The Long Way Home (24 page)

“There.” Clara’s finger, like a bolt of lightning, hit the map. “This is where Peter painted that.”

They looked from the map to the lip painting, then back again.

“One of the galleries told you?” Gamache asked.

As he looked up from the map, he noticed a man across the
terrasse
staring at them. The man quickly looked away as soon as Gamache met his eyes.

The former Chief Inspector was used to that, after all the times he’d been on the news. Still, Gamache had the impression the man wasn’t so much staring at him as past him, to Clara.

“No, the galleries were mostly closed,” Clara was saying. “Myrna and I were on our way here when I suddenly thought about someone else to ask.”

“Who?” asked Beauvoir.

Gamache listened, but kept the man in his peripheral vision. He was again staring in their direction.

“Those two old guys playing backgammon,” said Myrna. “They looked like they’d been here forever—”

“And they have been.” Clara picked up the story. “Their families have been here for generations. As far back as anyone can remember. They even knew Clarence Gagnon. Split his wood for him when they were kids.” She was silent for a moment. “Imagine meeting Gagnon? He painted villages and landscapes, but unlike anything that was being done at the time. It was like Gagnon stripped the skin off the world and painted the muscle and sinew and veins of a place. I make it sound grotesque, but you know what I mean.”

“I know.”

But it wasn’t one of her companions who’d spoken. It was the man across the
terrasse.

As Clara was talking, Gamache had noticed the man get up, drop some money on his table and then walk in their direction.

Gamache could see that Jean-Guy had also noticed. And was watching. Wary. Ready.

“
Excusez-moi
.” The man was now standing beside their table. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

He was casually dressed, but Gamache recognized the good cut of his shirt and trousers. Fifty years old, Gamache guessed, perhaps slightly younger.

The man looked at each of them, politely. His eyes paused on Gamache and there was a flicker of interest. But then his gaze came to rest on Clara.

“I heard you speak of Clarence Gagnon and wanted to introduce myself. I too am a fan of Gagnon’s works. May I join you?”

He was slightly shorter than Gamache, and slender. He wore glasses and behind those glasses were intelligent blue eyes.

Clara got up and smiled at him.

“I’m afraid we have to leave.”

“If there’s anything I can do during your stay in Baie-Saint-Paul, please let me know.”

He handed her a card.

“It would be a pleasure to talk. To compare thoughts on art,” he said, and with unexpected dignity, he bowed slightly and said, “
Au revoir
.”

Gamache watched him leave. And he watched Clara place his card in her pocket.

“Coming?” Myrna grabbed the paintings and the map from the table.

Within minutes they were driving out of Baie-Saint-Paul, heading east. But not along the well-traveled highway 138. Instead, Clara turned the car slightly south. Toward the river. And then along a much narrower, less-traveled road.

Highway 362 hugged the cliffs and followed the St. Lawrence. And just before the village of Les Éboulements, she pulled over.

She knew it was obscenely stupid, but she half expected to see Peter silhouetted against the early evening sky. Standing at his easel. Painting.

And waiting. For her. As she’d waited for him weeks ago in their garden.

There was no Peter, but there was something else.

They got out of the car and Myrna reached over for Peter’s canvases, then stopped. She, Clara, Armand, and Jean-Guy took a few steps forward.

There was no need to consult the paintings. They were here. This was where Peter had stood.

The St. Lawrence stretched before them, even more magnificent than in the village. Here the grandeur, the wild splendor of the place was both obvious and impossible.

The four friends stood side by side on the bluff.

It was here, on this very spot, that a meteor had hurtled to earth. Had hit the earth. Three hundred million years ago. It had struck with such force it killed everything beneath it, and for miles and miles around. It struck with such violence that even now the impact site could be seen from space.

Earth, thrown up in waves, had petrified there, forming smooth mountains and a deep crater.

Nothing lived. All life was extinguished. The earth laid to waste. For thousands of years. Hundreds of thousands of years. Millions of years.

Barren. Empty. Nothing.

And then. And then. First water, then plants, then fish. Then trees started to grow, in the rich soil. Bugs, flies, bats, birds, bear, moose, deer.

