The Long Way Home Read online

  “Such as?”

  “Chartrand knew No Man,” said Gamache. “I think it’s possible he was a member of his community, or cult, or whatever it was. I think it might even have been Chartrand who told Peter about Tabaquen. And sent him there.”

  “That’s no crime, Armand. You’re turning it into something sinister.”

  “You’re right,” Gamache admitted. “If Peter asked about No Man and Chartrand told him where to find him, there’s absolutely nothing sinister about it. In fact, it was doing Peter a favor. Except—”

  “What?”

  “If that’s what Chartrand did, why not tell us?”

  That stopped Clara.

  “Why keep it a secret, Clara? What’s he trying to hide?”

  Clara was quiet for a moment. In the silence they could hear Jean-Guy calling to them.

  “You asked why Marcel would join us, but you haven’t asked why I agreed.”

  “I thought—”

  “You thought I’d lost my heart to him? The lonely woman, vulnerable to a little attention? Do you really think that’s likely?”

  “Well, now I don’t,” he said, and was so clearly embarrassed Clara smiled.

  Jean-Guy was waving frantically from the dock and Myrna was standing in the middle of the gangway, refusing to move for the sailors.

  “If Marcel knew where Peter went and didn’t tell us, it’s because he wanted to keep us away from Tabaquen,” said Clara. “He might be keeping an eye on us, but I’m watching him too. That’s why I wanted him with us.”

  She turned and started walking rapidly toward the quai, but before she did she looked back and said, “And I am reason enough, Armand, for a man to give up everything.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Huh,” said Gamache.

  The sun was setting and their passage so far had been fairly smooth. The storm predicted by the pilot was ahead of them.

  At the sound of Gamache’s grunt, Jean-Guy shifted his gaze to the Chief. Beauvoir had been looking at the window. Not through it, but at it. At his own reflection.

  “What is it?” Beauvoir asked.

  Gamache looked from his device to Beauvoir. It was difficult not to be distracted by the sou’wester. The hat sat at a jaunty angle, manipulated, shifted, arranged over the past half hour to appear as though Jean-Guy had simply grabbed it off a peg and crammed it onto his head as the skipper cried, “Thar she blows.”

  “Very you, matey.”

  “Have you ever been to sea, Billy?” Beauvoir leered at Gamache.

  “What is it with you and elderly women anyway?” Gamache asked.

  Beauvoir took the hat off and placed it on his knee.

  “I think they know I don’t see them as elderly. Just people.”

  And Gamache knew it was true.

  “Just as I’ll never see Annie as old. Even though we will be. One day.”

  And Gamache hoped that too was true. He looked at Beauvoir, beside him on the bench, and saw him decades from now. Sitting with Annie on the sofa. In what would be their home, their dwelling place, in Three Pines. Reading. Old and gray and by the fire. Annie and Jean-Guy. And their children. And grandchildren.

  The days of their togetherness.

  Just as he and Reine-Marie were having theirs. Until this.

  Beauvoir gestured toward the device in Gamache’s hand. “What is it?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You were reading a message?” Beauvoir suggested.

  “Ah, oui. From the Sûreté in Baie-Saint-Paul. The sniffer dogs found something.”

  Beauvoir shifted on the hard bench so that he was looking directly at the Chief.

  “A corpse?”

  “No, not yet. It was a metal box, with cardboard rolls inside, like the one that Peter’s canvases came in. They were empty. Except for some powder.”

  “Heroin? Coke?”

  “Captain Nadeau’s having it tested.”

  Gamache looked at the windows, wet with spray. It was dark now, and all he could see was the lit bow of the Loup de Mer. “Was the commune really a meth lab? Was the art a cover to distribute drugs?”

  “We already know that heroin and cocaine come into Québec by boat,” said Beauvoir. “It’s almost impossible to stop.”

  Gamache nodded. “Suppose it gets off-loaded in Baie-Saint-Paul, taken to No Man’s community in the woods—”

  “That would explain why it was in the woods,” said Beauvoir. “And not overlooking the river, where the other artists’ colonies set up. They didn’t want a view, what they wanted was privacy, and warning if anyone approached.”

