The Long Way Home Page 35

  “Holy shit,” Peter said, and sat down. Then he looked around again.

  “But why isn’t Professor Massey here too? Why not kill them together?”

  “We’ll have to wait until Jean-Guy arrests Vachon, but I think Vachon needed a scapegoat. I suspect his plan was to make it look like a murder-suicide. So that we’d think Massey killed Professor Norman and then killed himself. It wouldn’t be hard for Vachon to knock him out and hold him underwater.”

  One more soul for the St. Lawrence, thought Gamache, and knew if that was the case they would almost certainly never find Professor Massey.

  But they would find Vachon. If not here, then somewhere. Eventually. They would track him down and try him.

  “Why would Vachon do it?” asked Peter.

  “I’ve just explained,” said Gamache. “Though I might be wrong.”

  “No, I mean why would he agree to help Professor Massey in the first place?”

  “Why would anyone?” asked Gamache. “Money, almost certainly. Enough to start his own bar. To keep it running. To paint and travel. And all he had to do was deliver art supplies once or twice a year. And take the finished paintings back to Toronto.”

  “And he could pretend he didn’t even know they were infected,” said Peter. “What did Massey do with the finished paintings?”

  “He must have destroyed them,” said Gamache. “All except one. Myrna and Reine-Marie saw it, in Massey’s studio. Massey claimed it for his own, and they didn’t question it, but they did say it was far, far better than the rest.”

  “Why’d he keep it?” Peter asked.

  “I’ve been wondering that myself,” said Gamache. “Why would Massey keep one of Norman’s small masterpieces? As a trophy? Killers sometimes do.”

  “I think it might be simpler than that,” said Peter. “For all his faults, Professor Massey loved art. Knew art. I think that painting by Professor Norman must’ve been so great even he couldn’t destroy it.”

  Peter sighed, a deep exhale. And Gamache knew what he was thinking about. The masterpiece in his own life. The one he’d destroyed. Not Clara’s painting, but her love.

  * * *

  “I’ve come too far, and waited too long.” Clara got to her feet. “I’m going.”

  Myrna stood in front of her in the diner, blocking her route out.

  Clara stared at her.

  “I have to know,” Clara whispered, so that only Myrna could hear. “Please. Let me go.”

  Myrna stepped toward Clara, who stood her ground.

  And then she stepped aside.

  And let her go.

  * * *

  “Clara waited for you,” said Gamache quietly. “That night of your anniversary.”

  Peter opened his mouth but the words were stuck at the lump in his throat.

  “I wrote,” he said at last. “To say I wasn’t going to make it, but that I’d be home as soon as I could. I gave it to that young pilot.”

  “She never got the letter.”

  “Oh, my God. That shithead must’ve lost it. She must think I don’t care. Oh no. Oh, Christ. She must hate me.”

  Peter stood up and started for the door. “I have to go. I have to get home. I have to speak to her, to tell her. The plane’ll be here soon. I have to be on it.”

  Gamache put out his hand and gripped Peter’s arm.

  Peter tried to jerk free. “Let me go. I have to go.”

  “She’s here,” said Gamache. “She came to find you.”

  FORTY

  “Clara’s here?” Peter demanded. “Where?”

  “She’s with Myrna at the diner,” said Gamache.

  “I’m going,” he said.

  “No, you need to stay here until Beauvoir returns and we know where we stand. I’m sorry, Peter, but the priority has to be to arrest Vachon for murder. Time enough to see Clara after that.”

  Gamache walked to the door and stepped onto the porch, scanning the horizon in case Beauvoir was returning with Vachon. But there was no one, and nothing, there.

  He turned back to the cabin and saw Peter approach the bed. Then Peter reached out and did what he knew he shouldn’t. He broke the rules, and brushed Norman’s hand with one finger. The lightest of strokes.

  Gamache gave him that private moment. He stepped off the rickety porch and looked around, turning full circle in the bright sunshine.

  There was no movement. There was no sound.

  Nothing.

  How bleak it must have been for No Man.

  For Peter.

  When the only sound was the hacking, rattling cough of a dying man.

