as external.

Peter had stared at these same walls. And then disappeared.

And for a moment Armand Gamache wondered if Peter had achieved the magic he seemed so desperate to find, and had actually entered one of the paintings.

He leaned closer, examining the man with the lantern. Was it Peter? Plodding toward home?

Then he grinned. Of course not. This was Baie-Saint-Paul, not the Twilight Zone.

“Is this why Peter came to Baie-Saint-Paul?” Gamache indicated the paintings lining the gallery.

Chartrand shook his head. “I think it was a perk, but not the reason.”

“What was the reason?”

“He seemed to be looking for someone.”

“Someone?”

“Someone or something, or both. I don’t know,” said Chartrand.

“Why didn’t you tell us this last night?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. Peter was an acquaintance, nothing more. Just another artist who came to Charlevoix hoping for inspiration. Hoping that what inspired these”—he gestured toward the Gagnons on the walls—“would also inspire him.”

“That Gagnon’s muse would find him and come out to play again,” said Gamache.

Chartrand considered for a moment. “Do you think he’s dead?”

“I think it’s very difficult for people to just disappear. Much harder than we realize,” said Gamache. “Until we try.”

“Then how’s it done?”

“There’s only one way. We need to stop living in this world.”

“You mean die?”

“Well, that would do it too, but I mean remove yourself from society completely. Go to an island. Go deep into the woods. Live off the land.”

Chartrand looked uncomfortable. “Join a commune?”

“Well, most communes these days are pretty sophisticated.” He studied his host. “What do you mean?”

“When Peter first visited the gallery, he asked after a man named Norman. I had no idea who he meant, but I said I’d ask around.”

“Norman?” Gamache repeated. The name sounded familiar. “What did you find out?”

“Nothing useful.”

“But you did find something?” Gamache pushed.

“There was a guy who’d set up an artist colony in the woods, but his name wasn’t Norman. It was No Man.”

“Noman?”

“No Man.”

They stared at each other. Repeating the same thing, almost.

Finally Chartrand wrote it down and Gamache nodded. He understood, though his puzzlement increased.

No Man?

Clara and Myrna came down a few minutes later, followed by Jean-Guy.

“No Man?” asked Myrna.

They’d left the gallery and were walking down a narrow street toward a local café, for breakfast.

“No Man,” Chartrand confirmed.

“How odd,” said Clara.

Beauvoir didn’t know why she was surprised. Most artists he’d met shot way past odd. Odd for them was conservative. Clara, with her wild food-infested hair and Warrior Uteruses, was one of the more sane artists.

Peter Morrow, with his button-down shirts and calm personality, was almost certainly the craziest of them all.

“Peter wasn’t looking for No Man. He was trying to find a guy named Norman,” said Chartrand.

“And did he?” asked Clara.

“Not that I know of.”

They’d arrived at the small restaurant and sat at a table inside. At Gamache’s request, Chartrand had taken them to the local diner where Peter sometimes ate.

“Oui, I knew him,” said their server when shown the photograph of Peter. “Eggs on brown toast. No bacon. Black coffee.”

She seemed to approve of this spartan breakfast.

“Did he ever eat with other people?” Clara asked.

“No, always alone,” she said. “What do you want?”

Jean-Guy ordered the Voyageur Special. Two eggs and every meat they could find and fry.

Chartrand ordered scrambled eggs.

The rest had blueberry crêpes and bacon.

When the server came back with their food, Gamache asked if she knew of a Norman.

“First or last name?” she asked, pouring more coffee.

“We don’t know.”

“Non,” she said, and left.

“Did Peter say where he knew this Norman from?” Jean-Guy asked.

Chartrand shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”

“Can you think of a Norman in Peter’s life?” Gamache asked Clara. “A friend maybe? An artist he admired?”

“I’ve been trying to think,” she said. “But the name means nothing.”

“Where does No Man come in?” Jean-Guy asked.

“He doesn’t really,” Chartrand admitted. “Just some guy who set up an artist colony around here. It failed, and he moved on. Happens a lot. Artists need to make money and they think teaching or doing retreats will help make ends meet. It almost never does.” He smiled at Clara. “The retreat was abandoned long before Peter came here. Besides, Peter didn’t seem the joining sort.”

“He travels the fastest who travels alone,” said Gamache.

“I’ve always wondered if that’s true,” said Myrna. “We might go faster, but it’s not as much fun. And when we arrive, what do we find? No one.”

No man, thought Gamache.

“Clara? You’re quiet,” said Myrna.

Clara was leaning back in her chair, apparently admiring the view. But her eyes had a glazed, faraway look.

“Norman,” she repeated. “There was someone.” She looked at Myrna. “A professor named Norman at art college.”

Myrna nodded. “That’s right. Professor Massey mentioned him.”

“He was the one who set up the Salon des Refusés,” Clara said.

“Do you think it could be the same person?” Gamache asked.

Clara’s brows drew together. “I don’t see how. Peter took his course and thought it was bullshit. It couldn’t be the same person, could it?”

“Might be,” said Myrna. “Is he the one Professor Massey said was nuts?”

“Yes. I can’t believe Peter would want to track him down.”

“Excuse-moi.” Gamache had been listening to this and now he got up and took his phone to a quiet corner. As he spoke he turned and looked out the window. To the west. He talked for a couple of minutes, then returned to their table.

“Who’d you call?” Clara asked.

But Jean-Guy knew, even before the Chief answered the question. He knew by Gamache’s body language. His stance, his face, and where he’d gazed as he spoke.

To the west. To a village in a valley.

Beauvoir knew because that’s where he turned, when speaking with Annie.

Toward home.

“Reine-Marie. I asked her to go to Toronto. To talk to your old professor, see the records if possible. Find out what she can about this Professor Norman.”

“But we could call from here,” said Myrna. “It’d be faster and easier.”

“Yes, but this is delicate and we have no right to the files. I think Reine-Marie will get further than a phone call. She’s very good at getting information.”

Gamache smiled as he said it. His wife had spent decades working in the national archives of Québec. Collecting information. But the truth was, she was far better at guarding it than giving it out.

Still, if anyone could wheedle classified information out of an institution, she could.

He glanced again to the west, and there he met Beauvoir’s gaze.