World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 35

Chief Inspector Gamache stared at Agent Choquet in disbelief.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I came back to help—”

“You disobeyed orders,” snapped Beauvoir, striding over. Blood was traveling up his cheeks, like a cartoon thermometer. Half of her expected his head to explode. The other half was aware that blood was also mounting her own cheeks.

Beyond Amelia, Armand saw Fiona and Sam walking to the bistro. His mind worked quickly.

“Come with me,” he said to Amelia, then turned to Jean-Guy. “Stay here and make sure Robert is all right. We’ll be at the bistro. You’re armed?”

“Oui.”

“I won’t be long.”

As they walked down the path toward the road and the village green, Amelia could feel the Inspector’s eyes boring into her back.

“You promised,” said the Chief, not looking at her as he strode across the green.

“Pardon?” she said, jogging beside him.

“You said you’d protect Madame Gamache, but you didn’t. You left her.” His voice was soft, calm. It was this very calm that chilled her core.

“Désolée,” she said. “But Madame Gamache—”

He stopped abruptly and turned to her, on her, as she skidded to a halt. “Is not the head of homicide. Madame Gamache does not have the information I have.” The effort to keep his voice down, and keep his anger in check, made the words raspy. “Madame Gamache does not give you orders. Madame Gamache”—he paused, marshaling himself—“must. Be. Protected.”

The Gamaches’ feelings for each other were plain for anyone to see, but in that instant Amelia saw more. She saw into his soul. And there, smiling, her arms open, was Madame Gamache.

And Amelia almost burst into tears, so painful was the thought of one losing the other. And it being her fault.

Madame Gamache had told her to return. To protect her husband.

And Amelia had done it. Partly because Madame Gamache had insisted, and partly because of what she owed this man. But now she realized her great mistake.

If “Désolée” ever described anyone, it was Amelia Choquet at that moment.

“I’ll leave right now,” she said. “I’ll go back up.”

“You’ll stay right here until I tell you to leave.”

Gamache stepped away, turned away, and brought out his phone.

Robert Mongeau was right. While he often told Reine-Marie that he loved her, he hesitated to say that he missed her, out of fear she’d feel guilty when she left to visit family or friends.

He never, ever wanted her to feel that. And so he’d kept that last bit to himself. But now he saw he’d been wrong. Whatever happened, and Armand knew that it would be soon, he wanted nothing left unsaid.

I love you, he typed. I miss you. Terribly.

He erased the “terribly.” Then put it back in and quickly hit send before he spent half the night erasing and adding, erasing and adding that one word. And never sending the message.

Then he turned back to Agent Choquet. “Let’s go.”

Myrna and Clara were standing by their table, and Myrna glanced at Gamache and Choquet when they arrived in the bistro, but her eyes were drawn to Sam Arsenault, who was sitting with his sister.

“Don’t,” said Clara. “You’ll just make it worse.”

But it was too late. Myrna was already on the move.

“Where’s Harriet?” she demanded when she was only halfway across the room.

Seeing her weaving between tables, patrons lurched forward to protect their wineglasses and plates from the juggernaut.

Sam stood up, looking confused. “She’s at the B&B. I thought you knew.”

“Why isn’t she here?”

“She didn’t want to come over. She was afraid to see you. You know her. She hates confrontation.”

“I’ve been texting and calling.”

Fiona stood beside her brother. “She just needs time. We’ve both encouraged her to reach out to you. No one knows better than we do how important family is.”

Myrna glared at Sam, hesitated, then turned to Fiona. “Please, tell her I’m sorry. Ask her to just send an emoji, anything.”

“I will,” said Sam. “Don’t worry. She really is fine.”

Harriet yanked her sweater off the tree limb and plunged on. She’d freed herself, though her wrists were raw and bleeding.

And now she ran. The faster she went, the more convinced she was that she was being chased. All the horror stories told over bonfires on the village green had come to life.

The boy who was murdered and now hunted other kids. The zombie cheerleaders with burning coal eyes. The ghosts and monsters, the alive and the undead. The lunatics with chainsaws, the madmen with axes. The wild beasts. The demons.

All took chase as she plunged through the darkening forest, tripping over logs and roots and running headlong into trees. The bundle she’d thought was Sam had turned out to be a rotting log.

So where was he? She’d screamed for him. Screamed for anyone. Just screamed.

Her face and hands were torn and bloody, she’d lost a shoe.

And still she ran. Faster and faster. Pursued by all that was unholy.