  “No Man cuts and packages. Luc Vachon sends them south. Disguised as No Man’s paintings. Rolled into those tubes.”

  The St. Lawrence, while a lifeline, was also a supply line. For all sorts of illegal activity, including hard drugs.

  “Maybe it was No Man himself who started the rumors it was a cult,” said Beauvoir. “To keep the curious away. But then that cop starts paying attention to them, and No Man closes up shop and moves even further away. To Tabaquen. More remote. More privacy. Less scrutiny.”

  Gamache shifted, uncomfortable on the hard bench.

  He was under no illusion. If that’s what No Man was about in Tabaquen, they were in for a world of trouble when they arrived.

  His fears, illusions while in Three Pines, were taking form. Taking shape. And coming closer. This was what happened when you ventured into the real world.

  A brave man in a brave country. It was easy to be brave, when the country was also brave. But what happened if it wasn’t? If it was corrupt, and grotesque, and greedy, and violent?

  And what happened if it was waiting for them? Knowing they were coming?

  “And Chartrand?” asked Beauvoir. “How does he fit in?”

  “A respected gallery owner with connections worldwide? Beyond reproach?” asked Gamache. “Who’s better placed to coordinate the operation?”

  That explained Chartrand, but what about Professor Massey?

  What role did he play in this? He must have some involvement, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone all the way to Tabaquen.

  “Suppose No Man was involved in drugs back in the days he worked at the college,” said Gamache, thinking out loud. “Suppose Massey suspected but couldn’t prove anything.”

  Maybe, like Carlos Casteneda insisting peyote fueled creativity, Professor Norman had been pushing coke. To students eager to blow their minds, and put it on canvas.

  “Maybe that was the tenth muse,” said Gamache. “Cocaine.”

  Beside him, Beauvoir fidgeted with the hat. That made more sense to him than some flighty, prancing, embittered goddess.

  The one that killed for pleasure.

  Now meth. Or heroin. Or coke. The trinity of deadly drugs.

  There was something that killed for pleasure.

  “Could Massey have gone to Tabaquen to finally confront Norman?” Beauvoir asked. “When he found out Peter might’ve followed No Man there, he might’ve gone to protect him. He sounded like that sort of man.”

  Both Clara and Myrna had said the elderly professor had reminded them of the Chief. And Gamache had gone to hell to bring back Jean-Guy. Maybe Massey was going to Tabaquen, the Sorcerer, to save Peter. To bring him back.

  It was all supposition. But it fit.

  Gamache’s phone rang and he took it.

  “Oui, allô?”

  “Armand, how’s the cruise?”

  “We’re on the lido deck. The conga line just finished.” He tried to keep his voice light. “You should see our cabin. Thankfully those interminable baptisms of your ninety-seven nieces and nephews have trained me to sleep standing up. A blessing.”

  “You’re going to hell,” she laughed.

  He looked at the bow, heaving. And ho-ing. The inky waves had grown. The wind had picked up in the last few minutes, heading straight into their face as though trying to push them back. But the Loup de Mer kept chugging, slicing through the water, slicin
g through the night. Heading deeper into the darkness.

  He knew where they were going and she wasn’t far wrong.

  They chatted for a few minutes about the activities in Three Pines. As they spoke, Armand turned on the bench, until he was facing the stern. Looking back. To the home he’d left behind.

  * * *

  In the night the Loup de Mer stopped at a few more outports, depositing food, supplies, people, before moving on.

  By morning they were well up the coast. Leaving roads and towns and most of the trees behind. The passengers awoke to a gray sky and a shoreline made of rocks worn smooth by waves.

  “Strange place,” said Myrna, joining Armand on deck and handing him a strong, sweet tea.

  They leaned on the railing. There was a chill in the air that belied the summer season. It was as though they’d left the calendar behind. Time had its own rules here.

