The Long Way Home Read online

The others followed her.

  She walked quickly and they had to rush to catch up, until they were strung out behind her like a tail.

  Far from slowing down, Clara gathered speed. She sped down the alleyways, down the back streets, the cobbled streets, the side streets, where tourists never ventured. She headed past the faded Québécois homes, chased by that bloated face, until she’d left the town behind.

  Until she reached the edge. Until there was no more there there. Only air. And the river beyond.

  Only then did she stop.

  Jean-Guy was the first to reach her. Then Gamache and Chartrand and finally, huffing and puffing but undeterred, Myrna arrived.

  Clara stared ahead, clear-eyed, her chest heaving.

  “What does it mean?” She spoke as though the vast river might know. Then she turned and looked at them. “What does it mean?”

  “It suggests that Professor Norman and this No Man are the same person,” said Gamache.

  “Suggests?” said Clara. “Is there any other interpretation?”

  “Not really.”

  “And if Norman and No Man are the same person?” Clara demanded. “What does that mean?”

  “For us?” asked Gamache. “You know what it means.”

  “It means Professor Norman came here when he was fired,” said Clara. “He was probably from around here. He came back, but not as Sébastien Norman. He decided to become No Man.”

  “But why change his name?” Beauvoir asked.

  “Shame, maybe,” said Myrna. “He’d been fired.”

  “Or maybe it was the opposite of shame,” said Gamache. “He wasn’t exactly in hiding. You said he started an artist colony.”

  Chartrand nodded and looked troubled. “He did, but I don’t think he meant to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He built a place for himself not far from here. In the woods. But then people started joining him. Other artists. Uninvited. It just sort of happened.”

  “Peter came here looking for him,” said Clara. “He wanted to find Professor Norman for reasons I can’t begin to understand. But did he find No Man instead?”

  “Non,” said Chartrand. “C’est impossible. No Man was long gone by then. His colony collapsed years ago. Long before Peter arrived.”

  “Why did Peter come all this way looking for Professor Norman?” Clara asked. “What did he want from him?”

  There was no answer to that, and so they remained silent.

  “Where is he?” Clara asked. “Where’s Peter?”

  “Where’s No Man?” Beauvoir asked.

  Gamache hadn’t taken his eyes off Chartrand. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Where’s No Man?”

  “I don’t know,” said the gallery owner. “I’ve already told you that.”

  “If you don’t know where he is, you at least know where he was,” said Gamache. And Chartrand nodded. And pointed.

  Away from the river and into the woods.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later they were walking along an overgrown path through the woods.

  And then, as though they’d crossed some barrier, the woods stopped and they emerged into sunshine. Before them was a clearing overgrown with grasses and bushes. They had to force their way through the bracken until they were in the middle of a large circular field.

  It was pocked with bumps and lumps. Gamache assumed they were tree stumps, but then realized they formed shapes. Squares. Rectangles.

  Foundations.

  What was now a tangle of wildflowers and burrs and weeds had once been homes.

  Not just abandoned, but dismantled. Taken apart. Until just the bare bones remained as evidence that anyone had once lived here.

  Gamache heard a noise beside him. A sort of exhale, a moan.

  He looked over at Clara, who was standing very still and staring ahead of her. He followed her eyes, but saw nothing unusual.

  “Clara?” Myrna asked. She’d also noticed the sudden stillness, the focus, in her friend.

  Now Clara moved. Rapidly. She unrolled Peter’s paintings and, dumping the other two on the ground, grabbed one and started walking, this way and that. The painting held open at arm’s length, like a map. She searched the field, a dowser desperate to find the wellspring.

  She stumbled over the rocks and stones and foundations.

  And then she stopped.

  “Here. Peter was here when he painted this.”

  They joined her. And exchanged glances. There was no correlation between the wild colors and fierce strokes of the painting and this bucolic scene. A desperate wife had seen something not there.

  But the longer they looked, the more it fell into place.