  When the only activity was shopping, cooking, cleaning. Bathing a dying man.

  How tempting it must have been, to leave.

  But Peter Morrow had stayed. Right to the end.

  “I’ll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country,” said Gamache.

  “Pardon?”

  Peter had come onto the porch and was watching Gamache.

  Armand turned and said to Peter, “I will pray you find a way to be useful.”

  Peter stood, as silent and solid as the world around them.

  “Gilead,” said Gamache. “The tenth muse is not, I think, about becoming a better artist, but becoming a better person.”

  Gamache stepped onto the porch. “You found a way to be useful.”

  Maybe this wasn’t Samarra after all, thought Gamache. Maybe it was Gilead.

  Peter seemed to relax. Some tension, held all his life, escaped.

  He followed Gamache inside.

  Armand stared down at the body in the bed. Thinking, thinking.

  Peter had been here alone this morning. Standing sentinel. Guarding the body until help arrived. But there had been one visitor.

  Luc Vachon. Who’d helped Massey kill Norman. Who’d delivered the asbestos-infected supplies.

  But, but … what had Beauvoir said? What had Peter said, when told?

  That the beauty of the plan, for Vachon, was that he could delude himself into believing he wasn’t doing anything wrong. But suppose. Suppose. It wasn’t a delusion?

  Gamache held his hand to his mouth and rubbed as he looked down at Sébastien Norman.

  He brought out his device and hit it rapidly with his finger until that painting appeared again. The distorted, demented face glared at him. Dared him.

  Peter looked at it. “I remember that. From the yearbook. Professor Norman painted it. We’d assumed it was a self-portrait.”

  Peter was caught between revulsion and awe. He looked over at the body on the bed.

  “But it’s not him.”

  “No,” said Gamache. “It’s Massey. Professor Norman had seen it even then. That there was some other Massey, beneath the veneer.”

  Gamache looked closely. His eyes sharp. Studying the contours of the face, the eyes, the strong chin and cheekbones. Looking beyond the expression, to the man.

  “Oh,” he said, the word coming out as a sigh. “Oh no.”

  Gamache knew that face. Not the same expression, but the man.

  He’d seen it on the dock, when they got off the ship. The elderly, grizzled fisherman in the wide-brimmed hat and thick, battered coat.

  Not watching for the boat. But waiting for it.

  The man who’d warned him to leave.

  Had Clara and Myrna turned around, had they come closer, they might have recognized him. But they didn’t.

  Vachon wasn’t setting it up to look like a murder-suicide. Massey was. If there was another body to be found, it would be Luc Vachon’s.

  And Massey would be long gone. Presumed drowned. Another victim of Vachon. But actually safely on the ship.

  “Damn.” Gamache shoved the device back into his pocket. He looked at his watch. He hadn’t heard the cry of the Loup de Mer’s horn. It was possible it hadn’t left port.

  “Peter—”

  Gamache turned to Peter, about to ask him to stay there while he ran back to Tabaquen to stop the boat. To fi
nd the fisherman. To tell Beauvoir to stop looking for Vachon, and start looking for Professor Massey.

  But the words died when he saw Peter’s face, and followed his eyes.

  To the door.

  Clara Morrow was standing there. A knife to her throat.

  Behind her was Massey, out of breath.

  He held Clara to his chest. In his hand was a huge knife. A hunting knife. Used, Gamache knew, for gutting deer. Sharp enough to cut through sinew and bone. To cut a throat. As it had last night.

  Armand Gamache put his hands up where Massey could see them, and Peter immediately did the same. Peter had gone pale, and Gamache thought he might pass out.

  “Clara,” said Peter, but Clara couldn’t talk. The knife was against her skin, up under her jaw. Ready to slit.

  Peter’s eyes went to Massey. “Professor. Please. You can’t.”

  But Massey only had eyes for Gamache.

  “I’m sorry you’re here,” Massey said, catching his breath. “I saw your assistant in Tabaquen. Asking about Luc. Trying to find him. I presumed you’d also be out looking. He even asked if I’d seen him. I had, of course.”

