The Long Way Home Page 27

  “What of it?”

  Gamache looked back to the house and saw Clara and Chartrand framed by the panes, their heads bowed together over the meal they were preparing.

  Noli timere, he thought.

  “Who was that poem written for?” he asked Ruth.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I think it might.”

  “I think you already know.”

  “Peter.”

  “Yes. How’d you know?”

  “A few things,” said Gamache. “It occurred to me that in French ‘stone’ is ‘pierre.’ And Pierre is Peter. It’s a play on his name, but it’s far more than that. You wrote it years ago. You could see it even then?”

  “That he was made of stone and wishful thinking? Yes.”

  “And that there was a deity that killed for pleasure,” said Gamache. “But that it could also heal.”

  “That’s what I believe,” said Ruth. “Peter didn’t. Here was a man who was given everything. Talent, love, a peaceful place to live and create. And all he had to do was appreciate it.”

  “And if he didn’t?”

  “He would remain stone. And the deities would turn on him. They do, you know. They’re generous, but they demand gratitude. Peter thought all his great good fortune was because of himself.”

  Unseen by Ruth, Gamache nodded.

  “Peter always had a ‘best before’ date stamped on his forehead,” said Ruth. “People who live in their heads do. They start out well enough, but eventually they run out of ideas. And if there’s no imagination, no inspiration to fall back on? Then what?”

  “What?”

  “In the words of Emily Dickinson, you’re screwed. What happens when the stone shatters, when even the wishful thinking disappears?”

  Gamache felt in his pocket, like a weight, the small book. And the smaller bookmark. Marking a spot beyond which he’d never been.

  “Their creations eventually die of neglect, of malnourishment,” said Ruth, answering her own question. “And sometimes, when that happens, the artist also dies.”

  “Driven to it by a deity who kills for pleasure,” said Gamache.

  “Yes.”

  “But it also heals? How?”

  Gamache found himself keenly interested. And he was honest enough to know it wasn’t just for Peter.

  “By offering a second chance. One last chance. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in using your head. But not in spending too much time in there. Fear lives in the head. And courage lives in the heart. The job is to get from one to the other.”

  “And between the two is the lump in the throat,” said Gamache.

  “Yes. Most people can’t get over that. Some are born to be brilliant. Peter was. But he just couldn’t get there. He got so close he could see it, smell it. He probably even believed he was there.”

  “Wishful thinking,” said Gamache.

  “Exactly. He was given a taste of brilliance, of true creativity, and then, like a jest of God, he had it taken away. But the gods weren’t finished with him yet. They gave him a wife who was truly gifted. So that he would have to see it every day. Witness it. And then the gods took even that away.”

  She sounded as though she was telling a ghost story. A horrible, haunting tale, of the thing she herself most feared. Not that a monster would appear, but that what she loved would disappear.

  Peter Morrow was living her nightmare. All their nightmares.

  “But he was given one last chance?” said Gamache. “To find it again?”

  “Not again,” said Ruth, her voice sharp. Making sure this ordinary man understood. “For the first time. Peter had to find something he never had.”

  “And what was that?”

  “His heart.” She paused before speaking again. “That’s what Peter was missing, all his life. He had the talent, the brains. But he was riddled with fear. And so he kept going over the same territory, over and over again. As though Lewis and Clark had gotten to Kansas, then turned back and started over. The same loop. Mistaking movement for progress.”

  “Peter was doing that?” Gamache asked.

  “All his life,” said Ruth. “Don’t you think? The subject of each painting might be different, but if you’d seen one Peter Morrow, you’d seen them all. Still, not everyone’s a Lewis and Clark. Not everyone’s an explorer, and not every explorer makes it back alive. That’s why it takes so much courage.”

  “Noli timere,” said Gamache. “But supposing he found the courage, what next? Did he go to Toronto looking for help, for guidance? To continue your analogy, wouldn’t he need a map?”

