‘Nothing to it,’ he said, exhilarated to be at the end of the case and heading into a storm. The hero, the hunter, challenging the odds, meeting adversity, fighting the worst snowstorm anyone had ever seen anywhere. He was astonishing.
He dashed out, only to find the new snow up to his knees. He waded through to his car and spent the next half hour shoveling it out. Still, it was fluffy and light and brought back memories of prayed-for storm days off school.
The storm didn’t keep the villagers inside and a few were doing their errands on snowshoes and cross-country skis, barely visible through the gusts. Beauvoir’s was the only car on the road.
‘Sir.’ Lemieux came up to him an hour later. ‘I found this under the door.’
He held an envelope, long and thick and damp from melted snow.
‘Did you see who brought it?’ Gamache looked from Lemieux to Nichol. She shrugged and went back to her computer.
‘No sir. In this storm someone could be right at the building and we wouldn’t know.’
‘Someone was,’ said Gamache. On it was written in precise, exquisite script, ‘Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, Sûreté du Québec’. He tore it open, dread rising in him. Scanning the two pages rapidly he shot to his feet and strode across the room, throwing his coat on and not even bothering to do it up before plunging into the brutal day.
‘May I help?’ Lemieux called after him.
‘Get your coat on. Agent Nichol, come here. Get your coat on and help clear my car.’
She glared at him, no longer bothering to hide how she felt, but did as she was told. Working hard the three of them had his Volvo dug out within minutes, though the snow just kept piling up.
‘Good enough.’ He yanked open the door and threw the scraper and shovel in. Lemieux and Nichol raced to the other side of the car, trying to be the first to get into the passenger’s seat.
‘Stay here,’ Gamache called before shutting the door and heading out. The tires spun, trying to get a grip. Suddenly the car lurched forward. Looking in the rearview mirror Gamache saw Lemieux still hunched over where he’d given the back of the car a push. Nichol was lounging behind him, her hands at rest on her hips.
Gamache’s heart was pounding but he forced himself not to step on the gas. So much snow had fallen it was getting difficult to distinguish the road from the off-road. At the top of du Moulin he hesitated. The windshield wipers were working furiously, barely keeping up. Snow was piling high and he knew if he stopped too long he’d be stuck. But which way?
He leaped out of the car and stood on the road looking one way then the other. Which way? To St-Rémy? To Williamsburg? Which way?
He forced himself to settle down, to be calm. To be still. He heard the howl of the wind and felt the cold snow plaster against him. Nothing came. There was no wall for writing, no voice whispered through the wind. But there was a voice in his head. The brittle, bitter, clear voice of Ruth Zardo.
When my death us do part
Then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again,
Or will it be, as always was, too late?
Jumping back in the car he headed as fast as he dared for Williamsburg, to where forgiven and forgiving would meet again. But would he be too late?
How long had that letter sat there?
After what seemed an eternity the Legion came into view. Driving beyond it he turned right. And there was the car. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or appalled. He pulled in behind and leaped out.
Standing on the brow of the small hill he looked out onto Lac Brume, snow hitting his face full on and near blinding him. In the distance, between gusts, he could just make out three figures struggling on the ice.
‘Namaste, namaste,’ Mother repeated, over and over until her lips dried and cracked and bled and she couldn’t speak any more. The word was stuck inside and there she repeated it. But it kept sliding off the terror in her heart and could find no purchase. Mother fell silent with just her terror and disbelief to keep her company.
Kaye struggled in the middle, her legs barely working any more, propped up between her friends, as she realized she’d been all her life. Why had it taken until now to understand that? And now, in the end, for it was the end, she was totally dependent upon them. They held her up, sustained her, and would guide her into the next life.
She knew then the answer to her riddle. Why her father and his friends had cried ‘Fuck the Pope’ as they went to their deaths.
There was no answer. They were his words, his life, his path and his death.
This was hers. She’d spent her entire life trying to solve something that had nothing to do with her. She’d never understand and she didn’t have to. All she had to understand was her own life and death.