  “Vachon didn’t know what you were doing, did he?” said Gamache.

  He moved slightly to his right, so that he cleared the bed and had a direct path to Massey.

  But Gamache knew he could never cover that short distance before Clara was dead, or dying. He hoped Peter knew the same thing. Massey was an elderly man, but still vigorous. And it didn’t take much for a sharp knife to go through flesh.

  “Of course not. Why would I tell him that the canvases he was taking back and forth were riddled with asbestos? Do you think he’d have done it?” Massey glanced quickly over to the bed. “He served his purpose. But he had one last thing to do for me.”

  “Take the blame,” said Gamache.

  In his peripheral vision he could see Peter. Petrified.

  Turned to stone. And wishful thinking.

  Clara stared ahead. At Peter.

  And Peter stared at her.

  Massey, on the other hand, was staring at Gamache.

  “Yes. And it almost worked. I came here to confess to something that was now obvious. I’d put asbestos on the canvases. In my dotage, and as I prepared to meet my own maker, I was consumed with guilt and regret. So I came here to beg Sébastien for forgiveness. And then turn myself in. But my accomplice, Vachon, couldn’t allow it. He’d be implicated. So he killed Sébastien, then me. And it worked. Your man was looking for Vachon, to arrest him. For murder.”

  “Oui. That’s what I thought,” Gamache admitted.

  “What changed your mind?” asked Massey.

  “The picture.”

  “What picture?” Massey was getting agitated.

  “The portrait from the yearbook. Everyone assumed it was a self-portrait, by Norman. But it wasn’t, was it? It was you. He recognized the rage, the fear in you. And you hated him all the more for it.”

  “You recognized me from the dock just now. I thought maybe you had. I actually thought Clara would. And when she left the diner in such haste, I was sure she was coming here. Looking for you. To tell you.”

  “So you followed her.”

  “I’m sorry, Clara.” The professor held her tighter and breathed into her ear. “You moved faster than I expected. I couldn’t get to you before you got here.”

  His breathing had settled down. He seemed to expect Gamache to say something, but instead he remained silent.

  “I was going to get on the plane,” Massey explained. “But the storm delayed it. So I had to wait for the boat. Otherwise I’d be long gone. Bad luck, all around. And then when the ship arrived, what did you do? You came straight for me.”

  “That must have been a bad moment for you,” said Gamache, as though this was a cocktail party, and a man with a knife was perfectly normal.

  He needed to get Massey calm. To have him see the reality of the situation.

  The man was clearly terrified. Terrified animals ran off cliffs.

  And Massey looked headed for a cliff.

  “It was. But then you headed away and I thought I was free. But then I got to thinking about Clara. And your portraits. And how closely you must look at faces.” He spoke to the woman clutched to his chest, but he watched Gamache. “I knew if anyone would recognize me, you would, Clara. It might take some time, but you’d get there eventually. And then when you ran out of the diner, I knew you knew.”

  “But she didn’t,” said Gamache. “She came here to see Peter.”

  He watched as the reality dawned. Had Professor Massey stayed where he was. Had his nerves not failed him, he might have gotten away. But now here he stood, a knife to Clara Morrow’s throat.

  “It’s too late,” said Gamache. “Let her go.”

  “I haven’t painted in years, you know,” said Massey, as though Gamache hadn’t spoken. “Nothing. Empty.”

  He looked at Gamache, and the former head of homicide’s heart froze. There was the face from the portrait. Filled with hate, for those who had what he did not. Not a canvas filled with paint, but a home, and friends and people who cared about the man more than the work.

  Gamache edged a little closer. Massey’s knife didn’t waver. Didn’t lower.

  Massey glanced quickly over to the bed.

  Gamache shot a look at Peter. To warn him to stay still. As long as Massey was talking, they had a chance.

  Behind Clara, behind Massey, Gamache saw movement.

  Someone was coming. Still a distance away, but approaching.

  Gamache knew the gait, recognized the shape.

  It was Beauvoir.

  Peter saw none of this. He only saw Clara.

  “I love you, Clara,” he said, softly.