  “What’re you on about? Jeez, we’re talking about creative inspiration, not geography. Knucklehead,” she muttered. “And why’d you bring up something as confusing as Martin and Lewis?”

  Gamache sighed. He was losing her. And getting a little lost himself.

  “What was Peter looking for in Toronto?” Gamache asked, trying to keep it as clear, as simple as possible.

  “He was looking for a map,” said Ruth, and Gamache shook his head and breathed in deeply. “And he went to the right place. But—”

  “But what?” said Gamache.

  “Peter would have to be careful not to fall under the wrong influence. Most people want to be led. But suppose they choose the wrong leader? They end up with the Donner party.”

  “I think this analogy has run its course,” said Gamache.

  “What analogy?”

  Gamache thought about his friend Peter Morrow. Alone, afraid. Lost. And then at last Peter finds not one road, but two. One would lead him out of the wasteland, the other would lead him in circles. Mistaking movement for progress, as Ruth said. Professor Massey at one road, Professor Norman at another.

  Ruth was right. Peter, for all his bluster, was a coward. And cowards almost always took the easy way.

  And what could be easier than a magical tenth muse, who’d solve all your problems? Isn’t that what cults offered? Shelter from the storm? A clear answer. Unhindered progress.

  “Do you believe in the tenth muse, Ruth?”

  He braced himself for abuse, but none came. “I believe in inspiration, and I believe it’s divine. Whether it’s God, the angels, a tree, or a muse doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “Myrna talked about the power of belief,” he said.

  “She sounds wise. I’d like to meet her one day.”

  Gamache smiled. This conversation was over.

  “Merci, you drunken wretch,” he said, and heard her laugh. In the background Rosa was yelling, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You must have the wrong number.”

  Ruth hung up and went off to sit with Rosa, her muse, who inspired her not to be a better poet, but to be a better person.

  Gamache stood in the dark and looked through the window again. At Clara. And Marcel Chartrand.

  Perhaps that was why the gallery owner had invited them here, thought Gamache. Not as part of some sinister plot to get them away from Baie-Saint-Paul. But something far simpler. And far more human.

  This was where Marcel Chartrand lived, alone. Clinging to the rocky outcropping. He’d invited Clara into his home.

  Noli timere.

  Be not afraid.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir was on hold. Waiting, waiting.

  Gamache could see him through the windows in the living room. Pacing.

  The phone in Gamache’s hand rang.

  “Reine-Marie?”

  “Oui, Armand. I have news. The registrar at the art college called back.”

  “So late?”

  “Well, she was having difficulty finding Professor Norman’s file. I think she’d normally have given up and just gone on vacation, but the fact it was missing was bothering her.”

  “Did she find it?”

  “No.”

  “I might not hold the presses after all,” he said, and heard her laugh.

  “There’s more. She didn’t find it but s
he did call the temp they had working for them at the end of the semester. She admitted digging out the file for someone else.”

  “Peter?”

  “Peter. And I think I know why he hung around Toronto so long,” said Reine-Marie. “He’d asked for the file in the winter, but it took a long time to find it.”

  “Months?”

  “Well, not that long, but all the old files had been put in boxes when repair work was done years ago. What took so long was that she had to make sure the files weren’t contaminated with asbestos dust, from the renovations. That fits with the timing that Professor Massey told us about. By the time the temp got the okay that the files were fine, a few weeks had gone by, and it was spring.”

  “If the temp found the file, why can’t the registrar?” Armand asked.

  “The temp destroyed it. Before you jump to conclusions”—Reine-Marie had heard his grunt—“you need to know that the temp’s job was to enter data, contemporary data, on the students, but since she had Professor Norman’s file out for Peter, she simply scanned everything in. And then she destroyed the original. That’s why the registrar couldn’t find it.”

  “But that means an electronic version exists,” he said.

  “Exactly. The registrar is emailing it to me. We will, of course, be long dead by the time it downloads. So I asked her to give me some of the highlights.”