The last vestige of her sanity screamed that she had to stop. Had to regroup. Had to come up with some sort of plan.

But still she ran, with each step turning into the lunatic she was fleeing.

“How’s Robert?” asked Clara. “Ruth says he’ll recover.”

“Yes, he was lucky,” said Gamache. They were standing by a table for two that he’d chosen not far from Sam and Fiona. “He’s staying with me until he feels better.”

“Would you like to join us?”

She pointed to the table by the fire, where Ruth and Rosa were waiting.

“Non, merci.” Gamache’s tone was abrupt and she got the message.

While Clara left, Myrna lingered. “I’m worried about Harriet.”

“Yes, I gathered. How long since you heard from her?” Armand so obviously just wanted to get on with his own business, but could not ignore Myrna, even if he wanted to.

“Since the fight this morning. I know, I know. She’s an adult and can’t be considered a missing person.”

“True, but we can trace her phone at least. Do you have her number?”

“Yes.” Myrna felt relief for the first time in hours. She sent it to him, then embraced him, whispering, “Merci.”

Before sitting down, and afraid he’d forget, he sent off a message to one of his agents asking him to trace the phone.

As he did, he noticed a message from the coroner.

Ran samples again. Godin DNA definitely not a match for Fiona Arsenault. Second contaminated sample, Boisfranc, does not contain your DNA. Belongs to someone else.

Armand replied.

Can you stay there? I’ll send over three more items to be tested. He paused, then added, Official records for Fleming have been compromised. Can you find his DNA in Coroner’s Office records?

Dr. Harris replied immediately. I’ll stay. Doubt it re: Fleming, but will try.

“What is it?” asked Amelia when he put down his phone.

But Gabri had just arrived to take their orders. Armand, after pausing to think for a moment, pointed to the menu and said, as though asking a question about one of the specials, “Can you take Sam and Fiona Arsenault’s utensils when you clear their table? Don’t touch them yourself, and make sure you know which is which.”

He looked up at Gabri and smiled. Gabri, to his credit, caught on quickly. He wrote something on his pad, and said, “And for dessert?”

“Put them in unused plastic baggies, seal them, label them, and bring them to me, please.”

“Good choice,” said Gabri.

After he left, Gamache told Amelia what had happened in her absence.

“But why the cutlery?”

Armand glanced over to the siblings, then told her their suspicions.

“You mean one of them could be related to John Fleming?” she said, her voice low. “But didn’t Inspector Beauvoir say it couldn’t be Sam because of the timing?”

Gamache looked at the young woman across from him, inviting her to think harder. He believed she had it in her to get at the answer. He believed she had it in her to do just about anything.

He’d recognized that as soon as he’d read her application to the Sûreté Academy.

And yet, knowing that, he’d still rejected her. For the greater good, he’d told himself. Or maybe it was the lesser evil.

But as he’d sat on the bench overlooking Three Pines, holding his father’s unfinished book, Armand couldn’t escape the truth. He’d rejected Amelia Choquet not because of her, but because of what lived in one of the files he kept locked in the basement.

At the age of seventeen, Amelia’s father was drunk when he’d fallen asleep at the wheel and drifted into the oncoming lane. A car, heading in the other direction, swerved to miss him, ran off the road, rolled, and hit a tree.

The occupants of the car died at the scene. The occupants of the car were Armand’s parents.

The young man at the wheel had gone on to marry later in life and have a child. Just one. He gave her the same name as the woman he’d killed.

Amelia. After Amelia Gamache. Mama.

It was, Armand knew, an attempt at atonement. Though it was so feeble it had enraged him. That the man who’d killed his parents thought such a tiny gesture could even begin to right the balance.

Reading her application, he had recognized that the Sûreté Academy was almost certainly Amelia Choquet’s last hope.

Knowing this, he’d turned her down. Tossed her, and her file, into the rejected pile. Tossed her back into the sewer that was inner-city Montréal, to sink slowly below the surface.

He’d ultimately changed his mind and given her that chance. He’d done it for his mother. For his father. For the man they’d hoped he’d become. A brave man in a brave country.

The fact he’d initially turned Amelia Choquet down still haunted him. It was an act of very slow, deliberate murder. Armand was shocked, appalled at himself, and deeply ashamed. But it had an unexpected benefit. It forced him to go deep inside his own cave. And look at what stinking, putrid, rancid creature was curled up there. Watching and waiting.

It gave him insight into the evil that decent people could do. John Fleming was a monster, without a doubt. But Armand Gamache had his own monster. He’d seen it. He’d fed it.

