The Long Way Home

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.