Bury Your Dead (55 page)

Too late, the Cree had realized they’d made a terrible mistake.

And now, hundreds of years later some of their descendents had agreed to drive huge trucks filled with explosives along a perfectly paved ribbon of road through a forest that had once been theirs. Toward a dam thirty stories high.

They would destroy it. And themselves. Their families. Their villages. The forests, the animals. The gods. All gone. They would unleash a torrent that would sweep it all away.

In the hopes that finally someone would hear their calls for help.

“That’s what they were told, anyway,” said the Chief, suddenly weary, wishing now he could sleep.

“What happened?” whispered Tom Hancock.

“Chief Superintendent Francoeur got there in time. Stopped them.”

“Were they—?”

“Killed?” Gamache nodded. “Yes. Both shot dead. But the dam was saved.”

Tom Hancock found himself almost sorry to hear that.

“You said these young Cree men were used. You mean this wasn’t their idea?”

“No, no more than it was the truck’s idea. Whoever did this chose things ready to explode. The bombs made by them and the Cree made by us.”

“But who were they? If the two Cree men were used by the bombers, then who planned all this? Who was behind it?”

“We don’t know for sure. Most died in the raid on the factory. One survived and is being questioned but I haven’t heard anything.”

“But you have your suspicions. Were they native?”

Gamache shook his head. “Caucasian. English speaking. All well trained. Mercenaries, perhaps. The goal was the dam, but the real target seems to have been the eastern seaboard of the United States.”

“Not Canada? Not Québec?”

“No. In bringing down La Grande they would have blacked out everything from Boston to New York and Washington. And not just for an hour, but for months. It would have blown the whole grid.”

“With winter coming too.”

They paused to imagine a city like New York, millions of frightened, angry people freezing in the dark.

“Home-grown terrorists?” asked Hancock.

“We think so.”

“You couldn’t have seen this coming,” said Hancock at last. “You speak of hubris, Chief Inspector. Perhaps you need to be careful yourself.”

It was said lightly, but the words were no less sharp.

There was a slight pause before Gamache responded. It was with a small chuckle. “Very true. But you mistake me, Mr. Hancock. It wasn’t the threat I should have seen coming, but once it was in motion I should have known the kidnapping wasn’t so simple much sooner. I should have known the backwoods farmer wasn’t that. And—”

“Yes?”

“I was in over my head. We all were. There was almost no time and it was clear something massive was happening. As soon as Agent Nichol isolated the words ‘La Grande’ I knew that was it. The dam is in Cree territory so I sent an agent there to ask questions.”

“Just one agent? Surely you should have sent everyone.” Only then did Hancock stop himself. “If you need any more suggestions on tactics, come to me. They teach it, you know, at the seminary.”

He smiled and heard a small guffaw beside him. Then a deep breath.

“The Cree have no love of the Sûreté. Nor should they,” said Gamache. “I judged one smart agent was enough. We have some contacts there, among the elders. Agent Lacoste went to them first.”

As the hours passed her reports had started to come in. She moved
from community to community, always accompanied by the same elderly woman. A woman Chief Inspector Gamache had met years ago, sitting on a bench in front of the Château Frontenac. A woman everyone else had dismissed as a beggar.

He had helped her then. And she helped him now.

Agent Lacoste’s reports started to form a picture. Of a generation on the reserves without hope. Drunk and high and lost. With no life and no future and nothing to lose. It had all been taken. This Gamache already knew. Anyone with the stomach to look saw that.

But there was something he didn’t know. Lacoste had reports of outsiders arriving, teachers. White teachers, English teachers. Insinuating themselves into the communities years earlier. Most of the teachers were genuine, but a few had an agenda that went far beyond any alphabet or times table. Their curriculum would take time to achieve. The plan had started when the young men were boys. Impressionable, lost, frightened. Hungry for approval, acceptance, kindness, leadership. And the teachers had given them all that. Years it had taken to win their trust. Over those years the teachers taught them how to read and write, how to add and subtract. And how to hate. They’d also taught their students that they need not be victims any longer. They could be warriors again.

Many young Cree had toyed with the attractive idea, finally rejecting it. Sensing these were simply more white men with their own aims. But two young men had been seduced. Two young men on the verge of doing themselves in anyway.

And so they would go out in glory. Convinced the world would finally take notice.

At 11:18.

The La Grande dam would be destroyed. Two young Cree men would die. And, miles away, a young Sûreté agent would be executed.

Armed with this evidence Gamache had presented it, yet again, to Chief Superintendent Francoeur. But when Francoeur had again balked, instead of reasoning with the man Gamache had allowed his temper to flare. His disdain for the arrogant and dangerous Chief Superintendent to show.

That had been a mistake. It had cost him time. And maybe more.

“What happened?”

Armand Gamache looked over, almost surprised to find he wasn’t alone with his thoughts.

“A decision had to be made. And we all knew what that was. If Agent Lacoste’s information was right we had to abandon Agent Morin. Our efforts had to go into stopping the bombing. If we tried to save Morin the bombers would be warned and might move sooner. No one could risk that.”

“Not even you?”

Gamache sat still for a very long time. There was no sound outside or inside. How many others had hidden in there against a violent world? A world not as kind, not as good, not as warm as they wished. How many fearful people had huddled where they sat? Taken refuge? Wondering when it might be safe to go out. Into the world.

“God help me, not even me.”

“You were willing to let him die?”

“If need be.” Gamache stared at Hancock, not defiantly but with a kind of wonder that decisions like that needed to be made. By him. Every day. “But not before I’d tried everything.”