He’d put it back in its cage. But he still had the key.

Armand had had no idea that Amelia knew this connection until they’d been at the airport and she’d pledged to protect Reine-Marie. It was an acknowledgment of what her family owed to his. She grappled with the sins of the father. Even as Armand confronted the sins of the son.

He knew now why she’d returned to Three Pines. It was to protect him.

Their meal, chosen by Gabri, arrived at that moment. Armand was about to tell her not to eat, but Amelia didn’t seem to notice it was even there. Her lightning mind was going over and over the facts, considering, dismissing, honing.

Until she had it.

“The dates Fleming gave the warden for when he was in the same community as Clotilde Arsenault years ago could be lies. Probably were. Otherwise, why would he volunteer that information? He wanted to shift the focus to Fiona. And away from Sam.”

She glanced over to where Gabri was clearing the siblings’ plates. And cutlery.

“If so, then the fact Godin’s test was negative is meaningless,” she whispered. “It would be if he was Sam’s father, not Fiona’s.”

Armand smiled, unjustly proud of this young woman. Amelia.

Gabri arrived a few minutes later to clear away their untouched plates. He bent down to wipe the table and placed two sealed baggies, wrapped in linen napkins, by Gamache’s hand.

“Merci, patron,” said Armand.

“I wish we’d never found that damned room,” said Gabri, straightening up. “Ever since we opened that wall, things haven’t been the same.”

Armand agreed. But he also knew they were always going to find that damned room, exactly when and how they did. This chain of events had begun years earlier and was inexorable.

If not fated, then preordained by some rough beast.

Once Gabri left, Gamache turned to Amelia.

“Now, Agent Choquet, you’re not getting out of here without explaining yourself. You ignored my orders.” His voice was clipped, and while still at a normal level, there was a force to it that made other diners glance over.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Apparently realizing others were paying attention, he lowered his voice, though it still carried. “You were ordered to leave.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

She was confused. They’d already been over this. She could see he was angry, his hand was trembling, his agitation so great it kept striking the table. But still, it wasn’t like him to go back over past grievances.

“That’s not good enough. You’re an agent with the Sûreté. Your mistakes can cost lives.”

He made an effort to stop the shaking, balling his hand into a fist. But the gesture only made the shaking more obvious. He took a deep breath, but as soon as he released it, the trembling became even worse.

That was not a good sign.

“Let me be clear, Agent Choquet.” His voice had risen again. “You will leave here immediately. You will stay away until recalled.” He glared at her. “Is that clear?”

“Look,” she heard herself saying. “If you’d been clear in the first place, I would’ve stayed away. This’s your fault, not mine.”

She clicked her tongue post angrily against her teeth, knowing it annoyed him. Annoyed everyone within listening distance.

He got up. “That’s enough. Leave. We’ll discuss this later.”

“Fine with me, patron.” The last word said with more than an edge of contempt.

Sam and Fiona had just left, and she wasn’t far behind.

“Well,” said Olivier, giving Gamache the bill and their meals to take away. “That went south fast.”

Gamache paid, leaving a larger than normal tip for all the disruption. “I’m sorry. That’s been coming for a long time.”

Once home, he called the dogs, who joined him for a walk around the village green. The night was dark, the stars and moon hidden by a thick layer of clouds. The forecast was for rain, though it wasn’t expected until the morning.

As he walked, he tossed the tennis ball and looked up at the light in the second-floor window of the B&B. He waited, and watched, but saw no one moving about.

Stopping in front of the bistro, he tossed the ball again, then checked his messages. There was one from Reine-Marie.

I miss you too. Terribly.

He smiled and gazed through the mullioned windows. Friends and neighbors were there, enjoying dinner. He imagined Reine-Marie among them. Imagined going in, ordering a meal, and joining the conversation. Joining her.

Then they could go home, together.

He imagined not having a worry in the world.

Just then the old poet turned in his direction. The look on her face brought him back to reality. The light that Clara had painted in those eyes was all but gone. Leaving behind just despair.

And though he knew she could not possibly see him in the darkness, still he had the impression she was looking right at him. And asking, begging, him to do something.

As Armand walked home, he prayed he could. Prayed he would be enough. Prayed he’d be a brave man in a brave country. Prayed he’d be able to stop whoever was out there in the dark. Waiting.

Though, once again, he was wrong. “Out there” was not the problem.

Jean-Guy had been upstairs checking on Robert Mongeau and so he hadn’t seen Fiona let herself in.

And he hadn’t seen Fiona let her brother in.