The Long Way Home (44 page)

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 find 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.”

After Marcel left, Armand walked over to Ruth, who was holding Rosa and looking at the punch bowl.

“I don’t dare have any,” she said. “It might not be spiked.”

“
Noli timere
,” said Gamache, and when she smiled, he said, “You knew?”

“About Professor Massey? No. If I had, I’d have said something.”

“But you were afraid of him,” said Gamache. “You saw something in him that scared you. That’s why you were so nice to him. Jean-Guy caught on. We all assumed you were nice because you liked him, but Jean-Guy said you probably hated him.”

“I didn’t hate him,” said Ruth. “And how can you trust the opinion of someone who’s sober?”

“But Jean-Guy was right, wasn’t he? You might not have hated him, but there was fear there. Otherwise why say,
noli timere
? Be not afraid.”

“That blank canvas on his easel was one of the saddest things I’ve seen,” said Ruth. “An artist who’s lost his way. It builds up. Eats away at you. Beauvoir over there”—she gestured with the duck across the room, where Jean-Guy and Annie were talking with Myrna—“he’s a numbskull. And you?” She gave Gamache a sharp assessing look. “You’re a fool. Those two?” She turned to Olivier and Gabri, putting food onto the long table. “Are just plain ridiculous.”

She turned back to Gamache.

“But you’re all something. Professor Massey was nothing. Empty. Like the canvas. I found that terrifying.” She paused, remembering. “What happened to that painting? The only one of Professor Norman’s that survived?”

“The one at the back of Massey’s studio? The good one?”

“The great one,” said Ruth. “It was poetry.”

“The asbestos would never come out. It was destroyed.”

Ruth lowered her head, then raised it again. Her chin high, her eyes hard. She gave a curt nod and limped away, to stand beside Clara.

Noli timere
, thought Gamache as he watched the two women. And Rosa.

*   *   *

The next morning Armand sat on the bench overlooking the village. Olivier and Gabri waved to him from the bistro. And he waved back.

He saw the pines sway in the slight breeze and smelled the musky forest and the roses and the lilies and the strong coffee in the mug beside him.

He tilted his head back and felt the warm sun on his face.