Another great blast of thunder shook the home, as the storm bounced and magnified, trapped in the valley.
The living room felt intimate. Ancient. As an old sin was revealed. The light from the candles faltered, catching people and furniture. Turning them into something grotesque on the walls, as though there was another range of dark listeners behind them.
“How did you know I killed Lillian?” Fortin asked Gamache.
“It was, finally, quite simple,” said Gamache. “It had to be someone who’d been to the village before. Knew not only how to find Three Pines but which home was Clara’s. It seemed too much of a coincidence that Lillian would be killed just by chance in Clara’s garden. No, it must have been planned. And if it was planned, then what was the purpose? Killing Lillian in the garden hurt two people. Lillian, of course. But also Clara. And the party gave you a village filled with suspects. Other people who have known Lillian. Might have wanted her dead. That also explained the timing. The murderer had to be someone in the artistic community, who knew Clara and Lillian, and Three Pines.”
The Chief Inspector held Fortin’s gleaming eyes.
“You.”
“If you’re expecting remorse you won’t find it. She was a hateful, vindictive bitch.”
Gamache nodded. “I know. But she was trying to get better. She might not have said it as you’d have liked, but I think she really was sorry for what she’d done.”
“You try forgiving someone who ruined your life, you smug bastard, then come and lecture me about forgiveness.”
“If that’s the criteria, then let me lecture you.”
Everyone turned to a dark corner, where there was just the suggestion of an outline. Of an odd woman, with mismatched clothing.
“She’s a natural,” said Suzanne in a whisper, still heard amid the din outside. “Producing art like it’s a bodily function. I managed to forgive that. And you know why?”
No one answered.
“God forgive me, not for Lillian’s sake but my own. I’d held on to that hurt, coddled it, fed it, grew it. Until it had all but consumed me. But finally I wanted something even more than I wanted my pain.”
The storm seemed to have slipped out of the valley and was slowly lumbering away, to another destination.
“A quiet place,” said Chief Inspector Gamache, “in the bright sunshine.”
Suzanne smiled and nodded. “Peace.”
THIRTY
The next morning dawned overcast but fresh, the rain and heavy humidity of the day before had vanished. As the morning progressed breaks appeared in the clouds.
“Chiaroscuro,” said Thierry Pineault, falling into step beside Gamache as he took his morning walk. Leaves and small branches were scattered around the village green and front gardens, but no trees were down from the storm.
“Pardon?”
“The sky.” Pineault pointed. “A contrast of dark and light.”
Gamache smiled.
They strolled together in silence. As they walked they noticed Ruth leaving her home, shutting her little gate and limping along a well-worn path to the bench. Giving a cursory wipe of her hand on the wet wood she sat, staring into the distance.
“Poor Ruth,” said Pineault. “Sitting all day on that bench feeding the birds.”
“Poor birds,” said Gamache and Pineault laughed. As they watched, Brian came out of the B and B. He waved to the Chief Justice, nodded to Gamache, then walked across the green to sit beside Ruth.
“Does he have a death wish?” asked Gamache. “Or is he drawn to wounded things?”
“Neither. He’s drawn to healing things.”
“He’d fit in well here,” said the Chief Inspector, looking around the village.
“You like it here, don’t you,” said Thierry, watching the large man beside him.
“I do.”
The two men stopped and watched Brian and Ruth sitting side-by-side, apparently in their own worlds.
“You must be very proud of him,” said Gamache. “It’s incredible that a boy with such a background could get clean and sober.”
“I’m happy for him,” said Thierry. “But not proud. Not my place to be proud of him.”
“I think you’re being modest, sir. Not every sponsor has such success, I imagine.”
“His sponsor?” said Thierry. “I’m not his sponsor.”
“Then what are you?” Gamache asked, trying not to show his surprise. He looked from the Chief Justice to the pierced young man on the bench.
“I’m his sponsee. He’s my sponsor.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Gamache.
“Brian’s my sponsor. He’s eight years sober, I’m only two.”
Gamache looked from the elegant Thierry Pineault, in gray flannels and light cashmere sweater, to the skinhead.
“I know what you’re thinking, Chief Inspector, and you’re right. Brian is pretty tolerant of me. He gets a lot of grief from his friends when he’s seen with me in public. My suits and ties and all. Very embarrassing,” Thierry smiled.
“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking,” said Gamache. “But close enough.”
“You didn’t really think I sponsored him, did you?”
“Well I certainly didn’t think it was the other way around,” said Gamache. “Isn’t there—”
“Anyone else?” asked Thierry P. “Lots of others, but I have my reasons for choosing Brian. I’m very grateful he agreed to sponsor me. He saved my life.”
“In that case, I’m grateful to him as well,” said Gamache. “My apologies.”
“Is that an amend, Chief Inspector?” Thierry asked with a grin.
“It is.”
“Then I accept.”
They continued their walk. It was worse than Gamache had feared. He’d wondered who the Chief Justice’s sponsor might be. Someone in AA, obviously. Another alcoholic, with great influence over a greatly influential man. But it never occurred to Gamache that Thierry Pineault would choose a Nazi skinhead as a sponsor.
He must have been drunk.
“I realize I’m over-stepping my bounds—”
“Then don’t do it, Chief Inspector.”
“—but this is no ordinary situation. You’re an important man.”
“And Brian isn’t?”
“Of course he is. But he’s also a convicted felon. A young man with a record of drug abuse and alcoholism, who killed a little girl while driving drunk.”
“What do you know of that case?”
“I know he admits it. I heard his share. And I know he went to prison for it.”
They walked in silence around the village green, the rain from the day before rose in a mist as the morning warmed up. It was early yet. Few had risen. Just the mist, and the two men, walking around and around the tall pine trees. And Ruth and Brian on the bench.
“The little girl he killed was my granddaughter.”
Gamache stopped.
“Your granddaughter?”
Thierry stopped too and nodded. “Aimée. She was four years old. She’d be twelve now. If it hadn’t happened. Brian went to prison for five years. The day he got out he came over to our house. And apologized. We didn’t accept, of course. Told him to go away. But he kept coming back. Mowing my daughter’s lawn, washing their car. I’m afraid a lot of the chores had sort of fallen by the wayside. I was drinking heavily and wasn’t much help. But then Brian started doing all those things. Once a week he showed up and did chores, for her and for us. He never spoke. Just did them and left.”
Thierry began walking again, and Gamache caught up with him.
“One day, after about a year, he started talking to me about his drinking. About why he drank and how he felt. It was exactly how I felt. I didn’t admit it of course. Didn’t want to admit I had anything in common with this horrible creature. But Brian knew. Then one day he told me we were going for a drive. And he took me to my first AA meeting.”
They were back at the bench.
“He saved my life. I’d gladly trade that life for Aimée. I know Brian would too. When I was a few months sober he came to me again and asked my forgiveness.”
Thierry stopped on the road.
“And I gave it.”