  If the clearing wasn’t seen literally, if the true colors weren’t looked for on the canvas, then slowly it revealed itself.

  What Clara held was a strange marriage, a sort of alchemy, between reality and perception. Between what they saw and what Peter felt.

  “He was here,” Myrna agreed. “And the other?”

  Myrna retrieved the other painting and, with Beauvoir beside her, held it up and walked through the field. Until they stopped.

  “Here.”

  And then they all looked at Marcel Chartrand.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” said Gamache.

  “Not at first,” he said. “Not when I saw the paintings in my office. It’s impossible to connect them with here.”

  Reluctantly, Gamache had to agree. But he still stared at Chartrand.

  “When did you know that Peter had been here?”

  “After we realized Professor Norman and No Man are the same person. You have to understand, I hadn’t given this fellow No Man a thought in years. Artist colonies pop up around here all the time. There was one a few years back where the members only painted in shades of green. Another where they only spoke Latin. Some of the communities survive for a while, most don’t. That’s just the way it is.”

  “But you didn’t tell us Peter came here,” said Beauvoir. He and Myrna had rejoined them.

  “I still wasn’t sure until we got here.” Chartrand looked at Clara.

  “How’d he know how to find it?” Gamache asked. “It’s not exactly on the tourist place mat. Did you tell him? Did you bring him here?”

  “I told you, no. But it wasn’t a secret. Everyone knew about the colony. As I said, it was just one of many. There’re probably former members still living in the area. Maybe one of them told Peter about it.”

  “But you knew where it was. You’ve been here before,” Gamache said.

  “Once.”

  “Were you a member?” He watched Chartrand closely.

  “Me?” The gallery owner seemed genuinely surprised at the suggestion. “No. I’m not an artist.”

  “Was this place really about art?” Myrna asked. “Or about the tenth muse?”

  “Art, as far as I know.”

  “Why did you come here if not for the art?” Gamache asked.

  “No Man asked me to talk about Clarence Gagnon. He was interested in him. All the members were.”

  “Why?” Gamache asked.

  “You know why,” said Chartrand. “I can see it when you look at his paintings. The man wasn’t just a genius, he was courageous, bold. Willing to break with convention. He painted traditional images, but with such—” Chartrand searched for the word, and in the silence they could hear the buzz of flies and bees. “Grace. He painted with grace.”

  And Gamache knew the truth in that.

  “Do you think Clarence Gagnon had found the tenth muse?”

  The question came from Jean-Guy Beauvoir, without a hint of sarcasm.

  Marcel Chartrand took a deep breath and thought about that.

  “I think if there was a muse for art, then Clarence Gagnon had found her. Here, in Baie-Saint-Paul. There’re lots of beautiful places in Québec, but this one is like a magnet for artists. I think No Man suspected Clarence Gagnon had found the tenth mus
e here. And that’s why he came. To find her.”

  They looked around the empty, abandoned field. At the lumps and bumps that had once been homes and now looked like burial mounds. And Armand Gamache wondered what he’d see if he returned at night. Probably no human. No Man. But would he see the muses, dancing?

  Nine of them?

  Or just one. Twirling like a dervish. Alone, powerful. Expelled. As No Man had been.

  Driven mad. Driven here.

  TWENTY-NINE

  It was getting late by the time they returned to Baie-Saint-Paul.

  Chartrand parked at the gallery, and Beauvoir, after a glance at Gamache, excused himself and walked down the cobblestone street.

  “Where’s he going?” Myrna asked.

  “To get an iced tea,” said Gamache.

  “I wouldn’t mind one myself,” she said. But by the time she turned around, Beauvoir had disappeared. She turned back to Gamache. “What’re you up to, Armand?”

  He smiled. “If you were a member of No Man’s colony, and the place fell apart, what would you do?”

  “Go home.”

  “Suppose this was home?”

  “I’d—” She thought about it. “Find work, I guess.”

