A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12)(65)

The image, though, wasn’t of a crucifix, or a saint, or a martyr. What glowed in the night were boys. Barely men. Slogging through a glass battlefield.

“Come on,” said Nathaniel, already up the stairs and at the door. “Gabri said if Madame Zardo wasn’t at home or in the bistro or with the painter, she’d be here. Sleeping it off, probably.”

“Why’re you so anxious to find her?” asked Amelia, stomping up the steps after him.

“Because she’s my home,” he said. “Where else am I supposed to go?”

*

Ruth Zardo was indeed lying down, the duck nesting on her stomach. Her head propped on hymnals.

“Is she dead?” Nathaniel whispered.

“No, she’s not fucking dead,” said a voice.

Ruth sat up, but didn’t look at them. She looked at the person who’d just spoken.

Cadet Jacques Laurin was sitting off to the side, his boots on the pew in front. Drinking a beer he’d taken from that black woman’s fridge and shoved into the pocket of his jacket.

He’d given a near-perfect imitation of Ruth’s voice. Right down to the cadence and tone. Both angry and wounded. Somehow catching the slight vulnerability.

Nathaniel laughed and was horrified when both Jacques and Ruth turned to look at him.

God help me, he thought.

“What’re you doing here?” they all asked each other at once, just as Huifen arrived.

“I saw you guys come up here. Oh, wonderful.” She sat down next to Jacques and, grabbing the bottle from him, she took a swig of beer. “Why’re we here?”

“I’m here for some peace and quiet,” said Ruth, glaring at them.

Jacques tilted his beer toward her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. He got up and handed Ruth the bottle, sitting down beside her.

“I was watching you,” he said. “Why’re you staring at that?”

He lifted his chin toward the stained-glass window and the brittle boys.

“Where else am I supposed to look?” Ruth demanded, handing back the bottle.

The cadets scanned the chapel. There was a central aisle with wooden pews on either side that looked handmade, each slightly different. There were just a few rows of seats and then the altar, also handmade. Well made. Indeed, beautifully carved, with leaves and a huge spreading oak tree.

“I come here to write sometimes,” Ruth admitted, and they saw the notebook wedged between her and the back of the pew. “It’s quiet. No one comes into churches anymore. God has left the building, and is wandering. Or wondering.”

“In the wilderness,” said Amelia.

Ruth glared at her, but Amelia had the impression it was more habit than conviction. But she also had the impression it was more than peace and quiet the old poet was after.

Amelia sat across the aisle, on the hard pew, and looked past Ruth to the stained glass. From the outside it looked like the soldiers were arriving. In here, it looked like they were leaving. Going. Gone.

Below the window was writing, which she couldn’t make out.

There were other windows in the chapel, including a nice rose window over the door. But this was the only one with a picture.

Though it wasn’t simply an image. There was a feeling about it. Whoever had made this had done it with great care. Had cared.

It was detailed. Intricate. Their unraveling and mud-encrusted socks. The skinned knuckles and filthy hands that held the rifles. The revolver in the holster of one of the boys. The brass buttons.

Yes, great care had been taken. Down to the last detail.

And then Amelia saw it. She stood up and walked between the pews. Closer, closer.

“Shouldn’t you be bursting into flames?” said Ruth as she passed.

Amelia walked right up to the stained glass and stared at the one boy. The one with the revolver. In his leather satchel, peeking out of one end where the buckle had broken, there was a piece of paper.

As she leaned closer, closer, she saw three pine trees. And a snowman.





CHAPTER 21

“Holy shit,” said Myrna, taking a step back from the window.

“Language,” said Jacques.

“She said, ‘holy,’” said Ruth. “Weren’t you listening?”

Myrna took another step back. Clara leaned in for a closer look.

Ruth had sent Amelia off to get Clara, Myrna, and Reine-Marie as soon as she’d seen what the boy soldier had in his satchel.

“The map,” whispered Reine-Marie, who’d replaced Clara at the window.

And now they sat together, studying the copy of the map Nathaniel had pulled from his bag.

“Why would the soldier have it?” asked Reine-Marie, her words forming a mist on the glass boy. “A map of France, of Belgium, maybe. Of Vimy or Flanders. A battlefield map, I could see. But Three Pines isn’t a battlefield.”

“You obviously haven’t been paying attention,” said Clara.

She stood up and once again stepped closer to the stained glass. “I’ve always admired this, but never really looked at it close up.”

“Who were they?” Huifen asked. “There’re a bunch of names underneath. Are they there?”

She nodded toward the writing under the window.

They Were Our Children.

And then the list. No ranks. Just names. In death they were equal.