  “Be quiet, Peter,” Gamache warned. He didn’t know what would set Massey off, but he knew it wouldn’t take much now.

  “I’m sorry,” said Peter. To Gamache. Or to Clara.

  Massey’s grip on Clara tightened. He was a man with nothing, and nothing to lose.

  He was Death. And this was Samarra. After all.

  Gamache knew it then.

  His eyes darted over Massey’s shoulder, and he gave the faintest of nods. But it was enough.

  Seeing this, Massey turned his head slightly. It was all Gamache needed. He sprung forward just as Clara ducked down and twisted away from the knife. But Massey still grasped her clothing.

  Clara strained to get away, but without hope.

  The knife moved swiftly forward, and struck.

  Not Clara. Not Gamache.

  Peter took the blow in the chest as he pulled Clara clear.

  Gamache pinned Massey, kicking the knife away and hitting him so hard the man passed out.

  Armand swung around. Clara was on her knees, beside Peter. Holding her hands to his chest. Gamache stripped off his jacket and, balling it up, he pressed it into the wound.

  Beauvoir had sprinted the last few yards. He looked, then wordlessly turned and ran back up the hill, where he could call for help.

  “Peter, Peter,” Clara shouted.

  Her bloody hands found his, and held them, while Gamache tried to stanch the wound.

  Peter’s eyes were wide and filled with panic. His lips were turning pale. Paler. As was his face.

  “Peter,” Clara whispered, staring into his eyes.

  “Clara,” he sighed. “I’m so sorry…”

  “Shhhh. Shhhh. Help is coming.”

  “I wanted to come home,” he said, gripping her hands. “I wrote…”

  “Shhh,” she said, and saw his eyes flicker.

  She bent low, until she was down beside him, whispering in his ear, looking into his eyes. “You’re at the top of the hill in Three Pines,” she spoke softly. “Can you see the village green? Can you smell the forest? The grass?”

  He nodded slightly, his eyes softening.

  “You’re walking down the hill now. There’s Ruth. And Rosa.”

  “Rosa,” Peter
whispered. “She came home?”

  “She came home, to Ruth. Like you’ve come home. To me. There’s Olivier and Gabri, waving to you from the bistro. But don’t go in yet, Peter. You see our home?”

  Peter’s eyes had a faraway look, the panic gone.

  “Come up the walkway, Peter. Come into the garden. Sit beside me in our chairs. I’ve poured you a beer. I’m holding your hand. You can smell the roses. And the lilies.”

  “Clara?” said Gamache gently.

  “You can see the woods, and hear the Rivière Bella Bella,” said Clara, her voice faltering.

  Her warm face was touching his cold cheek, as she whispered, “You’re home.”

  FORTY-ONE

  They held Peter Morrow’s funeral in Three Pines. Friends and family gathered in St. Thomas’s chapel and sang, and sobbed, and grieved and celebrated.

  Clara tried to give the eulogy, but couldn’t speak. Her words stuck at the lump in her throat. And so Myrna took over, holding her hand while Clara stood beside her.

  And then they sang some more. And finally they took Peter’s ashes around the village, sprinkling a bit here. A bit there. Some in the river, some by the bistro, some beneath the three great pines.

  The rest were spread in Peter and Clara’s garden. So that Peter would bloom each spring, in the roses and lilies and lavender. And the gnarled old lilac.

  Marcel Chartrand had come to the funeral. And stood at the back. But had left before the reception.

  “It’s a long way home,” he explained to Gamache, when asked why he was leaving so soon.

  “Perhaps not,” said Armand. He was standing with Jean-Guy and Henri, while Reine-Marie and Annie were across the hall, with Clara.

  “Come back again, in a year or so,” Gamache suggested. “It would be nice to see you.”

  Chartrand shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m a bad memory.”

  “Clara will never forget,” said Gamache. “That’s for sure. But the cure for lost love is more love.” He looked down at Henri.

  Chartrand scratched the shepherd’s ears and smiled a little. “You’re a romantic, monsieur.”

  “I’m a realist. Clara Morrow will not spend the rest of her life in that one horrific event.”