  “And?”

  “Sébastien Norman taught at the art college only one year. As I told you before, it was Massey who recommended him for the job. But what was in the files that was so valuable was a note from Norman asking that his last check be sent to Baie-Saint-Paul. Peter must’ve seen that and gone there to find him.”

  “But by then Norman had long since disappeared,” said Gamache. “We might have another lead. Norman had a gallery where he sent his works. They might still represent him. Professor Massey met Norman in Toronto when he was starting his career. Maybe the gallery was in Toronto.”

  “And they’d have his current address,” said Reine-Marie. “But there’re a lot of galleries in Toronto.”

  “True, but Professor Massey might know,” said Armand.

  “Do you want me to call him?”

  “It’ll be too late to call him,” said Armand. “He’d have gone home by now.”

  “Not necessarily. I think Professor Massey lives at the college, in his studio.”

  “Really? How strange.”

  “I suppose he has everything he needs there,” said Reine-Marie. “I’ll try.”

  One professor was expelled, thought Gamache as he hung up. One professor never left.

  Reine-Marie called back a few minutes later.

  “No answer. Maybe he doesn’t live there. I’ll try him again in the morning.”

  “Did the registrar say where Professor Norman was from? What part of Québec?”

  “I didn’t ask, but it might be in the file.”

  “Can you forward it to me as soon as you get it, s’il te plaît?”

  They talked for a few more minutes, quiet, private conversation, then Gamache returned to the kitchen to find that Beauvoir had just arrived back as well.

  “Anything?” the others asked in unison.

  “Patron?” Beauvoir gestured for Gamache to go first.

  “Reine-Marie’s expecting an email from the college with Professor Norman’s file. Did you know that it was Professor Massey who put Norman forward for the job?”

  Judging by Clara’s face, she didn’t.

  “What would possess him to do that?”

  “He admitted to Reine-Marie that he didn’t know Norman well. They’d met at a few art shows, and Massey felt Norman needed a bit of help. He didn’t know many people and was clearly hard up. So Massey recommended Norman for a part-time job teaching art theory.”

  “Massey must’ve felt pretty bad when Norman screwed up,” said Beauvoir.

  “What did you think of him?” Gamache asked Myrna.

  “Massey? I liked him. And I can see why the students adored him. He’s magnetic, even now. And he seemed to genuinely care about the students. He reminded me a bit of you, Armand,” said Myrna.

  “It’s true,” said Clara. “I knew there was something about the man. His calm, I think, and his desire to help.”

  “And his rugged good looks,” said Gamache, and saw the whites of their eyes. “There was a note in Norman’s file telling them to forward his last paycheck here, to Baie-Saint-Paul. Peter saw the file, saw that, and came here. If there’s more there we’ll find out soon.”

  The pasta was drained and drizzled with garlic-infused olive oil, fresh basil, and grated Parmesan and the bowl brought to the table.

  “Your turn,” Clara said to Beauvoir as they sat down. “Any luck with La Muse?”

  “None. I waited on hold for a long time, but the manager was too busy to come to the phone.” Beauvoir helped himself to the pasta as he spoke.

  He didn’t say it, but had they stayed in Baie-Saint-Paul he could have gone to La Muse, cornered the man, and gotten the information. Instead, the phone had been hung up with the promise that the manager would call when he had the time.

  An hour later, after the dishes had been done and the coffee perked, two phone calls came in at the same time.

  “Excuse-moi,” said Gamache, and again stepped onto the stone terrace with his cell phone. Before closing the door, he heard Chartrand say to Beauvoir, “It’s for you.”

  It was a warm, moonless night, and while Gamache could no longer see the St. Lawrence, it made itself known to all his other senses. He could smell it, and hear it, and even feel it. The lightest of mists on his face.

  “Reine-Marie?” As he spoke, he unconsciously turned west and imagined Reine-Marie at home. He imagined he was with her, sitting in their garden. Under these same stars.