  “Or maybe start your own business,” said Gamache.

  “I might. An art gallery, for instance?” She studied him, then dropped her voice. “You don’t believe Chartrand, do you?”

  “I don’t believe anyone. Not even you.”

  She laughed. “Nor should you. I lied just now. I’m not interested in an iced tea, I just wanted to know where Jean-Guy raced off to.”

  “Can you guess?” asked Gamache.

  Myrna thought about it, then a smile spread across her face. “You sneak. He’s gone to the brasserie. La Muse.”

  Armand smiled. “Worth a try.”

  “And you think she’ll be there? This tenth muse?” Myrna asked.

  “Do you?”

  * * *

  Jean-Guy grabbed a table inside. All the ones on the terrasse were already taken, but he wanted to be inside anyway. Where he could watch the servers.

  He picked up the menu and looked at the image laminated on the cover. It was a simple line drawing of a woman. Dancing.

  “What can I get you?” the server asked. Her voice was crisp, business-like, but her eyes had scanned him. Taking in the lean body, the dark hair and eyes. His ease.

  Beauvoir was used to this, and used to returning the look. But now he found, while he absorbed the fact of her presence, it meant nothing to him. Far from feeling he’d lost something, he once again was reminded of all he’d found. In Annie.

  “A ginger beer, s’il te plaît. Nonalcoholic.”

  She brought him the drink.

  “How long have you worked here?” He gave her a five-dollar bill, telling her to keep the change.

  “Couple of years.”

  “You an artist?”

  “No. I’m studying architecture. I work here in the summers.”

  “Is the owner around?”

  “Why? Is something wrong?” She looked concerned.

  “No, I just wanted to meet him.” Beauvoir held up the menu. “Interesting design.”

  “He did it himself. He’s an artist.”

  Beauvoir tried not to show his interest. “And is he here? I’d like to compliment him.”

  She looked like she neither believed him, nor cared. “He’s away.”

  “Oh. When will he be back?”

  “A week, maybe two.”

  “Do you know how I can find him?”

  She shook her head. “He goes off somewhere down the coast painting every year.”

  “In the busy season here?” Beauvoir asked. “Can’t he do it in winter?”

  “Would you?”

  She had a point.

  * * *

  They strolled through the cobblestone streets of Baie-Saint-Paul, Clara and Chartrand ahead, Myrna and Gamache a few paces behind.

  “They’re quite friendly,” said Gamache, gesturing toward the two ahead.

  “Yes,” said Myrna. She watched as Chartrand lowered his head so that he could better hear Clara. Clara was gesturing with Peter’s rolled-up paintings.

  Talking about art, Myrna thought. And she realized it had been a long time since she’d seen Peter bend down, to better hear Clara. And since she’d heard them talk about art, or anything, in the intimate way Clara and Chartrand were now talking.

  “I like him,” said Myrna.

  Beside her, Gamache put his hands behind his back, and held them there, rocking slightly as he walked.

  “Do you think the tenth muse exists?” he asked.

  Now it was Myrna’s turn to walk in silence. Considering.

  “I think muses exist,” she said. “I think something happens when an artist or writer or musician meets someone who inspires them.”

  “That’s not the same thing, and you know it,” said Gamache. “I’m not talking about a person who inspires an artist. I’m asking you about the tenth muse. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You noticed that, did you?” she smiled, and began to also rock slightly as she walked, in a rhythmic motion mirroring his. “I’ve never given the actual Muses any thought,” she said at last. “But now that I am, I have to say if I can believe in nine, I can stretch it to ten.”

  Beside her, Gamache gave a low laugh. “And can you believe in nine? Or ten?”

  Myrna was quiet for another few paces, watching Clara now look up at Chartrand as he spoke. Watching him gesture in ways Peter never did.

  Myrna stopped, and Gamache stopped with her. The other two, not seeing this, continued on.

