Bury Your Dead (44 page)

And he probably was doing his best. But his best was not, Beauvoir knew, good enough.

He could hear over the speakers Chief Inspector Gamache talking about his days at Cambridge University. How he’d arrived with almost no English. Only the phrases he’d picked up off the English television programs beamed into Québec in the 1960s.

“Like what?” Paul Morin asked. His voice dragged, each word forced out.

“Fire on the Klingons,” said the Chief Inspector.

Agent Morin laughed, perking up. “Did you actually say that to anyone?”

“Sadly, I did. It was either that or, ‘My God, Admiral, it’s horrible.’ ”

Now Agent Morin whooped with laughter and Beauvoir saw smiles on the faces of the men and women in the Incident Room, including Chief Superintendent Francoeur. Smiling himself Beauvoir turned his attention to the Chief Inspector.

Through the glass he saw the Chief. His eyes closed, gray stubble on his face. And then Gamache did something Beauvoir had never
seen him do before. In all the years, all the cases, all the death and despair and exhaustion of past cases.

Chief Inspector Gamache lowered his head into his hands.

Just for a moment, but it was a moment Inspector Beauvoir would never forget. As young Paul Morin laughed, Chief Inspector Gamache covered his face.

Then he looked up, and met Inspector Beauvoir’s eyes. And the mask reappeared. Confident. Energetic. In command.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir entered the Chief’s office with the evidence. And at Gamache’s request, invited Chief Superintendent Francoeur in and played him the tape.

“Are you fucking kidding?”

“Does it look like I’m kidding?”

The Chief was on his feet. He’d asked Paul Morin to carry the conversation, to keep speaking. And had whipped his headphone off, covering the microphone with his hand.

“Where’d you even get that recording?” Francoeur demanded. In the background Paul Morin was talking about his father’s vegetable garden and how long it took to grow asparagus.

“It’s background sound, from where Morin’s being held,” said Gamache.

“But where did you get it?” Francoeur was annoyed.

“It can’t possibly matter. Are you listening?” Gamache replayed the fragment Agent Nichol had found. “They mention it two or three times.”

“La Grande, yes I hear, but it could mean anything. It could be what they call whoever’s behind the kidnapping.”

“La Grande? As in La Grande Fromage? This isn’t a cartoon.” Gamache took a long breath and tried to control his frustration. On the speakers they could hear that Morin had moved on to a monologue on heirloom tomatoes.

“This is what I think, sir,” said Gamache. “The kidnapping wasn’t done by a frightened backwoods farmer with a marijuana crop. This was planned all along—”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that before. There’s no evidence.”

“This is evidence.” With a mighty effort Gamache stopped himself
from shouting, instead lowering his voice to a growl. “The farmer has not left Morin alone as he said he would. In fact, not only is Morin clearly not alone, there’re at least two, maybe three others with him.”

“So, what? You think he’s being held at the dam?”

“I did at first, but there’re no turbine sounds in the background.”

“Then what’s your theory, Chief Inspector?”

“I think they’re planning to blow the dam and they kidnapped Agent Morin to keep us occupied elsewhere.”

Chief Superintendent Francoeur stared at Gamache. It was a scenario the Sûreté had practiced for, had protocols for. Dreaded. A threat against this mighty dam.

“You’re delusional. Based on what? Two words barely heard far in the background. It might even be crossed wires. You think that in what”—Francoeur turned to look at the clock—“six hours someone’s going to destroy the La Grande dam? And yet, they’re not even there? They’re sitting with your young agent somewhere else?”

“It’s misdirection. They wa—”

“Enough,” snapped Chief Superintendent Francoeur. “If it’s misdirection it’s one you’ve fallen for. They want you to hare off after a ridiculous clue. I thought you were smarter than that. And who are this mysterious ‘they’ anyway? Who’d want to destroy the dam? No, it’s absurd.”

“For God’s sake, Francoeur,” said Gamache, his voice low and hoarse with fatigue, “suppose I’m right?”

That stopped the Chief Superintendent as he made for the door. He turned and stared at Chief Inspector Gamache. In the long silence between the men they heard a small lecture on cow versus horse compost.

“I need more evidence.”

“Agent Lacoste is trying to collect it.”

“Where is she?”

Chief Inspector Gamache glanced quickly at Inspector Beauvoir. They’d dispatched Agent Lacoste two hours ago. To a remote Cree community. To the settlements closest to the great dam. Most affected by it going up. And most affected were it to suddenly, catastrophically, come down. There she’d been told to visit an elderly Cree woman Gamache had met years earlier. On a bench. Outside the Château Frontenac.

They’d hoped to have her evidence by now. To convince Chief Superintendent Francoeur to stop his high-tech search and lower his sights. To change course. To stop looking at the present and look to the past.

But so far, nothing from Agent Lacoste.

“I’m begging you, sir,” said Gamache. “Just put a few people on it. Quietly alert security at the dam. See what the other forces might have.”

“And look like a fool?”

“Look like a thorough commander.”

Chief Superintendent Francoeur glared at Gamache. “Fine. I’ll do that much.”

He left and Gamache saw him speaking with his own second in command. While he suspected Francoeur of many things, the murder of tens of thousands of Québécois wasn’t among them.

