Gamache thought of the young men and women in the truck that night. How horrible it must have been for them. Did the guilt weigh them down? Or were they so scared they hid it away? Comforted themselves with the lie that the accident wasn’t their fault.
But Gamache knew what happened when a terrible truth was buried. It didn’t just go to sleep. No. It grew. Big. It became huge. Monstrous. It ate away a person’s insides.
And left him hollow. Empty.
That’s what had happened to those four kids. That’s what had happened to James Hill, too. He’d died in the car that night, with his wife and daughter. Hill had died in spirit and Arthur Ellis had been reborn in him. Now he had one goal. To punish the young men and women who had killed his wife and daughter.
Chief Inspector Gamache put his hands behind his back and thought as he walked.
“James Hill used his position at the Department of Records to track down two of the people in the truck, and he killed them,” Gamache said. “What about the other two?”
“I think one of them is here,” said Beauvoir. “He tracked him here and intended to hang him.”
“That’s why he was asking about young men?” Gamache asked.
“Yes. But that doesn’t make sense,” said Beauvoir. “If the kids were sixteen when this happened, they’d be almost forty now. Not exactly young.”
“True. When was the last time you visited your mother?”
“Oh, Jesus, she hasn’t gotten to you, too?”
Gamache smiled. “No. I’m just wondering.”
“A couple of weeks ago. We went over for dinner. Why?”
“What did she make?”
“My favourite. What she always makes when I visit. Beef stew.”
“She’s made it for you since you were a kid, right?”
“Right. Why are we talking about my mother?”
“When our children come home, we do the same thing. Make their favourite foods. Annie had to explain the other day that pink cupcakes aren’t actually her favourite anymore. We knew that, but still we make them.”
“Is this going anywhere, or have you finally lost your mind? Sir.”
Gamache laughed. “Perhaps a bit of both. My point is that parents always see their children as children. In our heads, we know their real age, but in our hearts, they’re still kids. I think that’s what happened with Hill.”
“He sees his daughter as a child?” asked Beauvoir, a little lost.
“Probably. But I meant the kids in the pickup. The last time he saw them, they were in their teens. Their images must have been burned into his mind. He would forever see them as teens.”
“He talked about a young man,” said Beauvoir, “but he was actually looking for someone much older.”
“In his mid-to late thirties,” said Gamache. “Who are the two survivors from that truck?”
“Cindy Pane and Tim Short.”
“Tim Short,” said Gamache. “Tom Scott?”
He stopped walking and looked into the distance. “And yet, perhaps he was lying,” the chief murmured. “Covering up.”
“What did you say?” asked Beauvoir.
Gamache turned to look at him. “James Hill came here to kill someone. Execute, he would say. But it comes to the same thing. He would hang his victim from a tree. But was it a him he was looking for? Or a her?”
“He said ‘him.’ He said ‘young man.’”
“True,” said Gamache, walking again. “But he also said his name was Arthur Ellis. He lied once, maybe he lied twice.”
They walked quickly up the slope, headed to the Inn and Spa.
“You think he wasn’t looking for a man,” said Beauvoir. “He was looking for a woman.”