Gamache, Beauvoir and Peter ran through Jane’s home, but Gamache knew she wouldn’t be there. If something bad was going to happen to Clara, it wouldn’t be in this home.
‘She’s at Hadley’s place,’ said Gamache, making for the door. Once out Beauvoir quickly sped by him, as did Peter. Their footsteps sounded like wild horses as they raced through the storm toward the home with its welcoming lights.
Clara wasn’t sure whether the roaring she heard was Kyla, furious Kyla, or her own terrified breath. Or blood pounding in her ears. The whole home above her seemed to shudder and moan. She held her breath but her body screamed for oxygen and after a moment she was forced to breathe, hungrily and noisily.
‘I heard that,’ Ben swung around, but he moved so fast he lost his grip on the flashlight and the thing flew out of his hand, landing with two thumps. The first sent the light bouncing, hitting Clara full in the face. The second thump plunged the basement into total darkness.
‘Shit,’ hissed Ben.
Oh God, Oh God, thought Clara. Complete and utter darkness descended. She was frozen, petrified. She heard a movement to her right. This was just enough to get her going. She crawled quietly, slowly left, feeling along the base of the rough stone wall, looking for a rock, a pipe, a brick, anything. Except ...
Her hand closed around it and it in turn curled up and closed around her. With a spasm she hurled it into the darkness and heard it bounce across the room.
‘Here I come,’ Ben whispered. As he spoke Clara realised she’d crawled right up to him in the darkness. He was a step away, but blind as well. She squatted frozen in place, waiting for his hands to grip her. Instead she heard him moving off across the room. Toward the tossed snake.
‘Where is she?’ Peter pleaded. They’d searched Ben’s home and found only a puddle. Now Peter was striding in concentric circles around Ben’s living room, coming ever closer to Gamache, who was standing stock still in the center.
‘Be quiet, please, Mr Morrow.’ Peter stopped pacing. The words were spoken softly, with authority. Gamache was staring ahead. He could barely hear himself think for the force of the storm outside, and the force of Peter’s terror inside.
Clara knew she had two chances, which was better than she’d had a few minutes ago. She needed to find the stairs, or she needed to find a weapon and get Ben before he got her. She knew Ben. He was strong, but he was slow. This wasn’t a big help since a race probably wasn’t on the cards, but it was something.
She had no idea where to find a weapon, except maybe on the floor. But while a brick or pipe might be lying on the floor, she knew what else certainly was. She could hear Ben stumble a few feet ahead of her. She turned and dropped to her knees, scuttling across the dirt floor, waving her hands ahead of her hoping, dear God, please, to grip something that didn’t grip back. Again Clara heard a pounding, and wished her heart quieter, though not completely still. Her hand brushed against something and in a flash she knew what it was. But too late. With a snap the mousetrap whacked against her fingers, breaking the middle two and forcing a shout of pain and shock out of her. Adrenaline shot through her and she instantly pulled the trap off her wounded hand and flung it away. She rolled sideways, knowing mousetraps are laid against walls. A wall must lie directly ahead. If Ben was rushing through the darkness to grab her ...
Peter heard Clara’s cry of pain and its abrupt end. He and the policemen had arrived a few moments earlier to find Timmer’s front door banging open in the wind. Gamache and Beauvoir pulled flashlights from their coats and played them on the hardwood floor. Watery steps trailed into the heart of the dark home. They followed at a run. Just as they rounded into the kitchen they heard the scream.
‘Over here.’ Peter opened a door into darkness. The three big men plunged down the basement stairs together.
Clara rolled then stopped just as Ben ploughed headlong into the stone wall. He hit it at full run and Clara had been wrong. He was fast. But not so much now. The impact had sent a shudder through the basement. Then Clara heard another noise.
Stairs breaking.
FOURTEEN
Everything seemed to happen very slowly. Gamache’s flashlight hit the floor first and winked out, but not before he had a glimpse of Beauvoir sprawled across the now collapsed stairs. Gamache tried to twist out of the way and almost managed it. One foot fell between the risers of the broken stairs, and he both heard and felt his leg snap as his weight bore down. The other foot fell on something much more comfy, though just as noisy. Gamache heard Beauvoir bark in pain, and then Peter crashed down. He was swan-diving, head first, and Gamache felt their heads bang together and saw a whole lot more light than the basement, or the universe, contained. Then he passed out.
He woke up a short time later with Clara staring down at him, her face filled with fear. She radiated terror. He tried to get up, to protect her, but couldn’t move.
‘Chief? You all right?’ he shifted his blurry eyes and saw Beauvoir also looking down at him. ‘I’ve called for help on the cell phone.’ Beauvoir then reached out and held the Chief’s hand. For an instant.