What had been a wasteland became a cauldron, a crucible of life. So rich, so diverse, it created an ecosystem unique in the world.

Porpoises, seals, blue whales.

Men. Women. Children.

All drawn here. All made their home here. In the crater.

This was Charlevoix.

This was where the four friends stood, in search of a fifth. Below them the river wound into and over and past the wound in the earth. Where all life ended. And began, again.

A terrible impact had created one of the most magical, most remarkable places on earth.

That’s what Peter had tried to capture. This catastrophe. This miracle.

Armand Gamache turned, slowly, full circle. Like Clara, he half expected to see Peter Morrow watching them.

Peter had traveled from Scotland to here. From cosmic speculation to cosmic fact. A purely rational man was chasing the magical. Had tried to paint it.

As Gamache looked over the cliff to the St. Lawrence, the setting sun caught the waves of the great river, turning their foaming crests bright red. Turning them into frowns, then smiles. Then frowns. That morphed again into brilliant, giddy red smiles. A river of eternal emotion.

Gamache stood, captivated. He sensed more than saw Clara and Myrna and Jean-Guy beside him, also staring. Astonished.

They watched until the sun had set and all that was left was a dark river and a pink glow in the sky.

Peter had been here. He’d committed this sight to canvas, as best he could. Trying to record wonder. Awe. Not just beauty, but glory.

And he’d mailed it off. Away from here. Why?

And where was he now? Had he moved on, heading deeper into his own wound? Still searching?

Or— Gamache stared into the crater. Had Peter never left? Was he with them now, lying in the woods at the bottom of the cliff? Becoming part of the landscape? His silence profound because it was now unending?

Beside him, Clara stared at the river Peter had painted, and let the emotions roll over her. Her own, and his. She felt Peter very keenly.

Not his presence but his absence.

TWENTY-THREE

“Where’re we going to stay?” Jean-Guy whispered.

They were heading back to the village of Baie-Saint-Paul, and reality. Leaving behind the cosmic in favor of down-to-earth concerns. Like food and shelter.

“I don’t know,” Gamache whispered back.

“Aren’t you worried?” Beauvoir asked.

“We can sleep in the car if we have to,” said Armand. “Not for the first time.”

“Sure, we can. But do we want to? We can’t do nothing,
patron
. We have to plan our next move. Clara’s a nice person, but this’s beyond her.”

“I wonder,” murmured Gamache, and turned to look out the window. And through it he saw stars. And the lights of Baie-Saint-Paul.

It was not possible to tell which was which. Which lights were celestial, which were of this earth.

“Where’re we going to stay?” Myrna whispered to Clara.

“I don’t know.”

Myrna nodded, and stared out the windshield at the starry, starry night.

She missed her loft. She missed her bed. She missed her tisane and chocolate chip cookies.

But she knew that Clara missed all those things too. And she also missed Peter. Peter, who’d suddenly felt both very, very close while they’d stood on that cliff, and very, very far away.

Myrna looked over at Clara. She was staring straight ahead, concentrating on the windy road. Trying to keep them on track.

Trying not to go over the edge.

Myrna leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath. And calmed herself by looking at the stars. Or at the lights of the village. She couldn’t quite tell which was which. And it didn’t matter. Both were calming.

As they got closer, the lights of Baie-Saint-Paul grew brighter and the stars dimmed. Then they were back at La Muse bistro. It was now nine in the evening and they were starving. They ordered dinner, and while Myrna stayed at their table, the other three walked up and down the streets, checking at the auberges and B and Bs to see if there were any cancellations.

There were not.

They returned just as their dinners arrived.

Steak frites all around, the steaks char-grilled and thick. The fries thin and seasoned.

Beauvoir, while no fan of sleeping in cars, wasn’t really worried. This was the great benefit of seeing worse. Fewer things worried him now.

“What next?” he asked as he took a forkful of tender steak and melting garlic butter.

“We know for sure Peter was here,” said Clara. “Now we need to know if he’s still here, and if not, where he went.”

By “what next” Jean-Guy had meant “what’s for dessert,” but he was happy to talk about the case. For case this was, in his mind. And, he could see, in the Chief’s as well.

