Bury Your Dead (14 page)

Beauvoir shook his head.

“Perhaps they were too busy. The bullet went straight through your side. You probably lost quite a bit of blood.”

Beauvoir nodded, trying to keep the images at bay.

“It didn’t hit your internal organs,” Dr. Gilbert continued. “But the waves from the impact bruised the tissue. That’s what you’ll feel if you push yourself too hard, like this afternoon. But you’re healing well.”

“Merci,”
said Beauvoir. It helped to understand.

And Beauvoir knew then the man was a saint. He’d been touched by any number of medical men and women. All healers, all well intentioned, some kind, some rough. All made it clear they wanted him to live, but none had made him feel that his life was precious, was worth saving, was worth something.

Vincent Gilbert did. His healing went beyond the flesh, beyond the blood. Beyond the bones.

Gilbert patted the covers and made to get up, but hesitated. He picked up a small bottle of pills on the bedside table. “I found these in your pocket.”

Beauvoir reached out but Gilbert closed them in his hand and searched Beauvoir’s face. There was a long pause. Finally Gilbert relented and opened his fist. “Be careful with these.”

Beauvoir took the bottle and shook out a pill.

“Perhaps half,” said Dr. Gilbert, reaching for it.

Beauvoir watched Dr. Gilbert skillfully snap a small OxyContin in two.

“I keep them just in case,” Beauvoir said, swallowing the tiny half pill as Gilbert handed him clean pajamas.

“In case you do something foolish?” asked Gilbert with a smile. “You might need another bottle.”

“Har har,” said Beauvoir. But already he could feel the warmth spreading and the pain dulling and any sting there might have been in Gilbert’s comment drifted away.

As he dressed, Beauvoir watched the doctor in the kitchen spooning soup into two bowls and cutting fresh baked bread.

“Les Canadiens are playing tonight, aren’t they?” Gilbert returned with the food and made Beauvoir comfortable sitting up in bed. “Want to watch?”

“Please.”

Within moments they were eating soup, baguette and watching Les Canadiens slaughter New York.

“Too salty,” snapped Gilbert. “I told Carole not to put so much salt in the food.”

“Tastes fine to me.”

“Then you have no taste. Raised on poutine and burgers.”

Beauvoir looked at Dr. Gilbert expecting to see a smile. Instead his handsome face was sour, angry. Entitled, petulant, petty.

The asshole was back. Or, more likely, had been there all along in deceptively easy company with the saint.

Armand Gamache rose quietly in the night, putting on his bedside lamp and dressing warmly. Henri watched all this with his tail swishing and the tennis ball in his mouth. They tiptoed down the narrow, winding wood stairs that seemed carved into the center of the old home. Émile had put him on the top floor, in what had been the master bedroom. It was a magnificent loft space with wood beams and dormer windows out each side of the roof. Émile had explained that he no longer felt comfortable on the steep, narrow stairs, worn by hundreds of years of feet, and did Armand mind?

Gamache didn’t, except that it proved what he already knew. His mentor was slowing down.

Now he and Henri descended two floors to the living room where the woodstove still burned and radiated heat. There he put on a single light, slipped into his warmest coat, hat, scarf and mitts and went out, not forgetting to take the most crucial item. The Chuck-it for Henri. Henri was in love with the Chuck-it. As was Gamache.

They walked through the deserted streets of old Québec, up St-Stanislas, past the Literary and Historical Society where they paused. Twenty-four hours ago Augustin Renaud lay hidden in the basement. Murdered. Had the telephone cable not been severed while digging the shallow grave the basement would have been cemented over and Augustin Renaud would have joined the countless other corpses hidden in and around Québec. It wasn’t all that long ago archeologists discovered skeletons actually inside the stone walls surrounding the city. The bodies of American soldiers captured after a raid in 1803.
The authorities had quickly said the men were already dead when walled up, but privately Gamache wondered. After all, why put bodies into a wall unless it was a grotesque punishment, or to conceal a crime? Since Québec was built on bones and irony, the invading soldiers had become part of the city defenses.

Augustin Renaud had almost gone the way of the soldiers and become a permanent part of Québec, encased in concrete beneath the Literary and Historical Society, helping prop up the venerable Anglophone institution. Indeed, Renaud’s life was a mother lode of irony. Like the time he’d dug for Champlain on live television only to break through into the basement of a Chinese restaurant. Since Champlain had spent much of his life trying to find China it seemed, well, ironic. Or the time Renaud had opened a sealed coffin, once again convinced it was Champlain, only to have the pressurized contents explode into the atmosphere in a plumb of missionary fervor. The Jesuit inside, turned to dust, was sent to the heavens, immortal. Though not the sort of immortality he’d prayed for or expected. The priest tumbled back to earth in raindrops, to join the food chain and end up in the breast milk of the native women he’d tried to wipe out.

Renaud himself had narrowly escaped a similar fate, coming within hours of forming the foundation of the Literary and Historical Society.

Armand Gamache had hoped that after the initial interviews his obligation to Elizabeth MacWhirter and the rest of the Lit and His would be over. But he now knew that wasn’t true. Renaud had demanded to meet the board, the board had refused, then they’d purged the incident from the minutes. When word got out there’d be hell to pay. And it would be the Anglos who had to pay it.

No, Gamache thought as he and Henri trudged out the gates, he couldn’t leave them. Not yet.

The snow had almost stopped and the temperature was dropping. There was no traffic, not a sound except Gamache’s feet squeaking on the snow.

