A Fatal Grace
Page 77
‘Why not?’
‘Well, think about it, Armand. If all anyone had to do to get close to God was be still they wouldn’t need me.’
‘Suppose the passage is right?’ Gamache asked.
‘Then you and I will meet for eternity after all. I hope it is.’
Now Gamache read the psalm, looking at Beauvoir every now and then over his half-moon glasses. Why had Mother lied and told him it was from Isaiah? She must have known the truth. And even more compelling, why had she misquoted the passage and written on the wall Be Calm, and know that I am God?
‘Am I that sick?’
Gamache looked up and saw Beauvoir staring at him, clear-eyed and smiling.
‘Your body isn’t, young man. It’s your soul I lament.’
‘There’s truth there, monsignor.’ Beauvoir struggled to his elbow. ‘You wouldn’t believe my wicked dreams. I even dreamt Agent Nichol was with me.’ He lowered his voice for the confession.
‘Imagine that,’ said Gamache. ‘You’re feeling better.’ He took his cool hand off Beauvoir’s cool head.
‘Much. What time is it?’
‘Midnight.’
‘Go to sleep, sir. I’m fine.’
‘Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Egotistical?’
‘Hope that’s not from my next performance evaluation.’
‘No. That’s a bit of poetry.’
If that’s poetry, thought Beauvoir, wearily subsiding once again into the welcoming bed, I can get to like it.
‘It’s about the writing on the wall at Mother’s meditation center. Psalm 46, verse 10. It should read, Be still, and know that I am God.’
Beauvoir drifted away, comforted by the voice and the thought.
TWENTY-THREE
The bedside clock glowed 5:51. It was still dark and would be for a while. Gamache lay in bed, feeling the fresh freezing air from the slightly open window on his face, and the bed sheets warm around him.
It was time to get up.
He showered and dressed quickly in the cool room with its dark wood furniture, white walls and fluffy feather bedding. The room was elegant and way too inviting. Gamache tiptoed down the dark stairs of the B. & B. He’d put his warmest clothing on and got into his huge parka. He’d shoved his tuque and mitts into the sleeve of his parka when he’d come in the night before, and now, thrusting his right arm into the armhole, he hit the blockage. At a practiced shove the pompom of the tuque crowned the cuff followed by his mitts, like a tiny birth.
Once outside he started walking, his feet munching on the snow. It was a brittle crisp morning but without a breath of wind and Gamache thought the forecast might actually be accurate. It was going to be a cold one, even by Quebec standards. Leaning forward slightly, head down, his mittened hands clasped behind his back, Gamache walked and thought about this baffling case with its embarrassment of suspects and clues.
Puddles of anti-freeze, niacin, The Lion in Winter, booster cables, Psalm 46:10 and a long lost mother. And that was only what he’d uncovered so far. CC was two days dead and what he really needed was an epiphany.
Round the Commons the case took him in the dark, though in winter the night was never pitch black. The snow covering the ground had its own glow. Past the homes of sleeping villagers he trudged, smoke from the chimneys rising vertically, past the darkened shops, though a hint of a light in the basement of Sarah’s Boulangerie promised fresh croissants.
Round and round he went in the astonishing quietude and comfort of the hushed village, his feet crunching on the hardened snow and his breathing loud in his ears.
Was CC’s mother asleep in one of these houses? Was it an easy sleep she enjoyed, or did her conscience startle her awake, like a home invader intent on violence?
Who was CC’s mother?
Had CC found her?
Did Mom want to be found?
Was CC motivated by need for family or was there some other, darker, purpose?
And what about the Li Bien ball? Who’d thrown it away? And why not simply toss it into the frozen dumpster, smashing it into unrecognizable pieces?
Fortunately Armand Gamache loved puzzles. Just then a dark figure shot off the village green, racing toward him.
‘Henri! Viens ici,’ a voice commanded. For a dog with such big ears Henri didn’t seem to hear. Gamache stepped aside and Henri skidded past with great glee.
‘Désolée,’ said Émilie Longpré, puffing as she approached. ‘Henri, you have no manners.’