The Long Way Home

“Oui, fruit. Not much fresh fruit along the coast, and the bateau can take too long, so we fly it in. Mostly bananas.”


What followed was a monologue on how long various fruit takes to rot. By the time he stopped talking they felt fairly certain they’d all gone bad.

“How often do you get passengers?” Jean-Guy asked, desperate to change the subject.

“A lot lately, but that’s unusual. Most people who want to go to the coast take the ship. Takes longer, but it’s safer.”

No one pursued that, and Clara went back to praying. Bless, oh Lord, this food to our use …

“Did you fly Luc Vachon recently?” Jean-Guy asked.

“The owner of La Muse? Oui. Few days ago. A bit early, but his annual trip to the coast.”

“Where’d he go?” Gamache asked.

“Tabaquen. To paint. Like he does every summer. This year I took him all the way there, but most summers I drop him in Sept-?les, to catch the boat. All the artists prefer the boat. It’s—”

“—safer, yes, we know,” said Beauvoir.

The pilot laughed. “I was going to say prettier. I think artists like pretty. Mais, franchement, it’s not really safer. There’s no safe way to get to the Lower North Shore. We have turbulence and the ship has the Graves. So it’s all a crapshoot.”

“Do not open your mouths,” hissed Myrna, catching their eyes with a searing look.

The small plane lurched in an air current. Dipping and falling, and climbing again. The pilot quickly turned his attention to flying. In the back, their eyes widened and Clara grabbed Myrna’s hand.

Jean-Guy, seeing this, envied the women, and he wondered how the Chief would take it if he held on to his.

The plane pitched again and Beauvoir grabbed, then let go of, Gamache’s hand when the plane righted itself.

Gamache looked at him, but said nothing. It was not, they both knew, the first time one had held on to the other, for dear life. And the way things were going it might not be the last.

“Peter,” Clara yelled with such force Beauvoir was tempted to look around in case the man had joined them.

Clara leaned forward. “Did you fly my husband? Peter Morrow?”

“Désolé, lady,” said the pilot, who was perfectly bilingual and seemed to speak in a mixture of both languages. Frenglish. “I don’t remember names. Just luggage. And fruit. Now, lemons—”

“He’d have gone to Tabaquen,” Clara quickly cut in. “Tall guy. English.”

The pilot shook his head. “Means nothing to me.”

Myrna pulled out her device and after a few clicks she handed it to Clara, who hesitated for a moment.

“Oh, what the hell,” she said. “We’re all going to die anyway.”

She showed the photo to the pilot, and when he stopped laughing he pointed. “Is that you?”

“That’s not important. You recognize the man?”

“Yeah. Tall, old. English.”

“Old?” said Clara.

“That might not be the most important thing he’s said,” said Myrna. “We all look old to him. He’s barely begun to rot.”

The plane gave a little shudder, as though nudged.

“Oh, Christ, here it comes,” said Jean-Guy.

“What’s that?” asked Clara.

“What?” demanded Myrna, looking frantically out the window where Clara was pointing.

“That’s the supply ship,” said the pilot.

“The one the artists take?” Clara asked.

Below them was the river, and on it they saw a ship. From above it looked like a cigar.

“Oui.”

“How long does it take for the ship to get to Tabaquen?” she asked.

“From Sept-?les?” The pilot considered. “About a day, maybe two. Depends on the weather.”

“Take us there.”

“Where?”

“Sept-?les.”

“Clara?” asked Myrna.

“Clara?” asked Gamache.

“If Peter took the boat, we will too.”

“Clara?” asked Jean-Guy.

“But Peter’s not still on it,” said Myrna.

“I know that. But there’s a reason he took it.”

“Maybe,” said Myrna. “But there’s a reason we shouldn’t. Wouldn’t it be best to get to Tabaquen as fast as we can?”

“Why?” asked Clara.

“To find Peter.”

“And suppose he got off the ship?” asked Clara. “Suppose he never made it? No. We need to retrace his steps, as closely as we can.”

Beauvoir turned to Gamache. Their noses almost touched, so tight was the squeeze. And there was no mistaking the glare in Beauvoir’s eyes. The desperation.

The joke was over. They’d had their fun. They’d let Clara lead them around.

But now it was time to take charge.

“Patron.” Beauvoir’s voice was filled with warning.

“Clara’s in charge, Jean-Guy,” said Gamache, his voice barely heard above the wail of the engines.

“We can fly to this village, find out what happened to Peter, and be home before the ship gets halfway there,” said Beauvoir. “Don’t you want that?”