‘I’m good, Jean Guy. You?’ He looked into the worried face.
‘I think an elephant landed on me.’ Beauvoir smiled slightly. A bit of bright red blood bubbled from his lip and Gamache lifted one shaky hand to gently wipe it away.
‘You must be more careful, boy,’ Gamache whispered. ‘Peter?’
‘I’m stuck, but I’m OK. You hit me with your head.’
This wasn’t the time to argue over who hit whom.
‘There it is again. A slithering.’ Clara had found a flashlight, not all that difficult since the basement was now littered with flashlights, and men. She played it madly around the ceiling and the floor and wished it had power to do more than illuminate. A nice flamethrower would come in handy. She held Peter’s hand with her own broken hand, exchanging physical pain for emotional solace.
‘Ben?’ Gamache asked, and hoped soon he’d be able to form full sentences. His leg was shooting pain and his head throbbed, but he recognised that some threat was still out there, in the dark, in the basement with them.
‘He’s out cold,’ said Clara. She could have left them. The stairs had collapsed, true, but there was a step ladder not far away and she could have used that to climb out.
But she didn’t.
Clara had never known such fear. And anger. Not against Ben, yet, but against these morons who were supposed to have saved her. And now she had to protect them.
‘I hear something,’ said Beauvoir. Gamache tried to raise himself to his elbows, but his leg sent so much pain into his body it took his breath and strength away. He fell back and reached out his hands, hoping to find something to grab on to to use as a weapon.
‘Upstairs,’ said Beauvoir. ‘They’re here.’
Gamache and Clara had never heard such beautiful words.
A week later they were gathered in Jane’s living room, which was beginning to feel like home to all of them, including Gamache. They looked like a Fife and Drum Corps, Gamache’s leg in a cast, Beauvoir bent over with broken ribs, Peter’s head bandaged and Clara’s hand in plaster.
Upstairs, Gabri and Olivier could be heard quietly singing ‘It’s Raining Men’. From the kitchen came the sounds of Myrna humming while preparing fresh bread and home-made soup. Outside snow was falling, huge wet flakes that melted almost as soon as they landed and felt like horse kisses when they touched a cheek. The last of the autumn leaves had blown off the trees and the apples had fallen from the orchards.
‘I think it’s beginning to stick on the ground,’ said Myrna, bringing in cutlery and setting up TV tables around the crackling fire. From upstairs they could hear Gabri exclaiming over things in Jane’s bedroom.
‘Greed. Disgusting,’ said Ruth and made her way quickly to the stairs and up.
Clara watched as Peter got up and stirred the perfectly fine fire. She’d held him that night as he sprawled on the dirt floor. That had been the last time she’d gotten that close. Since the events of that horrible night he’d retreated completely on to his island. The bridge had been destroyed. The walls had been constructed. And now Peter was unapproachable, even by her. Physically, yes, she could hold his hand, hold his head, hold his body, and she did. But she knew she could no longer hold his heart.
She watched his handsome face, lined with care now, and bruised by the fall. She knew he’d been hurt the worst, perhaps beyond repair.
‘I want this,’ said Ruth, coming down the stairs. She waved a small book then tucked it into a huge pocket in her worn cardigan. Jane in her will had invited each of her friends to choose an item from her home. Ruth had made her choice.
‘How’d you know it was Ben?’ Myrna asked, taking a seat and calling the boys down to lunch. Bowls of soup had been put out and baskets of fresh rolls steamed on the blanket box.
‘At the party here it came to me,’ said Clara.
‘What did you see we didn’t?’ Olivier asked, joining them.
‘It’s what I didn’t see. I didn’t see Ben. I knew Fair Day was a tribute to Timmer. All the people who were important to Timmer were in it—’
‘Except Ben!’ said Myrna, buttering her warm roll and watching the butter melt as soon as it touched the bread. ‘What a fool to have missed it .’
‘Took me a long time too,’ admitted Gamache. ‘I only saw it after staring at Fair Day in my room. No Ben.’
‘But why did Ben panic when he saw Fair Day? I mean, what was so horrible about seeing his face in a painting?’ Olivier asked.
‘Think about it,’ said Gamache. ‘Ben injected his mother with a fatal dose of morphine on the final day of the fait, actually while the parade was on. He’d made sure he had an alibi, he was off in Ottawa at an antiques show.’
‘And was he?’ Clara asked.
‘Oh yes, even bought a few things. The he raced back here, it’s only about three hours by car, and waited for the parade to start—’
‘Knowing I’d leave his mother? How could he have known?’ asked Ruth.
‘He knew his mother, knew she’d insist.’
‘Go on,’ said Olivier, dipping his roll in the soup. ‘He looked at the painting and