  Gamache sipped his tea. It was a brew he associated with the Lower North Shore. Where pots sat on woodstoves all day, and arthritic hands added more hot water and dropped more bags in, until it was like stew.

  He’d drunk gallons of the stuff as he’d sat in kitchens in the remote fishing villages along this coastline.

  “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” she asked.

  “A few times.”

  “Investigations?”

  “Yes. Always difficult in a closed community. These people are proud, self-reliant. They didn’t even have running water or electricity until recently. They never asked for help from the government. Not a single person took unemployment, until recently. It would never occur to them to take what they considered a handout. They have their own laws and rules and code of conduct.”

  “You make it sound like the Wild West.”

  Gamache smiled. “I suppose it is, a bit. But not so wild really. These are fishermen. They’re a different breed. They get enough ‘wild’ from the sea. When they get home they want peace. There’s a deep civility about the people here.”

  “And yet they still kill.”

  “Sometimes. They’re human.” He looked at Myrna. “Do you know what Jacques Cartier called this stretch of coast?”

  “Cartier the explorer?”

  “Yes, back in the early fifteen hundreds. When he first saw this place he called it ‘the land God gave to Cain.’”

  Myrna took that in as she watched the shoreline, where the odd, malformed trees lived. But nothing else.

  “Cain. The first murderer,” said Myrna.

  “A coast so forbidding, so hostile it was fit only for the damned,” said Gamache. “And yet…”

  “Yes?”

  He gave a small lopsided smile and stared at the far shore. “And yet I find it just about the most beautiful place on earth. I wonder what that says about me.”

  “Maybe you’re drawn to the damned,” said Myrna.

  “Maybe that’s why I’ve spent my life looking for murderers.”

  “Have you ever been to Tabaquen?” she asked.

  “Once. We arrested an old trapper for murder. He’d never been off the coast before. Never been off his trapline. He died in prison before the trial.”

  “Poor man,” said Myrna. And Gamache nodded agreement.

  He stared at the almost unnaturally smooth rocks gliding out of the water in great sheets.

  “There’re those who seem to turn to the sea, always changing, always adapting. But never settling down. And those who turn to rocks and stones.” He waved toward the shoreline. “Solid but stuck.”

  He looked at Myrna and smiled. “Sorry. I suspect that sounds romantic.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Perhaps, Myrna thought, in Montréal, or Toronto, or New York, or London it would. But hanging over the rail, looking at the cold gray water, the hard gray stones, the thick gray clouds, it sounded about right.

  She watched Armand. Was he of the sea or the stone? Was she?

  * * *

  Clara walked along the narrow corridor, adjusting her step to the growing and unpredictable swell. She was discovering that she was good on boats. As was Myrna.

  Chartrand, on the other hand, was not.

  He’d stayed in the Admiral’s Suite all morning. Clara had taken him some dry toast and tea. It was the first time she’d seen their “suite,” and it had shocked her. She’d been a little suspicious of Chartrand’s absence, wondering if he was faking it. But seeing the crummy, smelly, uncomfortable cabin, she knew only a man on his deathbed would choose to spend time there.

  Chartrand had roused, seen her, and through bleary eyes had thanked her.

  “You should go,” he said, trying to get up on an elbow. “I don’t want you seeing me like this.”

  “And if I was sick?” she asked.

  “I’d want to look after you,” he said, and his pale green pallor developed an orangish hue. Had Marcel Chartrand’s face been a color wheel, he’d have failed the exam.

  They sat on the narrow bed and she’d gotten a cool cloth and a Gravol.

  After a few minutes the drug kicked in and Clara could see his eyelids grow heavy, his breathing grow deeper, his skin less waxy.

  She let him subside onto the bed and covered him with a blanket.

  “Don’t go,” he whispered. Then shut his eyes.

  She lingered for a moment at the door, before leaving.

  * * *

  The report on the substance in the buried container arrived that afternoon.

  Gamache and Beauvoir read it with increasing puzzlement.

  It wasn’t heroin after all. It wasn’t cocaine.

