The Long Way Home

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, all??”

“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, slicing 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.”