He slipped the headphones back on and rejoined Agent Morin, describing an argument he and his sister once had that resulted in fresh peas being thrown. His voice was once again slow, exhausted.

Gamache picked up the conversation, telling Morin about arguments between his own children, Daniel and Annie, when they were young. How Daniel was the more sensitive, more measured of the two. How Annie, young and bright, could always best her brother. And about the competition between them that had settled, with time, into a deep affection.

But as he spoke he knew two things.

In just under six hours, at 11:18, the La Grande Hydro Electric Dam would be blown up. And Agent Paul Morin would be executed. And Chief Inspector Gamache knew something else. If it was possible to stop only one of those acts, he knew which it would have to be.

“How’s your friend?”

“Friend?” Gamache turned to see Elizabeth bringing a few books into the library and placing them on the “returns” cart.

“Monsieur Comeau,” she said. “Émile.” She leaned over the cart, sorting books, not looking at Gamache.

“Oh, he’s fine. I’m seeing him in a few hours at the Château. There’s a meeting of the Société Champlain.”

“Interesting man,” she said then left, leaving Gamache alone in the library once again. He waited until he heard her steps disappear then looked around at the acres of books. Where to start?

“Are you close? Are you going to make it?”

Fatigue had finally worn Morin down, so that his fear, contained for so long, boiled out through frayed nerves and down the telephone line.

“We’ll make it. Trust me.”

There was a pause. “Are you sure?” The voice was strained, almost squeaky.

“I’m sure. Are you afraid?”

There was no answer, just silence and then a keening.

“Agent Morin,” said Gamache, standing up at his desk. He waited and still there was no reply, except the sound which said it all.

Gamache talked for a few minutes, soothing words about nothing in particular. About spring flowers and wrapping presents for his grandchildren, about lunches at Leméac Bistro on rue Laurier and his father’s favorite song. And in the background was a wailing, a sobbing and coughing, a howling as Agent Morin finally broke down. It surprised Gamache the young man had been able to hold his terror in so long.

But now it was out, and fled down the phone line.

Chief Inspector Gamache talked about skiing at Mont Saint-Rémy and Clara Morrow’s art and Ruth Zardo’s poetry and slowly, in the background, the howling became a sob and the sob became a shuddering breath and the breath became a sigh.

Gamache paused. “Are you afraid?” he asked again.

Outside the office, through the large glass window, the agents, analysts, special investigators and Chief Superintendent Francoeur all stopped and stared at the Chief Inspector, and listened to the agent who had been so brave and was now falling apart.

Down in her dim studio Agent Yvette Nichol recorded it all and, glowing green, she listened.

“Are you with me, Agent Morin?”

“Yes sir.” But the voice was small, uncertain.

“I will find you in time.” Each word was said slowly, deliberately. Words made of rock and stone, firm words. “Stop imagining the worst.”

“But—”

“Listen to me,” the Chief commanded. “I know what you’re doing. It’s natural, but you must stop. You’re imagining the clock reaching zero, imagining the bomb going off. Am I right?”

“Sort of.” There was panting, as though Morin had run a race.

“Stop it. If you have to look ahead think about seeing Suzanne again, think about seeing your mother and father, think of the great stories you can bore your children with. Control your thoughts and you can control your emotions. Do you trust me?”

“Yes sir.” The voice was stronger.

“Do you trust me, Agent Morin?” insisted the Chief.

“Yes sir.” The voice more confident.

“Do you think I’d lie to you?”

“No sir, never.”

“I will find you in time. Do you believe me?”

“Yes sir.”

“What will I do?”

“You’ll find me in time.”

“Never, ever forget that.”

“Yes sir.” Agent Morin’s voice was strong, as certain as the Chief Inspector’s. “I believe you.”

“Good.” Gamache spoke and let his young agent rest. He talked about his first job, scraping gum off the Montreal Metro platforms and how he met Madame Gamache. He talked about falling in love.

Now there is no more loneliness.

As he spoke he followed all the instant messaging. The information. From Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Nichol as they isolated the recordings and reported on their findings. Sounds hidden in the background. Planes, birds, trains. Echoes. And things not heard. Cars and trucks.

Agent Lacoste finally reporting in from the Cree community. Leads she was following on the ground. Getting them closer to the truth.

He looked at the clock. Four hours and seventeen minutes left.

In his ear, in his head, Paul Morin talked about the Canadiens and their hockey season. “I think we finally have a shot at the cup this season.”

“Yes,” said Gamache. “I think we finally have a chance.”

In the gallery of the Literary and Historical Society, Armand Gamache reached for the first book. Over the next few hours the library opened, the volunteers arrived and went about their work, Mr. Blake showed up and took his seat. A few other patrons appeared, found books, read periodicals, and left.

And all the while on the gallery the Chief Inspector pulled out books, examining them one at a time. Finally, just after noon he took his seat across from Mr. Blake. They exchanged pleasantries before both men subsided into their reading.

At one o’clock Armand Gamache rose, nodded to Mr. Blake then left, taking two books hidden in his satchel with him.

Myrna handed Clara a book.

“I think you’ll like it. It’s one of my favorites.”

Clara turned it over. Mordecai Richler,
Solomon Gursky Was Here.

“Is it good?”

“No, it’s crap. I only sell crap here, and recommend it of course.”

“So Ruth was right,” said Clara. She tipped the book toward Myrna. “Thank you.”