It was three twenty in the morning.

Every day Gamache woke at about that time. At first he’d tried to get back to sleep, had stayed in bed, had fought it. But now, after weeks and weeks, he’d decided this was it, for now. Instead of fighting, he and
Henri would get up quietly and go for a walk, first around their Montreal neighborhood and now here in Quebec City.

Gamache knew that in order to get through the day he needed this quiet time with his thoughts at night.

He needed this quiet time with the voice in his head.

“My father taught me to play the fiddle,” Agent Paul Morin said, in answer to Gamache’s question. “I was about four. We have some home video of it somewhere. My father and grandfather playing the fiddle behind me, and me in front wearing these great big sagging shorts, they look like diapers.” Morin laughed. “I had my little fiddle. My grandmother was on piano and my sister pretended to conduct. She was about three. She’s married now, you know, and expecting.”

Gamache turned left and walked through the darkened Carnaval site at the foot of the Plains of Abraham. A couple of guards watched but didn’t approach. Too cold for confrontation. Gamache and Henri wound along the pedestrian walk, past attractions that would be filled with excited kids and freezing parents in just a few hours. Then the stalls and temporary buildings and rides trailed off and they were walking through thin forest toward the infamous open field and the monument erected where the English General Wolfe fell, and died, on September 13, 1759.

Gamache scooped up a handful of snow and crushed it into a ball. Henri immediately dropped the tennis ball and danced around. The Chief cocked his arm, smiling at Henri, who suddenly crouched. Muscles tense. Waiting.

Then Gamache threw the snowball and Henri raced after it, catching it in mid-air. He was ecstatic for a moment then his jaws closed, the snow disintegrated and Henri landed, perplexed as always.

Gamache took the tennis ball encrusted with frozen saliva, put it in the Chuck-it and tossed. The brilliant yellow ball sailed into the darkness with the shepherd sailing after it.

The Chief Inspector knew every inch of the Champs-de-Bataille, in every season. He knew the changing face of the battlefield. Had stood there in spring and seen the daffodils, had stood there in summer and seen the picnickers, had stood there in winter and watched families cross-country ski and snowshoe, and he’d stood there in early autumn.
On September 13. The exact day of the battle, when more than one thousand men had died or been wounded in an hour. He’d stood there and believed he heard the shouts, heard the shots, smelled the gunpowder, seen the men charging. He’d stood where he believed Général Montcalm had been when he realized the full nature of his mistake.

Montcalm had underestimated the English. Their courage and their cunning.

At what point did he know the battle was lost?

A runner had appeared in Montcalm’s camp, upriver from Québec, the night before. Exhausted, almost incoherent, he’d reported the English were scaling the 150-foot cliffs from the river and were on the field belonging to the farmer Abraham just outside the city.

Montcalm’s camp hadn’t believed him. Thought the man mad. No commander would issue such an order, no army would obey it. They’d have to have wings, Montcalm had laughingly told his generals and gone back to bed.

By dawn the English were on the Plains of Abraham, prepared for battle.

Was that when Montcalm knew all was lost? When the English, armed with wings, had done the impossible? The Général rushed there and had stood on the very spot Gamache now stood. From there he’d looked over the fields and seen the enemy.

Did Montcalm know then?

But still the battle needn’t have been lost. He could have prevailed. But Montcalm, the brilliant strategist, had more mistakes to make.

And Gamache thought about that moment when he’d realized his own final and fatal mistake. The enormity of it. Though it had taken him a few moments to grasp as everything unraveled, fell apart. With such speed, and yet it seemed now, so slowly.

“Homicide,” his secretary had said, answering the phone.

Beauvoir had been in his office when the call came through, discussing a case in Gaspé. She’d stuck her head in the door.

“It’s Inspector Norman, in Ste-Agathe.”

Gamache looked up. She rarely interrupted him. They’d worked together for years and she knew when to handle it herself, and when not to.

“Put him through,” said the Chief. “
Oui,
Inspector. What can I do for you?”

And so the battle had begun.

Je me souviens,
thought Gamache. The motto of Québec. The motto of the Québécois. I remember.

“I was at Carnaval once,” Agent Morin said. “It was great. My dad took us and we even played fiddle at the skating rink. Mom tried to stop him. She was embarrassed, and my sister could have died, but Dad and I took out our fiddles and started playing and everyone seemed to really like it.”

“That piece you played for us? ‘Colm Quigley’?”

“No, that’s a lament. It gets faster, but the beginning’s too slow for skaters. They wanted something peppier, so we did some jigs and reels.”

“How old were you?” Gamache asked.

“Thirteen, maybe fourteen. It was about ten years ago. Never went back.”

“Maybe this year.”

“
Oui
. I’ll take Suzanne. She’d love it. Might even take the fiddle again.”

Je me souviens,
thought Gamache. That was the problem. Always the problem. I remember. Everything.

In the cabin in the woods Beauvoir lay awake. Normally he slept soundly, even after what happened. But now he found himself staring into the dark rafters, then at the glow of the fireplace. He could see Dr. Gilbert asleep on the two chairs he’d pulled together. The asshole saint had given Beauvoir the bed. Beauvoir felt horrible, having an elderly man who’d been so kind, sleep on a couple chairs. And he wondered, briefly, if that was the point. Why be a saint unless you could also be a martyr?

Perhaps it was the peaceful cabin, perhaps it was exhaustion after pushing himself too far, or the little half pill, but Beauvoir’s defenses were down.