The Long Way Home

“It’s what you were trying to warn me about,” Clara said, her voice still barely above a whisper. “When you told me about Samarra.”


Myrna couldn’t answer. She couldn’t bear to add to the dread in Clara’s face. In her whole body.

“You think Peter has done the same thing,” said Clara.

But still Clara’s eyes pleaded with Myrna. To tell her she was wrong. To reassure her that Peter was just off painting. He’d lost track of the time. The date.

Myrna said nothing. It might have been kindness. Or cowardice. But Myrna remained silent, and allowed Clara her delusion.

That Peter would come home. Might even be waiting for them, when they got back. With beer. A couple of steaks. An explanation. And profuse apologies.

Myrna looked out the window. The tenements were still whizzing by, apparently endless. But the graffiti artist’s name had disappeared.

A fine hotel room in Paris, she thought. Samarra. Or some corner of Québec. However he got there, Myrna was afraid Peter Morrow had reached the end of the road. And there he’d met Death.

And she knew that Clara feared the same thing.

*

Vincent Gilbert’s log cabin hadn’t changed much since the last time Beauvoir had visited. It was still a single room, with a large bed at one end, and a kitchen at the other. The rough pine floor was strewn with fine Oriental carpets, and on either side of the fieldstone fireplace were shelves crammed with books. Two comfortable armchairs with footstools sat facing each other across the hearth.

Before Vincent Gilbert had moved in, this rustic cabin had been the scene of a terrible crime. A murder so unnatural it had shocked the nation. Some places held on to such malevolence, as though the pain and shock and horror had fused to the structure.

But this little home had always felt strangely innocent. And very peaceful.

Dr. Gilbert poured them glasses of spring water and made sandwiches with tomatoes still warm from his garden.

Gamache spread the map of Paris on the table, smoothing it with his large hand.

“So, what do you want, Armand?” Dr. Gilbert asked for the third time.

“When you went to Paris, after you left your wife, where did you go?”

“I’ve told you that before. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“I was, mon ami,” said Gamache soothingly. “But I’d like to see again.”

Gilbert’s eyes filled with suspicion. “Don’t waste my time, Armand. I have better things to do than repeat myself. There’s manure to spread.”

Some considered Vincent Gilbert a saint. Some, like Beauvoir, considered him an asshole. The residents of Three Pines had compromised and called him the “asshole saint.”

“But that doesn’t mean he isn’t still a saint,” Gamache had said. “Most saints were assholes. In fact, if he wasn’t one that would disqualify him completely.”

The Chief had walked away with a smile, knowing he’d completely messed with Beauvoir’s mind.

“Asshole,” Beauvoir had hissed.

“I heard that,” said Gamache, not turning back.

And now Jean-Guy looked at the two men. Gilbert elderly, imperious, thin and weathered, with sharp eyes and a temperament quick to take offense. And Gamache, twenty years younger, larger, calmer.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir had seen great kindness in Gilbert, and ruthlessness in Gamache. Neither man, Beauvoir was pretty sure, was a saint.

“Show me on the map exactly where you stayed in Paris,” said Gamache, paying absolutely no attention to Gilbert’s little tantrum.

“Fine,” the doctor huffed. “It was here.” His fingernail, black-rimmed with earth, fell on the map.

They bent over to examine the spot, like scientists over a litmus test. Then Gamache straightened up.

“Did you ever talk about your time in Paris with Peter Morrow?” he asked.

“Not specifically, no,” said Gilbert. “But he might’ve heard me talking about it. Why?”

“Because he’s missing.”

“I thought Clara sent him away.”

“She did, but they made a date to meet up exactly a year later. That was a few weeks ago. He never showed.”

Vincent Gilbert was obviously surprised.

“He loved Clara. I miss a lot in life,” said Gilbert. “But I have a nose for love.”

“Like a truffle pig,” said Beauvoir, then regretted it when he saw the asshole saint’s reaction.

Then, unexpectedly, Gilbert smiled. “Exactly. I can smell it. Love has an aroma all its own, you know.”

Beauvoir looked at Gilbert, amazed by what he’d just heard.

Maybe, he thought, this man was—

“Smells like compost,” said Gilbert.

—an asshole after all.





TWELVE


Armand Gamache swayed on his horse/moose and thought about their visit to Vincent Gilbert. And Paris.