There’d been no mistaking the look in Gamache’s eye as he’d surveyed the cliff. Once their awe had passed, the Chief’s brain had kicked in.

Scanning. Assessing.

Where could a body be? If a person fell? If a person was pushed?

Where would he end up?

When the meal was over and their coffees had arrived, Gamache turned to Clara.

“Would you like to hear what I think?”

She studied him for a moment. “Probably not, judging by your face.”

Gamache gave a curt nod of agreement. “I think we should speak to the local police. Get them involved.”

“In finding out where Peter might be staying?”

“In finding out where Peter might be,” said Gamache, his voice low, but firm. His eyes not leaving Clara.

Her face paled as his meaning sunk in.

“You think he’s dead?”

“I think he came here and painted those pictures. I think he mailed them to Bean. And then disappeared. That was months ago.”

Gamache was quiet for a moment. He looked down at his espresso, the crème caramel brown on top. Then he met her eyes once again.

“The woods are thick here,” he said.

Clara grew very, very still. “You don’t think we’ll ever find him.”

“It was months ago, Clara,” he repeated. “I hope I’m wrong. I hope we find him in a cabin somewhere. His beard bushy and his clothes covered in paint. Surrounded by canvases.” He held her eyes. “I hope.”

Clara looked over to Jean-Guy, who was also watching her. His face both boyish and grim.

Then to Myrna. Optimistic, hopeful, buoyant Myrna. She looked sad.

“You agree,” said Clara. She could see it in Myrna’s face.

“You must’ve known it was a possibility, Clara. You admitted you might not like what you find.”

“I thought I might find Peter happy on his own,” she said. “I thought I might even find him with another woman.” She looked around the table, at their faces. “But I always thought I’d find him. Alive.”

She was challenging them now. Daring them to argue with her.

When none did, she got up. “And I still do.”

Clara walked out of La Muse.

“Should we go after her?” Jean-Guy asked.

“No, give her time,” said Myrna.

Beauvoir watched as Clara walked up the road, her head down, like a torpedo. Tourists stepped out of her way just in time. And then she disappeared from view.

Beauvoir got up and wandered around the brasserie. There were paintings on the walls, with price tags slightly askew. From years of dusting. They were pretty landscapes, but in Charlevoix a painting needed to be more than that to sell.

If he hadn’t looked into the windows of the Galerie Gagnon, Jean-Guy might have thought these were quite good. But he had looked. And now he knew the difference. Part of him regretted that. He might now like better things, but he also liked fewer.

“Look who I found.”

Beauvoir heard Clara’s voice across the brasserie, heard the triumph, and turned quickly.

The man who’d spoken to them earlier at La Muse was standing beside her.

Beauvoir felt his heart, which had taken a great leap, simmer down. And he realized he’d actually thought she meant she’d found Peter.

“Madame Morrow called and told me of your plight,” the man said. And then he introduced himself. “Marcel Chartrand.” He shook their hands. “I run the Galerie Gagnon. I’ve come to take you home.”

*   *   *

By the time they got settled in Chartrand’s apartment above the Galerie Gagnon, it was approaching midnight.

He proved to be a gracious and accommodating host. Not everyone, Gamache knew, would welcome a call at eleven at night from a stranger asking for a place to stay. For herself and three friends.

But Marcel Chartrand had opened his home to them and was now pouring nightcaps as they relaxed in the living room.

He was either a saint, thought Gamache as he watched Chartrand chatting with Clara, or a man with his own agenda. Gamache had not forgotten the predatory look on Chartrand’s face when he’d first spotted them in La Muse.

First spotted Clara.

“This isn’t my main house,” said Chartrand. He’d brought out a plate of cookies, and after pouring cognacs for Clara and Myrna he offered a glass to Jean-Guy. When the younger man waved him aside, Chartrand moved on to Gamache. “I have a
maison
a few minutes away, toward Les Éboulements.”

“Overlooking the St. Lawrence?” Gamache asked, also declining the drink.

“
Oui, Chef
,” said Chartrand, and poured himself a finger in the bottom of a bulbous glass.