The Long Way Home

Half an hour later Gamache turned off the lights and got into bed.

“We’ll be there tomorrow,” said Beauvoir, already half asleep. “Do you think we’ll find Peter?”

“I do.”

Gamache drifted closer to sleep, thinking of what awaited them.

Isolation and the company of a madman could twist even the most stable person, never mind someone already foundering. As Peter was.

They would almost certainly find Peter Morrow the next day, but Gamache was far from sure if he’d be a Peter they’d want to find.

*

Jean-Guy woke up to pale pink light coming into the cabin and the smell of coffee. It was early. The women weren’t yet stirring.

But Gamache was up and at the dining table. Staring at Peter’s paintings and humming to himself.

“Okay, patron?” Jean-Guy asked, sitting up in bed. Something seemed off. Wrong.

And then he realized what it was. For the first time in days the Loup de Mer wasn’t lurching and twisting and heaving.

“Oui.” But Gamache’s voice and mind were far away.

“Are we still moving?” Beauvoir looked out the window.

The storm had gone, moving off down the river. Toward Anticosti, and Sept-?les, Quebec City and finally Montréal.

On his way to the bathroom, Beauvoir paused at the table long enough to see that Peter’s painting had been turned around. So that the overwhelming sorrow was now giddy joy.

And yet the expression on the Chief’s face was grim.

“What is it?” Jean-Guy asked when he returned and set mugs of strong coffee on the table.

“Merci,” said Gamache, still distracted.

And then he told Jean-Guy what he’d found hiding in that painting.

There, among the lips, the waves, the sadness and hope, he’d found a sin-sick soul.

*

Myrna and Clara woke up to shafts of sunlight through the picture window.

The Loup de Mer seemed not to be moving at all. If it wasn’t for the now-comforting thrum of the engines, they’d have thought the ship was dead in the water. But out the window, Clara and Myrna could see the shoreline gliding past.

The sky had cleared and the river was glass. The Loup de Mer sailed into a gleaming, pastel day.

The shore rose smoothly out of the water, as though the river itself had simply turned to stone.

The main cabin was empty. The men had gone.

The women poured coffee and took turns in the bathroom. Then, dressed, they went up on deck, where they found Gamache, Beauvoir, and Chartrand leaning against the railing.

“Feeling better?” Clara asked, standing beside the gallery owner. He looked pale, but no longer green.

“Much. I’m sorry, I haven’t been much help, or good company.”

Clara smiled, but saw Myrna and Gamache watching Chartrand. And Clara could guess what they were thinking. Exactly what she was thinking.

It was a miraculous, and timely, recovery on the part of Marcel Chartrand. So sick for so long. But resurrected just in time to arrive in Tabaquen.

Clara knew he’d been genuinely seasick. But perhaps not quite as sick as he seemed.

And now all five leaned against the railing as the Loup de Mer sailed down the coast, almost eerie now in the extreme calm.

Myrna switched her gaze to Armand. Where the others watched the shore, Gamache was facing forward. Not looking at where they were, or had been, but where they were going.

Here was a mariner. A man before the mast. But he also, this bright morning, looked like what he was by nature. A homicide detective. In the land God gave to Cain.

And Myrna knew then that this day might begin with startling calm, but it would almost certainly end in death.





THIRTY-EIGHT


“That’s Agneau-de-Dieu,” said Jean-Guy.

Clara hadn’t spoken in half an hour. No one had spoken in fifteen minutes.

In silence they’d watched the coastline and listened to the familiar sound of the hull through the tranquil water.

The sun was up, revealing a land almost unspeakably beautiful. Simple. And clear. Rocks, lichen, shrubs. Some determined trees.

And then the small harbor and the homes built on stone.

Agneau-de-Dieu. A few children stood on the shore and waved. Greeting the ship that didn’t pause.

Clara forced herself to wave back and noticed that Chartrand did too.

Did he know them? Is that why he waved?

But her mind couldn’t rest on that thought. It went back to the only thing it could contain.

Peter. Peter was here, somewhere.

Then Agneau-de-Dieu was behind them, out of sight, and they couldn’t yet see Tabaquen. A jagged fist of rock jutting into the river separated the two.

Clara’s breathing came in quick shallow gasps, as though she’d run a great distance. She felt her hands grow cold. Was she turning to stone, she wondered. Like the hares.

They rounded the outcropping and Clara squared her shoulders and finally took a deep breath, preparing herself. Steeling herself.