  “How can this be?” Beauvoir asked, his brows drawn together. “Am I reading it right?”

  Gamache had gone over the report two or three times himself. Quickly the first time, scanning the familiar form down to the pertinent line. And there he stopped, as though hitting a wall.

  Then he went back and read more carefully. But the conclusion never changed.

  The powdery substance in the container wasn’t a pharmaceutical. It was natural. But not the prettiest side of nature.

  Asbestos.

  The two men lifted their eyes from the screen and stared at each other.

  “What does it mean?” asked Jean-Guy.

  Gamache got to his feet. “See what you can find out about asbestos.”

  “Right.”

  Beauvoir excelled at finding facts. Tracking them down, analyzing them, putting them in their place. Not like an automaton, but a skilled and thoughtful investigator.

  Gamache left Beauvoir on the laptop in the lounge and went to the communications office of the ship, where they printed out copies of the report. Then he went on deck and found Clara and Myrna on a bench, talking.

  “Am I disturbing you?” he asked.

  “No, but you look a little disturbed,” said Myrna, and patted the seat next to her.

  He took it, and told them the latest findings.

  “Asbestos?” said Clara. “Could it be natural? I mean, isn’t asbestos mined in Québec?”

  “Oui. There’s a whole town called Asbestos,” Gamache confirmed. “Built around mining it. But that’s a long way off. This asbestos was found inside mailing tubes, like the one Peter’s canvases came in.”

  “How’d it get there?” Clara asked.

  “Where would you even get asbestos these days?” asked Myrna. “I thought it was all removed and destroyed decades ago.”

  “It was,” said Gamache. “There was asbestos removed from the art college the year after you graduated, Clara.”

  “I remember hearing about it,” she said.

  “It was happening all over,” said Myrna. “I was working in a hospital and they found it in the walls. Used for insulation. No one thought it was dangerous, of course. At the time. And when they found out it was, they had to remove it. Big mess.”

  “Big mess,” said Gamache.

  “But how’d it get buried in some field in Charlevoix?” asked Clara.

  “In a mailing
tube,” said Myrna.

  The three of them stared at the coastline, and the gulls dipping and floating on the air currents. Their movements growing increasingly erratic as the currents grew increasingly unstable. The gulls themselves seemed surprised, and cried out, as they were tossed about.

  Gamache watched this, then looked into the sky. It was dull and gray. Not bright, but neither was it threatening.

  “Excuse-moi,” he said.

  He went inside and called the college. The principal confirmed that work was done, according to Canadian law and code, back in the 1980s.

  “Could someone take some of that asbestos?” Gamache asked.

  There was a pause. “It was before my time, so I can’t say for sure, but I do know they wouldn’t have just left piles of it lying around. And even if they did, why would anyone want to take something that would kill you?”

  Gamache, the former head of homicide for the Sûreté, knew the answer to that.

  It was to kill. That’s why someone would take it.

  Through the window he watched the gulls bounce and bob, and sometimes they were swept back as though picked up by a strong hand.

  This was a harbinger, Gamache knew. The first signs. Something was coming.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “Find anything?” asked Gamache.

  He’d returned to the lounge.

  Beauvoir nodded, distracted. Lost in reading.

  Gamache joined him at the table.

  On the screen was the history of the town of Asbestos, Québec, where asbestos had been discovered and mined. It had seemed a godsend to a hardscrabble region. Natural, plentiful. It was both an insulator and a fire retardant. Asbestos would save the region and save lives.

  It was magic.

  No one seemed to notice the needle-like fibers. That floated in the air when it was disturbed. That lodged in the lungs of those who worked, or played, or lived with it.

  Beauvoir scrolled down. They read words like “mesothelioma,” that sounded like a geological age, but wasn’t. And “friable,” that sounded like a cooking term. But wasn’t.

  They learned a great deal about the mineral that was supposed to be a miracle. But wasn’t.

  Asbestos turned out to be the thalidomide of building materials. A savior that killed.