“You finally convinced the Chief Superintendent?”

Gamache nodded. “With a little under two hours to go.”

“Good God,” exhaled Hancock. “That close. It came that close.”

Gamache said nothing for a moment. “We knew by then that Agent Morin was being held in an abandoned factory. Agent Nichol and Inspector Beauvoir found him by listening to the sounds and cross-referencing plane and train schedules. It was masterful investigating. He was being held in an abandoned factory hundreds of kilometers from the dam. The plotters kept themselves at a safe distance. In a town called Magog.”

“Magog?”

“Magog. Why?”

The minister looked bemused but also slightly disconcerted. “Gog and Magog?”

Gamache smiled. He’d forgotten that biblical reference.

“You will make an evil plan,”
the minister quoted.

Once again Gamache saw Paul Morin at the far end of the room, bound to the chair, staring at the wall in front of him. At a clock.

Five seconds left.

“You found me,” said Morin.

Gamache took off across the room. Morin’s thin back straightened.

Three seconds left. Everything seemed to slow down. Everything seemed so clear. He could see the clock, hear the second hand thud closer to zero. See the hard metal frame chair and the rope strapped around Paul Morin.

There was no bomb. No bomb.

Behind Gamache, Beauvoir and the team rushed in. Gunshots exploded all round. The Chief leapt, to the young agent who sat up so straight.

One second left.

Gamache gathered himself. “I made one final mistake. I turned left when I should have turned right. Paul Morin had just described the sun on his face, but instead of heading to the door with light coming through, I headed for the darkened one.”

Hancock was silent then. He’d seen the video and now he looked at the solemn, bearded man sitting on the cold stone floor with him, his dog’s head with its quite extravagant ears resting on Gamache’s thigh.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it’s my fault,” said Gamache angrily.

“Why are you so insistent? Do you want to be a martyr?” said Hancock. “Is that why you came out in a blizzard? Are you enjoying your suffering? You must be, to hold on to it so tightly.”

“Be careful.”

“Of what? Of hurting the great Chief Inspector’s feelings? If your heroism doesn’t put you beyond us mere mortals then your suffering does, is that it? Yes it was a tragedy, it was terrible, but it happened to them, not you. You’re alive. This is what you’ve been handed, nothing’s going to change that. You have to let it go. They died. It was terrible but unavoidable.”

Hancock’s voice was intense. Henri lifted his head to stare at the young minister, a slight growl in his throat. Gamache put a calming hand on Henri’s head and the dog subsided.

“It is sweet and right to die for your country?” asked the Chief.

“Sometimes.”

“And not just to die, but to kill as well?”

“What does that mean?”

“You’d do just about anything to help your parishioners, wouldn’t you?” said Gamache. “Their suffering hurts you, almost physically. I’ve seen it. Yes, I came out into the blizzard in hopes it would quiet my conscience, but isn’t that why you signed up for the ice canoe race? To take your mind off your failings? You couldn’t stand to see the English suffer so much. Dying. As individuals, but also as a community. It was your job to comfort them but you didn’t know how, didn’t know if words were enough. And so you took action.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Despite a city filled with people he’d alienated, only six people could have actually murdered Augustin Renaud. The board of the Literary and Historical Society. Quite a few volunteers have keys to the building, quite a few knew the construction schedule and when the concrete was to be poured, quite a few could have found the sub-basement and led Renaud there. But only the six board members knew he’d visited, knew he’d demanded to speak with them. And knew why.”

The Reverend Mr. Hancock stared at Gamache in the harsh light of the single, naked bulb.

“You killed Augustin Renaud,” said Gamache.

There was silence then, complete and utter silence. There was no world outside. No storm, no battlefield, no walled and fortified and defended city. Nothing.

Only the silent fortress.

“Yes.”

“You aren’t going to deny it?”

“It was obvious you either knew already or would soon find out. Once you found those books it was all over. I hid them there, of course. Couldn’t very well destroy them and couldn’t risk having them found in my home. Seemed a perfect place. After all, no one had found them in the Literary and Historical Society for a hundred years.”

He looked closely at Gamache.

“Did you know all along?”

“I suspected. It could really only have been one of two people. You or Ken Haslam. While the rest of the board stayed and finished the meeting you headed off for your practice.”

“I went ahead of Ken, found Renaud and told him I’d sneak him in
that night. I told him to bring whatever evidence he had, and if I was convinced, I’d let him start the dig.”

“And of course he came.”

Hancock nodded. “It was simple. He started digging while I read over the books. Chiniquy’s journal and the bible. It was damning.”

“Or illuminating, depending on your point of view. What happened?”

“He’d dug one hole and handed me up the shovel. I just swung it and hit him.”

“As simple as that?”

“No it wasn’t as simple as that,” Hancock snapped. “It was terrible but it had to be done.”

“Why?”

“Can’t you guess?”

Gamache thought. “Because you could.”

Hancock smiled a little. “I suppose so. I think of it more that no one else could. I was the only one. Elizabeth never could do it. Mr. Blake? Maybe, when he was younger, but not now. Porter Wilson couldn’t hit himself on the head. And Ken? He gave up his voice years ago. No, I was the only one who could do it.”

“But why did it need to be done?”

“Because finding Champlain in our basement would have killed the Anglo community. It would have been the final blow.”

“Most Québécois wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“You think not? It doesn’t take much to stir anti-Anglo sentiment, even among the most reasonable. There’s always a suspicion the Anglos are up to no good.”