The Long Way Home

“And his rugged good looks,” said Gamache, and saw the whites of their eyes. “There was a note in Norman’s file telling them to forward his last paycheck here, to Baie-Saint-Paul. Peter saw the file, saw that, and came here. If there’s more there we’ll find out soon.”


The pasta was drained and drizzled with garlic-infused olive oil, fresh basil, and grated Parmesan and the bowl brought to the table.

“Your turn,” Clara said to Beauvoir as they sat down. “Any luck with La Muse?”

“None. I waited on hold for a long time, but the manager was too busy to come to the phone.” Beauvoir helped himself to the pasta as he spoke.

He didn’t say it, but had they stayed in Baie-Saint-Paul he could have gone to La Muse, cornered the man, and gotten the information. Instead, the phone had been hung up with the promise that the manager would call when he had the time.

An hour later, after the dishes had been done and the coffee perked, two phone calls came in at the same time.

“Excuse-moi,” said Gamache, and again stepped onto the stone terrace with his cell phone. Before closing the door, he heard Chartrand say to Beauvoir, “It’s for you.”

It was a warm, moonless night, and while Gamache could no longer see the St. Lawrence, it made itself known to all his other senses. He could smell it, and hear it, and even feel it. The lightest of mists on his face.

“Reine-Marie?” As he spoke, he unconsciously turned west and imagined Reine-Marie at home. He imagined he was with her, sitting in their garden. Under these same stars.

“I have the dossier. I’ve just forwarded it to you.”

“Can you give me the broad strokes?”

He listened as she read. And as she read he turned slowly. Away from her. Away from Three Pines. Away from the heart of Québec. To the head of the river. To where the St. Lawrence, and Québec, began.

To where this all began, he now knew. And where it would end.

*

“Patron?”

Beauvoir was silhouetted in the doorway.

“Ici.” He’d just hung up from Reine-Marie.

“I know where the owner of La Muse went. Where he goes every year at about this time.”

“Let me guess,” said Gamache.

The Chief was a disembodied voice, but then, slowly, Beauvoir could see his outline. Dark against the stars in the night sky.

The figure lifted a black arm and pointed.

“Out there,” said Gamache.

“Oui,” said Beauvoir.

“Tabaquen.”

“Oui.” And he too turned and stared into the darkness.

If the world had been flat, Tabaquen would be perched on the precipice.

“There you are,” said Myrna, coming out.

“What is it?” Clara asked, joining Myrna and noticing the two men standing so still and silent. Staring to the east.

“We know where the owner of La Muse went,” said Beauvoir.

“And we know where No Man went,” said Gamache. “And the place where Peter almost certainly is.”

“Where?” asked Clara, quickly joining them.

“A village way down there.” Beauvoir pointed into the night.

“It’s called Tabaquen,” said Gamache.

“Do you know it?” Clara asked, and in the darkness she saw the dark head nod.

“It’s the sister village of Agneau-de-Dieu,” he said. “Side by side, but very different.”

Gamache walked past them, toward the house.

“Agneau-de-Dieu,” said Myrna, doing the translation. “Lamb of God. But Tabaquen? I don’t know how that translates.”

“It’s a bastardization,” said Beauvoir. “It’s not really French. It was named by the natives a long, long time ago, before Europeans arrived.”

“What does it mean?” asked Clara. “Do you know?”

“It means ‘sorcerer,’” said Gamache, as he entered the house.





THIRTY-THREE


Beauvoir and Clara were up half the night, discussing, considering. Emailing, searching and plotting a course.

Finally, about two in the morning, they had it organized and went to their beds, only to wake up at six when their alarms sounded.

“What time is it?” came Myrna’s sleepy voice. “God, Clara, it’s just after six. Is the house on fire?”

“We need to leave if we’re going to catch the nine o’clock plane.”

“What?”

Myrna sat up in bed, completely alert and slightly alarmed.

Down the hall, Gamache was already sitting on the side of the bed. He’d offered to stay up with Clara and Beauvoir, to help them, but had been persuaded that his presence wasn’t necessary. At all.

“You were successful?” he said to Jean-Guy, who was looking bleary but eager.

“There’s a flight out of La Malbaie in three hours. It’ll take us to Tabaquen.”

“Really?” said Myrna, when Clara explained it. “Can’t we just drive?”

“There’re no roads,” said Clara, trying to coax the large woman out of the small bed. “It’s a fishing village. The only way in is by boat or plane.”

“We chose the plane,” Beauvoir was explaining to Gamache, who was in the shower. “It stops at all the villages and will take all day, but we’ll be there in time for dinner.”

They were dressed and out the door by seven.

Chartrand was standing by his van.