  “I have the dossier. I’ve just forwarded it to you.”

  “Can you give me the broad strokes?”

  He listened as she read. And as she read he turned slowly. Away from her. Away from Three Pines. Away from the heart of Québec. To the head of the river. To where the St. Lawrence, and Québec, began.

  To where this all began, he now knew. And where it would end.

  * * *

  “Patron?”

  Beauvoir was silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Ici.” He’d just hung up from Reine-Marie.

  “I know where the owner of La Muse went. Where he goes every year at about this time.”

  “Let me guess,” said Gamache.

  The Chief was a disembodied voice, but then, slowly, Beauvoir could see his outline. Dark against the stars in the night sky.

  The figure lifted a black arm and pointed.

  “Out there,” said Gamache.

  “Oui,” said Beauvoir.

  “Tabaquen.”

  “Oui.” And he too turned and stared into the darkness.

  If the world had been flat, Tabaquen would be perched on the precipice.

  “There you are,” said Myrna, coming out.

  “What is it?” Clara asked, joining Myrna and noticing the two men standing so still and silent. Staring to the east.

  “We know where the owner of La Muse went,” said Beauvoir.

  “And we know where No Man went,” said Gamache. “And the place where Peter almost certainly is.”

  “Where?” asked Clara, quickly joining them.

  “A village way down there.” Beauvoir pointed into the night.

  “It’s called Tabaquen,” said Gamache.

  “Do you know it?” Clara asked, and in the darkness she saw the dark head nod.

  “It’s the sister village of Agneau-de-Dieu,” he said. “Side by side, but very different.”

  Gamache walked past them, toward the house.

  “Agneau-de-Dieu,” said Myrna, doing the translation. “Lamb of God. But Tabaquen? I don’t know how that translates.”

  “It’s a bastardization,” said Beauvoir. “It’s not really French. It was named
by the natives a long, long time ago, before Europeans arrived.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Clara. “Do you know?”

  “It means ‘sorcerer,’” said Gamache, as he entered the house.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Beauvoir and Clara were up half the night, discussing, considering. Emailing, searching and plotting a course.

  Finally, about two in the morning, they had it organized and went to their beds, only to wake up at six when their alarms sounded.

  “What time is it?” came Myrna’s sleepy voice. “God, Clara, it’s just after six. Is the house on fire?”

  “We need to leave if we’re going to catch the nine o’clock plane.”

  “What?”

  Myrna sat up in bed, completely alert and slightly alarmed.

  Down the hall, Gamache was already sitting on the side of the bed. He’d offered to stay up with Clara and Beauvoir, to help them, but had been persuaded that his presence wasn’t necessary. At all.

  “You were successful?” he said to Jean-Guy, who was looking bleary but eager.

  “There’s a flight out of La Malbaie in three hours. It’ll take us to Tabaquen.”

  “Really?” said Myrna, when Clara explained it. “Can’t we just drive?”

  “There’re no roads,” said Clara, trying to coax the large woman out of the small bed. “It’s a fishing village. The only way in is by boat or plane.”

  “We chose the plane,” Beauvoir was explaining to Gamache, who was in the shower. “It stops at all the villages and will take all day, but we’ll be there in time for dinner.”

  They were dressed and out the door by seven.

  Chartrand was standing by his van.

  “We’re taking our car,” said Jean-Guy, tossing his bag into the trunk.

  “I’m going with you,” Chartrand said. “No need to take two vehicles. You can come back for yours when we get back.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  “Get in,” said Clara.

  She climbed into the van, looked at Jean-Guy and patted the seat next to her.

  Beauvoir looked at her, then at Chartrand. And finally at Gamache, who shrugged.

  “You heard her, Jean-Guy. Grab your things.”

  “Patron,” Jean-Guy started to say, but Gamache put his hand on Beauvoir’s arm to stop him.