  “Hundreds of millions of people believe in a God of some sort. They believe in karma, in angels, in spirits and ghosts. In reincarnation and heaven. And the soul. They pray and light candles and chant and carry good-luck charms and interpret events as omens. And I’m not talking about marginal people. This is the mainstream.”

  Between the old homes they could see the river.

  “Why not Muses?” she asked. “Besides, how else do you explain Ruth’s poetry? You can’t tell me that drunken old woman writes them without some supernatural help.”

  Gamache laughed. “A ghost writer?”

  “It really doesn’t matter if the Muses exist,” said Myrna. “What matters is that No Man believed it. He believed it so strongly he risked ridicule and even his job. That’s powerful, Armand, but it’s something else. That kind of passion, that kind of certainty, is very attractive. Especially to people who are directionless.”

  “Are you coming?” Clara called.

  She and Chartrand had stopped to wait for them.

  Myrna and Gamache joined them and together they walked until they reached the archway that led to the hidden courtyard. It was where they’d first regrouped twenty-four hours ago. It seemed so long ago now, so much had happened.

  While the others had been keen to join Jean-Guy at La Muse, Gamache had convinced them that Beauvoir might not do his best work with the four of them looking on.

  So they found themselves in the now-familiar courtyard. The terrasse, which should have been crammed with tourists admiring the view, was all but empty.

  This place seemed to exist only for them, and two lone backgammon players. Still there. Perhaps always there. Shabby guardians at a forgotten gate.

  * * *

  Beauvoir scanned the other servers, and his eyes fell on a middle-aged man who’d just appeared out of a door by the bar. Jean-Guy picked up his drink and moved to one of the stools. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Or, worse, he felt too comfortable. Too familiar.

  He stood up.

  “Salut,” he said to the older man, who was now behind the bar looking at order forms.

  The man looked up and gave Beauvoir a quick, professional smile. “Salut.”

  Then returned to what he was doing.

  “Nice place,” said Beauvoir. “Interesting name. La Muse.
Where does it come from?”

  He had the man’s attention, though it was clear he considered Beauvoir feeble, or drunk, or lonely, or just a pain in the ass.

  But the professional smile flashed again. “Been called that for as long as I’ve worked here.”

  “And how long’s that?”

  Beauvoir knew he was making a fool of himself. How useful flashing his Sûreté ID would be right about now. Such a difference between an inspector of homicide asking questions and a barfly asking them.

  The man stopped what he was doing and put both hands firmly on the bar.

  “Ten years, maybe more.”

  “You the owner?”

  “No.”

  “Can I speak to him?”

  “We’re not hiring.”

  “I already have a job.”

  The man looked like he didn’t believe him.

  Beauvoir longed to bring out the ID. Or the gun.

  “Look, I know this is strange, but I’m trying to find someone who might’ve known an artist called No Man.”

  The man’s stance changed. He pushed back from the bar and gave Beauvoir another assessing look.

  “Why?”

  “Well, I work at a gallery in Montréal and this No Man’s art has suddenly gone up in value. But no one seems to know much about him.”

  Now he had this man’s full attention. By dumb luck Beauvoir had said the very thing guaranteed to get both a response and respect. Two things Jean-Guy sorely wanted.

  “Really?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “Well, I never saw any of this No Man’s paintings myself, but Luc led me to believe…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I guess Van Gogh was a little you-know-what.”

  “What?”

  “Fucking nuts.”

  “Ahhh.” Now there was a description of an artist he could get behind. “And so was No Man?”

  For that he got a stern look. “He called himself No Man. What do you think?”

  “You have a point. Who’s this Luc?”

  “He’s the owner here. Luc Vachon.”

  “And he knew No Man?”

  “Yeah, well, he lived at that place for a few years.”

  “What did he say about it?” Beauvoir asked.

  “Not much.”

  “Come on, he lived there for years, he must’ve said something.”

  “I asked a few times, but he never really wanted to talk about it.”